Omar, gnawed by jealousy, never uttered his brother’s name. Zana, desperate with worry, said that a son who leaves home a second time never returns. Halim agreed, but without the worry. He was dreaming of a glorious future for Yaqub, and that was more important than his return and stronger than the separation. Halim’s grayish eyes lit up when he talked about it.

I saw those eyes many times, not lit up like that, but not dim either just tired of the present, and with no future of any kind in their sights.

2

2

Around 1914, Galib opened the Biblos Restaurant on the ground floor of the house. Lunch was served at eleven, a simple meal, but exotic and delicious. Galib himself, a widower, did the cooking, helped serve, and looked after the garden, covering it with a veil of tulle to protect it from the burning sun. In the Municipal Market, he would choose a fish, a tucunaré or a matrinxã, stuff it with farofa and olives, roast it in a wood-fired oven, and serve it with a sesame sauce. He came into the restaurant with the tray balanced on the palm of his left hand; the other was around his daughter Zana’s waist. They went from table to table and Zana offered guaraná, sparkling water, or wine. The father talked in Portuguese with the customers: street peddlers, skippers of small boats, river traders, and workers from the Manaus Harbor. From its inception, the Biblos was a meeting point for the Lebanese, Syrian, and Moroccan Jewish immigrants who lived in Nossa Senhora dos Remédios Square and the streets giving onto it. They spoke Portuguese mixed with Arabic, French, and Spanish. Here, all kinds of voices mingled together, as people passed through and their lives crisscrossed; one thing after another—a shipwreck, black fever in a village on the river Purus, a swindle, a case of incest, distant memories, and burning emotions: a pain still smarting, a passion still smoldering, grief over irreparable loss, or hope that a cheat might eventually pay his debts. They ate, drank, and smoked, drawing out this moment of communion, and putting off the siesta.

The person who recommended the restaurant to the young Halim was Abbas, a friend of his who said he was a poet; he had worked in Acre, by the Bolivian border, and now made a living on the Amazon, traveling between Manaus, Santarém, and Belém. Halim began coming to the Biblos on Saturdays, then started going every morning, partaking of some fish, a stuffed aubergine, or a piece of fried cassava; he would take his flask of arrack from his pocket, drink it, and devour Zana with his eyes. He spent months in this fashion: alone in a corner of the room, excited whenever he saw Galib’s daughter, and following this gazelle with his eyes wherever she went. He stared at her, his face tense, waiting for a miracle that didn’t happen. He went fishing in the lakes and brought tucunarés and slabs of surubim for Galib. The owner of the Biblos thanked him, didn’t charge for lunch, and Halim was full of enthusiasm about this friendship, which still was not enough to get him nearer Zana.