had cried and begged so much that when his investigator came into the room and said they would let him go provided that he quit his practice, he had accepted with a nonstop expression of his gratitude, right hand on his chest, half-bowing to the investigator and to anyone he talked to or even passed in the corridor. Once out, he had relocated to a new neighborhood in Southern Tehran, where he hoped not many would know him.
Taking care to wrap herself thoroughly in her chador and covering as much of her face as she could, Homa stepped off the bus into snow. Poverty crawled up the walls like ivy. Trying to avoid the stares, she asked for directions from a wizened old woman who sat at her doorstep watching the passersby with a thin layer of snow stuck to her scarfed head. Ahmad would have been mad if he knew she had been walking in those parts alone. Spotting a stranger, bored boys followed her, sniggering all the way. She quickened her steps, trying to ignore them. When she was starting to fear and question her decision, she arrived at Haji’s door. The boys threw a snowball at her before they ran away. She rang the bell and waited. The petrol-seller passed by pushing a low cart loaded with black, greasy tin gallons, announcing his arrival at the top of his lungs to the people hidden in their homes.
The door cracked open and Haji’s bald head appeared, a Bic pen dangling like a pendulum from his neck by a white string. Homa wanted to hug someone at that moment. “What do you want?” Haji asked without opening the door any farther. He listened and shook his head no. But before Haji could shut the door on her, Homa wedged her foot in the frame.
“I won’t go until you talk to me.” Haji eyed her for a few seconds, then opened the door after throwing suspicious looks to make sure no one was with her in the alley.
The apartment was dark. The air smelled like sour milk. In the short corridor inside, the stocky man stood before her in his loose, striped pajamas with legs tucked into his socks.
“I don’t do that anymore.” Homa held out a wad of new, crisp one hundred toman bills. “I can’t accept that.” Haji shook his head after looking at the money for a few seconds as if shaking a temptation. Homa pulled out a second wad. “How many more are in there?” Haji asked glancing at Homa’s bag that hung from her shoulder under her draping chador.
“Enough to take you out of this place.”
Haji rubbed his cheek, bearded with short gray hair, took the two wads, and held his hand out for more. By a burning Aladdin heater, they sat on the floor. Homa pressed her leather purse in her lap, her right hand in the bag ready to close around the deer antler handle of a knife. Like years before, Haji sat in front of her, consulted his old books, and took notes in a notebook, but this time he threw glances at the woman who seemed to be in her early thirties. She was trying to put on a serious look by pressing her lips together, which made her dimples show.
“Now give me your hand,” Haji said, putting out his hand. Homa paused for a moment, not sure what to do, but looked at the man’s thick fingers and the deep-cut lifelines on his palm. “It’s for the prayer.” She put her left hand in his. The man’s knuckles were crooked, but his nails were beautiful: a healthy pink and smooth. He ran his hands on the back of hers one after the other, and then turned it around to examine the palm like fragile glassware from previous centuries. The tips of his forefingers ran deliberately, as if savoring the pattern of the interlocking lines. Then the probing fingers advanced in their path and slid up Homa’s forearm. In the future, she would ruminate on that moment more than she wanted to, wondering if she could have done anything differently. Holding Homa’s hand in his, the prayerwright’s palm pushed up the sleeve of her gray blouse and slithered up and down her forearm. His breathing was the only audible sound in the room. “Oh, pure marble,” he said. When he bent over to kiss the soft skin, Homa clasped her hand around the knife in her bag, not the handle, but