by Salar Abdoh
Well, it looks like haj agha has finally given his go-ahead. He gestures to the man from the prosecutor’s office who in turn tells the uniforms to get out of the way. Next, he sends out a loud salevat and the crowd repeats after him. It’s time. Suddenly there’s fresh, pulsating energy in the crowd. Three stones simultaneously fly at Elika. None hit her though. Everybody turns to see who threw them. In court they’d said that the witnesses who testified against her should go first, then the rest of the crowd could follow.
The fourth stone finally hits Elika square in the forehead. There’s blood now between her eyebrows. Elika barely bats an eye. Her gaze remains on the women and men facing her.
I know what she’s thinking: she’s hoping that Liza won’t show up, after all. The stoning has begun and it’s too late now to try to save her. You see, the video that doomed Elika had nothing to do with the woman in that hole. That wasn’t Elika in the video. The couple in the porn scene had both worn masks. So it is only they who can prove the woman was not Elika. But how would they know what their little film has accomplished? And even if they knew, why should they come forward? So that they can take Elika’s place? I don’t think so! Liza promised she’d move mountains to find that couple and bring them in to testify. But we already knew that was just wishful thinking.
And by now I’m sure all Elika wants is for this to be over.
It’s also what I want.
The crowd’s aim is getting better. A small rock hits her left ear. Another smacks her shoulder. The law says if the condemned can pull herself out of the hole she’ll be set free. It’s exactly the same thing when they hang a man and the rope doesn’t hold: they have to let him go. I’m sure she could pull herself out if she tried hard enough. She’d blossom then like a fresh plant growing out of the earth. Like her very own name, in fact. I’ll never forget the time we were all sitting in the park smoking when she finally told us what her name really meant. Elika, the Mother of the Earth.
Elika, rooting out of the ground.
Most of the men’s hands are shaking. They can’t meet each other’s eyes. A lot of them did not want to be here, I’m sure. But they had to show their faces for the sake of haj agha. They had to prove to each other they’re pious men. They can barely look Elika’s way though. Which is why most of their stones don’t meet the target.
Yet the stones get bigger. One of them eventually hits Elika’s hand with such force that you can hear the wrist bone cracking. It’s the same wrist that always held her expensive gold bracelet. She’d given it to me that day when haj agha’s men came for her. “Take it. I don’t want it to fall in their hands.” Then she’d called Kati and handed over her ring too, the ring Ali agha had given her. She knew how much Kati loved that ring, and of course Kati loved that ring because she loved Ali agha, our neighborhood carpenter. But the man was all work and no play. We’d made a bet on him. Kati insisted there was not a man on earth who would stay faithful for long. Except maybe the prophet Adam, and that was only because in his particular sad case there wasn’t a second option. And so Kati had tried every trick in the book, but Ali agha wouldn’t take the bait. Until finally Elika invited him one day to the house to take a look at our “broken” dining table.
There’s a little kid who can barely stay in his skin from excitement. His stone lands on Elika’s forehead, again. More blood. Elika’s hands don’t move to protect her face. That woman was right: those hands should not even be outside of the hole. Why are they? This is a stoning performed incompetently. Nothing’s been done right. They seem unable to kill her with a measure of efficiency and compassion.
I look everywhere to see if Ali agha has shown up. He hasn’t. After that first time with Elika, he came around several more times. And every time with a different excuse—he’d forgotten his measuring tape, he had to sand the table leg a little bit more, he had to make sure the whole thing was steady. And he left more money afterward. Liza quipped that he’d probably consulted with the other men in the neighborhood and found out we only gave discounts the first time around. Kati didn’t like any jokes about Ali agha though. One time she’d taken the money he’d left for Elika and tenderly rubbed it on her own eyes before giving it back to her: “You’ve worked hard for it, love. Enjoy.”
Elika’s eyes are tired. No one’s hit them yet. Bull’s-eye. The smaller kids are mostly hanging around Taher. They point to their fathers’ hopeless pitches and laugh. Taher really grew this past year. It was his stone hitting our door that warned us they were coming for Elika. Now this other stone he throws today only scrapes Elika’s ear. One stone for another; we’re even now. I remember the first time Elika noticed Taher outside our house. It was a mourning day for some imam. Black flags all over the neighborhood. Elika was standing out there waiting for a bike messenger to arrive as Taher passed by. I was inside watching them through the window and failing at studying for my end-of-term college exams. Elika said something, and I saw Taher’s eyes zero in on her painted toenails. The good thing about sixteen-to-seventeen-year-old boys was they finished fast and took off running. We loved their innocence. We’d do them for free and charge their fathers twice as much. I remember thinking back then how Elika could really teach Taher a few things. Things agha Nosrat, Taher’s dad, could never teach him. Agha Nosrat himself came to us at least once a month. And his wife, who knew us only as college students from the provinces, brought us aash sometimes. Elika loved her cooking and would run her tongue all over the bowl till the last bit of food was gone. Kati always laughed at that: “If she only knew what else that belongs to her you’ve sucked on, she’d strangle you with those huge hands of hers.”
