It was still raining, with thunder, when Omar invaded my haven. He came slowly up to the room, just an indistinct figure. He came a little farther forward and stopped right close to the old rubber tree; the size of the tree made him look small. I couldn’t see his face clearly. He lifted up his head to the crown of the tree, which covered the whole garden. Then he turned his body around, and looked back: the veranda was no longer there, and the red hammock no longer awaited him. A high, solid wall separated my little corner from Rochiram House. He ventured forward, his bare feet in the puddles; Omar, a middle-aged man—already almost old. He looked straight at me. I waited. I wanted him to admit to the dishonor, the humiliation. One word was enough, only one. Forgiveness.

Omar faltered. He looked at me, silent. He stayed that way for a time, his look piercing the rain and the window, beyond any angle or fixed point. It was the look of a man cut adrift. Then he slowly backed away, turned around, and left.

Zana had to leave everything: the Manaus Harbor area, with its sloping street shaded by ancient mango trees, a place almost as vibrant as Biblos, the small town in Lebanon where she had spent her childhood; she recalled it out loud as she wandered through the dusty rooms, losing herself finally in the garden. There the crown of the old rubber tree shaded the palms and the orchard, which had been cultivated for more than half a century.