Saturday came quickly. Farukh saw Catherine at the staff canteen during the week; she always sat with her colleagues, who seemed vaguely disapproving of his presence. Who could blame them, as stories came through on the radio and television about the happenings in Iran? Farukh was ashamed that Dadash supported such things, and wished he could tell him so without fear of being denounced.
At least Dadash had not insisted that Farukh come out to the Ayatollah’s compound for the weekend again; that would have meant explanations he was unprepared to make.
Farukh took one last look in the mirror as he donned his navy blue cashmere overcoat. The barber had trimmed his beard so that it set close against his jaw rather than looking like a peasant’s shaggy mess, and shaved carefully under his chin. Dadash could not call him a “traitor to Islam” since he still had a beard, and he hoped never again to overhear one of Catherine’s colleagues remark on it.
Catherine and Farukh had agreed to meet in front of Notre Dame, and he did not want to be late. Saying a quick prayer to a god he usually disregarded, Farukh went out the door.