Part 2 (1/2)
”The first thing I will do, baradars,” he announced smugly, ”is travel to the village of my family and kill the miserable cur whom Mohammed Reza appointed to administer the land program there.”
Ha.s.san nodded in agreement. ”When the Pahlavis stole the land from the mosque in Meshed, this alone showed they were no lovers of Islam, regardless of what they may say in public.”
Hafizi was troubled by the casual malevolence of his two colleagues. It was true that the modernization programs of the Shah and his father had weakened the grip of Islam upon the wealthier merchant cla.s.ses. He, like the others, had suffered financial hards.h.i.+p, since many of the most devout, on whose t.i.thes the mullahs depended, were desperately poor. Still ...
”Brothers,” Hafizi began hesitantly, ”should we not give attention to the spiritual struggle, rather than the material? Surely you cannot believe that all the ills of Iran stem from the location of her wealth.”
”You are too forgiving, Aga Hafizi,” sneered Ha.s.san. ”You cannot expect a people to suddenly become magnanimous, when their rulers have for decades set an example of unparalleled greed.”
”True enough,” agreed Hojat. ”For years the Shah and his family have looted the wealth of this country, using their sh.e.l.l companies and the convenient 'directorates' they hold, while we, the guardians of Islam, are left to subsist on the sc.r.a.ps of the banquet! When the merchants of the country see such rampant avarice, why should they not a.s.sume that bribery and extortion are normal costs of doing business? No, Baradar Hafizi, we must rise up and claim for Islam what is rightfully owed! It is time to redress the wrongs of the past! It is time to make them all pay!”
In the self-righteous enthusiasm of Hojat's speech, Hafizi thought he discerned the lurking shadow of covetousness. ”Baradar Hojat,” he began, after a long, thoughtful pause, ”surely not all the wealthy in this country have prospered at the expense of their poorer neighbors! Should wealth be considered prima facie evidence of corruption?”
”Are you trying to protect the Shah and his cronies?” demanded Ha.s.san suspiciously. Hojat's eyes were glittering slits, waiting for the reply.
Hafizi thought of Solaiman, the Jew who had given him medicine for his son and wife. He looked carefully at the other two mullahs. ”I am no lover of the Shah,” he began firmly, ”but, my baradars, is it possible that you have forgotten? The blessed prophet Mohammed began his ministry after a long and successful career as a merchant in Mecca. He was not a poor man.”
Their answer was hostile silence.
Still deep in thought, Hafizi turned into Javid Street, the narrow thoroughfare where he lived. As he neared his door, he looked up to see a figure approaching from Naderi Avenue. The tall, well-dressed man, obviously not at home in this neighborhood, was peering at the small cinder-block houses as he pa.s.sed them, as if to check the numbers. As he drew closer, Hafizi saw who it was. It was Solaiman, the druggist.
”Aga Solaiman! What errand brings you to my poor home?”
FOUR.
The taxi driver shuttled to the shoulder of the highway, and the jeep accelerated around them in a blast of engine noise. Ezra watched as it quickly shot ahead along the highway, dodging in and out of traffic as they rushed along on whatever emergency had claimed them.
He sat back, trying to relax the screaming cords of tension writhing along his shoulders and neck. He looked over at Esther. She gave him a lifeless smile of attempted encouragement. He saw her eyes stray to the bottom of the case, where the secret compartment was located.
The taxi driver, seeing a small s.p.a.ce in the oncoming traffic, jammed the accelerator to the floor. The cab slung gravel and squealed its tires as it reentered the highway....
Sepideh walked through the front door and slid her schoolbooks onto the table by the staircase. Then she went into the kitchen where her mother was seated, reading a newspaper. With a thoughtful look, the girl drew herself a small gla.s.s of hot tea from the samovar and sat down beside her mother.
Esther glanced up from her reading. ”h.e.l.lo, dear. How was school today?”
”Fine,” replied Sepi, without much conviction. A small plate in the center of the table contained a few dried apricots and almonds. Idly, Sepi nibbled an almond as she sipped her tea.
Again Esther looked up at her daughter. ”What's the matter, Sepi? Are you sure nothing happened at school to upset you?”
The girl shook her head. ”No, Mother, nothing happened. I was just thinking about ... everything that's going on.” Her eyes dropped to her hands.
The newspaper rustled as Esther folded it and carefully regarded her daughter. Sepi looked out the window; then hesitantly she began again. ”There was a girl at school today, the daughter of a government minister. She was wearing a chador. It was the first time I have ever seen one on anybody besides an old woman.”
