- The ground was frozen but there was no snow. The house was only a short walk to the village square, and one could see the long bread and trinket tables of the bazaar, a cage of chickens, the butcher’s meat hanging from a timber. Already passersby stopped to view the spectacle of the carpet dealer pointing a pistol at his dirty kaseef daughter whose hands were held behind her by her bearded older brother who stood to the side, his eyes on the eyes of their father. The girl was in white nightclothes, her feet bare, already beginning to turn blue, her black hair hanging before her face as she cried so hard she was unable to speak. The men and women of the bazaar began to look as well, and perhaps they saw the youngest son run from the house just as his father pulled the trigger, the sound like the cracking of ice, a wisp of smoke entering the air, and the young beautiful Jasmeen, the gendeh, the whore, falling to the ground, curling herself up as if she were cold, moaning, then becoming quiet and with great concentration sitting up and pressing her hands to the hole in her chest. But in seconds the front of her gown was completely red and wet, and quite soon she lay still, her eyes open, steam rising from her wound into the early-morning air of Tabriz.
What self would really like to know is: What happened to the rich, handsome American oil executive the kaseef daughter had an affair with? Did he just slink away in shame?