That was why Sa’id began giving his women Thurayya’s perfume when he was still a young man. And if he did sometimes try out a new brand in those early years, thinking that Femme was perhaps losing its impact, that there were plenty of other perfumes on the market that might speak to a woman, he always came back to it in the end, having discovered that Femme communicated different and better things to women that the other perfumes could not—or so he imagined. By simply repeating Thurayya’s words when she introduced him to the perfume for the first time, he would give the stuff a romantic dimension in women’s eyes that made all his other captivating qualities burn hotter and brighter.

Now Miss Zahra was posing questions without waiting for the answers, and Mr. N saw that she was talking to his brother, Sa’id, even though Sa’id was nowhere to be seen, even though she was looking at Mr. N. Strange. How could a simple detail like a new perfume turn a woman’s mood so completely upside down? Rather, how could it transform her identity and make her behave as though she were someone else? Miss Zahra, wearing her Femme, was not the same Miss Zahra as she was without. Her gait was embellished, as was the tone of her voice, and the shiny lip gloss that she used looked even shinier. Here she was, addressing through Mr. N someone who wasn’t there, behaving in front of Mr. N like a woman ready for anything, her senses alive and her skin tingling. Mr. N had read that sexual attraction and even romantic love were nothing more than chemical reactions to certain sets of invisible stimuli. Pheromones set off hormonal reactions and, voilà, you’re in love. It was clear Sa’id had killer pheromones; they seduced pretty much every woman he ran into, as opposed to Mr. N’s, which enticed only a few, and even then not too well, seeing as they never stuck around for long.

The record was Neda’s seven years. After that, it was “I can no longer bear you,” as she’d put it before bursting into tears one day. Not “I can’t endure you” or “put up with you,” but bear, as though Mr. N were some piece of luggage, some heavy burden that she’d been carrying for the length of their relationship until, exhausted and overwhelmed, she had to surrender and set her burden down. She said she still loved him, but they had to part regardless—she just couldn’t take him anymore. She set a paper bag in front of him that contained the letters and little gifts he’d given her, none of which she wanted to keep. Mr. N looked at the bag: pink and white stripes, a black satin handle, and “Victoria’s Secret” written out in black letters. No doubt she’d chosen it at random from the bags she was always collecting, knowing that she would reuse them.