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top of his lungs that God had failed. From all indications, this poor soul knew neither where he was nor how he had lost his wits. But the uncompromising Taliban, seeing no extenuating circumstances in his madness, had him blindfolded, gagged, and whipped to death in the public square.
    Zunaira is no Taliban, and her husband’s not mad; if he lost his way in a moment of collective hysteria, that’s because the horrors of everyday life are sufficiently powerful to overwhelm all defenses, and human degeneracy is deeper than any abyss. Mohsen is behaving like other people, recognizing his distress in theirs, identifying with their degradation. His deed provides proof that everything can change, without warning and beyond recognition.
    It was a long night for both of them. Petrified by his anguish, Mohsen remained outside, sitting on his stone step, until the muezzin’s call. Zunaira didn’t sleep a wink, either. Curled up on her mat, she sought refuge in memories of long ago, of the days when children sang in public squares now besmirched by dirt and disfigured by gallows. Not every day was a holiday, but there were no fanatics shouting “Sacrilege!” when kites fluttered in the air. Of course, Mohsen would take a certain number of precautions before allowing his hand to brush against the hand of his beloved, but such prudence only intensified the passion they felt for each other. Traditions were traditions; one had to live with them. The necessity of discretion, far from frustrating the lovers, preserved their romance from prying eyes and increased the profound thrill they felt whenever their fingers escaped notice long enough for a magical, ecstatic touch.
    They had met at the university. He was the son of a middle-class family; she was the daughter of a prominent man. Mohsen was studying political science and looking forward to a diplomatic career; Zunaira’s ambition was to become a magistrate. He was a straightforward, decent, moderately religious young man; as an enlightened Muslim, she wore assertive head scarves and modest dresses, sometimes over loose trousers, and actively campaigned for the emancipation of women. Her zeal was unmatched, save by the praises heaped upon her. She was a brilliant girl, and her beauty lifted every heart. The boys never tired of devouring her with their eyes. All of them dreamed of marrying her, but Mohsen was her choice; she fell in love with him at first sight. He was courteous, and he blushed like a maiden when she smiled at him. They married very young and very quickly, as if they sensed that the worst, though yet to come to them, was already at the gates of the city.
    Now Mohsen makes no effort to conceal his relief. He even tries to display it in all its fullness to his wife, so that she may judge how he languishes for her when she turns her back on him. He can’t bear her not speaking to him; she’s the last link that still connects him to anything in this world.
    Zunaira says nothing, but her smile is eloquent. It’s not the same smile her husband is used to seeing on her face; it is, however, more than enough to make him happy.
    She serves him his breakfast and sits down on an ottoman, resting her folded hands on her knees. Her houri’s eyes follow a wisp of smoke, then fasten on her husband’s. “You got up very early,” she says.
    Mohsen flinches, surprised to hear her speaking to him as though nothing has happened. Her voice is gentle, almost maternal, and he deduces from it that the page has been turned.
    He swallows a mouthful of bread so hastily it nearly strangles him. Wiping his lips with a handkerchief, he says, “I went to the mosque.”
    She knits her eyebrows. “At three o’clock in the morning?”
    He swallows again, clears his throat, searches for a plausible explanation, and tries this: “I wasn’t sleepy, so I went outside to get some fresh air.”
    “It really was very hot last night.”
    They mutually acknowledge that the humidity and the