Among the Ruins

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “Or you could come home,” she added, sounding wistful.

  “Believe me, I’d like to. I think I owe it to my newfound friends to try to get at an answer. If I can’t make progress on my end, I’ll deal with Touka and book the next flight home.”

  “What about this other stuff, sir? This lot Zahra was interested in—our lot, she said. Do you think it means Ward 209?”

  An unpleasant recollection forced itself to the forefront of Khattak’s thoughts. After the mass arrest of protesters, many had disappeared. Later, a rumor had emerged of the purchase of a secret plot of land inside Tehran’s cemetery, Behesht-e Zahra, a graveyard for the missing.

  Could this be the “lot” on Zahra’s mind? Not a prison ward but a grave?

  Zahra had begun inquiring about the lot after her last known contact with Mehran, who hadn’t been heard from in weeks. And then she had sought out Charlotte Rafferty, but what connection could an archivist at a Canadian museum have to a graveyard in Tehran?

  He agreed with Rachel’s conclusion that this was a case where none of the connections were apparent, even to a seasoned detective. He listened with interest to her tales of Vicky and Nate. Then she asked him about “the Yellows.”

  “Do you think it could mean an offshoot of the Greens?”

  Khattak wasn’t familiar with the name. He would need to ask the Green Birds if there had been a reference to the Yellows in Roxana’s letters. He searched his memory. Changing our green feathers to yellow. He’d assumed it meant the fear the regime had stoked with its crackdown. He would ask about this and about the burial plot in Behesht-e Zahra, to find out if it was more than rumor.

  “Talk to Franklin Yang. Make that your first priority.”

  They discussed the possibility of recovering Zahra’s body through Nate’s or Sehr’s contacts. Khattak gave Rachel his unvarnished views—nothing could be done on that score. He ended the call. The timer was set to delete his record of it.

  As much safety as he could hope for, if Larijani was on his trail.

  37

  Interrogation

  “Your sister is here, did you know? She’s Radan’s little Kurdish slut. She moans for him like a whore. She gets on her knees—she likes it.” I smile, so they break my teeth. “If she’s here, show me, let me see her.” There’s a hole in my lower lip, blood everywhere. “You’ll see her when we’ve finished. You can have a turn, unless you want one of us.” Uproarious laughter.

  When it comes to sexual pathology, the Catholic Church has nothing on the mullahs.

  I try not to think of Nasreen.

  38

  When Esa reached his guesthouse in the evening, Ali and Taraneh were waiting for him, dressed casually in jeans and sweaters, Taraneh with a black coat over her clothes and a blue scarf that framed the waves of her hair. They greeted him, falling into step.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Esa said. “You shouldn’t risk a connection with me.”

  Taraneh smiled at him pertly, but Ali seemed to weigh his words. His face was pale, his eyes searched out the shadows in the street.

  “We’re in this,” he said. “It’s too late to back out now. Tell us what you’ve learned.”

  Esa recounted his meeting with Maryam. Ali listened, frowning. He came to a decision.

  “Come with us. There’s something we need to show you.”

  “What about Larijani? What if he’s watching?”

  “We’ve thought of a reasonable cover. Have you ever seen a ta’zieh performed?”

  Khattak shook his head. The martyrdom of Hossein at the battle of Karbala was reenacted as a passion play called the ta’zieh in the month of Muharrem. It was observed as a period of mourning on the Islamic calendar. Hossein had been killed on the tenth of Muharrem—the date of his death known as Ashura, the Day of Remembrance. The ta’zieh was a commemoration of his death that excited a display of public grief akin to the reenactment of the Crucifixion.

  An imperfect analogy but the closest Esa could come to articulating its appeal.

  Though the ta’zieh was a tradition exclusive to Shia Islam, the martyrdom of Hossein was mourned across the Muslim world, bridging all divides, and understood at its heart as an act of profound moral consequence: Hossein’s martyrdom represented a stand against tyranny. It had been co-opted by the Green Movement as a strategy of resistance to expose the regime’s hypocrisy.

