The Moving Prison

by William Mirza

  Twining thoughts and strategies in his mind, he made his way back up the stairs. In the morning, he would begin making plans.

  NINETEEN

  With the caution now habitual on the streets of Tehran, Ezra looked behind him before turning aside into the small narrow way that was Javid Street. Finding the weather-beaten number he sought, he rapped at the portal. He heard the slap of sandaled feet on the flagstone courtyard. Then the gate opened, and he saw the face of Mullah Nader Hafizi.

  The cleric squinted in confusion, then smiled uncertainly. “Aga Solaiman! How good to see you! What brings you again to my poor house?”

  “Good day, baradar,” Ezra replied, glancing about him. “Perhaps we should go inside. It could be bad for you to be seen talking to a Jew.”

  Hafizi scoffed. “I need not fear the prattle of busybodies, Aga Solaiman. My standing with the Ayatollah is firm. He is a good man, despite what his detractors say. However …” A worried look crossed the older man’s face. “I’m not too sure about some of the people around him. Sometimes I think … ah, well,” he interrupted himself, “you have had a long walk. Come in and we can surely find you a glass of tea.” Ezra stepped through the portal, and Hafizi locked the gate behind them.

  “Now, then,” asked Hafizi later, as they sat at the kitchen table in his small apartment, “why have you come? Your eyes tell of trouble, I fear. How can I help you, my friend?”

  Ezra sighed gratefully, taking a slow sip of tea through the sugar cube in his teeth. With Hafizi’s generous words, he felt a tenuous step closer to the resolution of his difficulties. Still, he considered carefully the words in which to couch his request, for much depended on the perception he created in the mullah’s mind.

  “Friend Hafizi,” he began finally, “as you have seen, fear is a constant shadow of my days. It is my bedfellow at night, and it follows me in the streets each day, dogging my steps like a silent spy.” Now he looked up at the cleric. “It is deliverance from this fear, this constant dread which withers me and my family, that you have the power to grant. That is why I have come here today.”

  Hafizi eyes widened. “Ezra,” he said, “you make me sound like one of the great and powerful! I am but a poor mullah, as you can see by looking around you.” Hafizi spread his hands, taking in the small room where they sat and the tiny parlor adjoining.

  The furnishings were few and threadbare. The floors were mostly bare concrete, covered here and there with an inexpensive rug. No television, no telephone, no artwork other than the obligatory portrait of Khomeini graced the Hafizi residence. It was painfully obvious that Nader Hafizi had not profited by the graft that had enriched so many of his less-scrupled peers. Looking about, Ezra thought of the proposal he would make to this good, honest man and was both encouraged and fearful. Would a man who had steadfastly turned his back on the easy riches reaped by his colleagues be able to accept what he was planning to suggest?

  “It is true,” Ezra resumed, “that yours is not a position of power in the usual sense. Yours is a power of the spirit, Aga Hafizi, the indomitable power of purity of heart, of mercy, and of kindness to others. It is to this power I make my appeal today.”

  Hafizi bowed his head, humbled into speechlessness by Solaiman’s lavish words.

  “You have said that your standing with the Ayatollah is good,” continued Ezra. “I know that this standing was earned not by bribes and flattery, but by the steadfast devotion you have shown to the teachings of the Prophet—blessings and peace be upon him—for so many years. And, because of this standing,” Ezra concluded carefully, “you may be able to accomplish for me and my family the greatest desire of our hearts.”

  “What is this desire?” asked the mullah hesitantly.

  “We want to leave Iran,” said Ezra quietly.

  “And go where?”

  There was a long pause. “To America,” replied Ezra finally.

  Hafizi looked at Ezra for almost a full minute, then looked away. “I understand your fear, of course. That a man such as yourself should have gone to Evin Prison is a dreadful wrong, but …” The cleric again looked Ezra full in the eyes. “To America? The heart and soul of Western decadence?”

  Now it was Ezra’s turn to level a steady gaze at the mullah. “There are those who say that all Jews are cheats and misers. There are others who say that all mullahs are thieves and murderers. Yet you and I know these sayings to be untrue. Is it not possible that there are those, even in decadent America, who strive for lives of purity and discipline?” He held Hafizi’s eyes until the mullah gave a sardonic little smile and nodded.

  “Well said, Aga Solaiman. I concede the point.”

  “And my stay in Evin isn’t the only problem,” Ezra continued. “My daughter has been attacked at her school. My wife was terrorized by pasdars who came to search our home during my detention, and while the rogues were there, they confiscated as ‘evidence’ some of our property.”

  “Anyone can wear a white turban and robe and call himself a mullah,” commented Hafizi. “I am aware of such instances of impersonation. And unfortunately,” the cleric continued sadly, “I have also seen the greed of some of my colleagues.”

  Ezra nodded. “You yourself know that the leadership changes almost daily; uncertainty is the only surety these days. Suppose another committee decided to arrest me again—or arrest my son….” Ezra thought of Moosa’s late-night forays into hatred and shuddered. “I can’t go on living this way, baradar,” he pleaded, reaching across the table to grip the mullah’s forearm in a clasp of urgency. “I beg of you, in the name of Allah the Merciful and Compassionate, help me.”

  Moosa’s eyelids fluttered. Sunlight lanced his blurred vision with sharp brightness, wrenching a groan from him as he rolled onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head. Surely it couldn’t be daylight already! Blearily he rolled onto his side and sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his sleep-webbed face.

