“It seems Omar’s found a woman and a half. They say they spend the whole night dancing in the Acapulco …”

“A woman and a half? In the Acapulco? Heavens, Zahia, you can’t think much of my Omar. Omar, what’s more … he’s always admired your looks.”

Zahia’s news left Zana impatient. She showed every guest the flowers, still fresh, and the love note written by her son. She knew that sooner or later, Omar would arrive, accompanied by a woman. He came at ten, before the Talib sisters’ dance. He opened his arms, saying in Arabic, “Happy birthday, my queen.” It was a phrase he’d learned by heart, but it was perfectly pronounced. He kissed her with passion, and at that moment Zana shed tears, partly out of emotion, partly because Omar, after the kiss, introduced his new girlfriend.

This time she decided not to pretend: she faced this woman with a sweet smile and a look of contempt, knowing she would never be her son’s wife; she was the rival defeated in advance. At heart, Zana didn’t pay much attention to the women Omar brought back home. He didn’t discriminate; never got enthusiastic about the color of their eyes or hair. He wooed nameless women, women of whom nobody in the neighborhood could say: she’s the daughter, granddaughter, or niece of so-and-so. They were unknown women, who never went to the fashionable beauty salons, much less to the Green Salon in the Ideal Club; he courted girls who had never left Manaus, never gone to Rio de Janeiro. All the same, Omar’s anonymous women brought surprises, and he cultivated these surprises, taking pleasure in other people’s reactions. Halim prayed for one of these women to take his son far from home, or for one of Talib’s daughters, preferably Zahia, the more beautiful, sensual, and perceptive of the two, to ensnare him. But he sensed that Zana was stronger, more audacious, and more powerful.

The jealousy, fear, envy, and pity that Omar’s women caused! Like the Peruvian girl from Iquitos, small and dainty, who sang in Spanish all night, pouting at Halim, until Zana said, loud so that everyone could hear: “Son, is your little girl looking for a job?”

They were all Zana’s victims. All, except two. The one I knew and saw close-up rises up again in front of me, as if that distant evening were coming alive again in this present one.

The others, eager and compliant, were no match for Zana, and came nowhere near threatening her mother’s love. Apart from that, they had no names, that is, Omar only called them love or princess, to the delight of the queen mother, secure on her throne. But that night the woman had a name: Dália. She was introduced to everyone, one by one. A first name wasn’t enough. Omar revealed her surname, which I’ve forgotten. The rest, that is, all Dália’s charms, were her own. What a duel there was between Zana and the aspiring daughter-in-law! It was silent, and witnessed by very few: such was the dissembling power of the false laughter and the bows and curtsies.