The email read: ‘Could I meet you for lunch today? I know it’s short notice, but it’s important.’

Nasim replied, ‘Lunch where? I’m a vegetarian.’ The prospect of having to locate a meat-free meal in Tehran was enough to make most people reassess their notion of ‘important’. Online maps weren’t much help; Nasim had stopped publishing locations herself, lest she lead anyone into false hope. Even the establishments where she’d succeeded on occasion were perfectly capable of taking their one suitable dish off the menu on a whim, or adding meat to the recipe without warning.

Martin responded in thirty seconds, ‘There’s a place that does kuku-ye-sabzi, just around the corner from People of the Book.’

Nasim had her doubts about how seriously they meant sabzi, but if she’d been too busy to accept the invitation she should have used an ironclad brush-off from the start. ‘Okay. Bookshop at one?’

‘Great. Thank you.’

When Nasim arrived at the shop, Martin was locking up and pulling down the shutters.

‘You don’t stay open at lunchtime?’ she asked.

‘I only open in the mornings myself,’ he said. ‘There’s a student who comes in and does the evening shift, but I don’t have anyone for the afternoons yet.’

The place he took her to was a crowded juice bar with three tiny plastic tables squeezed between the wall and the serving counter, but the owner really did whip up a traditional herb-and-vegetable omelette without complaint – and without throwing in a handful of ground beef or diced chicken for ‘added flavour’.

‘How’s Javeed?’ she asked.

Martin took a while to reply. ‘He’s still thinking it through, working out the implications. Every now and then he gets a fresh realisation that Mahnoosh is really not coming back. Before his sixth birthday, we talked about it and he decided to let the day pass. He didn’t want to celebrate without her.’

Nasim tried to think of something encouraging to say. ‘I’m sure he’s going to be resilient in the long run.’ Her mother had told her that Martin had cancer, but she had no intention of quizzing him about that. Most of their conversations since the funeral had revolved around Zendegi; she was only too happy to help provide the poor kid with some distraction.

Martin said, ‘Javeed’s godparents, Omar and Rana, are wonderful people. So I don’t want anything I say to be taken as a slight on their characters.’

‘Okay.’ Nasim shifted uncomfortably in her plastic chair. She had no idea where he was heading. She’d met the couple only once, at Mahnoosh’s funeral, though her mother knew them through mutual friends.

‘Omar already treats Javeed like a son,’ Martin continued. ‘I can’t imagine anyone else caring more about his welfare. But some of Omar’s ideas, the way he talks about women, about ethnic groups…’ He trailed off. ‘You lived in the States for a while, didn’t you?’

‘About twelve years,’ Nasim replied.

‘I think you understand what I’m saying. It’s hard work to get all that racist, sexist garbage even halfway under control. Nobody really gets it out of their system. But that’s no reason to give up and say it doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course not,’ Nasim agreed cautiously.

‘I don’t want Omar raising my son,’ Martin said bluntly. ‘There are things that are important to me that he’ll simply never accept – let alone pass on to a child with any conviction. I know I should be grateful that Javeed has someone like Omar prepared to look after him. But I can’t make peace with it. I just can’t. That’s why I’ve come to you.’

Nasim felt the blood draining from her face. He was going to ask her to adopt the boy.

‘Martin, I-’ She stopped, too flustered to say anything coherent. Mahnoosh had been her cousin, but she’d barely known her, let alone Javeed. If there’d been no one – literally no one else in the world, she might have been prepared to do this, but Martin seemed to be telling her that he wanted to toss aside his loyal and loving friends… just because she had a more Western sensibility?

Martin went on, ‘Last night I saw a replay of the football match in Zendegi between the two Azimis. Each team held the other to a draw.’ He laughed. ‘I was probably the last person in the world to notice what you’ve achieved, to appreciate how amazing it was.’

Nasim was utterly confused now. Was he trying to flatter her? Praising her technical skills as if that had some bearing on her eligibility for this role?

‘But once I saw that game,’ he continued, ‘I knew it was the answer. Javeed’s happiest times with me these days are all in Zendegi. And I don’t think he’d find it strange or frightening; I think he’d just accept it. I think it would make perfect sense to him.’

Nasim said, ‘What would make sense to him? What is it you’re asking me to do?’ She thought she knew now, but having narrowly averted embarrassing them both with her first misunderstanding, she wasn’t willing to take anything for granted.

‘I want you to do for me what you did for Azimi,’ Martin announced calmly. ‘I want you to make a Proxy of me that can live on in Zendegi and help raise my son.’

After forty minutes the owner of the juice bar started giving them dark looks. There were only so many banana milkshakes Nasim could bring herself to order for the sake of staying put, so they walked back to Martin’s empty shop and sat in the small coffee lounge where patrons were invited to flick through their potential purchases.

‘I have some money from my wife’s insurance,’ Martin told her, for the fifth time.

‘That’s not the point,’ Nasim replied patiently. ‘It’s not a question of expense. It’s a question of complexity.’

‘I’m not asking for anything sophisticated,’ Martin insisted. ‘I don’t expect this Proxy to deliver lectures on moral philosophy; I just want him to have the right gut reaction if his son starts referring to women as whores or Arabs as wild animals.’

Nasim said, ‘If it were that simple, I could go back to the office right now and crank out an ordinary, scripted Proxy that flew off the handle in response to any list of triggers you cared to spell out. Do you honestly want something that crude?’

‘Not that crude,’ Martin conceded.

‘So do you really think that a Proxy whose only ability was knowing when to lay down the law – and who became tongue-tied whenever he was challenged to defend his views – would have any impact on your son at all? I’m not talking about high-powered philosophy! I’m talking about debating a six-year-old, or a twelve-year-old, with a more subtle response than “Because I said so”.’

Martin was beginning to look deflated. He said, ‘I’m going to have to go and pick up Javeed from school.’

Nasim said, ‘I’m sorry, Martin. You know if there’s anything else I can do-’

‘Thank you.’

In the taxi back to the office, Nasim felt drained. She wondered how many other people had watched Virtual Azimi tenaciously holding his ground against the original – as if this proved them to be perfectly matched mirror-images – and concluded: This is it, my chance to cheat death. Well, if Azimi was hit by a truck, his widow would certainly receive royalties from the game for as long as it remained popular, but most people could forget about a Proxy preserving their earning capacity, let alone anything more personal. Maybe she should have told Martin that, while the match hadn’t literally been fixed, Azimi would have been crazy to hammer his Proxy’s team into the ground; that might have been good for his ego, but it wouldn’t have helped anyone’s bank balance.

Bahador spotted her as she stepped out of the elevator. ‘Did you hear about the cleric in Qom?’ he asked.

‘No-?’ They walked together down the corridor; Bahador wasn’t smiling, so Nasim decided that this probably wasn’t the opening line to a joke.