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paid a visit to the kelauntar’s compound. Violating all Persian custom, the kelauntar had brought the fatted official to the anderun and asked for his wife, his prize possession, to be unveiled before him as if she were a magnificent sculpture. Most women would have swooned in shame, but Anisa had stood proudly, even arrogantly, as the head eunuch removed her veil and exposed her exquisite English features. Covetousness immediately had overwhelmed the vizier and he had pledged to possess this woman. For months he could scarcely think of anything but the magnificent creature that had been revealed to him. Knowing that most village officials were corrupt, he had conspired to find the kelauntar’s crime. It was surprisingly easy—and cheap—to obtain the damning records. And then had come the extortion.
    “When you have your new wife,” the kelauntar says, “you will sign an official statement that my stewardship of the shah’s finances is without peer.”
    “Yes, you’ll be free of me. You are a lucky man to have such an astonishing wife to save you from disgrace and punishment.”
    The kelauntar’s mood is sour. He was a fool to have left uncovered the evidence of his graft. He was even more of a fool to have boastfully exposed his wife to the lustful vizier. But what of it? The woman is a scorpion. Her venom is the obsession she incites in men made unattainable by her arrogance. Ali will be heartbroken, but the kelauntar will think of some compensation to give him. Something to ease the pain.
    The kelauntar sips the last drop of his tea and stands. “Tomorrow morning, then. At the mosque,” he says.
    “You have no idea how I am looking forward to it.”
    The kelauntar steps into the street and begins walking. Like a serpent’s tail, his retinue follows in an undulating wave. The local people nod respectfully as they pass, but not kindly. He does not care. He is thinking about going home. He is dreaming about the bubbling kalyan —the water pipe—and the opium he has brought from Isfahan. He is dreaming about the bottles of ruby wine that await him. He is dreaming about a few hours of blessed oblivion.
    A sound intrudes. There is shouting and cursing. He can hear footsteps, many of them, scuffling over the stony street. He turns to see a group of sneering mullas striding toward him with a swagger, blades drawn. A crowd follows, urging them on. What could this be about? The shouts grow louder, and then the kelauntar hears the words. In the name of Ali Qasim!
    He is chilled. What does this mean? What has the boy gotten himself into now? The kelauntar squints into the sun, shades his eyes, and watches the crowd turn a corner. They are headed toward the caravanserai. This is a religious matter, I’m sure, the kelauntar tells himself. The mullas take care of religious business and he takes care of Qajar and civil business. But he is worried. They are shouting the name of his son. Swords are drawn.
    The kelauntar begins to trail the crowd, staying a few steps behind so he doesn’t look like part of the mob. He feels a tug on his arm and looks down. Beside him is Ali, red-faced and breathing hard.
    “I’ve been trying to find you!” Ali says.
    “What is going on? Why are they chanting your name?”
    “They’re going to kill a Shaykhi at the caravanserai. It’s my fault. You must stop them!” The boy is crying.
    The kelauntar comes to a halt. Mulla Ibrahim and he had never before crossed swords. There was an implicit understanding between them, a line drawn in the warm Bushruyih sand. The Qajars have power, yes, but at the local level the clergy have the people behind them. The kelauntar is not anxious to test this delicate balance of power.
    “What do you mean it’s your fault?” the kelauntar says to Ali.
    “I told the mullas about a Shaykhi coming to the caravanserai. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t think they would want to kill him.”
    The kelauntar understands the dilemma. He can