Back in the barbershop, the old guy cutting the pilgrims’ hair was making fast work of his clients. He was an austere believer with a square, unsmiling face. His green skullcap slanted a bit to the side, making him look slightly comical with that Moser shaver moving like an orchestra conductor’s baton in his hand. I knew him from earlier passes through Samarra. After they had pulled his nails out and burned his tongue with scalding water, he had eventually become part of the sea of Iraqi refugees who escaped to Iran during Saddam’s reign. He did little but cut hair with an efficiency and single-mindedness that made you a believer in regular visits to the barber. I was not sure how Proust had known to come to him, but here we were and it was as good a place to be as any.

Miss Homa’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, when I came back in. She turned to me. She seemed pleased about something. In her weakness, she was also strong. As if illness had given her a reserve of strength and I had to play catch-up before she expired.

“Saleh, you are here.” She smiled again, a weak smile full of compassion. “I guess this gives a whole new meaning to ‘appointment in Samarra,’ doesn’t it?”

Proust sat on the chair. He had cried himself into silence. I had never felt so sorry for this land as I did just then. It was one of those sentimental “why us?” moments that can make a man turn his face up to the sky and start an irrational conversation.

“You will be fine, Miss Homa.”

“She will not!” Proust yelped, suddenly wanting to pick a fight.

I glanced from him to her. Then I took out my cell phone and wrote a message to the last number I had for H: I have our Proust.

H wrote me back right away: What do you plan to do with him?

Keep him in Iraq. Like you ordered.

I went closer to the smallish, uncomfortable-looking daybed to get a better feel for Miss Homa. Proust sprang to his feet. He had become her protector.

“What happened?” I asked, addressing both of them. “Why did you two come all the way up here?”

“She wanted to walk with the pilgrims,” Proust volunteered.

“Yes. But this is not Karbala. You didn’t just walk seventy-five kilometers. You walked three hundred! What were you thinking, if I may ask?”

Miss Homa eyed me gently. “It’s what I wanted.”

“She caught a cold,” Proust said quickly. “She caught something. An infection maybe. Maybe it was bad water. She refuses medicine. Made me promise not to call you. She kept walking. She will not eat.”

“Son!” She reached for his hand. “Is this not why we came here?”