Zana had been waiting at the airport for them since early evening. She parked the green Land Rover, went up to the veranda, and stood looking east. When she saw the silvery twin-engine coming up to the head of the runway, she ran downstairs, crossed the arrivals lounge, bribed an employee, walked proudly to the plane, went up the steps, and burst into the cabin. A bouquet of heliconias she had brought fell to the floor as she embraced her pale, frightened son. She said, “My darling, my dearest, light of my life,” and again, in tears, “Why did you take so long? What have they done to you?” kissing him on the face, neck, and head in front of the incredulous gaze of the crew and passengers, until Halim said, “That’s enough! Now let’s get off, Yaqub’s done nothing but throw up, next thing we’d have had his guts all over the floor.” But she wouldn’t stop caressing him, and got down from the plane holding onto her son; down the stairs she went and into the arrivals hall, radiant, full of herself, as if she had finally gotten part of her life back: the twin who had gone away through Halim’s whim or obstinacy. What was more, for some incomprehensible reason she had let it happen, whether out of passion or sheer folly, a blind, uncontrollable devotion, or all those things rolled together; either she didn’t know what to call it, or didn’t want to know.

Now he was back: as handsome and tall as the other son, the younger one. They had the same angular face, the same big chestnut eyes and black, wavy hair; they were exactly the same height. After he laughed Yaqub let out a sigh, just like his brother. Distance had not removed certain tics and common mannerisms, but Yaqub had forgotten certain words in Portuguese. He didn’t say much, only uttering monosyllables or short phrases; when he could, he kept quiet—sometimes, when he should have said something.

Zana saw straightaway. She saw her son smile, sigh, and avoid words, as if surrounded by a paralyzing silence.

On the road home from the airport Yaqub recognized a part of his Manaus childhood; with a jolt, he saw the brightly painted boats moored along the creeks where he and his brother and father had rowed their straw-roofed canoe. Yaqub looked at his father and only managed to stammer out some jumbled noises.

“What’s happened?” asked Zana. “Have they ripped your tongue out?”

“La, no, Mama,” he said; he couldn’t take his eyes off this scene from a childhood that had come to such a sudden, untimely end.