The Moving Prison Part 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."

Firouz shuffled toward the back of the store. From the corner of his eye, Ezra thought he saw his a.s.sistant toss a glance at him over his shoulder.

From just inside the storeroom door, Firouz peeked back inside the shop, at Ezra seated at his desk. He wondered what the old Jew was so nervous about and watched as Ezra quietly slid open the lap drawer and carefully produced a newspaper. He eased open a page, looked for a moment, then just as quietly folded the paper and replaced it in the desk drawer.

Thoughtfully, Firouz turned to the task Ezra had a.s.signed him. He decided to keep his eyes open. Something was going on.

FIVE.

Sepideh Solaiman pouted as she walked along the hallway. Khosrow had not met her by the stairway. She had waited for him for almost twenty minutes, until she feared being tardy.

As she approached the doorway of her cla.s.sroom, she froze. Khosrow was there, surrounded by five or six other boys who were shoving and slapping him. Just as she was about to whirl and race in search of a teacher, a school princ.i.p.al came from the far end of the corridor, and Khosrow's attackers vanished.

"Khosrow!" she screamed, dropping her books in a clattering pile as she rushed to him. He leaned against the wall by the doorway, panting. His s.h.i.+rt was torn and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. "I was going to surprise you here, instead of by the stairway," he gasped. A curious crowd began to gather, students pausing on their way to cla.s.ses to observe the unusual scene.

Her eyes wide in shock, Sepi gazed about her. Then she saw her desk, just inside the doorway. Someone had carved a series of jagged, angry letters across the wooden desktop: Infidel Jew.

The bell for cla.s.ses rattled in the hallway, but the silent ring of students gathered about Khosrow and Sepi made no move toward their rooms.

Down the hall, the princ.i.p.al took in the scene. He watched them for a moment, then walked away.

In a daze, Khosrow said, "I saw what they were doing, and I yelled at them, but there were too many. One of them I have known since first grade...."

Sepi walked blindly into the cla.s.sroom, oblivious in her shock to the stares as she pa.s.sed through the students. She rubbed the heel of her hand across the splintered defacement on her desk, vainly trying to scrub the d.a.m.ning slogan from her life. But the boys had carved far too deeply for such easy removal. This would never be erased, she realized. She looked about her in consternation. Mute, unreadable faces returned her gaze. They seemed to be closing in on her, threatening her. She raced for the nearest door.

"Sepi, Sepi, come back!" Faintly she heard Khosrow's voice through the fog of her panic. Then she was outside.

Esther tipped the threadbare delivery man, took the letter from his hand, and watched as he walked slowly away. Closing the gate behind him, she glanced down at the return address. The writing was in Moosa's familiar, hurried hand, and she smiled as she eagerly tore open the thin red-and-blue-bordered airmail envelope.

Dear Mother and Father, Each day the news from Iran is more and more disturbing. On the TV they show scenes of rioting in the streets of Tehran, of chanting crowds holding up posters of Khomeini. I am worried sick about you and Sepi.

I think you should all leave Iran at once. I will help you arrange everything. In fact, I will come there and help you get your affairs in order.

Please write me soon and let me know how you are. And think seriously about what I have said.

Love, Moosa Esther crumpled the envelope in her fist as angry tears stung her eyes. Now Moosa too! He wanted her to discard everything, as though their lives here were shed as easily as a worn garment! She teased at the thought that Ezra had written their son, enlisting his support in persuading her to accept this hateful uprooting.

Behind her, the gate rattled open and clanged shut. She turned just as Sepi, her chest heaving with great, wet sobs, flung herself into her mother's astonished arms.

"Sepi! What is the matter, my darling? Why are you not in school?"

A wordless wail of fear and pain was her only answer, as Sepideh clutched herself tightly to her mother, her face buried in Esther's shoulder.

Ezra stood on the sidewalk outside the mosque, feeling more conspicuous by the minute. Anxiously he scanned the faces of those entering and leaving the house of wors.h.i.+p, searching for Mullah Hafizi. At last the aged clergyman came into view, rounding a corner and crossing the courtyard of the mosque toward Ezra, who now breathed a little easier. Then he remembered why he was here and again felt the bands of apprehension tighten about his chest.

Hafizi walked up to Ezra, carefully studying the nervous face of his Jewish friend. "Are you certain you are prepared to go through with this?" he asked.

Ezra nodded. "I am, baradar. I think it is necessary."

