The Moving Prison

by William Mirza

  As the last gold and rose hues of sunset faded into the long shadows on the streets of Tehran, the gate buzzer announced the presence of visitors. “I’ll get it,” Moosa shouted toward the kitchen, as he stepped from the bottom stair toward the foyer.

  “Moosa,” called Ezra from the dining room, where he was assisting Esther with the table settings, “I’ll get the door. I’m sure our guests are here.”

  “No, that’s all right,” replied Moosa. “I was on my way out, anyway. I can see who it is.”

  Ezra strode rapidly from the dining room and gripped his son’s shoulder. Moosa spun around to face his father. “What?” he asked, in reply to Ezra’s angry stare.

  “You knew I had invited guests to our home,” said Ezra through clenched teeth. “I intended for them to meet my family … my entire family.”

  Moosa turned his face aside, sighing and rolling his eyes. “Father, I … you know I go out with my friends most nights.”

  “And why can you not make a single exception for this occasion?” grated Ezra. “This is an important evening—perhaps the most crucial night we will have while we are still in Iran. It is my wish that you remain.”

  “No!” spat Moosa, his lips curled in resentment. His eyes blazed a hot challenge at his father as he zipped his jacket with a defiant, thrusting motion. “I have my own plans, and I’m not staying here to help you entertain your friends. Perhaps …” He faltered a moment, then surged ahead. “Perhaps my plans and yours no longer coincide. Have you considered that possibility in any of your scheming?” For fifteen seconds they glared at each other, before Moosa flung himself out the door.

  He pounded down the walk toward the gate, muttering to himself. When he was five paces from the portal, he jerked to a halt, his heart leaping into his throat. Through the bars of the gate he saw the white-turbaned, robed figure of a mullah, a rifle slung across his back on a shoulder strap. They are here! he thought, as his hand darted beneath his jacket. Who betrayed us? How did they know so quickly?

  As his fingers glided over the grip of the Beretta, he heard his father’s voice behind him, calling out in greeting. “Ah! Aga Hafizi, Khanom Hafizi! You are here, as expected! I’m so glad to see you!”

  His father strode around him, as Moosa slowly removed his hand from the pistol grip. Ezra opened the gate and welcomed the mullah and his wife warmly into the yard.

  “Please, pardon the rifle, Aga Solaiman,” the mullah was saying, “but it is an unfortunate necessity in these days. Many mullahs have been attacked—” The cleric broke off, peering at Moosa with a questioning look.

  “Aga Hafizi, please meet my son, Moosa Solaiman,” said Ezra, hurrying into the breach in the conversation. “Moosa, you perhaps remember Aga Hafizi, the mullah who saved my life when I was in Evin Prison?” His eyes delivered a veiled challenge to his son, who now bowed properly toward the cleric and his wife.

  “I’m afraid your father makes it sound more heroic than necessary,” chuckled Hafizi. “His own generosity saved his life; I was merely the messenger who made the announcement.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” murmured Moosa, glancing tensely from the couple to his father. “I regret that I must be absent this evening, but I have a pressing engagement which, unfortunately, I can’t reschedule.”

  “What a shame!” cried Hafizi. “Ah, well … it was good to meet you, Moosa. I hope we shall see each other again soon.”

  Moosa stared with a surprising intensity at the cleric for perhaps five long breaths, then nodded. “Perhaps we shall. And now, please excuse me.” He stepped through the gate.

  Ezra gazed after the vanishing figure of his son with an expression that appeared to Hafizi to be an amalgam of grief and anger. Then his host latched the gate and turned toward him, his face giving no hint of anything other than eager hospitality.

  “Please! Come in! Esther has the table set, and the meal is practically ready!” He gestured toward the front door, and they preceded him up the herringboned brick.

  Akram paused in wonder beside the fish pond, which lay beside the walk, illumined by the light from the front portico. “Never have I seen such a thing!” she remarked in astonishment. “Goldfish and blue glazed tiles! Beautiful!”

  Ezra shrugged, smiling. “This house has been most comfortable, as well as enjoyable. Please …” He motioned them up the front steps, then opened the front door.

