In the taxi, he turned off the meter almost immediately. “You have to pay me 100 tomans for this.”

“That much?”

“It would cost you more if I left the meter on.”

There was no point arguing with him. I sat stiffly and looked out. We seemed to be floating in the sallow light cast by the street lamps. Thin old sycamores lined the sidewalks. Water flowed in the gutters. The smoky mountains surrounding the city, now barely visible, were like a dark ring. The streets were more crowded and there were many more tall western buildings than I had remembered. Cars sped by, bouncing over holes, passing each other recklessly, honking. My taxi driver also drove badly and I had visions of an accident, of being maimed.

We passed through quieter, older sections. The driver slowed down on a narrow street with a mosque at its center, then stopped in front of a large, squalid house. This was the street I had lived on for so many years; here I had played hide-and-seek in alleys and hallways. I had a fleeting sensation that I had never left this street, that my other life with Tony had never existed.

I paid the driver, picked up my valise, and got out. On the cracked blue tile above the door, “Akbar Mehri,” my father’s name, was written.

I banged the iron knocker several times and waited. In the light of the street lamps I could see a beggar with his jaw twisted sitting against the wall of the mosque. Even though it was rather late, a hum of prayers, like a moan, rose from the mosque. A Moslem priest came out, looked past the beggar and spat on the ground. The doors of the house across the street were open. I had played with two little girls, sisters, who lived there. I could almost hear their voices, laughter. The April air was mild and velvety against my skin but I shivered at the proximity to my childhood.

A pebble suddenly hit me on the back. I turned but could not see anyone. A moment later another pebble hit my leg and another behind my knee. More hit the ground. I turned again and saw a small boy running and hiding in the arched hallway of a house nearby.

I knocked again.

There was a thud from the inside, shuffling, and then soft footsteps. The door opened and a man—my father—stood before me. His cheeks were hollower than I had recalled, the circles under his eyes deeper, and his hair more evenly gray. We stared at each other.

“It’s you!” He was grimacing, as though in pain.

“Didn’t you get my telegram?”

He nodded. “We waited for you for two hours this morning in the airport. What happened to you?”

I was not sure if he was angry or in a daze. “You must have gotten the time mixed up. I meant nine in the evening.”

My father stretched his hands forward, about to embrace me but, as though struck by a shyness, he let them drop at his sides. “Come in now.”