a cane—a souvenir of his time in prison and a necessary accessory for rheumatoid joints—and made speeches that brought cheering and applause from his listeners. With his characteristic bald head, the tall, thin nationalist had become a vanguard in oil battles and the hero of many.
The leaves of plane trees withered yellow and fell like hands about to clench into fists. There was an aroma of romance in the cool breeze. Fall was Ahmad’s favorite season, when the city showed itself off like no other time, with the intolerable heat already gone and the penetrating cold not yet on the horizon, with greens turned into yellows and oranges, with falling rain and leaves. He watched the old people who sat by their doors in alleyways, the passersby, men in suits and hats, women in chadors, in blouses, skirts, and dresses walking on sidewalks and across the streets in which an incongruous mixture of cars, buggies, carts, and buses started and stopped, and among all of that, the weaving bicycles. The wounds the famine had inflicted on the city had healed. People streamed into and out of the repaired and repainted shops. New trees had been planted along the sidewalks and shopkeepers kept flowerpots out front. Walking in the alleys Ahmad could see the tops of trees from behind the walls that enclosed yards; vines and ivies snaked on top of walls; on crowded sidewalks, the street vendors sold steaming boiled beet and fava beans. The city had survived. Life had seeped back in. In the distance, the ever-snow-covered cone of Mount Damavand towered in the Alborz range. Fine and fragile, fall reminded Ahmad of his family: his mother, his sister, and the little boy, Majeed. He had not seen them in years. The hatred that boiled inside him when he left home had abated. Fire had purged his soul.
* * *
—
NANA SHAMSI HAD THE DREAM a week before. “The boy’s coming back,” she told Pooran at breakfast. “What boy?” Pooran asked after a moment of pause. “He’s grown taller than the door,” Nana Shamsi answered. The following Friday, when the neighborhood fruit seller had brought out the first persimmon of the season, Ahmad hopped onto the horse tram and knocked on Khan’s door. Nana Shamsi opened it, held up her small face framed in a pink headscarf, and looked at him for a few moments with a smile. “The boy’s here,” she called out toward Pooran across the yard. When Nana stepped aside for Ahmad to bow his head and walk in, Pooran did not turn to look at her son. The yard was a lush little garden in warm colors, a minuscule Eden in spite of all the leaves that fall had claimed. Pooran was picking grapes from the vine that crawled up the ladder and along the top of the wall before scaling three ropes onto the corner of the roof. Ahmad stepped forward, took the basket from his mother, and held her hand in his. Although still free of wrinkles, her skin had lost its bright freshness. Strands of white waved inside her hazel mane like fish in a stream. He pointed to his chest and mouthed, I’m Ahmad, your son. But Pooran did not turn her eyes away from the yellow bunch that dangled in front of her. Ahmad placed his mother’s hand on his chest. She would not budge. Finally he kissed her fingers and let them go. She picked up the basket and went inside.
“Four years and six months and eighteen days,”—the voice was as strong as before, though slightly gravelly, as if he had a sorrow stuck in his throat—“that’s how long she waited for you.” Ahmad turned around. Khan’s eyes and cheeks had sunk in. His skin was darker than Ahmad remembered. His hair was thinner. His bushy eyebrows cast his face in a constant effortless frown. But a narrow smile appeared on his face, the tops of his salt-and-pepper mustache moved. “This will always be your home,” he said opening his arms. Ahmad looked at his grandfather for a while. His legs wanted to go forward to accept the invitation of the man he had revered most, and to feel at home again, but Ahmad’s memories of him—all from when he was taller and walked as if he took each step with a plan—had a bitter taste behind them. A cool breeze rustled through the leaves. Khan dropped his arms. The smile shrunk away. “You’re still mad.” Ahmad nodded. “Do you