  The mullah and his wife stood just inside the front door, staring about in openmouthed astonishment. Never had they imagined such lavish surroundings in the homes of anyone other than royalty! From the foyer, they had a partial view of the parlor with its parquet floors, its Louis XVI furniture. Looking to the left, they could see a huge dining table of polished mahogany, richly laid with gold-rimmed English bone china. Sparkling Waterford crystal glittered in the glow from the chandelier, eagerly giving back a thousand tiny reflections of each of the dozen brilliantly lit lamps. From the kitchen, the rich aroma of curried lamb spread its mouth-watering canopy throughout the house.

  “Akram khanom,” said Ezra quietly, “would you care to remove your wrap? Aga Hafizi?”

  Dumb with wonder, the couple let their cloaks slip into the hands of their host, who hung them carefully on the brass coat rack in the foyer. “Would you like to see the upstairs?” Wordlessly, the Hafizis nodded. Ezra led them to the staircase, grinning to himself. They are plainly awestruck by the richness of the house and furnishings. So much the better, he thought.

  Moosa arrived at the meeting, ducking from the alley into the darkened doorway. Two heavily armed men stood just inside, flanking the entrance. Seeing Moosa’s face, they nodded, motioning him toward the smoke-filled room where the others gathered.

  The building was an abandoned warehouse. Ironically, it was located on the side street off Kurosh-e-Kabir, between the military garrison compound and Qasr Prison. It stood in a row of nondescript corrugated-steel sheds and warehouses, some of which were still in use. Stacked against the walls were pallets of warped, rotting wood and mildewed cardboard boxes. The leaks in the tarred roof had allowed moisture to spoil whatever had been left by the last tenant, and the interior smelled of dank paperboard and creosote. The group met in a plywood office in northeast corner of the huge structure. A tiny splash of light came through the grimy windows of the office and reached feebly toward the shadows between the ceiling joists ten meters overhead.

  As Moosa pulled a decrepit stool toward the scarred table around which they gathered, he noticed an unfamiliar man sitting in the place directly beneath the hanging lamp. The shaded 100-watt bulb made a shadow-mask of the stranger, even as its heat smeared his face with a sheen of sweat. He was pulling nervously at an unfiltered Turkish cigarette, glancing at the group that had gathered to interrogate him.

  “Who’s this?” Moosa whispered to Manuchehr, jerking a thumb toward the unfamiliar figure in the hot seat.

  Manuchehr shrugged. “Some guy who made contact with Ari,” he murmured. “Says he was in the mujahideen fighting the Shah, but when the Ayatollah started squeezing them, he saw the light. Wants to come in with us.”

  “How did you hear about us?” Ari was asking the newcomer. “What makes you think we should trust you—we don’t know anything about you. You could be a stooge for the pasdars, for all we know.”

  The stranger’s gaze flickered nervously about the table. He took another drag at his cigarette, then dropped it on the bare concrete floor, grinding it with his foot. The smoke issued from his nostrils in slow streams as he looked briefly at Ari, then down at his scarred knuckles.

  “I know where weapons are stashed,” he said in a low, mumbling voice. “Unless the pasdars have found it all, I know where there is petrol, and some money. We didn’t have much—there wasn’t time—but …” He fell silent, his eyes shifting among them, then back to the tabletop.

  “I don’t like this clown,” growled one of the men. “He walks out of the dark and asks to join up, like this was some kind of social club.
I say we get rid of him.” In this desperate circle, no one had any doubt what such a phrase implied for a rejected applicant. The stranger’s hand shook visibly as he lit another cigarette.

  “Look,” he said, staring directly at his detractor, “I lost friends to the pasdars too! I’ve had mullahs lie to me, cheat me of what was rightfully mine. We of the mujahideen thought we had earned some consideration from the mullahs for our assistance in the overthrow of the Shah, but once they got in the saddle, they’ve done nothing but spit in our faces—and worse.” His dark furtive glance darted about at them. “I have no more love for them than anyone here.”

  “Guns … petrol …” mused Aaron, seated across the table from Moosa. Next to him, another member nodded.

