Halim saw his son leaving, and straight after him, the deplorable Zanuri.

“Nothing could upset me when I was with Zana in the hammock,” Halim said to me, “but something bothered me, I was wary of what that Zanuri had come for, and decided to find out who the intruder was. He was an informer …”

Zanuri was a clerk in the law courts, but he made money from other services: he was a Peeping Tom. The pimp had made a tidy sum informing on couples who are a little too free with their enjoyments and excitements. Clandestine couples, shut in their rooms, were spied on by an invisible reptile. That was Zanuri: camouflaged, a chameleon hidden among the dark foliage.

Zanuri followed the convertible from afar. The Oldsmobile left the center of the city, crossed the metal bridges over the creeks, and went into the labyrinth of the Cachoeirinha. It went to the Rua da Matinha, feebly lit by streetlights: to the third house on the left, with no number. It was a wooden house, whitewashed, with vases on the sills of the two open windows. There was a lighted room, and an oval picture, Christ’s face in a frame, on the wall next to the street. The door into the room was protected with wire netting. Omar parked the car some fifteen yards down the road. He walked towards the house; he seemed wary, looking behind him, and to every side. He stopped to comb his hair and straighten his collar. He took a flask out of his pocket and put on scent. Before entering the house, he looked at what was going on in the street: children playing around a bonfire, a couple under a mango tree, two old women sitting on the sidewalk, laughing and telling tall stories. He whistled a well-known song, a chorinho, and the room door opened. Nobody appeared: no doubt she was hiding behind the door. The room went dark, and someone shut the windows. He spent some time in the shack. At ten past three in the morning, he emerged. Or rather, they did. A giantess. A bulky, rotund, tall, dark-skinned woman. A Pau-Mulato trunk. Nearly pure African. A handsome, sculptural face, smooth skin, and a tiny nose. A little, mouthwatering dimple on her chin. A normal mouth. An easy, musical laugh, with more high notes than low, and a debauched tone. Long, smoothed hair, but still frizzled. A braid fell onto her right shoulder, sprinkled with tiny silvery points: cheap jewelry, no doubt. But the rings were something else: they were of precious metal. The necklace was made of little bits of ivory, from the country of her ancestors. They kissed on the mouth—for a good few minutes. Holding each other tight, they walked to the convertible. They got in. Another kiss, a short one this time, with no urgency. She took her blouse off, and Omar rubbed her breasts, in no hurry. She let him, gave herself, half lying down on the seat. Then her head disappeared, and one of her arms, the right, too. I couldn’t see, I can’t swear to what she did. I know I heard him mewing like a leopard in heat, but in stifled cries, biting, sucking the fingers of her left hand. A drunk appeared on the other side of the street. He was drinking from the bottle, quietly staggering and hiccuping to himself. He wound his way towards them, and stopped right next to the convertible. He took a sidelong look at the fun and games. A feast of flesh, alfresco. Stars twinkled above; here below, a drunkard winked. This went on till five in the morning. The first vendors, the last night owls, voices, people stirring. He started the car, she got out. See you, love, she said. Ciao, precious, he said. Then he said something in Arabic I didn’t understand. And went on his way. That was that.