The children had invaded Halim’s life, and he never got used to the fact. Still, they were children, and he spent time with them, told them stories, and looked after them every so often. He took them fishing in the Puraquecoara Lake, and they went rowing in the Cambixe branch of the river, where Halim knew cattle farmers and owners of small plantations. He was what you could call a father, but one who was aware that his children had robbed him of a large part of his privacy and pleasure. Years later, they would rob him of his serenity and good humor. He warned his wife that she was spoiling Omar, the delicate boy who had nearly died of pneumonia.

“My little black monkey, my hairy little boy,” Zana said to Omar, to Halim’s despair. The little hairy boy grew up, and when he was ten he already had the strength and bravery of a grown man.

“Omar got up to all kinds … I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, clenching his fists. “Some episodes really make me angry. For an old man like me, it’s best to remember other things, all the things that have given me pleasure. That’s best: remembering what makes me live a little longer.”

He kept quiet about the episode of the scar. He also kept quiet about Domingas’s life. However, when I really pressed her, I extracted a few moments of confession.

4

4

I knew nothing about myself, how I came into the world, or where I had come from: my origin, or origins. My past, pulsating in some way in the life of my ancestors, I knew nothing at all about. My infancy carried no trace of its origins. It’s like forgetting a child in a boat on an empty river, waiting for one of the banks to give him shelter. Years later, I began to suspect that one of the twins was my father. Domingas dissembled whenever I touched on the subject; she left me in a state of uncertainty, thinking one day I might discover the truth. Her silence hurt me; on our walks, when she took me to the aviary by the cathedral or along the riverfront, she would begin a sentence, but only to interrupt it and look at me, upset, and overcome by a weakness that inhibited sincerity. Often she would try, but faltered, hesitated, and ended up saying nothing. When I asked the question, her look bade me be quiet, and her eyes were sad.