Now I wondered if we had left each other alone too much.

“His sisters wanted him to marry, so he did,” Simin was saying. She sighed. “They picked me, probably because they thought he would never get attached to me. Or maybe because he’s incapable of getting attached to anyone. His parents died when he was very young and those sisters hovered over him and cared for him. They’re the only people who matter to him.”

“I remember how you cried and pleaded with your mother not to force you to marry him.” Was I much happier for having selected Tony?

“I’ve wasted my life on him. And now my daughter is getting married and I have to spend every moment of my time preparing a dowry for her. I have no time for anything else and the worry is wearing me out.”

“Why don’t you buy some things ready made?”

“That takes money, you know.” Tears filled Simin’s eyes.

“How much money would you need?”

“No less than a thousand tomans. It’s not easy to get together so much when you have five children—all needing to be fed and clothed.”

A thousand tomans was a little more than a hundred dollars.

“It eats my heart out the way my daughter tries to comfort me. ‘Don’t worry mother. If we’re patient, God will help us out,’ she says to me. And her fiance is so young and sweet ….” She began to cry, tears pouring from her eyes.

“Don’t worry. I can give you some money. I brought more with me than I can spend.”

Simin continued crying. “And Zahara is fourteen. Soon she’ll be the age to be married and my worries will start all over again.”

“Here, I’ll give you the money right now.” I reached for my pocketbook and took out a stack of bills. “Here, take this.”

Simin stretched her hands and enfolded the money in them quickly. “I’m grateful to you for this. I’ll never forget your kindness.” There was no trace of embarrassment in her voice. Her whole face and tone reflected infinite relief. She folded the bills and lay them under the handle of a knife.

“Did I tell you how miserable your father was because you didn’t write? Sometimes he’d start crying at the mention of your name.”

“You said something about that.”

“In a way I don’t blame you for not wanting to come back here. Life must be so much easier for you there.”

I groped for a way to bring up the subject of my mother.

“Remember my mother used to take us on the train to Shah-Abdol-Azim?” I said.

“Yes, of course. We did so much together.”

“You and I would stand by the window and wait for the blue domes. There were all those wild flowers on the roads and the goats and cows, and peasants selling rag dolls.” I could see the antiquated train with its rickety benches, soot-covered walls, and the black plume of smoke swarming and swirling around it.