  The meeting had lasted until four this morning. Rubbing his eyes, Moosa felt as if he were changing into some sort of night creature. But the business the group was discussing was best left to the dark hours, when eyes were fewer and concealment was easier.

  The latest plan was a campaign of terror against the mullahs. The group had decided to wreak such havoc on the clerics that the whole country, the whole world, would hear of it. For too long now, it was reasoned, the international community had assumed that the Shiite power structure had a monolithic grip on the hearts and minds of Iran. It was time, they decided, to prove otherwise.

  Moosa ran a hand through his hair, rubbed his stubbly cheek. This new plan was bloody … and risky. Gunning mullahs down on the streets in broad daylight sounded like a recipe for disaster. He had voiced serious misgivings to the others, but he never seriously believed they would reconsider their plans. The duration of the meeting had proved his assessment correct.

  He wondered why he didn’t pull out. At certain moments when he looked at himself these days, he couldn’t believe he was the same person who had blithely flown into Mehrabad Airport to help his parents leave Iran.

  And the answer, of course, was that he wasn’t that person anymore. The violence and brutality of Iran had altered him in some fundamental way. For the hundredth time, he asked himself why he was reacting as he was. His father saw the evil coming and made plans to get out of its path. Moosa saw it and felt compelled to challenge it, to spit in its eye, and give it blood for blood. Why?

  A knock came at his door. “Moosa?” His mother’s voice. “Moosa, are you awake?”

  “Just a minute,” he grunted, reaching for the jeans he had dropped on the floor when he fell into bed earlier this morning. Pulling on a shirt, he called out, “All right, I’m dressed.

  Esther entered her son’s room, bearing a glass of steaming tea before her, like a talisman to ward off evil.

  “A nice cup of tea,” she beamed at him, a little too cheerily, he thought.

  “Thanks, Mother,” he said, looking out
his window. From the corner of his eye, he saw her looking at him. Here it comes, he thought.

  “Moosa, I know you’re an adult, and what you do is your own business,” she began.

  Moosa sighed loudly, bowing his head. He knew what was next.

  “But I can’t help being worried,” she said. “These friends that you spend so much time with, until all hours of the night—”

  “Mother,” he interrupted, “I’m very tired. I hardly slept at all last night, and I don’t feel like—”

  “Of course, you hardly slept,” she retorted, her façade of forced cheerfulness dissolving instantly into a barrage of clipped words, a tight-faced glance of disapproval. “Anybody who comes in at 4:30 in the morning is going to be tired. Is that any reason to snap at me?”

  Moosa buried his face in his hands. “Mother,” he moaned, “let’s not start this now.”

  “Fine, I’m leaving. Drink your tea before it gets cold.” Pulling the door behind her, she paused, and then said in a low voice, “I pray to God you know what you’re doing,” The door closed, and she was gone.

  “Even granting what you say,” mused Hafizi, “what can I do? I have no authority with the emigration officials. I cannot get you a visa, nor can I approve your request to go to America.”

  “I have already … taken a number of steps,” said Ezra carefully, picking an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. “My difficulty is in what I must take with me.”

  “You are surely not thinking of taking contraband out of the country!” interjected Hafizi, his eyes wide with alarm. “You must know I cannot be a party to anything illegal!”

  “No, no, nothing like that!” assured Ezra. Choosing his next words very carefully, he said, “I … have some things which are very precious to me, second in value only to my wife and children. Things which have been in my family for many years, which are indispensable to me wherever I may live. Things,” he stated, looking Hafizi firmly in the eye, “which some in the government might confiscate from a Jew who was leaving the country. This I cannot accept. This is why I have come to you.”

  Hafizi returned Ezra’s gaze, searching deep within the other’s eyes for some confirmation, some assurance.

  “Perhaps you know I have sold my business,” Ezra said quietly, after some moments had passed.

  “Yes,” Hafizi nodded. “I only just found out. I went in a few days ago to have my wife’s prescription refilled.” He smiled ruefully. “The new owners are not as kindhearted as the old. I paid full price.”

  Ezra shrugged awkwardly. “The world has changed.”

  Hafizi nodded. “Yes—in some ways not for the better.”

  “At any rate,” Ezra said, “I have spent all of my life as a loyal citizen of Iran. I was born here, have worked here, raised my children here, made friends here, buried family members here. It’s not an easy thing to uproot one’s existence. I don’t intend to leave any more of my lifeblood in Iran than is already necessary.”

  Hafizi took a slow sip of the now lukewarm tea. “Forgive me for asking, baradar, but since my relationship with the Ayatollah is apparently to be put to the test, I must know—”

  “I have some antique objects,” Ezra answered, “a few fairly expensive carpets … and … some money.”

  Through the open kitchen window, the rattling of the latch on the front gate was heard. Nader Hafizi glanced outside to see his wife’s chador-draped figure crossing the courtyard toward the front door.

  Ezra got up to leave. “I’m sorry, Aga Hafizi. I should be leaving—”

  “Please, baradar, sit down,” urged the mullah. “You are a good man and I trust you. I want you to meet her.”

  The front door opened, and Khanom Hafizi entered, carrying a market basket filled with bread, cheese, and fresh fruit. Seeing Ezra standing next to the table, she paused, her eyes flickering from the stranger to her husband.

  “Come in, Akram,” the mullah said, beckoning to his wife. “I want you to meet a good friend of mine. Please,” he urged, motioning with his fingers, “take off your chador. I want Aga Solaiman to be able to recognize your face when he sees you again.” The mullah smiled from Ezra to his wife as she placed her basket on the table and gratefully removed the dark concealing folds of the chador.

  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.