The Moving Prison Part 9

Ezra stopped at the doorway. Seeing that Ahmed was about to begin his morning prayers, he stayed quiet, not wanting to interrupt. He heard the tradesman murmuring in Arabic the prayer of Islam: "In the name of the most merciful Allah. Praise be to Allah, the Lord of all beings, the Master of the Day of Judgment...." Standing, then kneeling, and then facedown on the rug, the cabinetmaker repeated his devotions. When he finished and was rolling up the prayer rug, Ezra quietly knocked on the door frame.

Ahmed looked around. "Aga Solaiman," he said, smiling. "It's good to see you. How is your family?" he asked, extending a dusty hand which Ezra shook in greeting.

Dabirian had made the dining-room chairs for Ezra and Esther's house. He was a meticulous craftsman. The oldest child of a poor bricklayer, Dabirian had learned his craft during a seven-year apprenticeship to an older carpenter, at the end of which he had started his own shop in the same dusty, shavings-strewn room where he now worked.

Ezra wished desperately that he could state directly what he wanted from the carpenter, but he forced himself to observe the customary formalities of greeting. Giving Dabirian a tight-lipped smile, he answered, "We are well, Aga Dabirian, Alhmadollilah, G.o.d be thanked. And how are things with your household?"

In the thirty years of his trade, Ahmed had not made a lot of money, and this fact, along with the bitter memories of his poverty-stricken childhood, galled him. Being a devout Muslim, he had welcomed the coming of the Imam Khomeini as a salvation for the poor. And, indeed, his fortunes had improved with the coming of the new regime.

"Much better, Aga Solaiman," said the quiet woodworker with a confident smile. "For the faithful, the changes in the country have been beneficial."

Ezra shuddered inwardly, hoping his anxiety didn't show. He decided to broach his business with the craftsman before his nerves got the better of him.

"I need a box built, Aga Dabirian," said Ezra. "I want to ship some rugs to my cousin in America, and I want to be certain they make the journey undamaged."

Dabirian nodded, cupping his chin in one hand. "That won't be difficult, Aga Solaiman," he said. "I would suggest plywood. It's durable, and far less expensive than ordinary planking."

"Only one thing," interrupted Ezra. "I want the box built in a certain way. I have a rough sketch." Ezra pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and smoothed it out on a nearby countertop. Dabirian leaned over the drawing, squinting and scratching his beard. After a moment, he looked up.

"What is the purpose of this empty compartment at the bottom of the box, Aga Solaiman?"

Ezra shrugged. "The hold of the ship may be damp. I intend to place sawdust or cotton in this place to absorb the humidity and protect the carpet."

"Then I will need to drill holes in the part.i.tion-"

"No!" said Ezra. "Leave the bottom solid. I ... don't think holes are needed," he finished weakly.

Ahmed stared strangely at Ezra for a few moments, then gave a slight shrug as he again studied the drawing, "I don't think this will take long at all, Aga Solaiman," he said. "I should be able to have it finished by ..." He squinted upward in calculation. "... day after tomorrow, inshallah, G.o.d willing. I can have it delivered to your house. Will that be all right?"

Ezra nodded. "That should be perfect, thank you very much." Trying to mask the awkwardness of his discomfort about the part.i.tion, Ezra asked casually, "And how are things for you now, Aga Dabirian-with the ... changes that have happened recently?"

Dabirian smiled. "Things have never been better for me, Aga Solaiman. The blessed Imam will cause the nation to obey the laws of Islam. No more will the poor be downtrodden by the rich. It was a day of great happiness for me when the Ayatollah landed at Mehrabad Airport."

Ezra nodded, with what he hoped was a neutral expression.

"But, Aga Solaiman," continued Dabirian in a somber tone, "I understand there have been ... difficulties for you. I was sorry to hear of your arrest and imprisonment."

Ezra stared at the cabinetmaker, his eyes round disks of shock. "How ... did you know?" he stammered.

"I have a cousin who is a mullah, Aga," explained Dabirian. "Through him, I was able to get an appointment as a special agent for the government. As a part of my duties, I ... I hear things."

Ezra struggled to regain control over his features. It would not do to arouse Dabirian's suspicions about the part.i.tion in the box-any more than he had already done.

"The system made an error in your case, Aga Solaiman," continued Dabirian earnestly. "You are a good man, not a rascal like some of the others. You should never have been put in that horrible place. I am grateful Allah the Merciful delivered you from such a situation."

