Rania’s juice suddenly tasted sour. She pushed her glass away. Adnan pressed his lips together in a grimace.

“You were right to send Hanan away. If I had a teenage daughter, I would do the same.”

Rania’s chest constricted, just like it had at the end of her phone call with Hanan.

“Sometimes, I fear even Basra is not far enough.”

“I imagine you heard that Madam al-Houri passed away last week. She stopped eating. At the end she would not even take water.” Adnan hunched over the table. “She never recovered from the shock, you know. To have your daughter taken—from her very own wedding banquet—and then defiled in the most offensive way. It is incomprehensible.”

“Uday Hussein is the spawn of the devil,” whispered Rania. “He must shock even his own father. And who would have dreamed that was possible?”

A teenage hawker strolled the sidewalk, towing a flock of helium balloons tethered to a shepherd’s hook. Rania and Adnan fell silent as he passed by. On the far side of the street, near the entrance to Mutanabbi market, a man whistled: a loud, looping note full of lechery. Heads turned. A street urchin cried, “I love you, baby!”

The balloon vendor loped across the street, toward the commotion. Rania spotted Tom Wilson, scowling, hands jammed on his hips. Behind him, Ally fumbled through her pockets. A silk scarf unfurled in her hands like a black flag. She draped it over her hair. A man next to her puckered his lips and made kissy faces.

“You see this disgrace?” said Rania. “What is wrong with the men of today?”

“I blame the cinema and the television.” Adnan scowled. “Have you seen the posters outside the movie house on Sadoun Street? They make it look like Western women will lie down with anyone, anytime. Too many of our foolish young men believe that’s true.”

They watched the two Australians climb into a taxi and motor away.

“Ally must be a brave girl to follow her husband here.” Rania fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “Or foolish. Perhaps a bit of both.”

Adnan eyed her quizzically.

“Would you not have followed your husband? Allah protect his soul.”

“Hashim has been dead fifteen years,” she mumbled, and pulled a cigarette lighter from her pocket. “Sometimes I wonder, if not for his photographs, would I be able to remember his face?”

“Don’t feel guilty, my dear. Living a full life, not dwelling in sorrow, that’s the best way to honor the dead.”

Rania lit her cigarette absentmindedly. She’d been married less than a year when Hashim’s jet was shot down during a bombing run over Tehran. She was strolling in the garden when the news arrived. Her mother-in-law’s wail escaped through the open window of the kitchen and lifted the birds from the trees.