Once, he overheard her in the next room with her friend Zenobia, making fun of his teeth. It only served to confirm his belief that the little devils needed monitoring. Zenobia was saying he looked like a horse.

“Yes, a horse with cheap dentures,” added Dina.

“An elephant would be proud of that much ivory,” continued Zenobia, raising the stakes.

They were helpless with laughter when he entered the room. He fixed each one with a black stare before turning away with menacing slowness, leaving behind silence and misery. Yes, it worked, he realized with surprise and triumph — fear worked.

Nusswan had always been sensitive about his bad teeth and, in his late teens, had tried to get them straightened. Dina, only six or seven then, had teased him mercilessly. But the orthodontic treatment was too painful, and he abandoned it, complaining that with a doctor for a father, it was surprising his condition had not been taken care of in childhood. As evidence of partiality, he would point to Dina’s perfect mouth.

Distressed by his hurt, their mother had tried to explain. “It’s all my fault, son, I didn’t know that children’s teeth should be massaged daily, gently pressed inward. The old nurse at Dina’s birth taught me the trick, but it was too late for you.”

Nusswan had never been convinced. And now, after Dina’s friend left, she paid the price. He asked her to repeat what was said. She did, boldly.

“You have always had the habit of blurting whatever comes into your loose mouth. But you are no longer a child. Someone has to teach you respect.” He sighed, “It is my duty, I suppose,” and without warning he began slapping her. He stopped when a cut opened her lower lip.