“Why Karbala?” I hadn’t asked the question that day but I asked it now.

And her answer was ready-made: “Because of Imam Husayn, the grand martyr.”

“Miss Homa, you’ve lived one of the fullest lives I know of. Now you are suddenly religious?”

“It has nothing to do with that. And it has everything to do with it.”

During our chat people kept coming up to her to congratulate her on the show. It was a group event titled, Women of Art over Five Decades. But because this was her moment, even though there were eleven other artists in the show, a good half of the spiral space of the museum had been dedicated to her work alone.

“Why me? You could snap a finger right now and half of Tehran would jump at your command. They’d fly you to Karbala first class.”

She looked tired and thoughtful. She began to say something, but just then I saw Mafiha appear from around the corner. People stood in groups, chatting, pretending that even though death was everywhere they were still not alone, that they were with friends and that this was an important event. Instead of plastic cups of wine they held grape juice in their hands, they smiled vacantly and nodded their heads, they pointed to this or that canvas and said things.

I didn’t know what they said. I had done something I’d never forget or forgive myself for. When they brought Ali-Akbar’s body parts out of that school, I had been filming and talking into my camera. Had I known that leg was Ali-Akbar’s I wouldn’t have erased the video. But I’d erased the only final memory I had of the martyr. Him with his baggy military shirt because he hardly ever ate. Just skin and bones really. Skin and bones and the best damn shot in a company of snipers. Dead because he stepped like a fool over a trip wire.

Mafiha pulled up alongside us and beamed at Miss Homa.

“This is my boss,” I said with practiced respect in my voice. He was Atia’s husband, after all, even if he wasn’t technically my boss after the sale of the Citizen was complete.

Miss Homa nodded.

Mafiha switched gears into his usual chatter and I lost the words. Something about wanting to do a complete sketch on her for an art magazine overseas, France maybe, or the United States. My mind drifted. I thought of the British writer Graham Greene in the Suez reporting during a war. Getting shot at grew tedious after a while. He became bored. War was mostly boring. But it also depended on a lot of other things. You can’t get bored when somebody is screaming Allahu akbar from two hundred meters away and vowing to cut off your head. Boredom has no place there. Boredom runs away, because you can’t.

When I moved back into the conversation, Miss Homa was talking.

“Which part of my negative answer do you not understand, sir?”