Ava shook her head several times in mock surprise. “No. I honestly didn’t know that.” She turned to Timur. “Did you know that?”
Timur frowned a little, as if he couldn’t quite understand what Ava was doing, and glanced at Raisa. “No, I didn’t.”
“The oldest tree in Asia,” said Qazai, watching Ava closely as she turned back to him, “is an Iranian cypress.”
Ava nodded briskly. “So. Mr. Webster. Have you ever been to Iran?”
“I haven’t, no. I’m not sure that someone in my profession should try.”
Ava raised her eyebrows, as if to ask him why not.
“They might decide I’m a spy.”
“Which of course you’re not.”
Webster smiled.
“How old are you, Mr. Webster?” said Qazai.
“Thirty-eight.”
“Then I hope you get the chance one day.”
“Do you think I might?”
Qazai sat back, took a slow breath, and made a show of thinking. From the end of the table came the sound of Farhad clinking his knife and fork.
“I have high hopes. High hopes. Mixed with real fear.”
Timur quietly took Farhad’s cutlery from him, and they all waited for Qazai to go on, allowing the patriarch his moment. Ava looked down and tapped her fingers lightly on the tablecloth. Her nails were long and unpainted.
“It is not possible,” said Qazai, “for such weak people to stifle a country that old, that… valiant for long. They are pariahs. They are desert dogs. Iran will wring their necks. But for now—for this year, for next—they will do what they have learned to do so well these past two decades. They will try to terrify their people.” He was animated now, and he took a drink of wine before continuing. “But we are not as afraid as we were. It may not take much longer. What has happened in Egypt, in Tunisia—people see that it can be done. They sense the trick of power. The illusion.”
Qazai leaned forward and put down his wine glass to signal that for now he was done; Ava sat back and crossed her arms, and Webster thought he heard her give a little sigh as she did so. No one spoke for a moment, and Qazai merely looked at his daughter calmly but pointedly, as if to say that he saw that she objected in some way but was not prepared to pursue it in company. Not meeting his eye she raised her eyebrows a fraction, glanced at Parviz and Raisa in turn, and reached forward for the bread that the waiter had just placed on her side plate with a pair of silver tongs. Timur and Raisa quietly tried to engage Farhad, who was growing restless.
“Do you do much work in Iran, Mr. Webster?” said Qazai at last, turning to him. He was smiling but his brow was tight and he was clearly angered by this small, public act of insubordination. Webster wondered whether he controlled every conversation with his family in the same way, and looked for neutral ground where the others might feel safe to follow.
“A little. It’s not an easy place to do what we do. As you can imagine. Although it’s not the worst.”
Raisa gratefully took the bait. “Where is that, Mr. Webster?”
“Please—Ben.” Raisa smiled and nodded. “It depends what you mean by worst. Poland is impossible to understand. The Germans hate to tell you anything. The Balkans are the most confusing place on earth.”
Raisa smiled. “I should be flattered, I’m sure.”
Webster looked puzzled.
“I’m from Slovenia,” she said. “If that counts.”
“Oh, I think so,” said Webster.
“But the most dangerous?” Ava appeared to have recovered; she was contributing.
Webster thought for a moment. “Well, Iran would be up there. Iraq, certainly. Parts of Africa. Russia.”
“I read about your difficulties there, Mr. Webster,” said Qazai. “That can’t have been an easy time.”
This threw Webster. It was easy enough to find those articles but he was surprised that Qazai had taken the trouble, and more surprised that he should raise it here. “No, it wasn’t an easy time.”
“You have my sympathies,” said Qazai. “To do something valuable it is sometimes necessary to accept misfortune. Everyone here has experience of this, I think.”
Webster managed to nod, controlling an impulse to ask Qazai what on earth he meant, and was only distracted from his irritation by Ava laughing, a short hard laugh.
“Daddy, look around.” She shook her head as if in wonder. “Look at all this. We are some of the most fortunate people who ever lived.”
“Not all misfortune involves money, Ava.”
“I thought everything was about money.” Her eyes were wide in challenge, her head inclined slightly to one side.
For a full five seconds he looked at her, his features set.
“Ava, now is not the time.” His mouth but not his eyes relented into a smile. “And this isn’t like you. Please let us enjoy our lunch on this beautiful day.”
“For Mr. Webster’s sake.”
“For all our sakes.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Webster,” said Ava. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You haven’t.” He and Ava exchanged a look; Webster thought he could see in her eyes a real fury that hadn’t been there when they met in London.
Food came, the moment passed, and the rest of the lunch was spent in stiff but fluent enough conversation about children and education and holidays and other subjects deemed safe by some tacit mutual understanding. Qazai was in charge, distributing the conversation around the table with a diplomat’s equilibrium. The only people he failed to engage were Parviz and Farhad, who sat dutifully enough and mourned the hot, bright day.
Occasionally he would set up a story for Timur or ask him to give his opinion on some matter but for the most part his son was withdrawn. Webster wondered whether he was always like this in his father’s company, whether he didn’t dare be himself, or whether he was merely preoccupied, or tired, or simply bored of some repeating pattern in the relationship between Ava and his father; wondered, too, why Qazai had invited him here to witness all this uneasiness, and concluded that he was as surprised by it as anyone.
As the coffees were cleared Qazai stood, thanked everyone for their company, and asked if they would mind leaving him alone with Mr. Webster and Timur because there were things they needed to discuss. Raisa and Ava did not delay and followed Parviz and Farhad as they ran, thin-legged and laughing, into the house. Webster watched them go with envy, and asked Qazai whether he might smoke a cigarette.
QAZAI, IT SEEMED, wanted Timur to sit in on their interview; it was important, was it not, that he knew exactly what had been found. Webster did his best not to show his irritation; the whole point of being in this secluded place was to get Qazai alone and see how he answered questions without an audience. He made cogent arguments, warned him that he would ask him things that he might not want Timur to hear, but Qazai insisted, and when your client insisted there was little that you could do. Not for the first time he cursed Ike for creating this impossible relationship.
He managed one small victory, however, which was to move inside the house; no one could ask or answer hard questions with the afternoon sun glimmering on the lake and the breeze soothing everything with its warmth. The three of them withdrew to Qazai’s study, a modest room on the northwestern side of the house, cool as a result, lined with leather-bound books on mahogany shelves and looking out through a small grove of pear trees onto a terrace planted with roses and camellias. Qazai sat behind his desk, an elegant insubstantial thing that had never seen much work, and Webster took one of the half-comfortable chairs that faced it. Timur took the other.