Omar, on the other hand, was all too present: his body was there, sleeping on the porch. It shuttled back and forth between the torpor of his hangover and the euphoria of his nightly binges. All morning, he was dead to the world, motionless and wrapped in the hammock. In the early afternoon, he roared out with hunger—a bon vivant on hard times. On the surface, he couldn’t care less about his brother’s success. He didn’t join in the letter readings, and ignored the reserve officer and engineer-to-be. However, he did poke fun at the photographs on show in the living room. “A twerp dressed up to look important,” he said, with a voice so like his brother’s that Domingas got a shock, and looked around the room for Yaqub in flesh and blood. He had the same voice, with the same inflection. The image I had of Yaqub in my mind was shaped by Omar’s body and voice. He had both twins inside him, because he had always been around, spreading his presence in the house to blot out Yaqub’s existence. When Rânia kissed the photos of her absent brother, Omar would get up to some monkey business, showing off like a contortionist to attract his sister’s attention. But Yaqub’s memory still won out. The photographs gave out strong waves: they had an aura of presence. Did Yaqub know this? He was there always, with his haughty expression, hair neatly combed, impeccable jacket, thick, arched eyebrows, and a reluctant, puzzling smile. The duel between the twins was a spark waiting to ignite.

“A duel? Better call it rivalry, something that went wrong between the twins, or between them and us,” Halim said to me one day, looking at the ancient rubber tree in the garden.

The twins weren’t born right after Galib’s death. Halim wanted to enjoy life with Zana; he wanted everything, to live completely with her, just the two of them, drunk with their all-consuming passion. He exaggerated her beauty and laughed, saying she was more beautiful that way, in mourning, her father’s widow.