  “You need to know,” cut in Ari, “that we in this circle are a … how to say it …” His fingers circled in the air as he searched for a phrase. “… a mixed bag. Some of us are here because we belong to minority groups persecuted by the new regime: Christian, Sunni Muslim, Jewish.”

  The stranger’s eyes glittered upward, but he said nothing.

  “Others,” continued Ari, “are simply royalists, who wish and work for nothing other than the return of the Pahlavi monarchy. We each have our own reasons for being here, and no man has the right to question those of another. Understood?”

  The fellow glanced at Ari, then back down, nodding.

  “All right then,” said Ari, looking about at the others. “Let’s put him to a vote. All in favor?”

  Members of the group studied the shadowed face of the newcomer, seeking any clue, any basis for a guess. At some point, their lives might depend on the actions of this man. If they guessed wrong, the mistake would almost certainly be their last. Slowly, hesitantly, seven of the ten raised their hands, voting the stranger in.

  “Opposed?” Just as slowly, three hands went up.

  “Majority rules,” commented Ari, staring meaningfully at the one who had spoken against the newcomer. “He’s in.” The naysayer grumbled, but nodded his assent.

  “By the way,” said Ari, looking back at the stranger, “nobody here but me knows your name.”

  “Just call me Aziz,” mumbled the relieved but taciturn new member. Drawing smoke deeply into his lungs, the one who called himself Aziz stared into the darkness. Contemplating the group he had just joined, Firouz Marandi considered himself lucky to be alive. The mullahs will pay through the nose for this job, he told himself grimly. When the time comes, they will pay off big.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Please, no more,” begged Nader Hafizi, pushing his plate away and holding both palms outward in a gesture of surrender. “That is the most wonderful meal I have had in some time.” He looked at his wife. “Akram, you must get Khanom Solaiman’s recipe.” His wife nodded appreciatively.

  Esther inclined her head graciously toward the mullah. “You honor me, Aga Hafizi.” She arose from the table. “Sepi, please help me clear the dishes.”

  “Would you care to take a cup of coffee in the study?” Ezra asked the mullah.

  “The only improvement possible in such a meal would be a cup of coffee,” agreed Hafizi. He rose from the table, clutching his stomach in mock agony. “Such a feast! I cannot imagine, Aga Solaiman, how you have stayed so slender all these years with meals like this!”

  Ezra chuckled as he led the way to the study. As the two men settled themselves, Sepi entered, bearing a silver tray with two china cups on matching saucers. Quietly she set the service on her father’s desk and returned to the kitchen.

  “A memorable evening, Aga Solaiman,” commented the mullah, patting his full stomach. “I have not enjoyed such a fine time in very many years!” As Ezra seated himself behind the teakwood desk, Hafizi relaxed comfortably into one of the dark leather chairs across the polished surface from his host.

  Ezra smiled, taking a careful sip of the steaming black coffee. Placing the cup gently back on its saucer, he looked meaningfully at Hafizi. “I am happy you and your wife accepted my spur-of-the-moment invitation. I have a reason for bringing you here to ask for your help.”

  “As I have said, I will do anything honorable in my power to aid you. You must only ask.” A silence deepened between the two men as Hafizi waited to hear the shape of Ezra’s request.

  “The only way I can think of to clear customs smoothly is with a direct written order from the Ayatollah himself,” Ezra said in a rush, before he could halt himself. “With such a document, no customs officer would dare impede our departure. Can you obtain such a thing for me?”

  Hafizi swallowed the coffee in his mouth and replaced the cup, without taking his eyes off Ezra. He bridged his fingertips together, a contemplative expression on his face. “The Imam Khomeini is a very busy man, whose every word must be weighed thrice carefully,” the cleric said, with long, thoughtful pauses between his words. “He will want a very good reason for issuing such a extraordinary instruction on behalf of an ordinary citizen.”

  Ezra took several deep breaths before replying. “What about my contribution for the cemetery? I bought copies of the receipt.”

  Hafizi scratched his beard as he gazed up at the ceiling. His eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits.

