“I can’t think that far.” I would live on some of the money Tony and I had saved and let the future rest for a while. I heard footsteps. It was Darius holding a paper kite, shaped like a lantern.

“How nice it would be to fly away with just a touch of the wind,” he said, letting the string go.

“What are you doing flying that kite,” my father asked, looking up, squinting.

“I’m having a good time,” Darius said, turning to me. “Come and hold this. The wind is just right.”

I took the spool in both hands. The string pulled hard as the kite moved up rapidly, translucent in the sunlight.

My father watched us for a moment, shook his head and left.

Darius stared at me as I held the kite, watching it go higher and higher. I became aware of his arm touching mine, furtively. I moved away slightly. His arm touched me again.

“I think I’m going down,” I said. “I’m getting tired of this.”

“No.” A single word, uttered in almost a whisper.

I looked up at him. His expression was the same as it had been years before when he had attacked me on the stairs leading up to that roof.

“Here,” I said. “Take this.”

He took the spool and my hand with it. I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on very hard.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He did not answer. His eyes were fixed on my face.

Then, suddenly, he let go. “I’m sorry,” he said, and walked away.

The kite was wavering and coming down. My hand shook as I held the spool more firmly. The kite began to go up again, up and up, until it became a tiny red spot. Behind it an orange streak spread over the horizon, fading by the minute.

22

It was midafternoon when I got to Kashan and the heat, the glaring sun, had driven most people off the streets. On the lane leading to my mother’s house a man in faded clothes lay on the ground in a shady strip made by the wall. His lips were wide apart and flies played on them. The street was quiet and empty.

The door to my mother’s house was open and I went in, but neither she nor my uncle was at home. I went to the room she had fixed for me before. It was as I had left it, wrinkles on the blankets, a pair of slippers by the bed, a clay bowl. The objects floated in sunlight.

I waited in the room. Then I saw my mother coming, limping a little, as if in pain. Her face had that blank, bloated look. I could not wait until I saw a smile reflected on it—her smiles were so sparse.

“Mother,” I called to her.

She looked at me, a little puzzled, but soon she smiled with recognition which came quickly this time.