Part 4 (1/2)

Ezra sat in front of the desk, pensively cleaning his fingernails as he stared out the front door. He started and looked at Nijat.

”Pardon me, Aga, could you repeat your question?”

Nijat smiled. ”Again you are very preoccupied, my friend.”

”I'm sorry,” Ezra gave a weak smile and spread his hands. ”I seem to have a great deal on my mind these days.”

Thoughtfully Nijat nodded. ”Indeed, Aga Solaiman. I asked how much you paid for the s.h.i.+pment reflected on this latest manifest.” He indicated the stack of papers in front of him.

Ezra squinted as he tried to recall the figure. ”Five million tomans,” he said, finally, ”or thereabout. Of course, that was paid several months ago. I am expecting another s.h.i.+pment from Ciba-Geigy within another month or so, for which I can furnish order forms. Its wholesale purchase price was around three million tomans, so the value of the two s.h.i.+pments would be close to ...” Again he squinted one eye at the ceiling, in calculation. ”Eight-point-three million. Wouldn't that be about right?” he asked Nijat.

Nijat nodded, rubbing his stubbly chin. ”I would say so, Aga. Or close to it. Do you have a sales ledger?”

”Of course,” said Ezra. ”Look in the bottom desk drawer, on the right.”

Nijat shuffled around in the drawer. ”Ah, yes. Here it is.” Sliding the manifests to one side, he laid the scarred, black leather-bound ledger book in front of him. He turned a few pages and pursed his lips, nodding in approval. ”By the way, Aga Solaiman,” he asked, glancing up at Ezra, ”which set of books is this-the actual sales or the figures you use for tax reporting?”

Ezra leveled a steady gaze at the other man. ”I don't keep two sets of books, Aga. The figures you see in that book are the actual figures.” Ezra held his eyes until Nijat shrugged in acceptance and returned his attention to the ledger.

The bell over the door jangled, and both men looked up. Firouz stood there, momentarily startled by the sight of Nijat huddled behind the stacks of paper on the desk.

”Come in, Firouz,” beckoned Ezra. ”I want to introduce you to Aga Ameer Nijat.” Cautiously, Firouz approached the two other men.

Ezra glanced at Nijat before speaking, ”Aga Nijat is-a business a.s.sociate of mine. Aga Nijat, this is Firouz Marandi. He has been with me here for three years.” Firouz, his eyes downcast, nodded briefly at the other man.

Not to be trusted, thought Nijat. Standing, he said aloud. ”Aga Solaiman, I believe I have seen enough for now. I will call you within a day or two to continue our discussion.”

”I will eagerly expect your call,” said Ezra, rising to show Nijat to the door.

When they had reached the doorway, Nijat turned to Ezra. ”Tell me, I seem to remember a little restaurant in this area which used to serve an excellent chelow kabob. Is it still open?”

”If you mean the small open-air cafe around the corner, yes,” answered Ezra. ”Perhaps you would care to meet for lunch sometime?”

”Good idea,” returned Nijat. ”I'll call soon.” He left, and the bell rattled as the door closed behind him. Ezra turned around. Firouz was staring at the pile of doc.u.ments on the desk. He glanced up, saw Ezra watching him, and quickly turned to go toward the storeroom.

Khosrow looked at himself in the hallway mirror, shaking his head at what he saw. A rumpled young man stared back at him-a far cry from his neatly pressed appearance of only a few weeks before.

This was the accommodation he had made to his father's wishes, to at least try to avoid looking like a Westerner. He had convinced himself that it did no one any good for him to get killed over the cut of his trousers.

His family had made the expected adjustments. When his mother and sisters went out, they wore the drab chador. His father had begun allowing his beard to grow out, and had removed the portrait of the Shah that had hung in the living room for as long as Khosrow could remember. Mother had bought a portrait of Khomeini, but his parents, despite their anxiousness to avoid trouble, had not yet been able to bring themselves to hang it.

A part of Khosrow was ashamed of such compromises. To knuckle under, to abandon loyalties when they became untimely-wasn't this the mark of cowardice? Was that what the Islamic uprising was teaching him-that he had no true convictions?

He thought of Sepi Solaiman, and he turned away from the mirror. Sepi was by far the most difficult question he had to answer for himself. He was quite smitten with her, but ... could his father be right, after all? Could he afford the luxury of indulging his feelings in these difficult times?

Again he felt the angular fists of his boyhood friends as they cuffed and slapped him, heard the cruelty in their voices as they taunted him for defending an infidel. These were not the faces he had known, not the voices of boys he had played soccer with on bright afternoons. These were young, vicious strangers who attacked him-their faces masks of mob fervor, their voices darkened and curdled by the simplistic hatred of the pack. That had hurt worse than the blows-that the friends.h.i.+p of years and innocence should be so casually swept away by the torrents of hatred flooding his country. He had thought friends were friends. It was a hard thing to learn that this wasn't always so.

