Domingas’s hands anxiously took clothes out of the case, and tried to find space for the dried fish and the flour. Zana was watching over this complicated process, and was just going to interfere when the bell rang insistently; Omar got there first, ran to the front door, and they all heard a confused jumble of words.

“Who is it, Omar?” his mother asked; then there was an argument, the door banged shut, and once more the bell rang.

“Where’s Omar got to?” asked Zana. “Domingas, go and see what’s happening.”

Domingas shut the case and quickly went to the door. Then her voice sounded, loud and insolent: “He’s leaving shortly.”

The click of high heels echoed down the corridor. Zana glanced, first in mystification, then with contempt, at the woman who came into the room looking around for Yaqub. No one had heard of her since that afternoon when Omar had torn his brother’s cheek in the Reinosos’ basement. Zana blamed the scar on Yaqub’s cheek on the devilish seduction of this big blond girl. “I don’t understand how that hefty piece could have bewitched my son.” Sometimes she adjusted the wording: “I don’t understand how my Yaqub let himself be bewitched by that lizard.”

“She looked just the same, except that on that visit Livia showed part of her breasts and thighs,” Domingas told me.

Wide-eyed, Zana scrutinized the rest of Lívia’s body; cattily, she asked her: “Has the sweetheart come to take leave of my young gallant?”

Lívia kept clear of her and went out of the room, enticing Yaqub into the garden. They whispered together in giggles, and disappeared into the bushes at the back. They were there the time it took to take dessert, the thick coffee, and a siesta. Zana was uneasy, and made a sign to Domingas, who found them near the fence. They were stretched out in the undergrowth, and Yaqub was caressing the woman’s breasts and belly, putting off the final goodbye. Domingas kept quiet, breathing hard; she bent over, moved the leaves, and angrily broke some of the branches of a breadfruit tree. She stared at the scene openmouthed, and retreated, dry in the mouth, desperate for some of that water.

Lívia didn’t reappear; she must have gone out by the alley at the back. Yaqub came into the room alone, his neck marked with scratches and love bites, his face still burning with passion.

That was how he left: his clothes crumpled, his face wet, and his hair full of twigs, leaves, and strands of blondish hair. He went quietly, leaving the house where he had lived with frugality and discretion. He had hardly occupied the place, hardly more than a shadow. He left the house with the memory of these two powerful scenes: the parade in his gala uniform and the encounter with the woman he loved.