“That was that: the words of a drunkard,” grumbled Halim, pushing a sheet of paper away. “A pimp disguised as a drunkard. And the wretch still had the brass neck to charge a fat sum for his work. I should have shoved the Panama hat into his ugly mug.”
Zanuri, the professional informer, noted everything down and then typed up the details of the clandestine encounter. The letters danced on the paper. Seven pages just for one meeting; some of the details were exaggerated: “Mountains of rubbish in the streets in Cachoeirinha. I smoked eight cigarettes waiting for the lovebirds to come out of their cage. Pau-Mulato walked tall, like the smooth, lofty trunk of a noble tree. A kite with a drawing of a skull on a white background, forgotten in the rubbish-littered street. With no tail …”
Zana read everything and analyzed it: the details, the digressions, and the scene of the encounter itself. She sent Zanuri on his way and went on the offensive, treading carefully. She began the battle by bringing home boxes of English toffee and Swiss chocolate. She gave Omar a present of a silk tie and an Irish linen jacket, “So you can go out more smartly dressed, more elegant for your nights in Cachoeirinha.”
Omar understood the insult, and realized his mother had found everything out. He put on a show; they both did, and made a truce to put their thoughts in order. He put other things in order: his bedroom, for example. He also packed his clothes in a suitcase. Finally, he found a reason for leaving the house.
He decided to leave and be his own master, to all appearances. He would be secure in his decision, free of what he had been until that night, the man in the tie pretending to be a bank employee, high-minded, and with his studied gestures: the lord that never was.
Zana felt threatened, and shadowed her son.
“Where are you going? What trip is this?” she shouted, pulling at his jacket sleeve and looking him in the eye. “I know everything, Omar; this trip is a pretense, a lie. I know exactly who the woman is … she’ll drain you dry, she’ll bewitch you, you’ll come back home in tatters … They’re all the same, she’ll send you mad … You’re a sucker, a big silly boy, that’s what you are … I can hardly believe you’re my son.”
She threatened him as far as she could, without taking her eyes off his face; she felt things were more serious now than the other time when he’d fallen in love. With a rapid gesture Omar took his jacket off and left it in his mother’s hands, loose and crumpled. It gave off mingled scents: the same sweetish whiff. But it must have made her shudder.