Halim and Zana thought that their graduate son could straighten him out, and that sooner or later the tough life of São Paulo would tame him. For months they believed Omar’s letters: he was fine, it had taken him a while to get used to the cold, but now he was studying, getting up early to go to the college, having his dinner in the pension in the Rua Tamandaré, hardly leaving his room. It was a different Omar, diligent, never playing truant, though he did feel a bit out of place among the other pupils, being so grown up. On the last Saturday in August, Yaqub’s maid visited Omar’s pension to give him clothes and sweets Zana had sent. Two coats, a pullover, and a pair of velvet trousers, so that her little hairy boy wouldn’t suffer from the cold and drizzle; and a tin full of Arabic sweets, to remember his mother by. Omar acknowledged the gift: “Thanks very much, brother. It’s the first time I’ve enjoyed my food since I came to São Paulo. Only my mother could give me so much pleasure.” Yaqub said nothing when the maid told him that Omar, sitting on the bed, devoured the sweets.