Esther remembered hearing her mother speak with disgust about the heavy black chador, a loose, sleeveless draped garment that covers a woman from head to toe. Only a small s.p.a.ce for her face was allowed, lest any man other than her husband or father see her hair or body and be incited to l.u.s.t. Like many women, Esther's mother had celebrated the more liberal policies of the Pahlavi rulers by burning her chador. That had happened even before Esther's birth. Esther owned a chador, kept for the rare occasions when they visited the home of a devout Muslim. She had worn it perhaps five times in her life. But now schoolgirls were wearing the hated symbol of repression? ”The moving prison returns,” said Esther softly to herself.
”What?”
”Oh, nothing. I just remember my mother talking about how much she despised wearing the chador. She called it a moving prison.”
Sepi looked at her mother, concern etching deep lines in her forehead. ”Mother, are we going back to the past? Will I be forbidden to learn foreign languages or mathematics? Will I have to wear one of those ... things ... when I go to school?” Distaste curled a corner of Sepi's mouth as she pondered it.
Esther signed. ”I don't know, my darling. I hope not.”
”Me, too.” Sepi stared at her tea, thinking about how Khosrow would react if she approached him wearing the huge black tent. She gave a slight shudder. ”I'd better get started on my work,” she said, rising from the table.
Esther watched her daughter walk toward the staircase to gather her books. She thought about the possible consequences of an Islamic hierarchy. With no counterbalancing forces, what edicts might they impose on the country? Things worse than the chador could lie in Sepi's future.
Again she picked up the paper, turning to where she had left off. In a lower corner, a small headline caught her attention. She felt her face freezing in apprehension.
Again Ezra scanned the small article. Then he looked at his wife. ”I don't like the idea of this at all.”
She waited, her eyes flickering from his face to the paper he held in his hand.
The headline, tucked innocuously into the society section, read, ”Minister Announces Vacation for Royal Family.” The article contained a blithely worded announcement by the Minister of the Court of an impending foreign junket by the Shah and his wife, Queen Farah.
”It is impossible for me to believe the Shah would go on vacation with all the turmoil in the country,” said Ezra gravely. ”Whom does he imagine this will deceive?”
Esther looked back at him, her eyes pleading for rea.s.surance, yet expecting none.
”With matters this far advanced, I had better do something about selling the business, and soon,” Ezra mused, worriedly. ”When the news of the Shah's leaving becomes widely known, the breakdown in the country will go like wildfire. If that happens, our chances of getting a decent price for the store will be almost nil.”
”If things are as bad as that, why not just get out of the country and leave the store for the mullahs to run?” Esther asked bitterly.
Ezra's eyes flashed as he looked up at her. ”I will not leave Iran a pauper,” he said in a voice that cracked like a quiet whip. ”I have worked too long and too hard to walk away from everything without at least trying to keep some of the fruit of my life's toil.”
Esther held his eyes for a moment, then looked away. Her shoulders sagged, and she covered her face with her hands. ”I'm sorry,” she said softly. ”I just find it so hard to believe that an entire nation can go instantaneously insane.”
When she looked up again, Ezra was not there. She found him at the desk in his study, with paper and pen, making drafts for a newspaper advertis.e.m.e.nt. Looking over his shoulder, she read, ”For Sale: Profitable Business in a Prime Location.”
Pruning.
Ezra unlocked the door to his shop and went inside. Placing his briefcase on the desk behind the counter, he unfolded the newspaper he had purchased and turned hurriedly to the advertis.e.m.e.nts. Running his finger along the columns, he found the ad he had placed.
He heard the tinkling of the small bra.s.s bell over the front door and looked up to see Firouz entering. Quickly he folded the paper, sliding it into the lap drawer of his desk.
”Good morning, Aga Solaiman,” mumbled Firouz, looking at the floor.
”Good morning,” returned Ezra. ”It's good to see you back at work. Are you feeling quite well?”
Firouz quickly glanced up at his employer, but he could find no trace of irony in Ezra's look or demeanor. Again his eyes fell, ”Yes, Aga ... I think I had a case of the flu.” He shuffled his feet and thrust his hands into his pants pockets. ”But I feel fine now.” He coughed slightly, for effect.
Ezra eyed him for a moment. ”Good. Then you may begin unpacking the consignment we just received from Sandoz-the large boxes in the back. Be sure to check the invoices against the packing lists.”