  Esa had participated in Shia religious gatherings at friends’ homes as a child, but the storytelling that took place during these jalasehs or majlises was different from the enactment of a passion play. He wondered at the ta’zieh’s impact. He preferred to think of himself as being guided by a cool and rational mind, but it was possible he might be affected by the performance.

  Then he stopped to consider. The Iranian new year was a week away, a time of celebration. The passion play was reserved for the month of mourning.

  “Who would perform a ta’zieh now?”

  Ali looked uncomfortable, like a man trying to convince himself he’d taken the necessary precautions against arrest.

  “We will. We’ve gotten quite good at it, you’ll be impressed. It’s our cover story for meeting. We formed an amateur troupe of players to convince anyone who might be watching us we’ve turned over a new leaf. I don’t know if it fools the regime, but it’s how we shore up our credentials.”

  Esa didn’t think the regime would be as sanguine. He nodded at Taraneh.

  “Surely women don’t participate in the performance?”

  “Please don’t worry about us,” she said sweetly. “We’ll be assigned our proper role, preparing the haft-seen for the new year’s celebrations, leaving the men to their rightful place.”

  He accepted the rebuke, knowing he’d earned it.

  “We’re meeting at Omid’s house with other members of the Greens. We use Omid’s courtyard as a stage, it’s close enough to theater in the round.”

  “I thought the ta’zieh was banned in the cities.”

  “If we’re interrupted, we’ll call it a village entertainment. You said you needed to know more about Zahra’s movements. She met with us several times. When we couldn’t meet in person, we used Omid’s house as a drop zone.”

  “A drop zone?”

  Ali shook his head impatiently. “I don’t know the right phrase in English. A place we could leave each other messages. That’s what I want to show you.”

  Khattak asked them about the Yellows.

  “Are they another group of activists like the Green Birds? Does the name mean anything to you?”

  Neither of them had heard of the name. They didn’t know why Zahra had written the words in her date book—there was no such group that they knew of.

  Taraneh spotted a taxi and flagged it down. Khattak held the door for her, Ali followed. Khattak chose a spot in the front seat beside the driver, letting himself be talked into the outing.

  * * *

  Esfahan at night was a traveler’s paradise. The domes and towers of Naqsh-e Jahan shone like planets illumined by miniature suns, the park a black band of stars. They disembarked at the south end of Siosepol Bridge, a Safavid construction mounted on a series of pontoons. Its thirty-three arches burned like the embers of a giant’s torch, an auroral glow reflected in the river. If a sorcerer had flung open his hand, so might the arches of Siosepol have sprung up.

  It was the largest of eleven bridges to span the Zayanderud River.

  Its pedestrian walkways were lined with trees that lifted in the breeze like the arms of ballerinas. Khattak and the others were hemmed in against the crush of families enjoying an evening excursion. Notes of almond blossom and lemon drifted through the air, tinged by a hint of camphor. Folk songs thrummed through the buzz of the crowd, groups of men gathered to sing. And the water, lying like a black pelt, carried the sound away.

  It was a long walk over the bridge past the teahouse on the southern bank.

  “Will I be meeting any of your families?”

  Esa
was thinking of the flowers he’d failed to take to Maryam Ghorbani, the crumpled rose petals in her hands a reminder of what remained to be done, the rituals of grief he should have personally observed.

  “Just the Green Birds,” Ali said. “We planned it that way.”

  Taraneh’s eyes flicked to his. Esa thought it better not to ask about Nasreen. Taraneh was still an unknown quantity, he didn’t know why she had joined the Greens, or if she was serious about the movement’s goals. Life seemed to lie lightly upon Taraneh, ideas darting through her mind like butterflies at a trellis. He imagined her drawn to the excitement of these clandestine meetings. If Zahra had shared her secrets with a member of the Green Birds, he didn’t think it would be Taraneh.

  Who, then? Omid? Nasreen?

  * * *

  As the players began their rehearsal in the courtyard, Ali urged Esa up the stairs that led to the roof. Here the night was quiet, a circle of deepening blues above their heads, bathed in the glow from the arches of Siosepol. Someone on a neighboring roof was smoking a bittersweet tobacco. Esa felt his heart twist. The scene was imbued with an indelible nostalgia.