  In the kitchen, Akram Hafizi stood beside Esther at the sink, carefully wiping the chinaware with a towel. On her right, Sepi placed the plates and glasses in the cabinet. The women had been working together for some minutes, the only sounds the splash of water in the sink and the low mumble of the men’s conversation in the study, when Akram broke the stillness with an abrupt question.

  “You are afraid and angry. Why?” Her eyes bore in on Esther’s shocked glance with a startling intensity. Her quietness at the dinner table had not prepared Esther for such a direct, perceptive thrust.

  So unnerved was Esther that she blurted a reply before thinking, “We are Jews in a land governed by Muslim fanatics. Why should we not be afraid?”

  “Mother!” objected Sepi, glancing nervously at the mullah’s wife.

  “It’s all right, child,” said Akram Hafizi, laying a hand on Sepi’s arm. “My question was a bit ill-mannered, perhaps even simpleminded. It’s just that … I have lived with lack all my days. I can’t imagine anyone living in such splendor … and being afraid.

  “In my lifetime, I have known much fear,” she went on. “I have felt the fear which comes with hunger pangs in my children’s bellies; the fear of illness striking when there was no money for doctors or medicine; the fear of being left alone when Nader was late in returning home from the mosque. Did SAVAK have him? Had he said the wrong thing in the presence of the wrong person? These fears I have known. Perhaps,” she said, smiling gently at Esther, “that was why I so readily recognized your symptoms, Esther khanom. I have wrestled often enough with the same opponent to know his hold.”

  Esther soaped a plate with an avid, jaw-clenched concentration. Why am I the only one whose feelings are acceptable fodder for conversation? I live in a house full of concealed fears, hidden resentments. Why should mine alone be dragged mercilessly out into the open? Do I not have the same right as others to hide behind a shroud of depression or stubborn silence?

  An acrid resentment lodged in her throat as Esther stared fixedly at the plate she was scrubbing for a needlessly long time. Why did she feel the unbearable urge to let the veil slip, to unburden herself to this improbable Islamic confessor? Even now, Akram Hafizi studied her profile as if expecting something. As the last bolts ripped from the door frame of her heart, a flood of pent-up anguish gushed from her eyes in an irresistible flood.

  “Perhaps,” murmured the mullah after a very long pause. He began nodding slowly. “Yes, I think the Imam would be favorably disposed toward such an action. With my urging, and with the affixed signature and stamp of Ayatollah Kermani, the thing might be done. And perhaps, if his secretaries could be persuaded to draft the letter—”

  “I was thinking,” interrupted Ezra, “that I might impose upon you to draft the letter yourself.
I thought perhaps if the document were in your handwriting….”

  Hafizi chuckled, shaking his head in admiration. “Aga Solaiman, your brain is never still, I warrant. As you say, it would be better to have the letter ready for the Ayatollah’s signature.”

  “I realize,” said Ezra, toying with the handle of his coffee cup, “That this project is no small inconvenience for you, baradar. I want you to know what I am willing to do in exchange for this lifesaving favor.”

  The cleric put down his cup, his eyes resting on Ezra’s face with an attentive, but questioning look.

  Ezra felt his chest tightening with nervous apprehension. The next words he would utter, and the mullah’s response to them, would determine the success or failure of his plan. If Hafizi agreed to the terms, they might depart Iran within the week. If he didn’t, a bleak future stretched ahead; an endless round of fear, repression, and furtive efforts to survive in a hostile world. Everything hinged on the next moments.

  “If you can do this for me and my family,” Ezra said, pausing for a deep breath, “I will make a gift to you and Khanom Hafizi.” He stopped again, sucking in the air that was suddenly very rare in the study. “This house, and all its furnishings and grounds, shall be deeded to you. It will be yours to keep.”

  Hafizi’s look of curiosity metamorphosed slowly into one of disbelief. His jaw slackened, his eyes widened. He had been sitting toward the front of the leather-covered chair across the desk from Ezra; now he slumped down into the cushions as if the wind had suddenly gone out of him. Almost involuntarily, he stared about the room, wildly calculating the possible worth of the offer he had just heard. “Aga Solaiman! I could never—”