Now Taher lays a hand on his father and says something to him. Reluctantly, agha Nosrat bends down to pick up a stone. He examines it carefully, probably trying to make sure there are no sharp edges to it. He looks weary and frustrated. He puts little into throwing the rock and it lands far from Elika. Taher lowers his head and begins walking away. Agha Nosrat goes up to haj agha and bids him goodbye before following his son. Father and son look like a couple with bad hangovers. They can hardly walk straight as they disappear from sight.
I notice a newcomer to the scene and immediately know it’s Liza. She’s wearing an expensive-looking chador and trying not to be noticed. But how could I not know it’s her? I can even tell that under the chador her body is shaking and she’s weeping. No, she was not able to find the witnesses; she could not save Elika. Whatever made her think she could? I turn my attention back to Elika. There seems to be a pause in the stone-throwing. The scarf over her head is sticky with blood and she looks like she might pass out. But then she too notices Liza and suddenly straightens her neck and opens her eyes wide, as if to show Liza she should not be afraid.
Could it be that the austere haj agha is having second thoughts? Now he’s decided to remind everyone that the law says the condemned can save herself and be pardoned if she can climb out. But why would Elika want a pardon? So she can go back to that same husband, Sayan, who disappeared on her eight years ago and only sent his friends back now to testify against her as an adulterer? The second time they’d met, Elika told us, he’d taken her to the rooftop of his place and pretended he needed a hand to help fix their air conditioner. One thing led to another and by the time Sayan’s mother and sister caught them up there, it was too late to put their clothes back on. Sayan’s mother had smiled a big smile and said something ridiculous about how boys would always be boys and this was quite all right in her book. The way Elika described it, maman joon seemed so proud of her son just then she looked like she might make a grab for his thing and give it a big kiss for good measure.
One of the men in the back of the crowd addresses haj agha. He’s asking a question, but haj agha hasn’t heard him. So he repeats the question. Something about the number of stones that the law allows the crowd to use. Haj agha picks up the microphone and gives another one of his little lectures—he tells us there’s no definite agreement about the number of sto
nes. Some say they should be limited, others say people should use as many as needed to finish off the condemned. Saying this, haj agha finally picks up a piece of rock himself. He’s cool and patient and seems to be saying a quiet prayer before he hurls the rock. It hits Elika on her ear. The energy level of the crowd immediately goes up a couple of notches. Others gather up more rocks and start throwing with renewed vigor.
The women don’t throw anything. But the kids have made a sport out of it by now. They’re taking bets amongst themselves and goading each other. And there’s that one little kid who never misses. One of his tosses breaks Elika’s nose. The kid does a little dance with that hit. It’s like he’s discovering himself for the very first time.
Elika, or what’s left of her, takes her eyes off Liza and throws me a desperate glance. What is it she wants to tell me? That she’s afraid even at this late stage someone might arrive to stop all this before it’s over? That had been the curse of her marriage too—an untimely arrival. Back then Sayan had already disappeared from her life for nine months, then suddenly one day he reappears and insists they finally get married. I figure every woman has to try to turn a new page at least once in her life. And that one time for Elika was Sayan’s marriage offer. Within half a year he had gone through all her savings, and after six months he disappeared from her life altogether. Only to reappear eight years later with a porn film and false witnesses.
That kid won’t quit throwing one stone after another. He has a nearly perfect score. I can barely see Elika’s face now. It looks like some strange fruit swelling out of the earth and surrounded by buzzing flies that can’t get enough of the blood caking the dirt around it. The neighborhood crowd pulls back. Even those guys who are not from around here have stopped and are amusing themselves by taking pictures with their cell phones.
She always did want to be surrounded by people who couldn’t stop taking pictures of her. She said a day would come when she’d be a supermodel and she’d take care of us, her best friends, her sisters. She ate little, always mindful of her figure. And sometimes in the house she did a catwalk for us, pretending to throw flowers to her fans and signing autographs. She never got tired of this and we never got tired of laughing with her when she strutted up and down the hall waving at all the invisible admirers.
The click-clicks of an orchestra of cell phones taking her picture continues. Elika has finally gotten her wish.
That same kid hasn’t stopped, and catches a piece of rock smack on Elika’s mouth. Her head is thrown back from the impact. This boy’s a natural. They should bring him to every stoning within driving distance.
Her face is grisly now. And when she turns a bit to try to smile at me, I notice that there’s a wide gap in her bloody mouth. Her front teeth are all broken. I glance Liza’s way but she’s no longer there. I don’t blame her for leaving. I intend to stay, though, right to the end of it. As for Kati, she had said there was no way she could be a witness to this.
Haj agha has also sent word that there is no point in me and Kati and Liza staying in Salehabad after this.
