Free The Alley of Love and Yellow Jasmines by Shohreh Aghdashloo

week to enjoy each other’s company—except for Thursdays. We decided to leave Thursday nights for our close friends. We would have them over for dinner to discuss politics, philosophy, and life over glasses of wine.
    Shirin’s husband, and another mutual friend of ours, the son of a famous jeweler, had invited us to my favorite nightclub, the Key Club. They wanted to thank us for taking care of Shirin.
    The Key Club was private and was founded by a socialite. It was located in northern Tehran and was a hangout for the royal family. The club’s regular clientele knew one another well, as did the doorman, Mr. Mohammad. He knew everybody by their full name and titles, and no one could get past him without being approved. Our hosts were running late, so we spent time talking with our other friends until they arrived.
    We immersed ourselves in a nice meal, the club’s specialty, called “Abgoosht”—a lamb-shank soup—while listening to the reggae band J.J. Cale. It happened to be the winter solstice and the longest night of the year, known as “Yalda,” and the first night of a long weekend. Finally our hosts showed up and we stayed until one o’clock in the morning and then called for a cab home.
    I will never forget the scene at our home when we got there.
    As we opened the door, we could see an old lamp lying on the table, the antique embroidery gone, and the door to our bedroom wide open.
    “My calligraphy collection!” Aydin cried.
    We rushed to the bedroom and found it a mess. Aydin’s suits and my clothes were scattered everywhere. My jewelry and his calligraphy collection were both gone.
    We called the police and were told that they would send someone over in two days, when the long holiday was over. I asked them about the thief’s fingerprints, and they said the fingerprints would not disappear.
    “Just don’t touch anything,” they said.
    We sat in the hallway, speechless. I looked at Aydin, and he seemed like a warrior who had lost his sword.
    We called Shamim Bahar, an old friend of Aydin’s. Shamim was a true thinker by any measure, and the kind of friend who would be right there to help us.
    Before his arrival, I decided to sit down and write the names of our visitors, associates, and even friends—anyone who had been in our apartment—on a piece of paper.
    There was no sign of forced entry. In fact, nothing was broken, and besides, what kind of a burglar knew what those handwritten pieces were?
    Aydin helped me eliminate those on my list who obviously could not have committed the crime. Finally the names of our chief suspects were left on the paper.
    There were two people: Shirin’s husband and the son of the prominent jeweler. They were both addicted to drugs and needed the money badly. And the son of the jeweler had access to buyers who would want the collection and the jewelry.
    Aydin was skeptical. He thought I had read too many Sherlock Holmes stories. But I felt certain that they had done it. We called for a cab when Shamim got there, and the three of us started the search for our suspects. I didn’t know where Shirin’s husband lived, but I knew very well where the other guy lived. His family’s mansion was in a posh neighborhood in northern Tehran.
    We told the cabdriver what had happened, and he got excited.
    “So, we are now looking for the bad guy? Ha, just like in James Bond movies?” he asked.
    We got to the jeweler’s house at three in the morning. I asked everybody to sit in the car and wait for me. After all, I had known this guy since we were teenagers. I rang the bell a few times, and when I did not get any response I started banging on the tall, green iron doors.
    Then I heard a commotion and the doors opened. My suspect stood behind his sister, shivering like a sick bird. I told him I’d rather talk to him alone, and he took me to his room.
    Still shivering, he sat next to the heater. I looked at him for a while and then said, “Why? Why did you do it? Our