The Moving Prison Part 15

With a sinking feeling, Moosa realized that he was included in the group inside the terminal. This time he would not be waiting in the car when the shooting started. He would be in the thick of it.

Firouz Marandi was impa.s.sive as he evaluated the probabilities. It could be chancy, he thought. But not impossible.

"I'm sure I need not say this," finished Ari, "but caution compels me. If anyone here says anything to anyone outside this group-be they wife, mother, sister, father, or brother-we could all be dead." He paused as the finality of his words reflected leadenly on each face in the circle. "Trust no one. Confide in no one." For ten heartbeats his will gripped them with the severity of the upcoming mission. "That is all," he said at last. "You may go."

Ezra Solaiman and Nader Hafizi walked out of the escrow office. Ezra turned, smiling, to the mullah and gripped his hand. "Congratulations! You are now the owner of a fine house which will serve you well for many years to come!"

Hafizi shook his head in wonderment. "I still cannot comprehend such good fortune," he breathed.

"It would be a great convenience to us," Ezra said, "if we could remain in the house until the day of our departure for the airport-three days from now. Will that be possible?"

The mullah looked at Ezra reproachfully. "How can you even ask such a thing?" he scolded. "When a diamond falls from heaven into a man's lap, does he upbraid Allah because it is not an emerald?

Ezra laughed. "I apologize, baradar! And thank you for your kindness."

"I'm sure I don't need to caution you," said Hafizi, as they walked toward the nearest bus stop, "not to tell anyone else about what I have done for you. When you have gone, I could still be accused of accepting a bribe."

"I will tell no one," promised Ezra. "But," he added after a pause. "I would beg of you a final boon."

"What else is left, my friend?"

"Would you and your gracious wife accompany us to the airport? It would be a tremendous comfort to us to have your companionship and-I will say it-your protection until we are finally on our way."

The men took several paces as Hafizi mulled the idea. As they reached the bus stop, he looked up and gripped Ezra's hand. "I will come with you, at least," he said. "Akram dislikes noise and bustle, and I would not willingly compel her, but I will come. I promise."

"Thank you, baradar," said Ezra gratefully. A bus roared up, and Ezra glanced at its placard. "This is my bus," he said, turning to go. As he stepped into the dark interior, he turned again toward the mullah. "I will never forget this," he promised.

"Go in peace," answered Hafizi, as the doors closed, and the bus pulled away.

As Esther folded the clothes into her suitcase, she suddenly realized that she ought to be crying or at the very least feeling despondent. She felt nothing. She watched her hands as if they were the hands of a stranger: folding the clothes, arranging them, like the faded souvenirs of a forgotten holiday, into the valise atop her unmade bed.

Something final had left her at the relinquishment of the house. As if realizing at last what the departure from Iran was to cost, she had looked deep within herself and found a part of her that was reluctant to pay the price. The knowledge by turns sickened her at her own weakness and angered her at Ezra and the events that forced him to such desperate generosity.

She wanted to take the samovar, but Ezra said it was too c.u.mbersome to lug on and off the airplane. The heavy kerosene-heated samovar had been a gift from her mother on the day she and Ezra wed. It had belonged to her grandmother, and Esther begged as much as her shredded pride would allow, but Ezra remained adamant. "Nothing we cannot carry with us, he had said. "One valise and one shoulder bag apiece. I will check nothing except the carpet...."

The carpet! That ridiculous Trojan horse of a box with all their money hidden in such a childishly obvious fashion! Esther wanted to shout aloud at him, "You fool! Do you imagine that your stupid little plan is going to work? You will succeed only in having all remaining sustenance confiscated and ourselves arrested as smugglers!"

But the numbness within her would not allow such a venting of rage. He was locked away from her, inside the sh.e.l.l of his futile machinations. She, in turn, was frozen into the barren coc.o.o.n of her depression. Their worlds did not intersect. She went along with his plans as one riding a raft over the edge of a cataract: she could hear the roaring of the falls, feel its death-mist on her face, but she was too surely snared in the current to resist.

