pedestrians. A clear "Bruni" in high children's voices fills me with joy. The schoolgirls from Yazd grin at me and wish me a pleasant evening. Standing on the bank is Kurosh who waves at me.
"I was worried, you weren't coming. Who are the kids on the bridge?"
"My little girlfriends from Yazd."
"Can they speak English?"
"No, but I speak a little Farsi."
"Really? I don't believe it. Please, say something."
"It's easier if we talk in English or German."
"Let's go into a café across the street."
"And what about the German class?"
"We still have an hour."
The usual problem with the Peykans racing by makes me feel a bit helpless next to Kurosh. I touch his arm and in the same moment pull my hand back because such a familiar gesture does not seem proper to me.
"It's OK. Come on, I'll help you."
Casually, he takes my hand and leads me across the street. We walk into a modern café for "finer tastes", which unfortunately means that it is decorated in Louis XIV style. It seems to me that nothing is less pleasant than such a café in the city of traditional tee houses. But I am nicely surprised when I hear the music in the background.
Kurosh shows me his German book, and I am amused at the Iranian censorship. The caption under a picture of a woman buying wine reads: "The woman buys w..."

woman buying wine reads: "The woman buys w..." "Do you drink wine in Germany?"
"Yes, I love to."
"In India I drank beer. In the beginning I could only drink one bottle. Later I drank three or four in one night and danced and laughed the whole time."
The waiter brings cakes, and I realize that I have never been in such a café in Iran. Young men and women are sitting at the next table who can afford to pay double or triple the usual prices. Here they have found a little oasis of relaxed attitudes.
"This is a popular meeting place for young people. The owners don't ask for any papers. The Committee rarely comes, and when it does, the owner is warned ahead of time."
"How does that work?"
"See the cigarette salesman across the street? He makes a sign."
The atmosphere in the café transports me into another world. Kurosh's behavior seems very familiar, and above the voices that special music wafts into my ear. Yes, it is really that violin piece that has so often enchanted me and awakened special memories. I did not expect to encounter these notes in the birthplace of the melodies. And in the middle of the day in a café. After all, like so many other Iranian artists, the musician is sentenced to exile, and his albums can only appear abroad.