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speaking, Ali leading the way across the sand. Near midnight, at a great rock, they sat down.
    â€œWhere are we going?” Jamshid asked.
    â€œShiraz,” Ali said.
    â€œI am sorry about the plastic spoons.”
    â€œNever mind. They will bring an even better price in Shiraz. In Shiraz they are crazy about plastic spoons. And I have a little house there, near the tomb of Hafez. My wife lives in it, waiting to give me a piece of her mind. She will take care of you until this thing blows over. Memories are short. Kill a policeman, and they hound you until you die. Kill a mullah and you’ve nothing to worry about. In his heart everybody dreams of killing himself a mullah. The reward is the nuisance. But in a little while the mullahs will see there are better uses for a thousand tomans than givingit away. I’ll leave you in Shiraz, make the trip to Burijird, and by the time I’m back your crime will be forgotten.”
    It did not occur to Jamshid to protest or to express gratitude. And as he lay awake, he felt, for the first time since killing Mullah Torbati, the strange stirrings of possibility. Perhaps there was even a future. Even happiness. But why, he wondered, should this old man, who had a house and a wife, spend his days wandering around the desert, if happiness did exist?
    â€œWhy do you not stay in Shiraz?” Jamshid asked. But Ali snored comfortably. Those famous ears, Jamshid thought.
    The moonlight shone in his eyes. He wondered what Ali meant by ‘getting dirty’. It seemed to him, on the contrary, the whole point was to grow pure. After an hour or so he heard Ali whispering.
    â€œThey’re coming, as I thought they might. They’re following our tracks. They plan to kill us in our sleep.” A smile came over the old man’s wrinkled face. “But we will set the trap. Quick. Take Hassan ahead and make tracks so they will go on, thinking we had only stopped here to rest. I will wait in the shadows of this rock and give them a surprise.” He hissed Hassan to his feet and handed the rope to Jamshid. “Now go,” he said.
    Facing him in the moonlight, Jamshid suddenly knew this savage old man was his friend. At bottom he understood it was of no importance whether or not he himself escaped. But he saw that Ali took it for granted that he would want to save himself. He did not like seeing this man put in danger for a trivial cause. Ali thrust the rope into his hands.
    â€œBut . . .” Jamshid began. Suddenly he felt fearful. But Ali was grasping the great shears in his right hand and his teeth glinted in the moonlight.
    â€œGo,” Ali said.

chapter eight chapter eight
    W alking fast, Jamshid made a wide turn and began to circle back. The moon gave him a qualmy sensation as he walked along. The camel’s great head bobbed in the sky beside him. ‘A slut,’ the radio had said. He could see Leyla in his mind’s eye, her eyes downcast, murmuring, “Yes, father, today I bought melons and cucumbers at the market as you instructed. Then I examined cloths in the bazaar for your new pajama. As the price was higher than you told me to pay I did not buy them. Then I came home, and first I swept, and then I cooked. . . .” An obedient girl, mild and respectful. Even if, from time to time, there seemed to be a hard shine in her eyes, impossible to be sure about, but suggesting hatred or contempt. Of course, if he looked a little carefully he could see her eye contained only the utmost meekness. ‘Slut. . . .’ Impossible. A pure, good girl. From infancy, completely pliable, completely amenable to her upbringing. He had cared for her twice over to make up for her not having a mother. Or thrice over, really, since she also got the affection that would have gone to his wife.
    The moonlight drenched him as he walked across the sand. His mind blurred. Suddenly he remembered the timehe had caught himself beating his daughter when she