“That’s my sister and the two boys are my nephews,” the woman said. “We all live here. Both of our husbands are dead.”

“It must be lonely,” I said.

“There are many others like us, living in houses like this, taking care of them. Banoo Khanom and her brother do the same thing. There’s a house over there with mirrored walls. If you like I’ll take you to it.”

“Maybe some other time,” I said, heat rising in my face at the thought of my mother being a caretaker of a similar house.

As I was leaving I tried to give a tip to the woman. She shook her head. “God bless you, but no, no. Mr. Boroojerdi was my uncle, a dear uncle.”

I looked at her, puzzled.

“When he died his fortune melted like a candle. He had one son who blew away his money.” She shook her head, the wrinkles on her face deepening. “It takes only one weed to choke a garden.”

She went towards her sister and nephews and I left.

When I got back a man was squatting by my mother’s door, staring at the palm of his hand. A stick leaned against the wall behind him. He was middle-aged and wore frayed and unpressed trousers and shirt. He had a trim face and fine features and a graying, pointed beard. I wondered if he was my uncle.

“Is Banoo Khanom in?” I asked. “I came here before and she was gone.”

He looked up but his eyes passed mine, focusing somewhere in space.

“Yes, she’s in,” he said, lowering his head again.

There was something peculiar about his motions and it struck me that he was blind.

“Are you her brother?” I asked.

He nodded. I hesitated, wondering whether I should tell him who I was. He seemed part of the anonymous mass of dark figures all around. The idea of his being my uncle was totally absurd. You can still go back, I thought. Turn around and go. Quickly. But the presence of the blind man was too powerful, pulling at me, holding me.

“I’m Feri, Banoo Khanom’s daughter. Do you remember me?” I said. “You’re uncle Mohammed, aren’t you?”

He lifted his face, his expression changing into—I was not sure what—bewilderment? For a moment I was aware of an utter silence and blankness before he said, very softly, “Feri!” He did not ask any questions. Instead he got up, flung his arms around me, and put his mouth to my forehead. A vague recollection of him came to me—putting me on his shoulder when I was a child, and going round and round until I started screaming with dizziness.

He drew back and I said, “I came here last night but no one was home. So I stayed in a hotel.”

“You must have come when we were at the mosque,” he said. “Let me take you inside.”

He picked up his stick and we went into the hall, passed an arched, low doorway, and entered a courtyard. I felt the sun behind me. It made my head burn, seem enormous and heavy.