She heard the bell downstairs announce the presence of someone at the front gate. Her heart turned to ice. Someone knows! They've come back for us! Her breath trembling in and out of her chest, she crept to the window and peered around the curtain. Even as she did so, the bell rang again, evidencing the impatience of the unknown caller.

The shape was that of a man. Through the open window, she heard Marjan half-barking, half-growling at him. Remembering the instinctive hostility of the dog toward the pasdars who had come, she felt her face blanching with dread. The bell rang again as she madly pondered what to do.

"Mother?" Sepi's voice sounded at her elbow. "Who's at the gate? Aren't you going to answer it?"

"How do I know it isn't the mullahs, come back to carry us away?"

"Let me see," said Sepi, elbowing her aside and craning her neck to see the stranger at the gate. "He looks familiar, he ..." Sepi suddenly gasped. "It's Khosrow!" She looked at her mother, her face a shifting map of uncertainty, as if her heart dared her eyes to believe.

The girl whirled about and raced for the stairs. "Sepideh!" Esther called after her. "Stop! You don't know why he's here!" But the footsteps never slowed, pounding down the staircase and slapping into the marble-tiled foyer. Esther heard the front door flung back against the wall and an instant later saw her daughter racing down the walk toward the gate. "Quiet, Marjan!" she heard her shout, then, "Khosrow! I thought I'd never see you again!" As Sepi opened the gate, Esther turned away from the window.

Sepi came through the gate toward Khosrow, her steps slowing with indecision as she stared intently at him for some sign. And then, heedless of who might see, he took two quick steps toward her and enfolded her in his arms. Neither of them spoke for a full minute. Then, he held her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

"Sepi, I am so sorry. I'm ashamed of the way I've treated you. And ... I admit it ... I tried to forget about you. I tried to listen to my father and have no more to do with you, but ... it just wasn't right, Sepi. I was wrong to-"

"I understand," she softly interrupted. "These are terrible times, Khosrow. People do things out of fear and prejudice that they wouldn't do if they weren't so frightened. You at least tried to defend me from those ... those boys. I am grateful for your courage."

"Courage!" Khosrow barked the word derisively. He could not meet her eyes. "No, Sepi, I am not brave. If I were, I wouldn't have spent the last weeks trying to pretend you don't exist. If I were brave, I wouldn't have listened to my father telling me to blend in, to go along and avoid the notice of the fanatics. If I were brave," he said, finally turning to look at her, "it wouldn't have taken me this long to decide to ask for the privilege of seeing you again."

She looked at him, uncomprehending.

"Sepi," he said, taking her hand in his, "I want to see you again. I don't care what the others think, what my father thinks. I ... I care very much for you, and-"

"Oh, Khosrow," she said, biting her lip and looking away. "I ... you can't." Tears of frustration burned the corners of her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks.

"Sepi! What is it? What did I say?"

She shook her head, her hand covering her mouth. "It's not what you said," she managed. "It's just that ..." She clenched her jaw against the sobs that begged for release, took several deep, shuddering breaths before facing him again. "Khosrow, I ... we ... are going away."

"What?"

"My family is leaving. Leaving Iran. We are going to America."

His face wore the expression of someone who has just been stabbed by his closest friend.

She took his hand. "Come inside," she said, leading him toward the gate. "The street isn't a good place to talk."

He allowed her to lead him, still not quite believing what he had heard. It was impossible! He had finally resolved to become a man, to use his own mind and set his own course, and Sepi, his intended destination, was leaving?

She sat on an ornamented chaise of whitewashed wrought iron and beckoned him to sit beside her. "Khosrow. Listen to me. Sit down here."

Woodenly, he obeyed.

"Someone once told me," she began, "that when bad things happen, there are three ways to react. You can give up, you can adapt, or you can become angry. I don't think you should give up, Khosrow. And anger won't do any good, in this case." She placed her fingertips on his chin and gently guided him to look at her. "I think you and I must adapt. At least, that's what I'm trying to do about our leaving."