His conclusions were very troubling to Khosrow. It was so unfair. Why should anyone else care that he had feelings for a girl of another faith? Why did the world have to intrude on his emotional territory? Why couldn't they all just mind their own business? He felt the old resentment boiling up within him.

And yet ... why couldn't he make up his own mind about what to do? He looked at himself a final time and turned away in disgust. Grabbing up his schoolbooks, he slouched out the front door.

Moosa snorted as he tossed the newspaper onto the kitchen table. ”Whom does the Shah imagine he is fooling?” he demanded loudly. ”Vacation, indeed! In the streets the barefooted ones chant, 'Death to the Shah!' What does he do? Climbs aboard his Learjet and flies away to a carefree holiday in the Alps!” Moosa shook his head in disgust as he sipped his coffee.

”What would you have him do,” asked Esther bitterly, ”publish the news that the rightful king of Iran is afraid for his life and is fleeing the country with his family while there is still time?” Angrily she punched and slapped the bread dough between her hands, her back to her son. ”He cannot depend on his army or on his own secret service. Would it be better that he stay here to die at the hands of the mullahs? Or escape and perhaps return when the country comes to its senses?”

Moosa heard the resentment in his mother's voice, but her obstinacy galled him. ”Mother, this country won't come to its senses. Why can't you accept the fact? Better that you get out and come to America. There, at least, you don't have to be so careful about being Jewish. Iran will soon belong to the mullahs and the Islamic fanatics. Why not leave while you can-like the Shah?”

Esther whirled about, her jaw clenched. ”Moosa,” she grated, ”you may have learned to think like an American, but I have not. This country has existed for over thousands of years, and for all of that time has been governed by a king. Your promised land across the ocean has been there barely 200 years.” She glared at him until his eyes dropped guiltily. ”So watch your mouth,” she continued. ”Others remember and cherish what you have apparently forgotten.” She stalked past him, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n.

Sepideh stood by the stairway in the main hallway, feeling hostile stares slide across her as the other students pa.s.sed. She was afraid to come back to school, but her father told her she would be all right. She wasn't so sure, but he seemed to feel it was important that she maintain a normal routine-avoid unusual appearances, he said. So here she stood, feeling very conspicuous.

The surge of Islamic fervor became more apparent each day. Some of the boys were allowing their scant whiskers to grow, and several girls wore chadors to school now. One of them pa.s.sed her, the loose black cloth of the shapeless garment swis.h.i.+ng about her ankles. From within the folds of the garment, the guarded eyes of the girl stared at her as she walked past. Sepi s.h.i.+vered. Right now she would almost welcome the chador; at least it offered a veil of anonymity. Better than being exposed and vulnerable, as she was now.

”Good morning, Sepi.”

She whirled about. Khosrow smiled back at her.

”Why must you always sneak up behind me like that?” she demanded.

He chuckled. ”I like seeing your eyes when you're surprised.”

She squinted at his face. ”Are you letting your beard grow?” she asked suspiciously.

Khosrow shrugged, looking away. ”Everyone's doing it. Why not?”

”Next I suppose you'll be asking me to wear a chador.”

He glanced back at her, then away, saying nothing. A long, awkward silence limped past.

”Well ... we'd better get to cla.s.s,” he managed, at last.

Sepi held out her hand. Glancing up and down the hall, Khosrow hesitantly took her hand as they walked toward their cla.s.srooms. Sepi looked at him questioningly, but he stolidly kept his eyes ahead.

EIGHT.

The first day of February sparkled with the crystalline clarity of midwinter. Sunlight glinted from the wings of the Air France jetliner as it banked to make its final approach to the runway at Mehrabad Airport.

Thousands of people, crammed into the terminal building or peering from cars parked w.i.l.l.y-nilly along the expressways around the airport, anxiously followed the plane's graceful, slow-motion descent as its wheels reached from the underbelly of the aircraft, then touched the tarmac. All across Iran, millions of eyes were riveted to television screens, millions of ears anxiously turned toward short-wave radio broadcasts from the BBC, as every nuance of this moment was recorded for posterity. The airliner, now taxing toward its berth, carried the triumphant rebel. Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. The victor returned to Tehran to claim his prize.

Devout Muslims rushed toward the aircraft, even before it had fully stopped, hoping to catch their first glimpse of this man whose voice they had heard for so long, yet whose face they scarcely knew. A cheering, jostling crowd greeted the stooped, white-bearded old man who made his way carefully down the steps from the plane, lifting him gleefully onto its shoulders, parading in triumph toward the van waiting to carry him to the first of many speaking engagements. Along the route of Khomeini's entourage, hordes of the s.h.i.+te faithful packed the roadsides. For the poor, the devout, and the revolutionaries, this was a day of delirious joy.

Others, watching from greater distances, witnessed Khomeini's triumphal entry with fear and trepidation.