Ezra looked up at the other man. "Thank you, Aga Dabirian. I appreciate your concern." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "And now I really must go. Should I pay you for the box now, or when it is delivered?"

"As always, Aga Solaiman, I want to give you the opportunity to inspect my work before I am paid. It is a matter of professional pride, I suppose," smiled Dabirian. "My son will collect the money when he brings the box."

"Very well, then," said Ezra. "Thank you again, Aga Dabirian. Khoda hafez, may G.o.d protect you."

Dabirian bowed his head slightly as Ezra left the shop. When he had gone, Ahmed looked again at the drawing. Picking up a cedar shaving, he sniffed absently at its resinous scent as he reflected on Solaiman's odd, nervous manner. Why would he want a concealed compartment in a shipping box? Scratching his sawdust-filled beard, he began sorting through his store of lumber for a plywood sheet of the proper size.

Outside on the sidewalk, Ezra wished fervently that he had gone to a carpenter unknown to him.

Nathan Moosovi pulled into the alley and parked the Volvo. He glanced at Moosa beside him. "Here we are," he said. "The door is just around that corner."

They walked down the unpaved alley, skirting the puddles of muddy water. In the overcast afternoon light, the puddles looked gray, like everything else. Nathan stopped beside a rusted metal door and knocked once, hesitated, and knocked three more times in quick succession. The door opened perhaps an inch.

"It's Nathan," he said in a quiet voice, "and I've brought the guest I told you about."

The door opened halfway. The interior was pitch-dark, as far as Moosa could discern. Nathan stepped inside but Moosa hesitated. The door reminded him uncomfortably of the gateway to some mythical underworld. Taking a deep breath, he stepped past the portal.

The room was not completely dark, after all. As his eyes adjusted to being inside, Moosa could see the spa.r.s.e furnishings: a table, a miscellaneous a.s.sortment of chairs scattered about, empty cups and gla.s.ses strewn on the table, a low-wattage lamp in one corner. The air was heavy with stale cigarette smoke. Several men were inside, staring at him with looks of appraisal and curiosity.

"We don't use last names here," Nathan murmured to him. "We think it's better that way, in case ... anything should happen."

Moosa swallowed and nodded, his eyes darting to and fro about the room.

One of the men approached. In the dim light, he might have been thirty or sixty. His frame was spare and firm, but his face was careworn and fatigued. Like many Iranians, Moosa realized, he had aged rapidly in these last months.

"This is Moosa," Nathan said to the man. "His father was imprisoned in Evin."

"Why did they take him away?" asked the man.

Moosa glanced quickly from Nathan to the speaker. "I ... I don't know. He had done nothing wrong. The pasdars just came and got him."

"Did they shoot him?" the man asked in the same flat voice.

"No. He got out alive."

The man glanced significantly at Nathan and the others. "Why did they let him out?" he asked quickly. "No one comes out of Evin alive, unless he's on their side."

"No, that's not how it is with him!" Moosa replied, louder than he intended. "A mullah put in a word for him-"

"A mullah!" sneered one of the others. "Who is this guy, anyway? What are you doing, Nathan? Selling us to one of Khomeini's lapdogs?"

"My father was kind to this mullah, long before the revolution," Moosa said, trying in vain to keep from clenching his fists. "For the sake of that, the mullah helped him-nothing more. He's not a toady for the pasdars, if that's what you're worried about."

"Listen, Ari," Nathan said in a calm voice, laying a hand on Moosa's arm, "I've known Moosa all his life. I'm not stupid. Moosa is just as angry as any of us. Don't hold it against him that his father's still alive."

The others fell silent at this, regarding Moosa with sullen stares.

The man who had approached peered at Moosa for some moments in appraisal. Finally, he said, "I'm Ari. Come on in and have a seat." He turned away without offering his hand.

Nathan guided Moosa to a seat at the table. The others gathered in a loose circle about him.

Esther took a sip of lukewarm tea and carefully set her cup back into the matching bone-china saucer in her lap. Biting her lip, she looked again at the plywood box sitting in the study. Ahmed Dabirian's oldest son had delivered it early this morning. He told her Ezra had ordered it and presented her with a bill. Grudgingly, she had allowed him inside and given him the money.

Even a casual glance inside the box showed that the outside area did not match that within. Surely an experienced customs inspector would see that there was s.p.a.ce at the bottom of the box unaccounted for by the visible inner dimensions. She doubted the wisdom of Ezra's apparent plans for the hidden compartment. If they were discovered taking hard currency out of the country, no receipt or endors.e.m.e.nt from Mullah Hafizi would save them.

