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like spun gold, and that half-smile that drove him crazy, she was ravishing. He pulled her close, inhaling her sweet smell.
    “I will do whatever you want.”
    She curled up in his arms. “Thank you, Azizam,” she murmured, using the Persian word for sweetheart.
     
    *****
     
    Over the next few weeks, the Iranian students created their flyers and signs, and the manifesto that Massoud was to deliver at the demonstration. Although they declined to meet at Anna’s apartment, Nouri offered to help draft the manifesto, and because her English was more idiomatic, Anna ended up writing most of it.
    The demonstration at Daley Plaza came just before the Iranian New Year, which coincided with the first day of spring. The crisp March day was sunny but cold. Anna cut class, something she was usually loath to do, so she could go with Nouri. Nouri grabbed a few paper bags, and Anna made holes in them for their eyes. They packed up their signs and leaflets and rode the El to the Loop. When they reached the plaza, a crowd had already gathered. Nouri guessed there were over two hundred students.
    Anna’s eyes grew wide. “Where did they all come from?”
    “Downstate, Indiana, Iowa, Wisconsin, even Michigan,” Nouri said. He spotted Massoud and the Iranian student group from UIC. He and Anna worked their way through the crowd toward them. “Hey!” Nouri shouted. He was reluctant to shout out Massoud’s name; SAVAK could be watching.
    Massoud spun around, saw Nouri, and waved. Nouri took Anna’s arm and pushed closer.
    “Massoud, this is Anna. She helped write the manifesto.”
    Massoud’s eyes tracked her up and down.
    “Hello,” Anna said. “I’m impressed with the organization. How did you get so many people to participate?”
    “We had help. People like Nouri here, but others too. We have—”
    A tall brassy-looking blonde with an armful of signs grabbed Massoud’s jacket. “Massie baby,” she interrupted. “Where do you want these signs?”
    He turned around, scanned the area, then pointed in the general direction of Clark Street. The woman smiled, planted a passionate kiss on his mouth, then trudged in the direction he’d indicated. Massoud turned back to Nouri, who was still eyeing his blonde American girlfriend. They exchanged awkward smiles, each recognizing themselves in the other.
    Massoud cleared his throat. “Thank you for your contributions,” he said formally to Anna. She replied with a cool nod, but her gaze was following the blonde, too. What did she think of her? Nouri wondered.
    “As you can see, we have all sorts of alliances.” Massoud gestured to the police. “Except with them.”
    Nouri craned his neck. There had to be over fifty uniformed cops edging the plaza’s perimeter. Some held shields in front of their bodies. Nouri tried to spot the spies he’d been warned about. He saw a TV news crew and several men with cameras, but he couldn’t tell whether they were journalists or something less benign.
    The protest began a few minutes later. The students put on their paper bags, waved their signs, shouted, and chanted. Anna and Nouri slipped on their bags and joined in. Someone handed Massoud a megaphone. He unfolded a piece of paper and began to speak.
    “We, the Iranian Students Association, wish to make known to the American people the sins of Muhammad Reza Shah Pahlavi. He has created a military state that brutally oppresses and persecutes his subjects. He has stolen millions of dollars in oil revenues that belong to the people. His secret police have imprisoned and tortured and killed thousands of people, whose only sin was to speak out against his policies. He has…”
    Every sentence Massoud spoke was followed by clenched fists and cheers, each round louder and more intense than the last. Nouri stole a glance at Anna. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that, beneath the paper bag, she approved. When Massoud finished, another speaker took the megaphone and picked up where