“I know people abroad, Miss Homa,” Mafiha said. “The article I’d do would—”

“Would what? Make me famous?”

“Miss Homa, you already are famous.”

“Increase my prices?”

“Well!”

“Not interested.”

Mafiha was smart enough to know when he was rejected. He bowed and removed himself. More people came over. More deference toward Miss Homa. It was like watching an opera.

I said, “All right. I agree. I’ll take you to Karbala.”

“What changed your mind all of a sudden?”

“This place. It’s horrible.”

“Saleh, I will explain in more detail why I must go. Please come see me this week. When do you think we can leave?”

“When the ratings of the Abbas show on television reach the moon.”

“Is this a joke that I should understand, Saleh?”

I watched her. I thought I knew why she wanted to go to Karbala. In the winter of her life she had suddenly become too famous. What was she going to do with this fame so late in the game? It was almost a slap in the face.

I said, “It is only half a joke, Miss Homa. I’ll visit you next week. I promise.”

“I want to be over there for Arbaeen.”

I had been hoping she wouldn’t say that. The thought of Miss Homa walking alongside ten million other pilgrims converging by foot on Karbala on the fortieth day of Imam Husayn’s martyrdom didn’t suit me at all.

She seemed to read my mind. “If you don’t take me, I’ll go by myself. I’ll get a plane ticket to Najaf and walk the seventy-five kilometers to Karbala with the pilgrims.”

I stared at her some more, believing every word she said. “That does not give us much time.”

“Less than three weeks.”

“You seem to have everything worked out.”

“At my age, one does. There may not be a tomorrow.”

“You still have not told me why you wish to do this.”

“Do you ask this of every pilgrim?”

“No. Only one pilgrim. You, Miss Homa.”

“When you visit me next week, I will explain. I will have our tickets ordered for Najaf by then.”

I started to object, but then saw there was no point. A light peck on the cheek and I left her to the admirers who were waiting to move in for small talk and signatures.

* * *

There was nothing I liked about this museum. It was a prerevolution structure that they said was a copy of the famous Guggenheim building in New York. I thought the place redundant and the stuffy spiral architecture more like a giant human aquarium. Still, the place carried one of the richest contemporary art collections ever assembled anywhere on earth in its basement; it came from a time when the country had been flush with new oil money before the revolution.

My phone rang. It was Cleric J from Iraq. Not a good time to answer a call from the war.

I got a glimpse of a burly artist I’d written poorly about two reviews ago. He made three-meter-long eyesores of nothing but black paint, and just the word love inscribed in a corner of the canvas in the thuluth script of Arabic with gold letters. The review had brought in a string of phone calls to the Citizen and physical threats. They were mostly from collectors who saw a bad review as a drop in their investment.