Chapter 12 - Retirement Flies Away
The crowds in Azadi Square had dissipated during the last week, with a little gentle encouragement from the Revolutionary Guard Corps members assigned to domestic control operations. A few people had disappeared permanently, but all in all, the entire affair had been minimal and not at all like the general strike a year ago, when a whole lot of people had disappeared. The Ayatollah had finished with the concubine a half hour earlier, and was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, wondering if the celestial virgins really would be so much better than what he just had experienced. That was hard to imagine. If it was true, what a payoff for all his years of service to the country and his religion. Praise be to Allah !
Just as Laleh was staring at the Thames and wondering about her future, The Big Guy allowed his thoughts to veer away from his two main preoccupations, virgins and politics, to his future. How much longer was he going to do what he was doing? How much longer was he going to put up with the stress of managing the nuclear program, and the shit going on in Iraq and Syria and Lebanon? And these folks that kept gathering in the Square, how about them? Pains in the ass. He was a lot older than Laleh, but like her, he’d never been out of the country. What was that like? What was, say, Lake Como like, in Italy? He’d seen pictures of the estates on the shore of Como. Could he sit on the verandah of one of those, sip a little chilled green tea, wave at George Clooney, his neighbor, and take a boat trip across the lake, do a little shopping?
These thoughts captured his imagination in an unusual way, and he wondered what all that would cost? What would a nice house right on the shore of Como cost? Probably a lot, especially if it was right next to Clooney’s place. But even if that were true, it should be no problem, because of his stash. That was a lot of money, and even though he never had investigated real estate prices in Italy, he figured it would be enough to buy a place in most locations. $100 million was a lot of cash. Thinking about the money reminded him of the island in the Caribbean where his cash sat, patiently waiting for him. What was the name of the island, ‘St.’ something? St. Tropez? That didn’t sound right, but it didn’t really matter. If he decided he didn’t like rubbing shoulders with Hollywood swags like Clooney, he could always go to the island and hang out, whatever its name.
He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, feeling for the silk slippers with his feet. His mind went on: Lake Como, ‘St.’ something, retirement, his concubines, which would have to do for the time being, his money. His money ! He hadn’t checked his account in a long time, what with being distracted by those fucking inspectors from the International Atomic Energy Agency.
He rang for his servant, who came running. The Big Guy always was very demanding after a visit from one of the girls, which seemed to energize him. “Turn on the computer. I want to check something.”
The servant said, “Yes, Boss.”
The Aya didn’t know how to turn it on himself, but once it was running he was able to launch the browser and get to the Bank of Tehran’s website. He motioned to the flunky to get out, and went to his desk where he kept the little illuminated manuscript booklet that held his account number and password, which was fortyvirginsforever. No spaces. He couldn’t remember it, but always was pleased when he looked in the little book and read it. Fortyvirginsforever. Oh, yeah ! He typed it in the box and hit the Enter key. The account page appeared immediately on the screen, but this time something was different. Something definitely was different. The Ayatollah squinted his aging eyes and looked carefully at the balance number to the right of the account number. Then he looked at the account number, and then back at the balance number. He couldn’t remember his fortyvirginsforever password, so he definitely couldn’t remember his account number, but it sure looked right. What didn’t look right was the balance number. It seemed very different than the last time he had looked at it. Then, it looked like $100,000,000. Now, it looked like $0, and those are very different numbers, he was sure about that.
Behind his squinting eyes he squinted his brain, and tried to figure it out. Was something about the account really different, or was he making some stupid computer mistake? He logged out of the account, and reloaded the bank’s webpage, and logged in again with his cool password, and then looked again at the account number and the balance number. They were the same as before, one familiar, and the big goose egg not at all familiar. Zero. Zero money. Zero cash. Zero American dollars in the account of the bank on the island of ‘St.’ something.
He got up from the desk, went back to the bed, and stretched out again, leaving his slippers on the floor. He wiggled his hairy toes, trying to ascertain if he was dreaming or not. He starred at the ceiling for a minute, and then remembered what the concubine had been like, and then revisited his fantasy of the place on the shore of Como, and then turned his head to the side and looked at the computer on the desk across the room. It still showed the bank’s webpage, though at this distance he couldn’t see the zero at the bottom right of the page, for which he was thankful. There still was a chance he was dreaming.
This chance evaporated when someone knocked on his door. “What?” he asked.
“Your Holiness, a call for you. Colonel Aliaabaadi. He says there’s a problem at the border that requires your attention.”
“Ok. One moment.” Again he swiveled his legs over the edge of the bed and felt for his slippers. He walked over to the desk, and with great courage, bent his head down to look at the computer screen. The big fat zero still was there. Shit. He logged off the computer, put on his satin bathrobe with the scarlet swords of the Red Scimitar emblazoned across the back, and went to the bedroom door. When he opened it, and the servant saw his face, the servant had only one thought: when Colonel Aliaabaadi got his audience on the border problem, he better had tread softly.
The Ayatollah's Money Page 11
