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came here today to express her condolences. The women smile and say Sam must sit down and have tea with them, except for Noor’s mother, who sways with her eyes closed and says nothing.
     
    A young woman rises to her feet, patting her chest. “This is Shireen. I can very well English. I can to help her, please.” She takes Sam’s hand, and though I suspect Shireen’s English isn’t going to get anyone through a real conversation, it’s a better solution than any other.
     
    Sam stares at me, and her eyes seem to grow wider, like the child’s. “I’ll be fine,” she says, and so I leave, only turning back to tell her she can come and find me when she is ready to go.
     
    It may be fifteen minutes or forty-five; I can’t tell how much time passes while I wait for her to emerge. I am only happy that the men are not asking questions about her.
     
    And then she is standing there, her eyes fixed on the floor near my feet. “Please tell everyone that I am so, so sorry for your loss,” she says.
     
    My father translates this into Arabic. Noor’s father looks at Sam and nods once. Baba stands. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for lunch?”
     
    My stomach zigzags. I’m afraid Sam won’t know this is only a formality.
     
    “Oh, thank you so much,” she says. “But I really must get back to the hotel.”
     
    I can read the thoughts surely filtering through the minds of the men who caught the word “hotel”. Such a pretty foreign lady, living in a hotel. Doesn’t she have a husband? Is she a prostitute?
     
    “Well, thank you for coming, Miss Samara,” Baba says cordially. “You must come to visit us again sometime.”
     
    Rizgar takes a brisk look around and gets up.
     
    I try to pretend they’re not watching our every step as the three of us walk towards the door. The moment I close the front door behind me, Sam speaks quickly.
     
    “I hope it’s all right I came and I’m so sorry if this is the wrong time to be asking this, but the truth is, I need someone. I mean, I would really like you to work with me.” She turns to Rizgar. “Can you start the car?” Her hand turns an imaginary ignition key. “I’ll be there in a minute.” The Kurdish man turns silently, then looks back at me and mumbles a word of goodbye. We stop at the front gate.
     
    “You want me to work with you?”
     
    “You’d be perfect for the job.”
     
    “But I’m not a journalist. Or an interpreter. I’m an English teacher.”
     
    “That’s why I’d really like you to work with me. You’d make a fantastic translator. Where did you learn your English? Oh, right, in England, you said.”
     
    She puts her arm deep into her bag, then brings out a small leather case. She snaps it open and takes out a white card. I run my finger over the raised letters. Samara B. Katchens. Paris Bureau Chief. Under her name, she has written in a curling script the name of her hotel and the room number which she had passed to me in the hospital. “This is what I meant to give you yesterday, but I couldn’t find it.”
     
    “Paris? You live in France? Not in America?”
     
    “I’m based in Paris. Doesn’t mean I actually live much of my life there.” She peers in the car window and smiles. Perhaps towards Rizgar, or perhaps at her own reflection. “Can you come by tomorrow? Make it the next day. Maybe you need time with your family.”
     
    “I don’t know, Miss Samara...”
     
    “Call me Sam.”
     
    “Sam, yes. Well, you know, I have no training in your line of work. Or in interpreting.”
     
    “Who said you need any training? It’s innate. Some people have it, some people don’t.” She lifts a shoulder. “I can see you’re one of those people who do. Please, just come. Okay?”
     
    “I can’t promise you,” I hear myself say. “And forgive me for asking, but how did you find me?”
     
    “Oh, that was easy. I went back to the hospital and asked where your dad lives. They gave me the name of the