An old beggar was sprawled on the pavement. “Can you
spare any change?” he rasped.
I rummaged in my pocket, but Keyvan was quicker than me
and pushed a handful of notes into the outstretched hand.
“May Allah bless you with many children,” the old
man cried.
I was embarrassed, but at least he didn’t think we
were together illegally. Had we been a few years younger, it would have been
a different story; a younger couple were less likely to be married. Being
twenty-four had its advantages, it seemed.
The coffee shop was a small place on the corner of the
street. Inside, little groups sat at tables. The proprietor was pouring
coffee. “Salaam, Keyvan Khan. I’ll be with you in a
minute,” he said.
“Don’t worry, Agha-ye Moghadam is
discreet,” Keyvan said to me, leading me to a table
