“It seems as if this is the only place in Iran where you can find good caviar these days,” said the man, “even though we’re famous for it. Almost all of it leaves the country. I bought a few tins in Toronto last week—a good price, too.” It was perhaps the fifth time that Amira had heard about the scarcity of Iranian caviar in the land of its origin—and at least the tenth that someone had alluded to a recent trip to Toronto or New York or London or Zurich. Wealthy Iranians seemed to be exceedingly diligent about maintaining contacts abroad. As always before an official trip, Amira had received a briefing on the host country. She knew that there was unrest in Iran, that much of it was being stirred up by fundamentalist mullahs. But these were not subjects she or Ali would dis- cuss with anyone they might meet. They, after all, were here on a cultural mission involving the restoration of a venerable mosque in Tabriz.

Amira looked around the great hall. Were all these rich, powerful, smiling, laughing men and women—with the army, SAVAK, and even the Americans on their side—secretly terrified of a group of elderly clerics brandishing the Koran? Was that what the bank accounts in Switzerland and the luxury apartments in Manhattan were for, in case of the midnight alarm and the rush to catch the last plane out? Well, why not? She thought of the way the rulers of her own country—the royal family to which she herself belonged—walked on eggs around the fundamentalists.

There was a stir and then a hush. The shah entered with his wife, Farah Diba. They were far later than expected, the delay unexplained.

Amira would not have recognized the shah. The handsome, commanding, middle-aged man of the newspaper and magazine photographs looked shrunken, sallow-skinned, and old. Farah Diba, on the other hand, was even more beautiful than the images Amira had seen. In her thirties, and a mother of four, she nevertheless had the glamour of a movie star.

Ali and Amira were honored guests, but not the most honored in the glittering crowd, and it was some time before they stood face to face with the shah and Farah. Through an interpreter, the shah and Ali exchanged conventional diplomatic greetings, and the shah made a little speech. After that, there was little to say, and Amira understood that it was time for them to move on.

Then suddenly, Farah said, “You’re Karim’s parents! I should have known. I saw him upstairs with his servant. What a heartbreaker! Of course, the Remalis are famous for their looks.”

The Remalis were famous for no such thing, but Amira was charmed nevertheless. So was Ali, she could tell. Even the shah seemed buoyed by his wife’s enthusiasm.