Since Ezra's delivery from Evin Prison, Esther's att.i.tude toward emigration from Iran had undergone a drastic change. She was now in an agony of eagerness to leave. The distress of her husband's imprisonment, combined with the frank hostility of the search party, had made her a willing accomplice in the plan to escape to the West. As if these weren't enough, their daughter feared for her life if she returned to school. Of course Ezra had agreed that keeping Sepi at home was for the best.

Esther was willing to abandon every shred of property and wealth they owned to facilitate their departure. But Ezra still went along with his plans, keeping his own counsel-to protect her, he said-making his careful, studied moves. Now, instead of being angered with his intent to leave, she was frustrated by his tedious, silent preparations, his apparent nonchalance. She wanted nothing more than to quit the churning cauldron of chaos that her country had become. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him to hurry up, to get them out of this cursed place. But Ezra plodded along, ordering a shipping crate with a false bottom, as if they had all the time in the world to pack their goods and make an orderly departure.

Moosa came downstairs, scratching his tousled hair and yawning. Esther looked at him, worry creasing her eyes. Why was he staying out so late, especially in times like these? Every night, rifle fire could be heard in all quarters of the city, as pasdars skirmished with resentful supporters of the Shah, or with mujahideen guerrillas. Even the mullahs had taken to wearing guns in these days of madness.

Walking home from the bus stop, Esther had seen graffiti sprayed on the wall: "Qalat kardeem-We made a mistake." Too late, some had realized the dangers of placing so much power in the hands of the long-repressed mullahs. Yet her son had taken to roaming the streets at night. She didn't know where he went on his mysterious nocturnal trips-and was not certain she wanted to know. Perhaps the country's insanity was infecting all its citizens. Moosa glanced at her, then away, as he plodded sleepily into the kitchen.

She heard the clink of a cup and saucer, followed by Moosa softly cursing.

"Mother," he called in annoyance, "why is there no coffee?"

"The propane tank is empty, and there's no heat for the stove."

Again she heard the mumbled swearing. The fuel oil company had made no deliveries for weeks now, and no one knew when they would resume, if ever. Several evenings the electricity had gone out, due in part to the well-connected but inexperienced workers now in charge of the generating stations. Such was the confusion of these days.

She felt Ezra's hand on her neck, followed by the warmth of his lips on her cheek. "Good morning, my love," he smiled, walking past her into the kitchen. Pensively she watched his back as he moved away. He was dressed as if to go out. Glancing a final time at the wooden box, she got up and followed her husband.

"Where are you going, Ezra?" she asked, pouring the tea down the drain and carefully rinsing the cup.

"I must go and keep a promise I made while I was in prison," Ezra said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

"To a fellow Jew not as fortunate as I," said Ezra. "He asked me to take a message to his wife and child, and I thought I'd do that his morning, since the weather is warm and clear." Ezra tore off a hunk from a loaf of pita bread Esther had baked the night before. He moved the containers in the refrigerator until he found a jar of marmalade, and began spreading it on his bread.

"What happened to this friend of yours?" mumbled Moosa around a large mouthful of bread.

Ezra paused, knife in hand, and looked out the window toward the cherry trees in the side yard. The echo of rifle shots rattled in his brain, and he closed his eyes for an instant. "He was shot," Ezra said finally, and resumed spreading the marmalade.

Esther looked at him sharply. "Do you think it's safe, so soon after your release to go to the home of an executed detainee? Surely the mullahs have the place under surveillance."

"I made a promise," Ezra interrupted, his eyes momentarily hardening with resolve as he looked at her. Esther looked away, sighing as she selected a tomato from the produce basket and began slicing it into wedges.

"Besides," Ezra continued, "my friend said the wife is now at the home of her parents."

Esther shook her head in helpless frustration. Did Ezra imagine the mullahs didn't know the locations of all the relatives of this executed Jew?

Ezra chewed the bread slowly and washed it down with a gla.s.s of tap water. Moosa craned his neck around the doorway, looking into the study. "By the way, Father," he asked, "what's the box for? You thinking about going into the smuggling racket?" he joked.

Ezra peered intently at Moosa, then glanced over to Esther. She had stopped paring the tomatoes, standing with her back to him, her face half-turned, waiting for his answer.

"The box is for shipping the Isfahan carpet to America," Ezra answered carefully. "Nothing more." He placed his empty water gla.s.s beside the sink and began walking out of the kitchen.

Esther could not contain herself. "Ezra, any customs inspector with one eye and half a brain will notice the dimensions of that box. Please don't tell me you plan to take our money in that ... that thing." Her eyes challenged him to reply.

