“Passport size comes in a set of four. You can’t buy one only.”

“Four is fine. Thank you.”

Abu Nasser sighed and straightened Khalid’s shoulders. He switched on a tungsten lamp and retreated behind his camera.

“Okay, young man, give me a smile.”

“No!” Huda lurched from the bench. “No smile. Just a straight face, looking right at the camera.”

Abu Nasser glanced up from his viewfinder.

“First no lovely backdrop. Now you say, no smile?” He jammed his hands on his bony hips. “It’ll look like a mug shot. Shall I fingerprint him too?”

“His grandmother is very old-fashioned.” Huda smiled like the petrified brides on the wall. “Back in my mother’s day, a photograph was a once-in-a-lifetime event. She still thinks it’s serious business, not to be made light of.”

“Well, it’s your money,” the old man muttered. “If you say no smile, then that’s what you’ll get.”

A few minutes later, Abu Nasser retreated to his darkroom to develop Khalid’s photos. The boy slouched on the bench beside Huda.

“The stink of those chemicals is going to kill me.” He buried his head in his hands. “Unless I die of boredom first.”

Huda glanced through the window fronting onto the sidewalk. The wind pushed a plastic bag down the street, picked it up, and lifted it high into the sky like a balloon that had escaped a child’s hand. Over by the traffic lights, a beggar woman hawked newspapers to passing motorists. The wind clutched at her tatty abaya. The fabric, like the woman, had faded with age and countless hours spent outside, under the scrutiny of the sun, and every man and dog that passed by.

“How much longer?” groaned Khalid. Huda patted his arm. When she glanced outside again, Ally was on the far side of the street, walking briskly in the direction of the embassy. Tom must have gone into work, even though it was Saturday. Huda felt a stab of pity. Ally’s days must be long and lonely. No wonder she was the only diplomat’s wife left in Baghdad.

Huda wondered if Ally had tried to call Abdul Amir before setting out. She rarely contacted him on weekends anymore, not since Huda showed up in his place to ferry her to the Rashid Hotel. Huda remembered the glow of the Rashid’s chandeliers, and the clack-clack-clack of her heels against the marble floor. Suddenly, she was short of breath, as if the mukhabarat with the purple scar still had his hand wrapped around her throat.