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on our way for a stroll up the Tajrish overpass around the Shemiran Mountains—I want your undivided attention—
    He will never know now that he always had that. Will never know that the camera was his best ally, that if ever a minute particle of my attention wandered off course, the viewfinder would attract and bring it back into focus like a magnet.
    â€œMay I take your picture, Mr. Rivers?”
    â€œOf course.” A smile lights up his pale eyes. He straightens his back, relaxes his knees, leans on the table.
    I check him through the viewfinder. The masculine outline of his body is beautiful. I zoom in on the angles of his features—the indentation below his cheekbones, his strong mouth, the curve of his chin—and frame him within the window of my awareness as the zoom lens draws him into intimate proximity. My brain shuts off the surrounding humdrum and my senses converge into the center of my retina. The possibilities are endless for me, a foreigner in a hotel at the edge of the world. I could invite him up to my suite, douse the flames, calm this unbearable turmoil, and no one would need to find out…except Aziz.
    For my purpose, an Iranian man will serve better, of course. Aziz’s Soree in the arms of a man who shares the same geography, culture, and language. That might prove difficult in America. But I am a patient and stubborn woman.
    Steve Rivers holds open the front door of the passenger seat of his black Mercedes Benz, and to his visible surprise, I announce that I prefer to sit in the back.
    As we drive along Wilshire Boulevard, the thought occurs to me that I have traded the familiar, lawless, traffic-choked streets of Tehran for the orderly lanes and stop signs of America. Look right, then left. The pedestrian has the right of way—always. A fresh set of aches settles in my bones. I was familiar with the system back home. Learned to bribe the authorities, found ways to sidestep the law, even create my own rules in the limited boundaries of the Jewish community I occupied. Who will I become here? Will this country force me into blind compliance?
    The traffic light on the corner of Westwood turns red. I observe Iranians among the pedestrians. I know their looks, expressions, mannerisms, even the way they walk, in deep thought and with their hands clasped behind their backs. Some were prominent in Iran, forced to abandon the products of decades of hard work, hand their mansions and great fortunes over to the Islamic Republic, uproot themselves, and become paupers of Westwood. Others, who did not have a dime or a title to their names back home, have become moguls of Beverly Hills, stuffed their houses with gilded antiques and colorful carpets, and still, at every opportunity, lament an unfair revolution that dealt them a bad hand.
    â€œYou are exceptionally tall for an Arab woman,” Mr. Rivers says, shattering the positive image I had drawn of him.
    â€œIranians are not Arab, Mr. Rivers!”
    â€œPardon me, Mrs. Aziz. Didn’t mean to offend you. Imagine experiencing a revolution. That’s something!”
    Certain that if I raise my camera, I’ll capture this man’s stupidity, I don’t bother telling him that it would behoove him to pray to whatever God he believes in to never experience a revolution.
    Up Sunset Boulevard and through the Bel Air east gate, mansions are wrapped in drowsy silence and the air is melancholy with ocean scents. The lush seascape of Ramsar, north of Tehran, comes alive like the deep cherry and azure shades of an Isfahan carpet. The lazy warmth of the Caspian Sea, the steaming peaks of its mountains, the seductive humidity under the jungle canopies.
    Idle summers with Aziz.
    Family trips with my friend, Parvaneh.

chapter 3
    My friend and I attended the same school. I was the tallest and blondest girl, she the most petite, her wild hair ink-black. She was fragile and vulnerable and navigated her world with cautious