But Dália’s strength began with her body and flowed into her flaming red dress, more rebellious, sensual, and full-blooded than the seed of the guaraná. She attracted more looks than Rânia. She attracted them, but kept herself to herself, mysterious, molding herself to our imagination. Little by little, the looks moved away from her dress to her face, with its effortless smile. Omar and Dália settled in one corner of the room, and at that moment Zana went over to talk to her. Omar went off and left them alone. It’s not known what they said, but each was sounding out the other’s territory, their gestures carefully disguised, both of them very nervous, like an actress on an opening night. Dália’s words prevailed, both in tone and timbre, captivating sounds, slightly lilting, and not at all false. Zana felt herself threatened, and looked for another corner. It was her first defeat, though still a partial one, before midnight.

After the dessert Rânia retired, for even her suitor was overcome with Dália’s presence. It was not Rânia’s night. She left without saying good night, and as she slowly crossed the room to the staircase, she tried to glean some flattering remark, but this time her beauty was ignored.

It was then that the night began. The lights in the room went out. From the veranda, the glimmering moonlight outlined seated silhouettes. The sound of lutes and drums filled the room, the house, and, to my ears, seemed to fill the whole world. Then Talib’s two girls came out of the shadows. Their arms, then their hips and bellies, undulated to the rhythm of the music, which seemed to multiply the movements of the dancers’ bodies. Their gestures were similar, rehearsed, perhaps predictable, a calculated sensuality, such was the skill of the dancing sisters. They repeated the steps and the turns, under the spell of the music, and were just suddenly stiffening their bodies in an unexpected pause in the drumbeats when out of the dark there arose a clear, tall figure who moved towards the center of the room, with sensuous, symmetrical twirls, and then we saw a slim female body, barefoot, dancing like a goddess, throwing her face and shoulders back, curved like a bow, and now the music was accompanied by claps and the click of heels on the floor. The atmosphere was already close, hot, almost suffocating, when a shaft of light from a lantern lit up the dancer’s face. Then we saw the smile, the full lips with no lipstick, the eyes turned to the corner of the room where Omar, in ecstasy, held the lantern. What magic there was in the light licking Dália: the light from Omar’s trembling hand. She attracted everyone’s looks, and danced that way for quite a time, her silvery body maddened by the rhythm of the drums, the clapping, and the lute, and we—stunned by the sensual turns of this body that drew us away from our usual night—we envied Omar, the disputed twin.