Mr. Nasim indicated two chairs covered in baby blue satin near the fireplace, between which was a white coffee table with bowed legs. I sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, and Mr. Nasim sat facing me. I noticed that the bookshelves were nearly empty, and what was there were mostly oversized art books of the type that decorators sold by the foot.

I noticed, too, that Mr. Nasim hadn’t invested in air-conditioning, and a floor fan moved the warm, humid air around the big library.

On the table was a silver tray piled high with sticky-looking pastry. My host said to me, “I enjoy the English tea, but I prefer Persian sweets to cucumber sandwiches.”

I noted his use of the word “Persian” as opposed to “Iranian,” which had some negative connotations since the Islamic Revolution, the ’79 hostage crisis, and subsequent misunderstandings between our countries.

Mr. Nasim whipped out his cell phone, speed-dialed, said a few words in Farsi, then hung up and said to me with a smile, “The high-tech version of the servant call button.” He informed me, “Tea will arrive shortly,” just in case I thought he’d called the Revolutionary Guards to take me hostage.

He sat back in his satin chair and asked me, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Sutter?”

I replied, without apologizing for my unannounced house call, “First, I wanted to let you know – personally and officially – that I’m staying in the gatehouse.”

“Thank you.” He added politely, “Perhaps I should have called on you.”

My limited experience with Arabs, Pakistanis, and Iranians in London was that they fell into two categories: those who tried to emulate the British, and those who went out of their way not to. Mr. Nasim, so far, seemed to fall into the former category of, “See how Western I am? Am I getting it right?”

I informed him, “It is I who am living on your property, so I should call on you. Which brings me to the other point of my visit. I saw Mrs. Allard a few days ago in the hospice house, and I believe she doesn’t have much time left.”

He seemed genuinely surprised and replied, “Yes? I didn’t know that. I thought… well, I am sorry to hear that news.”

“When she dies, as you know, her life tenancy expires with her.”

“Yes, I know that.”

He didn’t seem outwardly thrilled to learn that he was about to get his property back, but he knew, of course, this day would come, and he’d already made plans for it, and I’m sure those plans didn’t include me. Nevertheless, I said, “Therefore, I’d like to ask you if I could rent – or buy – the gatehouse.”

“Yes? You want to live there?”

“It’s an option.”

He nodded, thought a moment, then said, “I see…”

“If I rented, it would be only for a month or two.”

“I see. So you need a place to stay while you are not in London.”

“How did you know I lived in London?”

“I was told by Mrs. Sutter.”

“I assume you mean my ex-wife.”

“That is correct.”

“And what else did she tell you? So I don’t take your time by repeating what you already know.”

He shrugged and replied, “When she purchased the house – the former guest cottage – she paid a courtesy call. It was a Sunday, and I was here with my wife, and we had tea and she spoke generally of her situation.”

“I see. And since then, she’s informed you that her ex-husband has returned from London.”

“Correct.” He added, “Not me, actually. Soheila. My wife. They speak.”

I wanted to warn him that Mrs. Sutter was an adulteress and not good company for Soheila. But why cause trouble? I returned to my subject and said, “So, if you have no objection, I’d like to rent the gatehouse for a month or two – with an option to buy.”

“It is not for sale, but-”

Before he could continue, the woman who’d answered the door appeared carrying a tea tray, which she set down on the table with a bow of her head.

Mr. Nasim dismissed her, and she literally backed out of the room and pulled the doors closed. Well, maybe her training wasn’t all that bad; she just needed a lesson in front door etiquette. Or, more likely, Amir Nasim scared the hell out of her. Maybe I could pick up a few pointers from him on gender relations.

Anyway, Mr. Nasim did the honors and opened a wooden box that contained tins of teas and said to me, “Do you have a preference?”

I did, and it was called Scotch whisky, but I said, “Earl Grey would be fine.”

“Excellent.” He spooned the loose tea into two china pots and poured in hot water from a thermal carafe, all the while making tea talk, such as, “I generally let it steep for four minutes…” He covered both pots, then flipped over a sand timer and said, “…but you can time yours as you wish.”

I glanced at my watch, which he could interpret as me timing my tea or me getting a little impatient. In any case, I guess tea is what people of Mr. Nasim’s religion did in lieu of six o’clock cocktails.

As we waited for the sands of time to run out, he made conversation and said, “I lived in London for ten years. Wonderful city.”

“It is.”

“You have lived there, I believe, seven years.”

“That’s right.”

“And before that, you sailed around the world.”

“Correct.”

“So, you are an adventurous man. A man who likes danger, perhaps.”

“I went sailing. I didn’t attack any warships.”

He smiled, then said, “But it is dangerous out there, Mr. Sutter. Aside from the weather, there are pirates and explosive mines. Did you sail into the Persian Gulf?”

“I did.”

“That is very dangerous. Did you visit Iran?”

“I did. Bushehr.”

“And how were you received there?”

“Quite well.”

“Good. I have this theory that people who live in seaports are happier and kinder to strangers than those who live inland. What do you think?”

“I think that’s true until you get to New York.”

He smiled again, then changed the subject and said, “So, you will return to London in a month or two.”

“Perhaps.”

“And where do you live there?”

I told him my street in Knightsbridge, without giving him my house number, flat number, or telephone number.

He nodded and said, “A very nice neighborhood.” He informed me, “I lived in Mayfair.”

“Nice neighborhood.”

“Too many Arabs.”

I let that alone and watched the sand run. I’m aware that other cultures make lots of small talk before they get down to business, and I know this is not simply politeness; the other guy is trying to get a measure of you that he will use later. In this case, however, the business was fairly simple and should have taken less time than a three-minute egg. Well, maybe Amir Nasim was simply being polite to a now landless former aristocrat.

He said to me, “So, you are an attorney.”

“That’s right.”

“And this is what you did in London.”

“American tax law for British and foreign clients.”

“Ah. Interesting. Yes, there is a need for that. In fact, I have a company in London, so perhaps we can meet there one day and-” Time was up, and he took hold of his teapot and poured through a strainer into a dainty cup, saying to me, “Please go ahead, unless you like it stronger.”

I poured my tea as Mr. Nasim heaped several spoons of sugar into his cup. He asked me, “Sugar? Cream? Lemon?”

“I drink it straight.”

“Good. That is the correct way. But I like my sugar.” He sipped and said, “Very good. I use filtered water.”

“Me, too.” I said to him, “About the gatehouse-”

“Try a sweet. May I recommend that one?” He pointed to a gooey heap of something and said, “That is called Rangeenak.” He then named the other five desserts for me.

My Farsi, never good to begin with, was a bit rusty, so I said, “I’ll try number one.”

“Yes. Excellent.” He plucked up a wad of what looked liked dates with a silver tong and put them on my plate. “If you find it too sweet, I would recommend this one, which is made of sesame paste.”