He did say, however, “I, myself, didn’t find them offensive – they are simply examples of Western classical art of that pagan time. But I have guests here of my faith, and those statues might be offensive to them.”

I could have suggested bathrobes for the statues, or locking the temple door, but I let it drop.

He, however, did not let it drop, and informed me, “Mrs. Sutter understood.”

Apparently she’d become more sensitive to other cultures in the last decade. I said to him, “It’s your property.”

“Yes. In any case, as I said, feel free to use the grounds, including the tennis courts. I ask only that you dress somewhat modestly on my property. You can dress as you wish on your own property, of course.”

“Thank you.”

This subject brought back a memory of Mr. Frank Bellarosa and Mrs. Sutter, when Bellarosa made his first, unannounced visit to Stanhope Hall, while Susan and I were playing a game of mixed doubles on the estate’s tennis court with Jim and Sally Roosevelt. Our new neighbor brought us a gift of vegetable seedlings, and aside from interrupting our match, which was annoying enough, Bellarosa kept glancing at Susan’s bare legs.

Well, if only Mr. Nasim had owned the estate then, Susan would have been playing tennis in a full-length chador and veil, and Frank Bellarosa would have just dropped off the seedlings and left without a thought about screwing Susan. So maybe Amir Nasim had a point there about modest dress.

Anyway, I certainly didn’t want to run into Susan on the Stanhope acreage – though she and Mr. Nasim may have wanted that – but to be polite I said, “Thank you for your offer.” We reached the stairs, and I said, “I can find my way from here.”

“I need the exercise.”

We descended the wide, curving staircase together, and he said, apropos of the stair lighting, “I’ve seen these blackamoors in paintings, and as statues in museums and palaces all over Europe. But I’m not certain of their significance.”

“I have no idea.”

“I suppose there was a time in Europe when these people were slaves or servants.”

“Well, they don’t look like they own the place.”

“No, they do not.” He stopped abruptly about midway down the staircase, so I, too, stopped. He said to me, “Mr. Sutter, I quite understand.”

“Understand what, Mr. Nasim?”

“Your feelings, sir.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “Your feelings about me, about me being in this house, and about my culture, my money, my religion, and my country. And about your position in relation to all of that.”

I ran through several replies in my mind, then picked the best one and said, “Then we completely understand one another.”

“And I must say I don’t really blame you for how you feel.”

“I don’t care if you do or you don’t.”

“Of course. I understand that as well. But I want to tell you that the reason I’m here, and the reason I was in England, is that I am an exile, Mr. Sutter. Not a voluntary exile, as you were. But a political exile who would be arrested and executed if I returned to my country, which is now in the hands of the mullahs and the radicals. I was a very ardent and public supporter of the late Shah, and so I am a marked man. I have no country, Mr. Sutter, so unlike you, who can come home, I cannot go home. Unlike your wife, who has come home, I cannot simply fly to Iran and buy back my old house. In fact, I will probably never see my country again. So, Mr. Sutter, you and I have something in common – we both want me back where I came from, but that will not happen in my lifetime, nor yours.”

I had the feeling that this speech was rehearsed and given on the appropriate occasions, but I also thought it was probably true. Or partly true. I suppose I was now feeling a little less unkind toward Mr. Amir Nasim, but that didn’t change my situation or his.

I said to him, “Thank you for your time.”

I continued alone down the stairs, but I sensed he was still there.

I walked across the stone floor, and my footsteps echoed in the cavernous foyer. The front door was bolted, so I unbolted it.

He called out to me, “Mr. Sutter.”

I turned and looked at him on the staircase.

He said to me, “I should tell you that there are some security issues here which have recently arisen and of which you should be aware.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “This is why I need the gatehouse and the guest cottage – to put my people in them. You understand?”

I understood that this was quite possibly a convenient lie – a ruse to make me tell Susan that Stanhope Hall was under imminent threat of attack by an Islamic hit squad. Actually, I didn’t think Susan would care as long as the assassins didn’t trample the flowerbeds.

Mr. Nasim, not getting any reaction from me, continued, “If you see anything suspicious or odd, please call me.”

“I certainly will. And you do the same. Good day.”

I left and closed the door behind me.

I descended the steps under the portico, got into my car, and drove off.

As I moved slowly down the tree-covered lane toward the gatehouse, I processed what Amir Nasim said about his security issues. I mean, really, how many political exiles get whacked around here? None, the last time I counted. Surely there were local ordinances prohibiting political assassination.

On the other hand, the world had changed since September 11 of last year. For one thing, there had been dozens of local residents killed in the Twin Towers, and there were people like Mr. Amir Nasim who were feeling some heat from their countries of origin, or from an irate and increasingly xenophobic population – or from the authorities. Or they were just feeling paranoid, which might be the case with Amir Nasim.

And then there was Mr. Anthony Bellarosa down the road. How odd, I thought, that Messrs. Bellarosa and Nasim, from opposite ends of the universe, had a similar problem, to wit: Old enemies were out to kill them. But maybe that was not coincidence; it was an occupational hazard when your occupation is living dangerously and pissing off the wrong people.

Enter John Sutter, who just dropped into town to take care of some business, and gets two offers for some fast money. I mean, this was really my lucky week – unless I got caught in the crossfire.

I approached the guest cottage, and I thought about stopping and ringing her bell. “Hello, Susan, I just stopped by to tell you that if you see a group of armed men in black ski masks running across your lawn, don’t be alarmed. They’re just here to kill Mr. Nasim.” And I should add, “If a Mr. Anthony Bellarosa comes by, don’t forget that you killed his father. And, oh, by the way, I have some nude photos of you, and photos of your dysfunctional family.”

I slowed down as I came abreast of her house, and I could actually see her through the front window of what was once my den. She was sitting where my desk used to be, and it looked as though she was multitasking on the phone and the computer, and probably eating yogurt and doing her nails at the same time.

I considered seizing the moment and stopping. I did need to speak to her about what Nasim said, and about Anthony, and a few less urgent matters. But I could do that by phone… I continued on to the gatehouse.

It was a dreary day, weather-wise and otherwise, but I could see some breaks in the clouds, and tomorrow was supposed to be sunny. Plus, I’d gotten my housing situation straightened out – if I didn’t mind Islamic commandos scaling the walls – and I’d completed my desk work, made my peace with Ethel, made a sort of date with Elizabeth, and turned down an offer from Anthony Bellarosa, which is what I should have done with his father ten years ago.

All in all, things were on the right track, and quite possibly I had a wonderful, bright future ahead of me.

And yet I had this sense of foreboding, this feeling that there were forces at work that I comprehended on one level, but dismissed on another, like black storm clouds at sea that circled the horizon around my boat as I sat becalmed under a sunny patch of sky.