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against a wall. He picked up the receiver, waiting for the caller to identify himself.
    “This is Nijat,” crackled the voice on the other end. “I am calling to inquire about the ad placed in the newspaper. Is this the Nasser Pharmacy?”
    “Yes,” replied Firouz cautiously, “but I am Marandi, the assistant. The owner is not here. What ad is it you speak of?”
    “The ad in this morning’s paper,” said the caller, impatiently. “When will your boss be back?”
    “I don’t know,” said Firouz, cradling the phone with his shoulder as he opened the desk drawer. The newspaper was gone—the old Jew had taken it with him. “He left about an hour ago—he had to meet someone. He said he would be back before closing time.”
    After a few seconds of silence the caller said, “All right. Tell your boss that I called. Here is my telephone number.” Firouz scribbled a note on the blotter pad atop the desk. The line went dead. His eyes squinted in thought. Firouz replaced the phone in its cradle.

    “… and so, Ayatollah,” finished Hafizi, “I have brought Aga Solaiman to you, for I felt confident you would want to know of his generosity.”
    The mojtahed crouched on his carpet like a wizened old lizard. He might have been a painted statue but for his dark eyes that flickered between Hafizi and Ezra in a mute appraisal that seemed to last for hours. Finally, from within the tangled white bush of his beard, a raspy voice issued.
    “You are here of your own free will?” The dark eyes squinted calculatingly at Ezra.
    Hesitantly, Ezra cleared his throat, glancing at Hafizi before replying, “Yes, Ayatollah, I am.” He fell quiet, his eyes resting on the feet of the mojtahed . He reminded himself not to look directly into the eyes of the mullah, for this was considered ill manners.
    After another eternal silence, the old mullah asked, “And why should a Jew suddenly have a burning desire to donate one million tomans for the expansion of a Muslim graveyard?” The suspicion made the old man’s voice brittle. Ezra entreated Hafizi with his eyes.
    “As I told you, Ayatollah Kermani,” Hafizi said, “ Aga Solaiman has for some time been known to me for his generosity. I have told you of his kindness to me.”
    “… and that is why I wish to help, Ayatollah,” inserted Ezra earnestly. “I have always respected the servants of Allah, whether they study the Koran , the Towrat —the Torah, or the Injeel —the Gospels or New Testament . When Mullah Hafizi told me of the need, I asked him to bring me here.”
    Another uncomfortable hush fell in the room as the mojtahed , still unmoving as a piece of masonry, turned Ezra’s proposal over in his mind. Outside in the street, the faint sounds of traffic could be heard. But here, in the darkened room of the mullah, Ezra fancied he could hear the sweat trickling down his back as he awaited the all-important decision of the senior cleric.
    Finally the old man stirred enough to signal an attendant who had waited, unseen, behind them during the interview. “Ahmad,” he said in his rusty voice, “bring me the stamp and a receipt book.”
    Ezra felt his insides unwinding with relief. Trying not to grin, he reached into his coat for his wallet. He saw that Hafizi was smiling.

    Ezra returned from the appointment with the mojtahed to find Firouz’s scribbled note on the blotter pad. Not recognizing the name “Nijat,” but surmising the call was in response to his ad, he grabbed the phone and dialed the number.
    From just inside the storeroom, Firouz listened carefully as the old Jew began speaking.
    “This is Solaiman. I believe you called while I was out today…. Yes, I placed the ad concerning the Nasser Pharmacy. I see. Yes, Aga Nijat, I would most certainly like to meet with you.” Ezra glanced toward the storeroom.
    Firouz quickly turned away from the doorway, loudly shuffling the invoices on his clipboard. He heard Ezra continue in a lowered voice.
    “Perhaps