Outside the café, Mr. N had felt a kind of satisfaction. This kind of suffering was something he was used to. And each time he was put through it, he learned more about how to handle it. He projected himself forward, toward the moment he knew was coming, that moment in the future when he would wake up having forgotten his pain. There was only one problem with this strategy: he couldn’t be quite sure how much time separated him from that day. Oh well. He’d left Neda choking on an overflowing pile of words, useless sentences. What she had already said was enough for him. He could have sat and given her time to explain, clarify, elaborate. But reasons never justified anything. They couldn’t make him into someone else, and they couldn’t soften his fall. Reasons were like guns: when someone pointed one at you, you had to assume it was going to go off. Growing up, he never asked about Thurayya’s reasons; he certainly wasn’t going to ask Neda about hers. Not trying to understand had always been his way. In the end, understanding was no different from its absence: neither changed his pain in the least. A lack of dependence upon objects and people was the only thing that did any good, because when abandonment came, it came, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Even writing made no difference. The most it could do was erase the self from the self when the days became heavy as boulders …

Miss Zahra touched Mr. N’s forearm, and he stood up with a shiver. “Excuse me,” he said, turning his face away. “I find strong perfumes nauseating in the morning.”

She gave a small gasp and put a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because you don’t usually put on perfume. Miss Zahra, where are all my papers hiding?”

Posing that question to her, he hid his consternation behind rapidly blinking eyes. Miss Zahra didn’t answer him but got up and straightened her white dress. Sensing he was in a bad mood, she headed for the door.

“If you wanted to read them,” said Mr. N, “I wouldn’t have objected. You only had to ask permission first … But I want them now, if you don’t mind.”

Miss Zahra nodded and then slipped out. Mr. N nearly leapt for joy. For once in his life he had been stern and decisive. He had rebuked her for her perfume, accused her of hiding his papers, and ordered her to return them to him. The way she held her silence and accepted it all meant that she was responsible, just as Daoud had suggested.