“He’s a bit faded looking. It must be that blond hair,” Darius said.

Ziba took the picture, holding it upside down. She did not have her glasses on and she squinted to see. “Oh, he certainly is white-washed.”

“How did you get married? Did they have aghounds there?” Darius asked.

“It wasn’t a religious wedding.”

“Not religious? What does that mean?”

“It was a civil ceremony.”

“You aren’t really married to him then, you’ve been living in sin,” Ziba said, her voice becoming shrill.

“We must find her a husband while she’s here,” Darius said.

“And a wife for you. You’ll have a double marriage,” Ziba said.

“I already have a husband,” I said.

Ziba sighed. “There is so much wrong in the world.”

My father shook his head, looking melancholy.

We fell into silence. The house was silent. I felt a heavy weight tugging at my heart. I reminded myself that I would be there only for two weeks.

I felt an even heavier weight when I was alone in my room, the same one I had had years before. It was an austere room with dust gathered on the few items of furniture—a sagging bed, a faded paisley rug, a chest and a chair.

I went to the tiny window overlooking a main street and opened it. Outside, a cloth hung from two trees, advertising a rug store. Wide gutters, with water rippling in them ran along both sides of the street. A woman wearing a chador stood under a lamppost, moving her head from side to side, on the watch.

Somewhere a man sang,

“Come and join me. We’ll go to the town of Ray,

To tear down mountains, to build fountains,

Come with me, we’ll sail up a river.”

I noticed a clay unicorn on the mantel. I picked it up and examined it. The black eyes had faded and its horn was missing. I had had a similar one as a child and wondered if this was it.

After a while I went to bed. Shadows surrounded me as I lay there with the light turned off and the curtains drawn.

When I was a child I had wakened at night to odd noises, horrifying shapes in the dark, faraway laughter, a cobweb structure clinging to everything. I would go cold. Sometimes I would get up and crawl into my father’s bed.

“What’s the matter? What are you doing here?” my father had asked the first time.

“I was afraid.”

“Of what? Did anyone hurt you?”

“No, no, just the dark.”

“You aren’t a child any more. You musn’t be afraid.” He had kissed me on the cheek and turned away. I hugged his side and remained that way as though movement would destroy the mood that enveloped us. I could feel his fingers tapping on my hand, then becoming still as his breathing grew regular and heavy.

He had been a gentle, lenient father. Then disagreements and harshnesses had started between us.

Now I was back in that room and felt the fear once again. I pulled the patchwork quilt over my head and tried to sleep.