Halim closed the board, put the dice away, and paid the bill. He looked at one of his friends: “You mean this Azaz hasn’t a home? Then he should come alone, unarmed, on Sunday at three, to the Praça General Osório.” Everyone found out. Who can resist a duel? There was even an audience, people from the Educandos, the customers from the Encalhe, the peddlers from the market, all of them there, sitting in the shade of the oitizeiros around the edge of the square: an immense, green oval arena, a setting for many festivals in the June season.

A. L. Azaz arrived before three. He waited for his foe in the middle of the open, sunlit square. His white T-shirt got wet, and they say he rubbed his hands and looked around him like a restless hawk, daring anyone to come and get him. But the audience, silent and attentive, didn’t move. Azaz’s gaze swept around the square to see if his opponent would appear. Halim took his time, pretending he’d given up, or was a coward. Then, at half-past three, Azaz, bathed in sweat, laughed out loud, drunk with his triumph. He showed off: turning around, he walked towards the audience. He shouted out challenges and war cries, and punched the air, cracking his knuckles and pummeling and kicking imaginary foes. He was grunting, making a complete idiot of himself, looking like a crazed howler monkey. He tried to terrify the Encalhe’s customers: panting for breath, he screamed insults at his adversary. Then, calmly, from among the group of his friends, Halim appeared. He got up, quite slowly, and made his way through the crowd. Azaz, when he saw him, stopped short, nailed to the spot: he tried to pull himself together, and then, as they said, the howler turned into a squirrel monkey. Azaz had no time to think, let alone defend himself. He was exhausted by his celebration of the delayed duel, by the supposed cowardice of his enemy. Halim came forward a few paces, and wasn’t put off by the knife in his adversary’s hand. He too had his weapon: the steel chain he pulled from his waist with a single movement. Azaz, when he saw he was at a disadvantage, pulled back and stammered: “Let’s put down our arms, and fight hand to hand.” Halim ignored these words, and advanced, cautious but determined, shaking the chain, his eyes fixed on the enemy’s face.

There was a pool of blood on the arena in the square: that’s what they said, and still say. Both of them, bleeding, put their weapons on one side and went at each other until the thirst for vengeance was slaked. The customers of the Encalhe were astonished by their placid rival at backgammon. They prevented Halim from cutting A. L. Azaz’s tongue out. They couldn’t prevent the knife thrusts and the blows with the steel chain. As evening came on, just before the fight ended, there were people gathered all along the sides of the arena. No one interfered. In duels like that, God is the only referee.