He felt as if all the air had left his lungs. He thought of the way he had felt at the beginning, when he knew he was starting to care for her, how the exhilaration of his emerging feelings had transformed every moment of those days. Life had seemed bigger, colors were brighter, smells were richer. Now he knew he would never again experience those feelings in that same way, and he resented the loss. He groped for words that would change things, that would set them both back at the beginning, would erase all the harm that had intruded on their blossoming relationship. But such words didn't exist. He knew deep within himself, though he loathed admitting it, that Sepi was right. The world had changed ... for the worse, surely. But still, they had to adapt.

"I will never forget you," he said finally. "And, perhaps-who knows? I may come to see you in America someday."

She smiled at him through the tears cascading down her cheeks. "Perhaps." But in the silence they both knew the possibility was remote.

"Sepi, I ... I want you to know that ..." He swallowed, then went on. "I want to tell you that even though I behaved badly toward you-"

"But, Khosrow-"

"Even though I did," he persisted, "you have helped me learn a valuable lesson, which I desperately needed. And for that reason too I will remember you."

Wiping her eyes with a palm, she asked, "What did you learn?"

"I learned that no one can make you into someone you don't want to be ... unless you allow it."

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, then smiled again. "I think I learned the same thing," she whispered.

"You told him what?" Ezra exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief. He held a b.u.t.ter knife, and the skin of his knuckles whitened as his fist clamped tighter about its grip.

"I told him ... that we were leaving," gulped Sepi, her nostrils flaring with the panic sp.a.w.ned by her father's suddenly wrathful visage. "I ... I care for him, Father," she explained guiltily, dropping her eyes to her plate and kneading her hands in her lap.

"And do you care nothing for your family, that you would place our safety in jeopardy?" grated Ezra though clenched teeth.

"Father!" exclaimed Sepi in consternation. "It's only Khosrow."

"And has he no parents, no family to whom he may tell this news you have pa.s.sed on?" demanded Era hotly. "And is this one to whom you have confided our plans not a Muslim?"

"What about the Hafizis?" interrupted Esther in a brittle voice. "Are they not Muslim?"

Ezra's eyes bulged outward at his wife and daughter, the first challenging him with a stony stare, the second weeping softly. With an inarticulate groan of strangled rage, he rose from the table and stalked out of the room.

Moosa, who had been sitting with his eyes carefully averted during the foregoing exchange, swallowed the bite of veal he had been chewing, following it with a long draught of water. Carefully replacing the gla.s.s beside his plate, he asked softly, eyes still downcast, "When will ... when do you leave?"

Esther, hearing her son's implied exclusion of himself, whitened visibly. There was no reply for perhaps a full minute. Suddenly, Sepi realized what her brother had said.

"Moosa! You're coming too ..." The question died in birth, as Moosa looked steadily at his sister, shaking his head. Like her mother, Sepi's face blanched, her eyes widened in horror at the understanding that there would be three pa.s.sengers on the departing flight, not four.

"Moosa, why?" The last word was scarcely more than a whisper, a throttled plea for something Moosa knew he could never deliver.

Thrusting another morsel of food in his mouth, he mumbled, "It's just ... something I have to do." A host of tangled feelings twined about within him, but he could never hope to frame them in words that would make sense. Instead, he shrouded his face in silence, chewing food he couldn't taste in a house filled with emotions he couldn't allow himself to feel.

"The day after tomorrow," whispered Esther, in answer to her son's question, as if the reply had only now managed to sunder itself from the frozen despair of her consciousness. "The flight leaves the day after tomorrow."

Moosa's knife fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The day after tomorrow! "What time?" he asked, his abruptly louder voice betraying the steel band of panic clamping his chest.

Ezra stepped into the doorway of the dining room. "Why do you ask, Moosa?" he demanded. "What's the matter?"

"What time?" Moosa shouted, suddenly standing and knocking over his water gla.s.s in his startling frenzy. "Tell me!"

