“I have learned many things. I believe Aziz may be here.”

“How?”

“It is not something I can talk about right now.”

“But you never can! Mourad, I’m worried. I’m so worried. You can’t find Aziz this way. New York is too big, and New Jersey—it’s too much. Please.”

“I cannot call home.”

“You just did. What are you talking about?”

“I mean Algeria. I cannot call there. My parents, for Aziz to be missing; it will be too much for them. He was missing before; this time it will be too much.”

“Missing before? You’re not making sense.”

“What did you do last night?”

“Watched television.”

“And was Ghazi there then?”

“No.”

“You swear?”

“Yes, I swear!”

“You are different, I feel it.”

“Come home.”

“To what?”

He hung up on her.

She stood there with the phone in her hand for a few moments. Then she put it down gently as if with ladylike behavior her inner feelings might be better hidden. She felt positively see-through.

The old man was wearing a new djellaba. Aziz instantly missed the old one. “Thanks to you,” the old Yemeni said, “I have sold many books these weeks. I bought new clothes.” Everything was crisp, the djellaba a frost blue, the cotton drawstring pants pale saffron.

“Stay away from the coffee then.” Aziz smiled. “You must keep this one new as a lamb.”

“I have been thinking,” the old man said. “We have lines for this coffee in these cups you make. Let us buy another coffeemaker. I will help you to make the cups the night before. There are many Yemeni sayings you have not used yet.”

They were crouched together on the sidewalk. Aziz was setting up the cups on trays, the old man choosing which books to display prominently. “I fear the journey you make for your brother,” he said.

Aziz looked at him, surprised. “You have not said this before.” Then he grinned a little and cocked his head. “You want money, that’s what you want. You see money when you see me!”

They both laughed.

“You are a buried treasure,” the old man said. “What is on the surface—plain. Below—boxes of silver.”