He set his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and gestured for her leg. She laid her foot on his knee, and he brought the candle close to see by. His forehead gleamed in the candlelight. The tendon on the left side of his neck tightened. She could smell his warm, ginny breath. She closed her eyes. The pain was not so bad. When she opened them again, he was holding the tweezers up to the light.

Here’s the culprit.

He unscrewed the bottle of gin and poured a capful on the skin of her foot where the splinter had been.

Very professional. She made a face. I’m impressed.

I was almost a surgeon, he said. Honest to God.

She poured him another drink and filled her own glass as well.

Why “almost”? she asked.

That’s a long story.

He leaned back in his chair and took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. Do you mind? he asked.

Please, she said.

He lit one and exhaled. He told her how he’d studied to be a doctor in Tehran, but then the revolution came; and afterward, he was arrested because of his activities in the Socialist party. He told her about his months underground, about escaping Iran through the mountains, about his year in Norway and coming after to the United States.

Why didn’t you get a degree here? she asked.

Pars exhaled a long seam of smoke.

It was too much money, he shrugged. And too much time gone by. I needed a job besides. And really no one wanted an Iranian surgeon at the time.

He smiled ruefully and tapped ash on the terrace, and they both fell silent. She was tempted to add, They still probably don’t, but she kept silent.

The moon had risen and drifted in a thin geography of clouds. The dog let out a low growl and sniffed the air.

What about Mrs. Liang? Ana finally said.

What about Mr. Liang? Pars replied and picked a piece of tobacco from his lip.

It’s a very tough thing, you know, Pars said philosophically. But so is the heart. When I was very young, my mother handed me a knife in the kitchen. She was cutting up a chicken for dinner. Parviz, she said, take this, and she gave me the knife in one hand and put something slimy into my other hand. It was the chicken’s heart, the—what do you call it?—giblets. She wanted me to cut it. Go ahead, she said. Have you ever tried to cut a chicken heart? It’s a very tough muscle. She wanted to show me that. I couldn’t cut the damn thing!

Maybe the knife was dull, Ana suggested.

Pars smiled and raised his cigarette.

Yes, I never thought of that.