She gazed at the photos that filled Abu Nasser’s walls. Among the obligatory portraits of the president, there were families with baby girls in frilly frocks and boys in tiny bow ties. A soccer team held aloft a gleaming trophy. A folk band hugged lutes and goatskin drums. But mostly there were wedding shots: grooms and young brides with henna-painted hands and trepidation twinkling in their eyes.

A mirror hung on the wall for Abu Nasser’s clients to check their hair and makeup. The spotty glass caught the reflection of Khalid lounging against Huda’s side, like a young pasha resting on a plump cushion. Another wave of vinegary gas seeped from the darkroom. Khalid wrinkled his nose and scrunched his eyes, and for a moment Huda imagined she saw Mustafa in the cloudy mirror, chasing her along the riverbank with the rotting carcass of a freshwater crab.

“Perhaps Abu Nasser has a side business in pickled onions,” she whispered.

“Or maybe he keeps camels back there.” Khalid grinned. “Camels that eat lentil stew.”

Huda went to pinch his arm. Instead, she tickled his ribs.

“How long will this take?” He wriggled away. “I’m supposed to play soccer with Bakr.”

Before Huda could answer, Abu Nasser hurried from the darkroom.

“Sorry for the wait.” The old photographer herded Khalid to a carpeted stage at the far end of the studio. “Can I interest you in adding one of my deluxe settings?”

He dragged a floor-to-ceiling backdrop of alpine mountains behind the stage.

“Oh, no,” said Huda. “That won’t do.”

“If you don’t like Mother Nature, I have plenty more.” The old photographer unveiled a vista of the Eiffel Tower. Next came Piccadilly Circus, and then the Roman Colosseum.

“For an extra two thousand dinar, your son can journey around the world.” Abu Nasser flung his skinny arms wide. In his baggy black shirt, he looked like a cormorant sunning itself by the Tigris. “What mother would not want that for her son?”

“If only it were that simple,” mumbled Huda. Worried that Abu Nasser would catch the ugly fight between love and fear going on behind her eyes, she busied herself fixing Khalid’s collar and combing his hair.

“I’d like a white background.” She licked her thumb. Khalid grimaced and pulled away before she could smooth his eyebrows. “Nothing fancy, thank you, Abu Nasser.”

“Are you interested in a portrait to hang on your wall? I stock a lovely variety of frames.”

“Passport size is what I need.”

“Passport size?” Abu Nasser stopped and tilted his head. Once again Huda thought of a cormorant eyeing a fish in the reeds. “You have travel plans abroad?”

“That would be wonderful, but no.” She tittered nervously, and wondered, Could Abu Nasser be a mukhabarat informant, like her? “This is for a locket. A gift for my mother. Passport size will fit perfectly.”

Abu Nasser pulled a bare screen behind his stage.