The Moving Prison (19 page)

Akram Hafizi was a plump, jovial-faced woman. She smiled and inclined her head demurely toward Ezra as her husband said, “Ezra Solaiman, this is my wife, Akram. Akram,” he continued, “this is the kind druggist who refused to charge me anything for the medicine you needed before our last trip to Isfahan.”

“I am your humble servant,” the mullah’s wife murmured. “And I am grateful for your kindness to me in my illness.”

“I am honored to meet you, Hafizi
khanom
,” Ezra replied, bowing sedately. “Your husband has returned my small service tenfold.” An idea, a refinement to his original plan, was unfolding in his mind as he spoke. He decided to pursue it. “Would you both do me the honor of being my guests for dinner at my house, say … two days from now? That is,” he added, “if you have no compunctions about eating food prepared by non-Islamic persons.”

Hafizi waved a hand in dismissal. “We’re not as fanatical about food taboos as some,” he said, looking from his wife to Ezra, “and I’m honored by the invitation.” He gave Ezra a curious look. “But to what do we owe this unexpected privilege?”

Ezra shook his head, smiling enigmatically. “I have a proposal, in connection with our earlier discussion. One which will be more effectively made, I think, at my home. Will you accept?”

Hafizi looked at his wife, then back at Ezra. “Why not?” he shrugged. “On Thursday, then?”

“Yes, that will be good,” said Ezra. “Just after the evening prayers.” Inwardly, he felt a cautious confidence. He liked the way this plan tasted.

TWENTY

Esther jerked the sheets from the cedar closet, tossing them in a tangled heap atop the bare mattress. She spread the bottom sheet, jabbing its ends savagely between the mattress and the box springs. She hurriedly placed the top sheet, and scattered the comforter haphazardly over everything, pulling it this way and that, leaving a network of folds and wrinkles that she barely noticed.

As she dusted the furniture, she thought again of Moosa’s intransigence, his refusal to listen to her. She swiped angrily at the dust atop the mahogany bureau and rehearsed the list of her grievances: her son was becoming a gangster who would not heed his own mother; her husband had embarked on a ruinous scheme that would probably not move them any closer to leaving the country; her daughter was sinking deeper and deeper into the mire of depression; her maid had abandoned her; it was summer, and she must wear the cursed
chador
in the blazing midday sun if she wished to leave home. The maddening sum of her many frustrations and angers was an ache in her shoulders, a garrote about her throat. At times she felt she must scream aloud, pull her hair, give violent birth to the twisting, grinding rage that contorted her insides.

But instead, she sublimated the anger in activity. She cast a
chador
of domestic normality over the blinding frustration she felt at the harum-scarum demolition of the safe world she had inhabited all these years. She dusted. She cleaned. She stayed busy. How much longer the
chador
would shroud the turbulence in her soul, she didn’t know, and tried very hard not to speculate. But the rigid routine of running her household was the only antidote she had found for the helpless fury that threatened to poison her sanity.

Giving the top of the drapes a final, violent swipe, she left the master bedroom, walking down the hall to Sepi’s door. “It’s time to start dinner. I need your help in the kitchen.”

A muffled, incoherent reply came from the other side of the door.
How long?
Esther wondered.
How long will Sepi remain withdrawn from life, a disinterested spectator to the events swirling about her?

She tapped again at the door, urging her daughter in a gentle voice. “Sepi, dear. Please. Come to the kitchen.” When she heard the sound of feet dragging across the floor, she turned and went downstairs.

The lamb had been simmering in marinade since this morning. Esther slid the lid from the pot and looked inside, satisfied with the appearance of the meat. Hooking the haunch with a long fork, she laid it on a board beside the sink and began slicing it.

She heard Sepi slouch in behind her. “There are onions, peppers, and tomatoes in the refrigerator,” she said without looking up. “Begin slicing them into quarters. When you’ve finished, you can steam some rice.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sepi move toward the refrigerator like a robot. She wanted to grab the girl by the shoulders, to shake her, to shout, “Come back! I need you! I need an ally in this insane world of men!” Controlling her indignation, she said quietly, “If you handle a knife with as little care as you handle yourself, there will be fingers in the kabob.”

