“A few of my friends still have membership. I’m sure one of them would be happy to host us at the club before you leave for—”

“Before I leave?” Hanan’s eyes doubled in size. “What do you mean?”

“Well, darling, school starts soon. Your grandmother will come to take you back to the farm.”

“No way. I told you I’m not going back.”

“This is not negotiable.” The buzzer sounded at the gate. “That’s probably Leith now.”

“Or maybe it’s that sculptor who owes you money,” muttered Hanan, “with a bowl of last week’s tabbouleh or a chunk of moldy cheese.”

“Very funny, my dear. Now put your egg in the pot. The water is almost at a boil.”

Rania hurried outside and peered through the crack in the gate. Two men waited on the sidewalk. New buyers? she wondered. From the fine cut of their business suits, they could be sanction busters who smuggled in cigars and Johnnie Walker for the regime. Plenty of black marketers had moved into the neighborhood. They paid cash for historic mansions, demolished their roman columns and latticed balconies, and put up brick boxes with central air-conditioning in their place. Most of the time, they couldn’t tell Chagall from Charlie Brown. But they didn’t pay with eggs either.

“As-salaam alaikum.” Rania heaved open the gate. “Welcome to my gallery.”

The men turned. One of them stepped close, as if to embrace her. Rania dodged backward.

“My dear Rania.” The man chuckled throatily. “Still as lovely as always.”

“Malik?”

Another well-fed chuckle escaped his lips.

“I would have called, but your telephone isn’t working. If you like, I can send someone around to check the wiring. We’ve got some fellows lounging around at the Ministry with not enough work to do.”

“What a lovely surprise.” Rania lied smoothly. “I haven’t had anyone from the Ministry of Culture stop by in quite a while.”

Once upon a time, the Ministry had been a valued patron: commissioning new artworks, building museums, even ensuring old poets got a decent pension. Like everything else, it had withered from war and sanctions—except for the Division of Presidential Works, which continued to pump out gilded statues and gold-leaf portraits that would make even the vainest caliph blush.

Malik cocked a finely groomed brow.

“Are you going to invite us in?”

“Of course.” Rania’s laugh tinkled like broken glass. She waved them toward the garden. “Please, make yourself comfortable while I fix some tea.”

She hurried to the kitchen. Hanan glanced up, spoonful of egg halfway to her mouth.

“What’s wrong? No moldy cheese?”

“Go to your room.”

“Mom, it’s a joke!”