A moment more the mullah searched the eyes of the druggist. "It is possible that your proposal may be received with suspicion, despite all demonstrations to the contrary," he said. "I will do what I can, but ..." Hafizi shrugged.

Ezra's mind whirled. Like a sheep treading among wolves, he was about to enter the presence of a senior official of Islam. Would Hafizi betray the tenuous confidence placed in him? Would he revoke his intention to aid Ezra, or did he merely try to warn of the very real possibility of failure? Ezra took a deep, quavering breath before speaking.

"My friend," he began in a low voice, "I have opened my mind to you. Already you know enough to cause the failure of my plans. When I spoke with you in your house, by that very act I was committed to this attempt." His eyes darted nervously, then came to rest imploringly on Hafizi's face.

The mullah again shrugged and beckoned Ezra inside. "Wait!" hissed Hafizi, pointing at Ezra's feet. "You must not enter holy ground wearing shoes!"

"Of course," laughed Ezra nervously, when he regained his voice. "You would think a descendant of Moses would remember such a thing!" Cautiously he retraced his steps to the outside, removed his shoes, and reentered the mosque, placing first his right foot inside the portal, then his left, in accordance with Islamic custom. Hafizi took his arm and led him toward the chambers of the mojtahed. "In the name of Allah the Merciful and Compa.s.sionate," Ezra whispered under his breath as they walked down the colonnade.

The phone jangled in its cradle. Firouz paused in his sweeping, leaning the broom against a wall. He picked up the receiver, waiting for the caller to identify himself.

"This is Nijat," crackled the voice on the other end. "I am calling to inquire about the ad placed in the newspaper. Is this the Na.s.ser Pharmacy?"

"Yes," replied Firouz cautiously, "but I am Marandi, the a.s.sistant. The owner is not here. What ad is it you speak of?"

"The ad in this morning's paper," said the caller, impatiently. "When will your boss be back?"

"I don't know," said Firouz, cradling the phone with his shoulder as he opened the desk drawer. The newspaper was gone-the old Jew had taken it with him. "He left about an hour ago-he had to meet someone. He said he would be back before closing time."

After a few seconds of silence the caller said, "All right. Tell your boss that I called. Here is my telephone number." Firouz scribbled a note on the blotter pad atop the desk. The line went dead. His eyes squinted in thought. Firouz replaced the phone in its cradle.

"... and so, Ayatollah," finished Hafizi, "I have brought Aga Solaiman to you, for I felt confident you would want to know of his generosity."

The mojtahed crouched on his carpet like a wizened old lizard. He might have been a painted statue but for his dark eyes that flickered between Hafizi and Ezra in a mute appraisal that seemed to last for hours. Finally, from within the tangled white bush of his beard, a raspy voice issued.

"You are here of your own free will?" The dark eyes squinted calculatingly at Ezra.

Hesitantly, Ezra cleared his throat, glancing at Hafizi before replying, "Yes, Ayatollah, I am." He fell quiet, his eyes resting on the feet of the mojtahed. He reminded himself not to look directly into the eyes of the mullah, for this was considered ill manners.

After another eternal silence, the old mullah asked, "And why should a Jew suddenly have a burning desire to donate one million tomans for the expansion of a Muslim graveyard?" The suspicion made the old man's voice brittle. Ezra entreated Hafizi with his eyes.

"As I told you, Ayatollah Kermani," Hafizi said, "Aga Solaiman has for some time been known to me for his generosity. I have told you of his kindness to me."

"... and that is why I wish to help, Ayatollah," inserted Ezra earnestly. "I have always respected the servants of Allah, whether they study the Koran, the Towrat-the Torah, or the Injeel-the Gospels or New Testament. When Mullah Hafizi told me of the need, I asked him to bring me here."

Another uncomfortable hush fell in the room as the mojtahed, still unmoving as a piece of masonry, turned Ezra's proposal over in his mind. Outside in the street, the faint sounds of traffic could be heard. But here, in the darkened room of the mullah, Ezra fancied he could hear the sweat trickling down his back as he awaited the all-important decision of the senior cleric.

Finally the old man stirred enough to signal an attendant who had waited, unseen, behind them during the interview. "Ahmad," he said in his rusty voice, "bring me the stamp and a receipt book."

Ezra felt his insides unwinding with relief. Trying not to grin, he reached into his coat for his wallet. He saw that Hafizi was smiling.