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finely worked golden slippers as he makes his way to the mosque. Later he returns to the Ark through the twin towers, mounts the tunnel between the prison cells, pauses to say something to a dignitary just before my door. I see him through a crack in the wood. He is a slight man, absolutely beardless. When he speaks to the dignitary I become aware that he has a stutter. ‘That the executions b-b-b-b-begin/ he commands. The dignitary falls to his knees to kiss the hem of his robe. The Emir continues on to the balcony to watch the executions. This Friday there are five. They are performed with a knife. I am to be the fourth.”
    “How can you be sure it’s you?” Pravdin, agitated, demands.
    “In the vision I am brought to the courtyard below the balcony. They are dragging away the corpse of the man before me; he had been convicted of incest. I fall on my knees and lift my palms to the Emir for mercy. And I see on my palm the triangle of lines indicating I am a seer.” Chuvash turns up his right palm and traces the triangle with his finger. “You see, it is always the same.”
    “What about the mercy?” Pravdin wants to know.
    “The Emir smiles down at me and nods in a kindly, almost fatherly, way just as the executioner’s knife slices through my jugular.”

    “Aiiiiiiii,” Pravdin grimaces, clutching his own throat; he has a vivid imagination and a low threshold of pain.
    Chuvash smiles. “It is fascinating, is it not? If there were only a way to study this phenomenon scientifically, to confirm it—”
    “How many of these incarnations have you had?” asks Pravdin.
    “It is difficult for me to say. Often different visions seem to relate to the same incarnation. I count at least six, but I’m not certain. And you?” Chuvash gestures with his pinky nail, which he has allowed to grow extremely long. “I understand you don’t consider them evidence of previous incarnations as I do, but have you had any more of your dreams?”
    Pravdin flashes his crooked smile. “I dreamed about a monastery cell, whitewashed. The bunk bed has no pillow, the crucifix above it has been pried off but it has left its imprint from having been there for centuries. A bearded Jew of indeterminate age leans against the imprint of the crucifix.”
    “Ah,” sighs Chuvash, impressed.
    “It is only a dream,” cautions Pravdin.
    “Of course,” Chuvash nods. “Continue.”
    “Shots ring out, a ragged volley first, then a single shot from a smooth-bored naval pistol. The Jew starts, opens his eyes, sees for the first time the imprint of the crucifix. His bloodless lips move, words form but no sound emerges; he is speechless with humiliation. A horrified expression crawls across his face like a crab. At that instant a key turns in the lock, the door swings open with a squeal.”
    “Who is it?”
    “Who it is I will never know,” Pravdin confesses. “Someone flushed the communal toilet, the pipes banged and I woke up.”
    Zosima slips into the room, whispers to the Druse. Heproduces a huge gold pocket watch, sees it has stopped, taps it with his pinky nail to make it start, says a few words in Uighur. Zosima backs out of the room.
    The Druse appears pressed for time. “What brings you to me, brother?” he asks politely.
    Pravdin laughs nervously. “What brings me to you is a favor.”
    “Only ask it,” Chuvash instructs him.
    Pravdin hesitates long enough to suggest he doesn’t relish asking favors, then tells him about the tearing down of the next to last wooden house in central Moscow.
    Chuvash pulls a scrap of paper from a pocket, uncaps a pen, jots a name and phone number on the paper, offers it to Pravdin. “If they are forcing you out of the next to last wooden house in central Moscow, there is only one place for you: the last wooden house in central Moscow. Call this number, ask for a man by this name, speak to no one else, say only that you are a friend of Chuvash Al-hakim bi’amrillahi.”
    Stunned at the ease of