She was sitting one November afternoon in this room. As she embroidered an octagonal cross-stitch pattern on a black mesh background, she listened to a Miles Davis cassette tape. It was part of her effort to be infinitely more American, like watching the news and grilling hamburgers. She would conquer jazz music just as she had the others, and her English professor had loaned her his cassette of Davis’s music. She heard Carla’s familiar tap on her door downstairs and she ran down to get the mail. The bundle, which grew daily as she and Nader became more “established” (and thus more susceptible to circulars and junk mailings) sat on the top step, where Carla left it every day. There was one letter in particular, addressed only to Nader, in a woman’s slanted, looped script. The “J” of their last name was decorated with a large loop at the top. The return address had no name, only the street name and zip code: 1012 Chestnut Street.

She took it upstairs to her embroidery room and placed it at the foot of her chair. She resumed her work, counting stitches on the black cloth as she drove the needle in and out, leaving tiny footprints of bright red thread. It would be a wall hanging for a woman from Queen’s Village. Occasionally, she glanced at the letter, wanting to open it, but she was an American wife now and they were “cool” about these things. No suspicions. A marriage was a friendship in America, not a spy operation. Miles Davis played “My Funny Valentine” over and over, at the mercy of the rewind button, until 6 P.M.

“Here,” she said, handing Nader the letter. She made no other acknowledgment, just left him alone with it and went into the kitchen to heat up yesterday’s leftover spaghetti. Mrs. Donato’s recipe, which Nader loved. He came in as she was setting the table. The letter was not in his hands; she made a mental note to check the wastebasket later. “Anything interesting?” she asked.

“No, just an old friend who wanted to say hello.” His voice was steady and casual and he kissed her cheek with his usual lingering sweetness. He even lit a candle and placed it on the table between them as they ate. It was only his incessant foot-wiggling under the table that confirmed Siham’s suspicion. When she couldn’t find the letter the next morning, either in the wastebasket or in his pants pocket, she decided to visit Chestnut Street.

It took her forty minutes of brisk walking, and she realized that she’d worn bad shoes for such exercise. She also noticed, as city blocks streamed slowly by her, that the sidewalks were strewn with much less litter than in the Italian Market. The bricks of each building front were cleaner, and each door frame had a fresh coat of paint. Windows opened to little plants on their sills. The storefronts became fancier, as did the names. Gone were places called “Mike’s Deli” and “Geno’s Steaks.” Here, there were salons, cafés, and food markets that advertised themselves as “gourmet.” The sidewalks were red brick, not tan cement blocks separated by tufts of grass trying to break through. The men on these streets wore dark suits, not blue work uniforms, and the women got thinner with each block.