“I’m trying to get him to come down,” my uncle said. “He’s afraid to do it on his own.”

“I’ve never seen him before.”

“He comes and goes. He catches a lot of the mice here.”

“Where’s my mother?” I asked.

“She went to the mosque. She went to pray for you. She’s afraid you’ll be leaving soon.” He smiled as if to counteract his own somber tone. “Was your husband comfortable last night?”

“He seemed to be. He slept well.”

Tony came out and stood by the doorway.

“Come here and wash,” I said, pointing to the pool.

He walked to the pool, rubbing his eyes.

“What a wreck this place is,” he said. In daylight he seemed to have forgotten his anger at me, and his tone was gentle. “At one time it must have been beautiful—look at the mosaic on the walls, the shape of the courtyard. It would be nice to reconstruct the whole place again.”

“It’d be a big project,” I said.

He leaned awkwardly over the pool, washing his hands and face under the faucet. The sun glinted on his hair.

I handed him the towel I had used and he dried himself.

The cat jumped onto a lower branch, then to the ground, and began to run away.

Tony and I went back into the room and Tony shaved without water. That left scratches on his face.

My uncle came in carrying the breakfast tray—bread, cheese, butter, milk, and tea.

“Why don’t you stay and eat with us?” I asked my uncle.

“I’ve already eaten but I’ll sit with you for a moment.” He sat down on crossed legs. “Are you going to show your husband around today?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Tell him how happy we are to have you here.”

I said that to Tony. “Tell him I understand,” he said.

My mother came in, smelling of rosewater she had put on in the mosque. “You slept late,” she said. “That was good. Your husband must have been tired.” Her face had the same tight, almost shocked expression as it had when I first saw her.

From under her chador she brought out the photograph of me as a little girl. “Tell him I saved this.”

Tony took the picture from her and examined it. “You looked a lot like you do now.”

My mother pointed to the rose in the picture. “You used to love flowers. You’d come into the yard every day and inspect the bushes for new blossoms, new leaves. There was the stump of a huge tree and you would sit on it, surrounded by flowers, and play for hours. You loved birds too and I bought you a parrot once. You’d sit and talk to it for a long time. I took the bird with me when I left and spoke to it. It was like talking to you. And one day when the bird died I wept and wept over it.”

Beneath her overt display of emotion I could see shadows of pain stretching inward.