Now Maysam came into the room, towering above us. He peered down at me and Cleric J and ran an index finger against his own neck, as in cutting someone’s throat. It was a question—one that at the same time was both innocent and brutal.

Cleric J said quickly: “La, la. Not yet!”

Both men turned to me.

I swallowed hard, turning to Cleric J. “You are going to put me to the test again, aren’t you?”

Maysam answered, “You can talk to him in his language, or some language, and tell us if he is a spy.”

“He doesn’t look like one. And even if he was, look at us! What is there to spy about here? We have been just sitting around for weeks and weeks eating onions. We haven’t moved.”

Cleric J began adjusting his prosthetic leg. “Listen, this is what we do: we find things out. One day this man just shows up down the road in Tal Abta and says he wants to sign up. Are we a circus that he showed up like this? Do I look like a donkey, Saleh?”

“God forbid! You are a great man, sayedina.”

“Then go talk to him. Find out how he got as far as Tal Abta. What he wants. And why he is not somewhere safe and warm.”

“And if he answers wrong?”

Cleric J undid his prosthetic leg and waved it in my face. “This is a war, not his mother’s lullaby. Now hurry. Yallah!”

* * *

H’s text message said: Why have you not answered my messages?

Me: You told me to go find the Proust guy and I went to find him.

H: He is at the Eye of the Horse?

Me: No, I’ve left him down south.

H: Why?

Me: He loves Imam Husayn.

H: Don’t be a fool, Saleh. What do you mean?

Me: I mean exactly that. I’ve left him in the south because he’s in love with Imam Husayn. Aren’t we all?