But Omar was making the mistake of betraying the woman who had never betrayed him. Zana stirred in her seat when she saw her son coming near Dália, the light from the lantern gradually illuminating the dancer’s face, until the infatuated exhibitionist theatrically kissed his lover in the middle of the room, and then asked for applause for her. Everyone clapped in time to the drum, played by the widower Talib. Only Zana stayed aloof from all this homage. She refused to let them sing “Happy Birthday,” ignored the cake that she and Domingas had prepared, and left the little candles that Halim had arranged with his wife’s name lit on top of it. Zana’s name kept burning on the iced cake, and the image of the red flames is still vivid in my memory. Halim understood and went up to the bedroom. My mother signaled to me to go with her, but I pretended not to notice and stayed there. She disappeared into the back of the house. The neighbors said goodbye, and Talib was the last one to go out, with his drum. There was no more music: Omar and Dália dragged themselves around the room, glued to one another, while Zana, sitting on the rocking chair, her fan motionless in her hand, accompanied their silent dance.

Never, on these festive occasions, had he danced so long with his face and body stuck to a woman. It was an affront to his mother, Omar’s great betrayal. Zana waited for the bodies to begin to stagger with exhaustion, and for the right moment for the dénouement, which couldn’t be long in coming. She put her fan on one side, got up, turned all the lights on, and sweetly asked if the dancer would mind giving her a hand, and help her to clean the table. Omar approved of this intimacy. He lay down in the red hammock, not far from me. I don’t think he saw me: he only had eyes for the Silver Woman. The two of them began to take plates and glasses from the table, and went from the living room to the kitchen; sometimes they talked as they went, and in one of these comings and goings, Zana gripped the other woman’s arm hard and whispered. Dália went into the toilet. She reappeared in the red dress, holding a small bag where she had put the silvery one. I only got a glance at her face, but I could see it was no longer the same as when she came into the house, nor of the dancer that had magnetized so many eyes. It was the face of a humiliated woman. She stopped in the room, and before she left, said out loud: “We’ll see, we’ll see.”

Omar, sleepy, sat up in the hammock and heard the front door slam. He ran into the street, and disappeared into the night, after the woman.