I remembered Simin’s glowing face behind the white organdy of her wedding gown. And again my own face held up towards Tony.

“Do you have any idea how I can find out more about my mother?” I asked. “Please. Anything.”

“Let me think.” She closed her eyes for a minute. “She has an old relative, Zeinab Dashti, who lives on Kgani Abad Street. Her house is on the right-hand side all the way at the end of the street. She might know where your mother is.”

“I’m going to go and see her.”

“It would be so exciting if you really did find your mother.”

“In a way I can’t imagine it. It all seems incredible.” But I felt excitement rising in me.

As soon as I returned from Simin’s house, I took two aspirins and went to bed. The pain in my body had started up again. I still had not developed fever. Perhaps there was something wrong with my heart. But I discarded that idea since the pain travelled up and down sporadically, latching itself to various spots. I would give it a few more days and then consult a doctor, I resolved, trying to relax, to put myself to sleep.

Every time I woke during the night I realized I had dreamed about my mother, dreams that had shaken me out of sleep but whose content I did not recall. I remembered one dream I had near dawn. I was standing by the door of the house, when I saw my mother coming towards me, her arms held by two other women. They all walked with their heads down. My mother seemed to be resisting and the two women were dragging her. Then she suddenly looked up. As soon as she saw me she began to scream and run the other way.

In the morning I took a taxi to Kgani Abad, a long, narrow street in an old, far-off section of the city. The cobblestoned sidewalks were full of rubbish and dried-up spittle. Some women were washing clothes in the dirty water of the gutter. They lifted their heads and stared at me in my short dress.

A little boy, his belly enlarged, stood by the steps of a dilapidated shrine. He stretched one hand towards me, and said, “Give me a rial, please give me a rial.” A man with an amputated leg, a woman, and then another little boy joined in, all asking for money. I gave each two rials and walked away. As I looked down the street I almost expected to see my mother waiting. She used to sit with her knees drawn up against her chest when my father or I was late coming home. The edge of her chador would be wet and full of holes, where she had chewed on it.

At the end of the street I found the house and knocked a few times. Soon I could hear footsteps approaching. An old women, erect, pale, with sharp, dark eyes and wearing a chador, opened the door to me.