still sitting here? I've only known him for a few hours and am taking all the risks of an illegal encounter. But his companionship feels strangely familiar, and I lean back a bit.
As though by accident, his hand touches mine, and I hastily dig for the cigarettes in my coat pocket. A night wind comes up, and my scarf blows off. I don't notice. My hair is tied together in a high knot, betraying neither its length nor whether it drapes over my shoulders smoothly or in waves. For the first time I sense my hair as an erotic secret. Would I like to undo it, let it wave in the wind and run my fingers through its locks? It is dark, and no one but us would see it - but no, how can I think such a thing? I am in Iran, and my companion is Iranian, no matter how natural and casual he acts. The thought of an "unveiling" suddenly seems extremely enticing. After introductions and getting closer would come the electric moment of dis-covering, the display of great secrets. Kurosh knows neither the shape of my legs stuck in wide pants and covered by a long coat, nor does he know if I have a thin waist or how big my chest is. The clothes barely betray anything. A strange excitement makes me look into his dark brown eyes, and he returns my gaze with a smile beaming with youthful energy.
"Too bad we didn't meet in Goa."
"No, why? I think it's wonderful that you lost a bet at just the right moment."
It becomes cool, and Kurosh puts his jacket around my shoulders. For a moment I feel his breath on my cheek. In my bag I have a warm shirt

my bag I have a warm shirt, but I don't know how to put it on here and want to give it to him. But then I roll it up and wrap it around his neck like a scarf. He is delighted by the mint green color and the soft material. He generally seems to like everything that comes from the west. We stand face to face in one of the bridge nooks and stare into the glittering current. The narrow arch leaves just enough room for me to reach over to him. Kurosh carefully touches the tips of a lock of hair poking out from under my headscarf, and I let him. A smile flickers across my face, but at the last moment I realize that someone could be watching us or ask us about the legality of our being together. I quickly turn away. It is only a few steps to my hotel, and we part at the Chahar Bagh.
"When will I see you again?"
"I'll visit you tomorrow at your store."
"Wonderful. I'm looking forward to it. Good night, and sleep well."
"Esfahan. You have shown me your best side," I write in my diary. "Your aura makes me feel at home." I can hardly believe that I have only been here for one day. The beauty is awe-inspiring and meeting Kurosh a giddying experience that keeps me from falling asleep. I dig a book out of my bag with the impressive title "At the Court of the Great Persian King 1684-1685". The German envoy Engelbert Kaempfer had written down his observations in painstaking detail. When I lean out of my hotel window, I look out over the "Four Gardens" the German traveler