He knows that I sold the earlier work Miss Homa had given me and finally enjoy a comfortable life. I sent enough money through Cleric J to provide for Proust to join the Syrian refugees en route to Europe. He was almost robbed and killed twice and nearly drowned once, but he finally made it. He now lives in Marseille and has streaks of blue in his hair. I do not know why he is in Marseille and not in one of the designated refugee camps in Germany or Austria. I told him to go to France and he obliged. That is all I know. His status is still unclear and he may be deported yet. What is he to tell the authorities in Europe? That he cannot go back to his country because they’ll think he’s a ghost, a martyr returned from the dead? For now, at least, he remains with blue streaks in his hair in the land of his beloved namesake. And he’s content with that.

I told H all of this and asked, “Are you not sometimes afraid of having to answer to your superiors for your highly unorthodox ways?”

“I interrogate culture, Saleh. They are a bit lenient with regards to my specialty. Besides, no one can touch me in relation to you. You are considered one of the Defenders of the Holy Places now. You are not an enemy of the state. You belong. Don’t forget, you also wrote the original Abbas: Sniper Legend and Fist of God.”

There was a sneer in H’s voice when he said this, as if he were telling me I smelled bad and that this was good. In return I didn’t tell him that I had taken it upon myself to supply that faraway enemy scholar with the information she wanted about the old Jewish ghetto of Tehran. After a while I even became something of an authority on the fabled Pamenar District in south Tehran, with its little alleyways and remnants of the Seven Synagogues lane. I put together a nice collection of photographs and archival material for her and sent it all from the new e-mail address. It took a month, but she finally wrote back: Thank you.

It was elegant, this simple note from her.