He kept on working in this dense heat: Omar of all people, who hadn’t the strength to put up with so much sun. He changed complexion several times, turning into a kind of hard-skinned human animal; he went red, yellow, and finally copper-colored. How long was he going to play at being a gardener, or a janitor? When would this self-flagellation stop? It had already gone on too long, and I was hoping he would go back to his endless nocturnal existence; why couldn’t he get drunk once and for all, and stay in the red hammock for good? But no: he kept on at his drudgery. Not even on the hottest days of the year would he seek out shade to work in. He was mortifying himself. His body became swollen, and his fingers and toes were full of impetigo blisters. All he needed to do was exchange his arms for wings; the angel, the patron saint of the household.

When Domingas missed Omar in the middle of that October afternoon, Zana didn’t get upset. In the garden, she lifted her head and shouted her son’s name. Up there, where he was ensconced, he gave signs of life: he opened his arms, swung his body from a thick branch, and let out a shriek like a bird.

“He always liked that kind of tomfoolery,” Zana remembered. “When he was a kid, he defied everyone and climbed up to the highest branch. Yaqub was terrified, poor thing …”