But look at that kid throw! Such courage. He’s run out of stones and now he does something that quiets the crowd: he starts walking toward Elika. Haj agha raises a hand telling the crowd not to throw anything. A voice calls to the boy and asks him where he thinks he’s going. But the kid continues on, as if in a trance. Around Elika there is a heap of stones of all shapes and sizes, many of them wet with her blood. Her head looks like a puppet’s now; it’s slack and wobbly, her face an obscene veil of blood through which she still seems to see. Because now something like a grin comes over her and her crushed fingers move slightly and point at the biggest stone near her face. The boy picks it up to examine it but immediately throws it away. The thing is all bloody. He retreats a bit and then comes closer again; he sits on his haunches and stares at Elika. It is as if a toy of his had suddenly done something odd. Elika’s grin is gone. She waits, only half conscious. The boy selects the stones he wants, taking only dry ones. He carries a bellyful of them in his upturned shirt and goes back to where he’d been standing. He lays the stones at his feet, then glancing up at Elika he chooses the biggest one he can find, spits on it, and gets ready to throw. Elika raises her head as best as she can. She’s ready. They both are.
The kid’s arm goes back. But at that moment a man slaps the stone out of his hand with such force that the thing rolls away to where haj agha is standing. The man delivers another hard slap at the boy’s neck and, pinching his ears, drags him away from there. The crowd watches them leave, first with awe and then disappointment. It’s as if with the boy’s leaving their last hope is gone and now they have no idea what to do next. Everyone looks at one another in confusion. No one knows what to do. So no one does anything.
The wind has picked up and there is an odd smell in the air. No more stones are being thrown. Life has gone out of this crowd. Maybe they’re all just waiting for the job to be done so they can complete the prayer for the dead behind haj agha and get away. Maybe they’re just tired and hungry. Most of them had shown up here right after the morning prayer. They haven’t even had breakfast. The merchants must be itching to get to the local teahouse for their usual morning fare of bread, eggs, and tea before opening shop and beginning the day fresh. But nobody seems to want to be the one who throws the last rock.
What’s left of Elika is turned my way. I cannot see her eyes anymore but I know what she’s asking. She’s lost hope that the people of Salehabad will finish this. Why won’t someone in this crowd do something—one of these upstanding citizens who is determined to keep the foundations of his family and religion strong? Why doesn’t someone try to prove to haj agha how manly and devout he is? Why doesn’t someone, anyone, accept the last pitch?
I bend down and pick up the biggest piece of rock I can find. It’s huge, way bigger than what the law allows. I have a sure aim. And I never miss when it really, really matters most.
PART IV
THE EXECUTIONER'S SONG
BRIDGE OF SIMON
BY YOURIK KARIM-MASIHI
Narmak
The people of Narmak and Zarkesh were wary of the canal that passed through their neighborhoods. Especially after that year when rains caused the waterline to come up a good two meters. That was the year Rafik’s brother fell in and they eventually located his body dozens of miles away south of Tehran. Rafik’s older brother had been a handsome young man. Handsome and smart. Which was all the more strange that he should have acted so rashly at the treacherous canal. He’d seen his girlfriend coming his way from the other end of the Bridge of Simon and tried to show off for her by hanging from the outside railings. Needless to say, he never got to her.
From then on Rafik’s father refused to set eyes on the canal and that accursed bridge. He’d plead with his younger son to do the same. But Rafik wouldn’t hear of it. This was absurd. The Bridge of Simon was the fastest, easiest way for him to get to the Narmak quarter where his cousin Edvin and their best friend Kamran lived.
Still, there was something about that canal, like a border of some sort. On one end of it were the people of Narmak, with a sizable population of Armenian Christians like Rafik’s cousin Edvin. Narmak was also a much better-looking neighborhood than Zarkesh. But Zarkesh could boast that to be from there meant your word was your honor; a guy from Zarkesh never betrayed a partner. For the three friends, though, all this was just a lot of empty words. They were inseparable. And now that summer was coming to an end and there was nothing much to do but wait for another school year, they were more inseparable than ever.
One of those late-summer mornings Rafik started out as usual to meet his friends. The previous day, Edvin’s father had gone on and on about all the improvements they’d done on Intersection 62 in Narmak and how you couldn’t compare it with anything else in the quarter. So the three boys finally decided to see what all the fuss was about.
But rain was coming down hard that morning. For a minute Rafik hesitat
ed. Then he just pulled his rain hoodie on tight and headed toward the Bridge of Simon. He hadn’t gone far when to the left of the canal the flashing lights of several police cars caught his attention. They were all parked in front of a house with its front door open. Uniforms came and went. Something had happened there. It was wet and windy and nobody paid Rafik any mind as he made his way toward the place. Soon he was hanging about one of the windows to the house when a policeman stuck his head out and started shouting.
“Officer Ahmadi! Get over here on the double. This one’s a mess. I need you.”
The cop disappeared inside. Rafik stepped closer to the window. At first he could only see people standing and talking. Then, when a couple of them shifted around, he saw something on the floor that he couldn’t quite make out right away. He rubbed his face to get the rain out of his eyes.
That thing inside was a body.
The lone body of a woman folded over a single stair, or more like a raised platform dividing two of the rooms. Her disheveled black hair covered most of the step, but you could still see the bloodstain next to her head. Rafik took a step back, his mouth agape. He felt a chill in his body. That same moment he saw the policeman who had been calling for Officer Ahmadi storming back to the window.
“What are you doing here, boy? You belong to this house? If you don’t belong here, get going. Yallah, get going right now!”