  He remembered what had brought him to Esfahan.

  Omid called Ali back to the courtyard.

  “We’re stuck on a passage, come help.”

  “Wait here,” Ali said to Khattak. “I’ll send someone to show you around.”

  Khattak held up his glass. He was captured by the magic of a night where lights bobbed above rose-scented rooftops. He felt a surge of longing, thinking of his grandfather’s house in Peshawar. The family had gathered on the rooftop terrace in the evenings, the television news playing on a muted screen, trays of fruit in the center of a handwoven carpet, while his cousins had served him tea and his sister, Ruksh, had lain with her eyes closed and her head in their grandmother’s lap. The coconut oil in her hair had mingled with the scent of jasmine. The faded notes of film songs had floated up to the terrace.

  Omid’s house reminded him of Peshawar. The room behind Esa was lit with lamps, a gauzy light filtering through the curtains. It was sparsely furnished with low settees, a wooden desk, and embroidered hangings in shades of blue. The wall facing Esa was papered with a thick damask whose floral pattern had peeled away at the edges.

  “May I bring you more tea?”

  Nasreen didn’t use Esa’s name or his title or any customary form of address. When she spoke to him, Esa realized he’d expected her to come.

  “Have you come to tell me Zahra’s secrets?”

  He set down his glass on the low stone wall of the roof.

  She had materialized from the night, her dress an indigo blue, her scarf a white drift about her neck, its band of swallows obscured by the dusk. A glance at her speaking, dark eyes, her face dim and pale, gave him the very real impression he was looking at a ghost. She put a hand to the curve of her hair, and it passed.

  She cleared her throat as if she hadn’t spoken in days, her voice a little hoarse.

  “I’ll show you the wall,” she said.

  She flung the doors of the room open.

  Khattak followed her into the room, noticing her habit of leaving enough space that a third person could have walked between them. Saneh, the shadow-twin? Missing in Kahrizak or just missed? Both, he thought. Her long white fingers were questing, seeking the empty spaces for her brother.

  “There’s nothing in this room.” He made the words a query.

  Nasreen beckoned him to the wall where the paper had peeled.

  “Ali and Omid said to show you, but I don’t know if you want to carry this.”

  The thin skin beneath her eyes looked bruised. She was bearing the weight of a missing brother, a brother who if returned to her one day would no longer be recognizable as the one who’d left.

  “Zahra came here?” He ran a careful hand over the blue-and-gold damask, surprised at its smooth texture. It was tack paper, the damask a printed illusion.

  “This room is known to the Greens. They leave each other messages on the wall.”

  She stood on tiptoe, reaching up to a peeling corner.

  Esa wanted to assist her, but felt himself too close to her.

  She rolled down the paper without his help, curling it into a scroll.

  She watched him, her fingers playing with the gold charms at her neck.

  Esa took stock of the wall. And realized Roxana had written of this.

  Read the writing on the wall.

  There were messages in Farsi on the wall, as well as cartoons, slogans, and in some instances, the moody drawings of artists sketched in chalks or brisk sweeps of charcoal. Meeting places and times were scribbled over or scratched out. In one corner, a spray of hashtags fanned out, testifying to the reach of social media.

  #Iranelection, #stolenelection, #SeaofGreen, #GreenWave, #GreenMovement, #whereismyvote, #Neda, #IamNeda, #22Khordad, #25Bahman, #FreeJason, #FreeSaneh, #journalismisnotacrime, #IranFreedom, #StopExecutions, #humanrights, and countless others.

  One of the drawings depicted a writer seated before a piece of paper with a pen in one hand. A badge with the word “journalist” was fixed below the collar of her blouse. A giant pair of scissors gaped open at her neck. When Esa looked at it closely, he realized the eye ring of the scissors formed a pair of shackles around the writer’s wrists. If she tried to write, the blades would shear her neck, severing her jugular vein.

  “Who drew this?” Esa asked.

  A faint smile touched Nasreen’s lips.

  “No one signs their name, Inspector. The wall is dangerous enough as it is. In your country, the press is unrestricted, isn’t it? Journalists are free to hold the government to account.”

