I tried to look unconcerned as I stood before the man who was in charge. He was middle-aged and had dark, suspicious eyes. Another man, young and heavy set, was sitting on a chair near him and they were talking, either oblivious of or indifferent to my presence.

The man in charge suddenly turned to me and said, with an edge to his voice, “What do you want?”

I explained the problem.

“What are you bringing that problem to me for? We have more than enough work to do as it is,” he said, his eyes sharply focused on me.

The other man nodded slightly in agreement and then they began to talk to each other again.

“I thought perhaps you could write a letter, telling them …”

“There’s nothing I can do for you,” he interrupted. “You have to go through the whole procedure. If anyone told you we make exceptions they’re just trying to smear our name.”

“But what’s the procedure?”

“Go downstairs, turn right in the hall, and walk all the way to the end. There’s an office there to take care of marriage certificates. Explain to them that you didn’t know you were supposed to register your marriage.”

“Then I won’t need a letter of permission?”

“Of course you do, American husband or Iranian. It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Look, what’s going on here? They just told me that if I’m married to an American I don’t need a letter of permission.”

“They must have made a mistake.”

“You’re a bunch of idiots who don’t know what to do with your time,” I said. The hysteria was all in my voice now. I went out and slammed the door.

Outside the building two men sat on the curb of the street with their legs spread, their heads tilted downward. As I got closer, I had a glimpse of what they were doing. They had unzipped their flies and were holding their penises in their hands, making a shower of urine rise into the air and then form a puddle on the ground.

I walked to another street and looked for a taxi. My head ached and my limbs felt heavy.

When the taxi pulled up before my father’s house Darius was filling the bathroom pitcher with water from the pool in the courtyard. Ziba was emptying ashes out of a samovar and my father sat on the veranda, smoking a water pipe. I thought: I am here and these people, these strangers, may be my companions for a long time. What will we talk about—the next meal, how I will burn in hell for living with a man not my husband?

“Back finally!” Darius cried as though he had been waiting for me all this time. “You shouldn’t wander around by yourself. Next time let me take you where you want to go.”

“Come here, my daughter, and tell me what you’ve been doing,” my father said, with no remnant of his anger.

“They’re giving me trouble at the passport bureau. Can I use the phone to call Tony?” It occurred to me that I had never used his name with them before. “My husband. I’ll reverse the charges.”