“I thought they never go away completely.”

“It could.”

“It’s odd that the symptoms were misplaced.”

“It happens occasionally.”

At the moment it did not seem to really matter that I had an ulcer. I selected some of the food and watched the sky darkening before the window as I ate.

“You know what I did when I first came back to Iran? I took a trip across the country, visiting mosque after mosque, shrine after shrine—I could never tire of them.” He looked at me for a long moment as if to assess whether I approved. “I took my mother with me—she was very upset at the time. My nephew, her sister’s son, had died in a car accident. There is a particularly nice shrine, of Saint Zobeideh, outside of Khasvin. It was very far from Teheran, where my mother lives, and my car broke down a couple of times on mud roads before we got to it. But with all the trouble it was worth it. There was no one there that day and we stayed for hours. Wild flowers grew around the grave and birds hopped around. It was so peaceful.”

“I know what you mean—I felt some of that today, even with the crowd.”

He chewed on his food, leaned forward a little and asked suddenly, “What’s your husband like?”

The very thought of Tony brought back some of my anxiety—what had happened to him, why had he not answered my telegram? I was already ten days late getting back and he had not tried to contact me. I must try to call him that evening no matter how hard it might be.

“Oh, it’s not easy to describe my husband,” I said. “He’s very American in many ways. He’s from a middle-class family in the midwest, he’s hard working and very rational.”

I continued inwardly: but he’s brittle, not so resilient and adaptable as you are. He doesn’t have your open manner, your ability to ask question after question, to act overtly irritable or gay. Tony bottles things inside of him until they rot and begin to poison him.

“He couldn’t be too typical, otherwise he wouldn’t marry a foreign girl.” He considered that for a moment and added, “Although you seem to have adopted his ways. You seem Americanized.”

“Have you ever been married?” I asked.

“No, I haven’t found the right person yet.” He laughed. “I’m just hopelessly romantic. Do you mind if I order some wine. You won’t be able to have much of it.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “But are they allowed to serve wine here?”

“They keep some for their regular customers. They bring it over in water jugs so that it won’t be noticed.”

He tapped on the table with his knuckles—the silver ring he wore made a rather loud sound. The waiter came. Mahmood Majid whispered his order although there was no one in the room. The waiter disappeared. He brought the wine over, looking sideways at me and conspiratorially at Mahmood Majid. He cleared the table and left.