A quartet of amateur musicians plays Mozart in Shahyad Square.

The first violin openly expresses a previously hidden subordinate theme.

The cello heralds an ominous quiet, darkening into C minor.

A cafe server offers Ezra a cup of tea, gratis.

Wary of sudden favors, Ezra assents to the unanticipated tender.

He peruses Onegin, Pushkin’s novel in verse, in Farsi translation.

“It’s all in the book.  Here, here in the book.”

“I am bored here. I am ever weary of life.”

There is no long-term future for me here in Iran.

“I have found nothing to which I could devote myself!”

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