  Esa thought of the corporatized cable news. Talking heads discussed regions they’d never visited, making dangerous assumptions about peoples and cultures they didn’t know, and languages they couldn’t access. He contrasted this with the hazards risked by journalists in authoritarian states. Turkey, Iran, and China ranked at the top of a list of countries where a journalist’s demand for accountability could lead to detention without trial. Journalists were often disappeared for daring to publish the truth, a list of names that lengthened like a bloodstain.

  Nasreen came to stand beside him, the tag ends of her scarf grazing his arm, a flight of birds on his sleeve. He held his breath. He could sense the anarchy of her emotions. The restlessness of her fingers, the tamped-down fury that kept the lines of her face taut, the brittle energy she exuded, enraged by her loss.

  He wondered which of the outpourings on the wall was hers.

  Each week I go to visit him, I pray not to see Kahrizak again.

  We speak in whispers, frightened of the air around us.

  The voice of my torturer has faded. Its echo haunts my body.

  Their public confessions are like public gang rape.

  The writing bled over into other segments of the wallpaper, a forlorn query segregated by itself: Why do all roads lead to Evin?

  In a large, imperfect Arabic script, someone had written Allah.

  He couldn’t see which of these messages was connected to Zahra.

  “Did you know Zahra well?”

  Nasreen drew his attention to a scribbled note at eye level.

  “This is Zahra’s. And this.”

  Two words beneath a well-executed drawing in chalk.

  Esa scrutinized the words scribbled in a cramped hand, the letters nearly on top of each other. It was a name, or possibly a location—Jeb Tavern, the J and the n extended in flourishes. He peered closer. No, there was more to it. It was Jebby Taverner, a name then. And decidedly not an Iranian name. Jebby, he thought. Jacob? Jedediah?

  Next he examined the drawing, a shaded rectangle on a horizontal axis, inset with parallel lines, one corner at the top shaved off. It looked like a wooden frame except the interior of the frame was sectioned in parallel lines just like the frame itself. It resembled something else.

  He searched for a number buried in the drawing: L
ot 209. There wasn’t one. Maybe Zahra hadn’t dared to add it, hoping the drawing would be enough.

  “It’s a coffin,” he said. “Why did she draw a coffin? Is it for Roxana?”

  Nasreen flinched from the words. She touched the necklace at her throat again, dislodging it from the folds of her scarf. Now Khattak could see what the charms were, three tiny stars strung side by side. She had pressed the imprint of them into her neck.

  “If it’s anyone’s coffin, it’s Zahra’s. We don’t know Roxana is dead.” Her voice became rough. “We don’t know Saneh is.”

  “Forgive me, that was thoughtless of me.” Khattak touched her shoulder. She stiffened and moved away.

  “Tell me about your brother,” he said. “Tell me what you know about Zahra.”

  “Please,” she said. “Roll up the paper and seal it.”

  Khattak obeyed, taking a quick photograph of the name and sketch and sending it to Rachel with a question mark. He snapped a few additional photographs of the wall. Like his other messages, it was timed to self-destruct. When he’d finished, he joined Nasreen on the terrace. She was leaning against the wall watching the ta’zieh. The players had divided into groups on opposite sides of the courtyard. The characters who represented supporters of Hossein wore white robes with emerald turbans. Hossein’s enemies were dressed in black with thick red bandannas wrapped around their foreheads. A few of the players had veiled their faces, assuming female roles.

  Khattak looked for a third staging area, typically given over to the seat of the usurper, the Caliph Yazid who’d ordered the deaths of Hossein’s family. Instead, where the players in black were assembled, a dais had been raised. A young man with an imperious white turban presided over the gathering, an attendant in black to either side. The young man was Omid Arabshahi.

  The players in white fell on their knees. Like their turbans, their armbands were emerald green. Darius and Ali were at the center of this group. Classical music played in the background.

  An uneasy feeling settled in Khattak’s stomach.

  This was supposed to be a traditional ta’zieh. The players should have formed a line, moving in time to the music’s rhythms. And where was Shemr, Hossein’s executioner?