Sepi gave her a dead stare, then resumed listlessly quartering the tomatoes. “I’m fine, Mother,” she said in a hollow voice. “Just leave me alone.”

A few minutes passed, as mother and daughter toiled silently in the kitchen, their backs nearly touching and their hearts light-years distant. Not content to allow Sepi to continue in her passive refuge, Esther remarked, “I have heard that in America, boys and girls often go to a movie or a restaurant together, without a chaperone. Do you think that’s a good thing?”

Sepi continued working without any response for so long that Esther wondered if she had even heard. Then, the girl shrugged. “I don’t know,” she responded, with a halfhearted effort at interest in the question. “If that’s the way it’s done over there, then … I suppose….” The sentence trailed off into an obscuring mist of apathy, then evaporated into nothingness.

Esther felt her teeth grinding together as scolding admonitions crowded onto her tongue. “Do you suppose any American boy will want to date a girl who drags herself about like a household drudge?” she wanted to say. “Who won’t even brush her hair unless forced? Who only comes out of her room to eat, and barely that?” Allowing the bitter tirade to die in her throat, she finally said, “That’s enough tomatoes. You can start on the onions.” Esther shoved the blade deep into the mutton haunch, viciously shredding the meat she would soon place before Mullah Hafizi and her wife.

As the last gold and rose hues of sunset faded into the long shadows on the streets of Tehran, the gate buzzer announced the presence of visitors. “I’ll get it,” Moosa shouted toward the kitchen, as he stepped from the bottom stair toward the foyer.

“Moosa,” called Ezra from the dining room, where he was assisting Esther with the table settings, “I’ll get the door. I’m sure our guests are here.”

“No, that’s all right,” replied Moosa. “I was on my way out, anyway. I can see who it is.”

Ezra strode rapidly from the dining room and gripped his son’s shoulder. Moosa spun around to face his father. “What?” he asked, in reply to Ezra’s angry stare.

“You knew I had invited guests to our home,” said Ezra through clenched teeth. “I intended for them to meet my family … my entire family.”

Moosa turned his face aside, sighing and rolling his eyes. “Father, I … you know I go out with my friends most nights.”

“And why can you not make a single exception for this occasion?” grated Ezra. “This is an important evening—perhaps the most crucial night we will have while we are still in Iran. It is my wish that you remain.”

“No!” spat Moosa, his lips curled in resentment. His eyes blazed a hot challenge at his father as he zipped his jacket with a defiant, thrusting motion. “I have my own plans, and I’m not staying here to help you entertain your friends. Perhaps …” He faltered a moment, then surged ahead. “Perhaps my plans and yours no longer coincide. Have you considered that possibility in any of your scheming?” For fifteen seconds they glared at each other, before Moosa flung himself out the door.

He pounded down the walk toward the gate, muttering to himself. When he was five paces from the portal, he jerked to a halt, his heart leaping into his throat. Through the bars of the gate he saw the white-turbaned, robed figure of a mullah, a rifle slung across his back on a shoulder strap.
They are here!
he thought, as his hand darted beneath his jacket.
Who betrayed us? How did they know so quickly?

As his fingers glided over the grip of the Beretta, he heard his father’s voice behind him, calling out in greeting. “Ah!
Aga
Hafizi,
Khanom
Hafizi! You are here, as expected! I’m so glad to see you!”

His father strode around him, as Moosa slowly removed his hand from the pistol grip. Ezra opened the gate and welcomed the mullah and his wife warmly into the yard.

“Please, pardon the rifle,
Aga
Solaiman,” the mullah was saying, “but it is an unfortunate necessity in these days. Many mullahs have been attacked—” The cleric broke off, peering at Moosa with a questioning look.

“
Aga
Hafizi, please meet my son, Moosa Solaiman,” said Ezra, hurrying into the breach in the conversation. “Moosa, you perhaps remember
Aga
Hafizi, the mullah who saved my life when I was in Evin Prison?” His eyes delivered a veiled challenge to his son, who now bowed properly toward the cleric and his wife.