Esther involuntarily jerked her forearm in front of her face, as if to fend off an attack. "Our plane leaves at nine o'clock in the morning," she gasped, realizing with horror that she was terrified of her own son.

Moosa stared at them, his fists clenching and unclenching. Nine o'clock. They should be long gone before .... As his breathing slowed in the silent room, he became acutely conscious of their eyes-wide, staring, frightened, and fixed with a horrid fascination on him. How to explain to them, to defuse the effect of his inexplicable anxiety?

"Tell no one," came Ari's warning in his ear. "We could all be dead."

"Never mind, I ..." He groped about for some plausible explanation for his outburst. "This decision about staying here ... it has been very difficult for me, and ..." His mouth opened and closed a few more times, but no more words came to him. "I'm very tired. I've had enough to eat," he mumbled, crumpling his napkin and tossing it on his chair. He strode to the doorway, past his father, and up the stairs.

The quiet darkened as the unmoving occupants of the dining room silently contemplated the desolate shape of private despair.

TWENTY-FOUR.

Akram Hafizi sighed as she set the plate of rice and cold mutton before her husband. "I can't help it, husband," she said, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n as she fetched the tea gla.s.ses. "I can't escape the feeling that something is going to happen."

"What would you have me do," questioned the mullah, allowing more than a hint of impatience in his voice, "renege on my promise to Solaiman? After all he has done, all the turmoil he and his family have suffered?"

Sadly she shook her head. "No, no." She heaved another deep sigh as she sat down across the table from her husband. "You must perform for them the things agreed upon. And it is certainly a wonderful house," she wavered wistfully. "Still ..."

They bowed their heads for the benediction. "In the name of Allah the Merciful and Compa.s.sionate," Hafizi intoned. He tasted the first morsel of rice, a thoughtful look on his face.

"And getting the Solaimans out of Iran is not the only concern," continued Akram, after she had taken a swallow of tea. "Even after we move into the house, the problems won't be over."

"What do you mean?" asked her husband finally, unwilling to continue the conversation, but wearily accepting the fact that his wife had more on her mind-words that would be uttered.

"You know how things can change," replied Akram, carefully scooping a spoonful of rice atop the portion of meat on her fork. "Look at the Islamic revolution which has just taken place. Decades of Pahlavi rule vanished without a trace; everyone a.s.sociated with the Shah is dead, imprisoned, or in hiding.

"Allahu akbar," commented Nader Hafizi wryly.

"What I'm saying," pressed Akram, giving him an admonitory look, "is this: how are we to know the same thing could not happen again-only in reverse? Look at the violence in the streets! Still mullahs and pasdars are attacked by secret supporters of the Shah and groups of radicals."

"Not without justification, in some cases," observed the mullah, sc.r.a.ping the last of the rice onto his spoon.

"Granted," countered Akram, waving her fork like a pointer at Nader, "but entirely beside the point I'm making. Who knows when a counterrevolution may occur? If such a thing happens, do you imagine there will be no retribution taken against anyone deemed to have profited from the Ayatollah's rule? And what more visible target than two old people living in a sumptuous house earned by nothing other than the emigration of those who bought and paid for it?"

"But that's not the way-"

"I know that!" she interrupted. "I'm not talking about fact; I'm warning you about perception."

Nader Hafizi took a slow drink of tea.

"The next time, it could be you sitting in Evin Prison instead of Ezra Solaiman," she said quietly. "And who will come to your defense?"

The phone jangled in its cradle. Mullah Ha.s.san swiveled about in his desk chair, picked up the handset, and placed it to his ear. "Yes?"

"When the Iraqi mullah arrives, there will be trouble," murmured the voice on the other end. "Be ready."

"Of course," responded the mullah. "And may Allah bless you for your help."

"Forget that!" snapped the voice. "When do I get my money?"

"After your information proves correct," growled the mullah. "You will be met in the usual place."

"The house on Avenue Ismaili?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" snarled Mullah Ha.s.san.