“I did not know when he would do it. If I said something, they would question him and he would never do it. Then I would look foolish. People would say, ‘Abu Faranci thinks he knows more than us.’”

“You were worried about your reputation?”

“I was worried the old man would do something worse after that.”

“But how did you know in the first place?”

“The old man looked desperate. No one watched him. I did. I understood him. He came and went, came and went. Like a clock. No one was watching. But he was watching. And I was watching.”

I said, “I paid attention too. I saw him.”

“Then why did you not say anything?”

“No one would believe me. I am not an expert.”

“Then you understand my silence.”

I did.

* * *

The mokeb roof was often as close as I could come to solitude.

Below, they were all there, on the other side of the road around a little bonfire, warming themselves, drinking tea and eating dates, stretching their limbs, glad that they had all of their limbs, glad the old man hadn’t killed anyone but his animals and himself.

I wrote to Atia: Miss Homa is dead.

It took a long time for her to answer. More than an hour. And then all she wrote was What?

Dead, I repeated.

Atia: Where are you?

Me: She died in Iraq. In Samarra.

Atia: What was she doing in Samarra?

I could not help it: She had an appointment.

Atia: Saleh!

Me: Tell your husband the news. He can be the one to break it. It’s a scoop. Tell him if he has money, which he does, he should buy whatever he can get his hands on of Miss Homa’s. Price doesn’t matter. Tell him to borrow money if he has to. Because after the news, tomorrow or the next day, her prices will double, even triple. He can sell then.

Atia: Saleh!

Me: Tell him these exact words: Miss Homa made sure there are not too many of her works left for buying. She gave them all away to charity or destroyed them. But there are still a few left here and there. Tell him to go to anyone selling her works and pay any price they ask for before he breaks the news. If he can hold onto what he bought for even a few months, he can sell it for a fortune. Tell him! All right? I’m your art guy, don’t forget! I know about these things.

Atia: Saleh!

Me: This is my way of paying your husband back for all his help. I hope we are now even. And I pray you have a wonderful life.

She tried calling, but I didn’t answer.