“I’m afraid your father makes it sound more heroic than necessary,” chuckled Hafizi. “His own generosity saved his life; I was merely the messenger who made the announcement.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” murmured Moosa, glancing tensely from the couple to his father. “I regret that I must be absent this evening, but I have a pressing engagement which, unfortunately, I can’t reschedule.”

“What a shame!” cried Hafizi. “Ah, well … it was good to meet you, Moosa. I hope we shall see each other again soon.”

Moosa stared with a surprising intensity at the cleric for perhaps five long breaths, then nodded. “Perhaps we shall. And now, please excuse me.” He stepped through the gate.

Ezra gazed after the vanishing figure of his son with an expression that appeared to Hafizi to be an amalgam of grief and anger. Then his host latched the gate and turned toward him, his face giving no hint of anything other than eager hospitality.

“Please! Come in! Esther has the table set, and the meal is practically ready!” He gestured toward the front door, and they preceded him up the herringboned brick.

Akram paused in wonder beside the fish pond, which lay beside the walk, illumined by the light from the front portico. “Never have I seen such a thing!” she remarked in astonishment. “Goldfish and blue glazed tiles! Beautiful!”

Ezra shrugged, smiling. “This house has been most comfortable, as well as enjoyable. Please …” He motioned them up the front steps, then opened the front door.

The mullah and his wife stood just inside the front door, staring about in openmouthed astonishment. Never had they imagined such lavish surroundings in the homes of anyone other than royalty! From the foyer, they had a partial view of the parlor with its parquet floors, its Louis XVI furniture. Looking to the left, they could see a huge dining table of polished mahogany, richly laid with gold-rimmed English bone china. Sparkling Waterford crystal glittered in the glow from the chandelier, eagerly giving back a thousand tiny reflections of each of the dozen brilliantly lit lamps. From the kitchen, the rich aroma of curried lamb spread its mouth-watering canopy throughout the house.

“Akram
khanom,
” said Ezra quietly, “would you care to remove your wrap?
Aga
Hafizi?”

Dumb with wonder, the couple let their cloaks slip into the hands of their host, who hung them carefully on the brass coat rack in the foyer. “Would you like to see the upstairs?” Wordlessly, the Hafizis nodded. Ezra led them to the staircase, grinning to himself.
They are plainly awestruck by the richness of the house and furnishings. So much the better,
he thought.

Moosa arrived at the meeting, ducking from the alley into the darkened doorway. Two heavily armed men stood just inside, flanking the entrance. Seeing Moosa’s face, they nodded, motioning him toward the smoke-filled room where the others gathered.

The building was an abandoned warehouse. Ironically, it was located on the side street off Kurosh-e-Kabir, between the military garrison compound and Qasr Prison. It stood in a row of nondescript corrugated-steel sheds and warehouses, some of which were still in use. Stacked against the walls were pallets of warped, rotting wood and mildewed cardboard boxes. The leaks in the tarred roof had allowed moisture to spoil whatever had been left by the last tenant, and the interior smelled of dank paperboard and creosote. The group met in a plywood office in northeast corner of the huge structure. A tiny splash of light came through the grimy windows of the office and reached feebly toward the shadows between the ceiling joists ten meters overhead.

As Moosa pulled a decrepit stool toward the scarred table around which they gathered, he noticed an unfamiliar man sitting in the place directly beneath the hanging lamp. The shaded 100-watt bulb made a shadow-mask of the stranger, even as its heat smeared his face with a sheen of sweat. He was pulling nervously at an unfiltered Turkish cigarette, glancing at the group that had gathered to interrogate him.

“Who’s this?” Moosa whispered to Manuchehr, jerking a thumb toward the unfamiliar figure in the hot seat.

Manuchehr shrugged. “Some guy who made contact with Ari,” he murmured. “Says he was in the
mujahideen
fighting the Shah, but when the Ayatollah started squeezing them, he saw the light. Wants to come in with us.”

“How did you hear about us?” Ari was asking the newcomer. “What makes you think we should trust you—we don’t know anything about you. You could be a stooge for the
pasdars
, for all we know.”