This might be my last minute with him, Amira realized. The words were out before she could think about them: “I almost forgot to ask, Philippe, but haven’t you been to Tabriz?”

“Tabriz? Did you say Tabriz?”

“Yes, Tabriz. Ali and I are going there. We’ve never been. I thought a traveler like you might have been there—to Tabriz.”

“Yes, I’ve been there,” he said, and in his eyes, she saw his promise reaffirmed. “They say that Tabriz is the unfriendliest city in the Middle East, but I’ve found good people there, very helpful. I’m sure your visit will turn out well.”

Then he was gone.

21. Prodigal’ Return

Prodigal Return

Spring was coming. The nights were cold but the days pleasantly warm. One afternoon half an inch of rain fell in half an hour. Women as well as men ran into the streets to savor the sweetness of it. To the younger children, who had never seen water fall from the sky, it was a miracle.

Karim splashed in a muddy puddle, his face raised to heaven, blinking and giggling with delight as rain-drops hit his eyes. When the brief storm ended, he pulled at Amira’s abeyya.

“Make it more, Mommy, make it more.” Faster than she could believe, he was changing from a baby into a little boy.

Ali missed the cloudburst: he was in America for two weeks, training in some new fighter plane. He came home moody and withdrawn, as he usually did from places where morality was freer than in al-Remal. Amira no longer cared why this might be.

Just over a month remained before Tabriz, but she felt no particular fear or even anticipation. In fact, she was having trouble making the whole thing seem real. She had no information. What was Philippe doing, what was he planning?

He had written only once, the letter addressed, of course, to Ali, who passed it on to Amira as a matter of minor interest. It expressed conventional thanks for their hospitality, mentioned bits of personal news and international gossip, and then, almost as an afterthought, gave the names of several acquaintances of Philippe’s they might want to look up on their visit to Tabriz.

In her room, Amira memorized the names, then pored over the letter word by word in search of any hidden message. She found nothing. It was maddening. She was angry with Philippe. She didn’t expect details, but couldn’t he have slipped in some tiny reference that only she would understand, some reassuring little code word? Didn’t he realize that her life was at stake?

Or maybe nothing was happening. Maybe the plans had all fallen apart. Maybe there had never been any plans.

The next morning, a servant brought her a telephone as she sipped her coffee. “It’s long distance, Highness. France.”

Amira forced herself to reach languidly for the receiver, as if she were utterly weary of calls from France.