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and reread, from the pieces in checkers and backgammon games, from sprees with his hookers, his innocent diversions. In exchange for that, he was able to drink whenever he wanted, at any hour. Competent in the handling of his glass, he showed a preference for alcohol with the taste ofanise. He was a good drinker, but he was even better at gabbing and carrying on.
    He was lingering all alone in the bar at sundown, nursing his aperitif and preparing himself for the night’s multiple adventures. He didn’t have to cheat in order to win at poker in the rear parlor of the Hotel dos Lordes. He would do so only occasionally, just to teach the contemptible cardsharps a bit of decorum. He was astute enough to spot the nature of the cheating and quickly figure out how to use his chips with skill and mastery. He would unmask bluffing and put it to use for himself with ridiculous assurance. As card players say, he could sing his opponents’ tune. And he had the gift of prophecy.
    As a lover he was lavish with flattery and fancies. Going to bed with Raduan Murad brought on disputes over the privilege along with much cursing and cuffing among the whores. Evil tongues whispered the names of mistresses and married women. Virgins gazed from a distance at his slim, impeccable figure in a white suit of H-J linen, his graying hair, his long fingers clutching his ivory cigarette holder. They would sigh. A bachelor well into his fifties, he was more alluring than any young guy. Over his empty glass he was pondering Ibrahim’s fate, both a slapstick comedy and a melodrama.
    The prudent Sante, owner of the bar, had gathered in the day’s earnings, leaving just a bit of change, and he went off to dine at home. Adib was washing glasses, mixing drinks, putting bottles in order, and getting the bar ready for the great nocturnal hubbub that was about to begin. Just the right moment to pick up a conversation with the potential candidate for the hand of Adma, at the free lunch counter.
    Raduan felt an obligation to help the harassed Ibrahim in his struggle to rise up out of his misfortune, overcome his bad luck, and recover his right to shade and cool water, in consideration for their old friendship, his comradeship, the memory of Sálua’s eyes, the inaccessible Sálua, but above all, to have some fun in one more game, just as exciting aspoker—the game of destiny, already mentioned, in which the cards are human beings and the bets are for life itself.
    He half-closed his eyes. Night was slowly reaching the opposite bank of the river, which was still uninhabited. Sorcery and malignancy at the crossroads for the small store. To confront the crisis, Raduan Murad’s weapons were wisdom and trickery. Raising his voice, he asked Adib to give him another shot of raki, and the inquiry and negotiations got under way.

9
    The exact terms of the conversation between Raduan Murad and young Adib Barud on that Itabuna twilight were never known. They carried on the dialogue alone and kept to themselves the matters discussed. But even that didn’t prevent someone from reproducing the long dialogue point by point, referring to tones of voice, waves of laughter, and the depth of the silences. Some stated that the dialogue, begun in Arabic, had ended in Portuguese; others swore it was just the opposite: It had begun in Portuguese and went on in Arabic—a language, furthermore, that Adib, born as a Brazilian from southern Bahia, spoke scrupulously poorly.
    To believe the generally accepted version, one still worthy of credence and repetition, when Raduan was served his drink of anise he most likely asked the waiter, “How about you? Don’t you eat any dinner, young fellow?”
    Adib answered yes, he did eat dinner, and quite amply. A dish prepared by Dona Lina, Sante’s wife. Sante would bring it to him when he got back from home. He added a nice comment about his boss lady’s looks: “Dona Lina’s a knockout, don’t you think, Professor? A pair of