The mosque at the corner of the bazaar kept its own small weather. At night, the courtyard took on a blue hue. Lamps breathed, and the Qurans lined the shelves like waiting faces. Tom James drifted in from the street as if following the smell of bread. He had walked long enough to forget which part of the world he belonged to, and that looseness had the soft pride of a man who thinks he is looking for ruins and finds people instead. An old cobbler watched him with the economy of someone who had seen every kind of stranger. The man lifted a hand and, as if naming an indifferent fact, spoke: “Go to the mosque. It is God’s house. No one will trouble you.” The sentence fell flat and unremarked, like a stone placed on a grave. On a low shelf among neat Qurans, Tom found a leather…