Zana went into action. She wandered around the city in search of the convertible. Three taxi drivers went around the neighborhoods, looking in hidden garages, sheds at the bottom of gardens, old Manaus housing developments; in all kinds of no-man’s-land, in the city and around its edges. It was impossible to inspect everywhere; the thousands of dwellings in the shantytowns built out over the muddy creeks, the Floating City, the rafts in the bay, the towns nearby, the boats, the lakes, the rivers and the channels linking them.

She was miserable, muttering, “They’ve stolen my Omar”; she slept badly, had nightmares, and lost her energy. She hardly ate, just nibbled and sipped. But she didn’t give up on the search, she wouldn’t resign herself, sobbing in quiet desperation. She was a mother in mourning. Only, for her, this mourning had an end. Her son’s return was a question of life, but never of death.

“It was such hard work,” Halim sighed. “What I saw, what I understood, was that this woman, my wife, grew in stature when she felt she was going to lose her son. She picked herself up, and thought everything through again. What I mean is, she reshuffled all the cards until she found her king of spades.”

One night, Zanuri reappeared, prying and sly as ever. She drove him out of the house with the fan for the fire. She insulted him in the two languages she spoke. Brainless burglar, thief, harami! Her eyes were burning, even if there were ashes in her heart. She said nothing to the neighbors, listened to none of the advice they wanted to give her; she shut her ears to everything. But inside, right at the bottom, the waves were swelling up. Halim, his mouth dry with so much desire, but also afraid, recoiled. Everybody knew about it now, the whole city, the settlements nearby: whispers in the air, fluttering down like confetti. No hunt like that can be anonymous. When a mother’s on the prowl, it’s a real storm; it turns the world upside down, a hurricane. Who knew what Zana was planning? Alone with herself, she was moving the sticks and blowing into the glowing embers. On her own, her voice quite calm as she chose her moment to pounce. She filled her basket with mysteries. She spent most of her time praying, with the other two faithful women, the three of them huddled together; she was the queen bee in the hive. Domingas joined this ritual every night. Did my mother want Omar back? I noticed a kind of desire in her, an anxiety she knew not how to hide, a shadow in her feelings. She left me in doubt; I lost my bearings when she bemoaned Omar’s absence.