Rebekah blushed. Her fingers were on fire. She had to absolve herself, disclose why she had chosen her profession, why she considered herself more respectable than many wives who were forced into submission. But beyond all, she longed to hold on to his voice, which inflamed her brand and rattled her. In the shadow of the curtains his face was only a silhouette.

She slipped her hand out of his and stuffed it in her pocket. How should she handle this novel sensation, the touch of this man? Most of her life she had been slapped. Bruised. For his tenderness she had no name. Rouh’Allah’s words drifted to her:

“I’ve grown closer to you as I watched you, late at night, behind these windows. I would leave the curtains open for you. Please! Don’t distress yourself on this account. No harm done, none at all.” Night after night, he had seen her peek through the window. He had at first believed she would eventually trample upon her pride and knock on his door to take a closer look and maybe even inspect intimately the wealth she could never attain. But when time passed and she had not tired of her secret visits, he had concluded that some tender emotions stirred her and that she came to observe him. He positioned himself on the divan in a safe corner from where he could better watch. The thought of calling on her had occurred to him. He had brushed it off. One visit would ruin his reputation and consequently his son’s, who was of marrying age. But the heaviness he felt in his heart when she skipped her visits gave rise to deceiving solutions: he would invite her in and spend a few hours of harmless exchange; he would only share a meal with her; he would discuss the trading of materials and give her advice … he would … he would … When the struggle rendered him sleepless, he dispatched his servant to Rebekah to buy a piece of fabric he did not need. When he discovered she was well and healthy, his disappointment at her absence was endless. Now she had come. The passion in her voluptuous body, violet eyes, and red toenails blurred the stern prohibitions of his society. “I was hoping you would gather the courage to knock on my door.”

Rebekah pressed her palm on her brand. What source did he expect her to muster courage from? She was a coward who had lost her ability to see and hear.

Rouh’Allah clapped his hands, allowing Rebekah time to recover and arrange the chador around her. Delighting in her flaming cheeks, which transformed her into a vulnerable girl, he controlled the urge to cup her face in his palms. A desire he had thought lost in his many years of solitude welled up in him.

The servant entered with a tray of peeled fruits, warm sweetmeats, and roasted pistachios.