Yet here I am on the doorstep: not for the first time these last months, but for the first time in a very long while I actually ring the bell. Cosmatos stamps along the hall, well-remembered curmudgeonly tread on a thinning modern Iranian carpet. Flings wide the door. Stares at me. I see his hand go back as if directing my attention to the clock behind him on the wall. Am I late?