"Do you know the music?" Kurosh has noticed my rapt expression.
"All too well. It's from Farid Farjad's 'Aan roozhaa', 'Those Days'. I heard the music for the first time in an eastern diner in Berlin, and it has haunted me ever since."
"But those are old Persian songs. Do people listen to that kind of thing in Germany?"
"Some do, as you can see. The big cities are filled with people of all nations, and they bring their music. In Germany you can find every kind of music. There are certain bars, discos and concert halls where you can hear music from all over the world. At the moment, I especially enjoy West African music."
He stares at me incredulously.
"And how about American music? Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey and Phil Collins?"
"There's everything to choose from, but American or at least English-language music dominates. The top hits are played from morning 'til night in the radio. MTV shows videos all day."
I have to think of the bad video copies I saw in Tehran. Someone taped a Madonna concert on satellite, copied the cassette over and over and sold it for a fortune. As though the freedom of choice in music were heaven on earth, Kurosh says with conviction, "That's exactly why I'm learning German and English. Someday I want to get out of here and live in freedom."

The way to the school leads along the Zayandeh Rud, and I think of the village on the river where I spent some unforgettable days years ago. This water only recently flowed past Kuhe Shiraz. The vision of the green snake with the turquoise colored stripes in waves of sienna hills reappears before me. Kurosh was never there, but he knows the name.
"What is a German woman doing in such a far-away place?"
"Traveling and getting to know different people."
Just past the Sioseh Pol is a boat rental, and would-be boaters push their way to the pier. Kurosh constantly greets passers-by and introduces me a few times. With a certain pride, he points out that his companion speaks Farsi.
"Am I really here?" I ask myself amazed, as the old Pole Khajou, the greatest of the many bridges in Esfahan, appears before an awesome sky. Twilight slowly comes, and it seems to cast a filtered light. Colors and forms harmonize unimaginably as though burst forth from a dreamer's fancy. The color of the distant mountains' silhouette is only a faint nuance away from the bridge's orange brown, the two motifs forming a perfect arrangement. I have to take a deep breath and look at my handsome companion, whose skin shimmers copper in the warm light. Kurosh, used to the charms of his hometown, seems to enjoy my enchantment more than the view.
"Do you actually know the place where you live?"
"Yes, I know it very well. In a golden cage. I love this land, and I love Esfahan, but I hate this damned