In Xanadu (29 page)

Nothing
about
Zahedan
indicates
that
it
now
commands the
only
open
road
linking
Europe
with
India,
China
and
the East.
It
has
only
one,
sordid,
hotel,
the
eighty-four-kilometre road
to
the
border
post
at
Taftan
is
unmetalled
and
unused, and
no
bus
service
plies
the
route.
We
prowled
around
the
bus station
for
half
an
hour
looking
for
transport
and
were
eventually
directed
to
the
office
of
a
Baluchi
businessman
at
the
far end
of
the
town.

"We
want
a
bus
to
the
border.'

'Oh,
Agah!
This
is
a
sad
day
for
me!'

‘Why?'

'Because
there
is
no
bus.'

There
must
be
some
way
of
getting
to
the
border.' 'Agah!
Praise
be
to
God!
There
is!' ‘Well,
what
is
it?'

'My
brother
has
a
humble
mini-transit.'

'Can we hire it?'

'By the beard of the prophet Agah, that is a difficult thing that you suggest.'

'Seems perfectly simple to me,' said Laura.

The Queen is wrong. To take the mini-transit to the border is a difficult thing. Many bad mens are along the way. They are not developed mens. They have guns, Agah. They want baksheesh. It is an expensive business.'

*We have money. How much will it cost?'

'God is my witness! Eight hundred rials.'

'Eight hundred rials? Are you mad? Eighty you mean.'

'Agah, eight hundred rials. I tell you only correct price. You want tea? Mozaffir Baroum? MOZAFFIR BAROUM? Bring tea for our guests.'

To hell with tea, we want to get to the border.'

'God has sent you to me this day, Agah! Our friendship is ordained by heaven! Eight hundred rials.'

That is a ridiculous price.'

'Oh, how can you say this thing?'

'Because we could buy a mini-transit for less.'

We haggled for half an hour but the man did not alter his figure. We made for a restaurant nearby and decided to wait for some other travellers with whom we could share the fare. It was a small, stuffy room with stained walls, flaking, stripy wallpaper, striplights and a sawdust floor. There were three row; of tables and chairs, and a television was raised on a bracket on the far wall. It was empty except for the owners, two ill-tempered Baluchi brothers, probably twins, with long Assyrian beards and mountainous turbans. On their feet they wore black and gold plastic sandals with raised platform heels. We ate several little omelettes with onion and chillies in them, and sat and waited. We ordered some more chilli omelettes. We sat and waited a bit longer. I began to moan about the heat.

'Oh. William, do stop complaining.'

‘Why?'

'It could be worse.'

'How?'

‘Well,' said Laura, thinking hard, 'you could be ill. You could have really bad diarrhoea.' 'I have got diarrhoea."

'So have
I.
There is no need to make so much noise about these little crosses. And anyway, if you have got such bad diarrhoea you shouldn't be eating so many omelettes.'

We sat waiting; I reread
Crime and Punishment
while Laura read
Gone with the Wind.
We had only been in Zahedan five hours but already we were desperate to leave. It felt like the tenth circle of hell. Slowly a trickle of other passengers joined us there: Joe, a Ghanaian engineer, on his way to a new job in Japan; Ramesh, a westernized Pakistani studying Islamic law in Teheran; Nazir, an unhappy-looking Iranian surgeon practising in Pakistan. Everyone was in a hurry to leave Iran; but none of us was prepared to pay eight hundred rials to do so. We ate some more chilli omelettes and cursed the brigand who owned the mini-transit.

'Dat mun is a bum,' said Joe.

'A bun?' said Nazir.

'No, a
bum.
B-U-M. No-good mun. Bastard." 'Really something bastard,' agreed Ramesh. 'He has no religion,' said Nazir.

We sat complaining for half an hour until we all got bored of that, and then Joe fell asleep, Ramesh went off to shave in a basin at the far corner of the room and Laura disappeared to go and harass the mini-transit owner. When she had gone Nazir leant over the table and whispered to me.