He looked at his wife and his son, then smiled ever so slightly, shaking his head. "You two are quite the suspicious types. Perhaps you should go to work for the customs service."

Esther huffed in exasperation as she rolled her eyes. Moosa shook his head and took another bite of bread.

"Well, I'm off," Ezra announced, starting toward the front door. "Moosa, don't worry about going to the bazaar today. I'll change the currency myself for a while."

Moosa grunted and nodded.

"Good-bye, Esther, my darling," Ezra called cheerily.

Esther chewed savagely on a tomato wedge, pointedly ignoring him. She heard the front door open, then close.

SIXTEEN.

Sepideh's eyes fluttered, then opened. She lay on her bed, sunlight filtering through the curtained and shuttered windows of her room. Without moving, she gazed around the familiar room. Lately, Sepi had wanted to do little but sleep. Like an addict, she sought the black oblivion of slumber as the only refuge from the living nightmare that swirled about her. Yet with each awakening, dread and depression resumed their intimate, dreary vigil within her soul, hovering like carrion birds just beneath her ceiling, awaiting only her stirring to descend and resume feeding. Groaning, she rolled over and closed her eyes, willing herself back toward the bleak refuge of unconsciousness.

But it was already close to noon, and she could not, despite her best efforts, return to the somnolent cave of unbeing. Her eyes fell on the book resting on her bedside table. It was a volume of poetry, a textbook from her literature cla.s.s. A cla.s.s she had attended ages ago, in another life, before madness reigned.

Wearily, without consciously willing it, she sat up and opened the book, leafing idly through its pages. Her eye paused. On the page before her was a work of the poet Saadi. Without knowing why, she read: Human beings are members of one another, For in creation they are wrought of the same fabric.

When one is afflicted, All suffer.

You who scoff at the wounds of others, Are unworthy to be called human....

The words, once only a series of lines to be memorized for a grade, now sp.a.w.ned a dark ache at the back of Sepi's throat. The taunts of the boys' gang resounded in her ears. "Jew trash. Tramp, Infidel." She had known some of them, had romped with them on the playground of her primary school. Yet their faces had been as closed, as clenched with hate, as those of total strangers. They felt no empathy for her, no more pity than wild dogs circling wounded prey. Such cold malevolence was beyond her experience, beyond her ability to cope. She could not bring her mind and emotions to accept the possibility of the unimagined dangers now inhabiting the world she had always thought so safe. It was like walking out to Marjan's kennel to feed him and having him suddenly slash at her with his fangs. Or as if her father's flower garden had been overgrown during the night with poisonous thorns.

And Khosrow. Though he had defended her, she had not heard from him since that last, awful day at school. Not a letter, not a phone call-nothing. She felt abandoned, betrayed. Had his feelings for her, his affectionate teasing, all been a sham? A pleasant ruse to be dropped when no longer convenient? Perhaps he did not actually despise her Jewishness, but was he embarra.s.sed by it? Was he secretly relieved that she no longer came to school, that he need not bear the curses of the others as they rebounded from her onto him? To be hated for one's ancestry, or to be an embarra.s.sment because of it-the two appeared much the same in the hopeless, gray world she now inhabited.

A knock came to her door. It was probably Mother, she thought tiredly, come to badger me about being in bed so late. And then came Moosa's voice. "Sepi? Mind if I come in?"

She pulled her robe from the bedpost where it hung and tugged it on. "Yes, come in," she said, tying the sash about her waist.

Moosa opened the door, eyeing her thoughtfully. "Isn't it a little late to be in bed?"

Sepi rolled her eyes. First Mother, now Moosa. No one understands.

He sat down on the edge of her bed, still studying her listless posture, her vacant expression. "What happened to you at school was a terrible thing," he said finally. "It was unfair and wrong, and the boys who did it should be horsewhipped."

For the first time, her eyes flickered toward him with something that might have been interest.

"And I don't blame you for feeling hurt and abandoned," he continued. "This family has always been law-abiding and loyal; now with the mullahs in control, it seems that counts for nothing. You didn't do anything to deserve what happened to you, just as Father did nothing that should have landed him in Evin Prison, just as Abraham Moosovi did nothing that should have gotten him executed."

She was watching him steadily now, but still said nothing.

"Injustice is the rule of the day for anyone who's not Muslim," he said, his eyes roaming somewhere beyond the walls of her room. "The country has come apart at the seams, and it's a bad time to be in the minority-any minority."