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something, in a place that would have meaning to you, and then, of course, forgot to send it. But it’s on its way now, with my apologies and”—he paused to measure the words precisely—“my fondest wishes. California is very strange for somebody like us. Like a scene some child has drawn on the beach, which gets washed away every morning. Anyway, I hope you had a lovely birthday, and celebrated in high style.”
    Then, wrapping up the other present in his gold paper, he suddenly realized that he didn’t have the number of Khalil’s friend, in Santa Monica, or Barbara, or wherever it was. He went back to the suitcase, pulling things out in the same order as before—postcards of the Citadel, bottles of shampoo, names of professors Sefadhi had given him—and came at last upon the business cards he’d collected. On the back of one—it happened to be for a rare-book dealer, in the suq—he’d scribbled down the number of the woman.
    “Hello?” came an uncertain voice when he dialed the number.
    “Hello. Is that Ms. Jensen?”
    “Yes. Can I help you?” She spoke demurely, with a curious formality: there was California in her voice, but also something farther away, more cautious.
    “Yes, I think you can. I was just in Damascus, and I met a friend of yours, and he gave me a present to deliver to you, and I was wondering how best I might get it to you. Professor Khalil.”
    “In Damascus?” she said, as if the name were strange to her. “In Syria?”
    “Yes. He said he knew you from an Islamic conference in Scandinavia, I think.”
    “Oh, you must be looking for Kristina. She’s not here.”
    “Will she be back soon?”
    “No. I don’t think so.” The voice didn’t sound very sure of anything: he saw someone small, a little tentative, looking out from behind a barely opened door, and waiting for it to close again.
    “Will she ever be back?”
    “Yes. In a few weeks, I think.”
    “Maybe I could drop it off, then, and you could give it to your roommate—”
    “Sister.”
    “. . . your sister when she returns.”
    “Sure. Anytime.”
    “How about tomorrow, in the afternoon? I feel terrible hanging on to this for all these days.”
    “Sure, anytime is fine.”
    “Would three o’clock be okay? Tomorrow.”
    “Three would be perfect,” she said, and then gave him some instructions for getting off at Mission, and following the parks and the schools till he came to the “blue house on the corner.”
    “I’ll see you then,” he said.
    “I hope so,” came the far-off voice.
    The next afternoon, threading his way through the narrow streets that lie just behind downtown—the shadows that give it substance— he tried to make sense of her somewhat whimsical directions: “right one block after the oak tree, and then straight when you see the church, and then past the place where the girls are wearing green plaid skirts, till you see a white camper under a tree.” There was no sign of the camper, but he found a blue house, and the numbers matched, so he parked on the street and walked to the door. There was no answer to his knock, so he tried again. He waited, looked around—we are never less ourselves than when waiting for a door to open, he thought, never more at loose ends. But the door never opened, and there didn’t seem to be a bell.
    “Hello?” he called out. “Anyone home?”
    But there was no sound from within, not even a whisper. He walked around to the side of the house, knocked on a window, tried to see what he could make out through the sliding doors: just boxes heaped up, in a distant room, and books and papers everywhere. “Hello?” he called again. “Anybody home?”
    There was not even the sound of someone trying not to be seen. He walked around some more, just in case she was in the bathroom, knocked once more on the front door, and then gave up. The driveway was deserted, and if he continued circling the house, some suspicious neighbor would no doubt summon the police.