Hamedi eased himself into his father’s familiar old chair. “I am going to Switzerland soon on business. Is there something you would like? That soap I used to bring or some chocolate?”

She snorted. “Don’t bother yourself.”

Hamedi heaved a sigh and surveyed the small room. His boyhood was all around him, and he felt a peculiar discomfort in having brought the guards here—it was as if they were violating the one place in Iran where he had ever felt safe. He said, “There is something else I could do for you. I could…” Hamedi hesitated mightily, “I could get you a better place to live.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed severely. “A better place to live? You mean a place that is away from my friends? Something new and clean, with no marks on the wall or stains on the curtains? One without memories? Or perhaps you only want your old mother in a safer neighborhood, one without so many undesirables.”

“I am not without influence, Mother. I could get you a house with a garden in Hashtgerd. It’s a nice place—many of the high-ranking military officers and Majlis live there.”

She stared at him incredulously. “The Majlis you say?”

Hamedi paused, waiting for her predicted disgust to pass. The big shoulder was still there. “Or … I still have the apartment in Hamburg. Perhaps you could go there, even for a short stay. I could arrange a flight for you to—”

“Enough!” she shouted. “This is where your father died, and this is where I will die, God willing.”

Hamedi was suddenly sorry he had come. He should not have expected different, but it was a pain he had not felt in a year. He rose from his father’s old chair and raised his voice. “Very well! I came to offer my help, but I will take no more of your misery. I’m sorry you consider me such a disappointment, but I will never regret the course I have chosen. Remember that, old woman!”

He strode to the door.

“Ibrahim—” she called.

Hamedi hesitated, almost turned. But then he strode ahead and his two shadows fell in place behind. Seconds later his convoy was under way, churning down the dust-laden street. He supposed her face was there in the window—as always, the cleanest window on Khorrami Street.

Hamedi did not look back.

*   *   *