by Salar Abdoh
“Sure you did. Maybe you just got a little overexcited. Admit it!”
“I didn’t kill anyone. And I wasn’t drunk. I loved her. And you want to make a murderer out of me.”
“Don’t tell me someone else was there! Don’t give me lies. Do you understand, Armenian? You’re insulting my intelligence, Armenian.”
* * *
The Criminal Investigation Department building was crowded. Kamran made Rafik’s father stand back while he spoke with the chief investigator on Rafik’s case.
“Detective, I’m sure there’s been mistake about Rafik Mahmudi.”
“So you’re an expert in murder cases?”
“I mean, there’s no way my best friend would do something like this.”
The investigator offered a thin smile. “Sure, we all know of your friend’s innocence.”
This was how it had gone the past few days, ever since Rafik’s father had called Kamran and asked if Rafik was with him after not coming home the previous night. They’d waited and waited. And when there was still no word from Rafik, they’d driven together to the local police station. Still nothing. It was on their way back from the police that there was finally a call. Rafik was in custody at the Criminal Investigation Department. But there was no way they’d be allowed to see him now. Even a visit to the Armenian rep at the parliament hadn’t helped. Now in the hallways of the CID, Kamran looked so spent that Rafik’s father understood there was little chance left for his son.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” the old man said. “What did that cop say to you?”
Kamran’s voice cracked and he couldn’t meet the old man’s eyes. “We’ll fight it, Uncle Garnik. We’ll do whatever it takes for Rafik.”
“I’ll put down the deed to my house as collateral until his court date.”
“It’s a lot more serious than that, Uncle Garnik. They won’t release him on bail. You already know that.”
The old man moaned, “His mother won’t survive this one.”
“I know it,” Kamran said, glancing away.
* * *
It turned out as they’d predicted: not long after Rafik’s guilty verdict was read, his mother passed on. They’d done all they could to save Rafik’s life. Even the chief investigator for the case had had a talk with the victim’s brother when he came back from Europe for the court date. As her closest relative, Hengameh’s brother insisted in court on qesas, an eye for an eye. And when the detective asked him how a guy who lived in a part of the world that didn’t believe in capital punishment could come here and insist on it, the brother had said that the pictures of the crime scene left him no choice. That and the fact that Rafik would not even admit to what he’d done.
And so Rafik’s execution was set for a year later.
It was a year during which Kamran did just about everything short of breaking Rafik out of jail. Now there were just two days left till the execution date. Kamran sat on the sofa with a blank face watching the twirls of steam rising from his teacup. He began to weep quietly. His wife noticed it and came and sat beside him.
“There’s nothing you didn’t do for him.”
“They’re going to kill him the day after tomorrow.” He sniffled like a child. “I talked to everyone I know. I got enough money together to buy his life back. But Hengameh’s brother won’t budge. He says it’s not blood money he wants. He wants justice. I thought since we all grew up together in the same neighborhood, maybe he’d show a little mercy for old time’s sake. I don’t know which bastard showed him the crime scene pictures. If only . . . I don’t know. I’ve failed my best friend.”
Kamran balled himself in a corner of the bedroom and continued to cry silently till dawn. In the morning he smiled at his anxious wife, kissed his daughter, and with an expression that betrayed a newfound sense of mission he headed out the door.
It took some time being passed around at the prosecutor’s office before he finally found the right man to talk to.
“My name is Kamran Abrishami. I’ve come to confess to the murder of Hengameh Farahbakhsh.”
The assistant attorney for the execution of verdicts stared back at Kamran, nonplussed. At last he said, “Well, well, Mr. Abrishami! So you are saying Rafik Mahmudi is innocent?”
“He is.”
“Tell me, how long have you two known each other?”
“Forever.”
“Right. So you must be truly like brothers if you’re willing to make this sacrifice for him.”
“It is not a sacrifice. I’m telling the truth. I’m willing to make a statement and sign it right now.”
“Listen, man. I assume you have a family. Right? But that guy, he’s single. And an Armenian on top of it. Why do you want to destroy yourself for a creature like that?”
“Because he’s not the murderer. I am. This is my last chance to make it right. Tomorrow they’re going to put the rope on an innocent man.”
“I understand your friend is from Zarkesh. I’ve heard things about that neighborhood. They say folks from there stay true to their people.”
Kamran stared at the ground. “But I’m not from there. I’m from next door, the Narmak quarter.”
“Same difference.”
“Not at all.”
The attorney seemed to lose patience now. “All right, let’s do this: instead of wasting each other’s time with empty words like honor and sacrifice, how about we get down to what really matters? I’ll ask you a simple question. If you answer correctly, we’ll continue. If not, I want you to go home and let us get on with our work.”
“I’m ready.”
“Here are the facts: One, the victim’s windows all had metal guards. Two, the neighbors were behind her door almost immediately after she was killed. Three, besides your friend, the police found no one else in that house.”
“I know all this, yes.”
“Then can you tell me how you managed to get out of there without being seen?”
Kamran was staring at the young attorney, who in turn was staring back at him with a got-you look. Another few seconds passed before Kamran finally answered: “In the storage room next to the backyard there is a closet with wall-to-wall carpeting. But if you pull the carpet back, you’ll see a hidden trapdoor that connects to the boiler room.”
Less than a half hour later word came back that Kamran Abrishami’s account was true. The first thing the attorney did was to revoke Rafik Mahmudi’s order of execution. Next, a new file had to be opened for Kamran.
“Why did you kill Hengameh Farahbakhsh?”
“I wanted to see her. But she said she didn’t want to see me anymore. I couldn’t resist. I went to her place that night. She didn’t have to open the door. But I knew she would if I made noise. She was always afraid of the neighbors being in her business.”
“And?”
“And . . . I saw it all. I saw the coffee brewing in the kitchen. The two cups. She must have had a guest or she was waiting for someone. She was mocking me. Said I made her sick. We hadn’t even been seeing each other that long. I asked for one last kiss. One last kiss and I’d be out of her life forever. She mentioned the old cut on my lip. How it made her want to throw up. This from a woman who had always said how much she loved my scar. I lost it then. Hengameh was wearing that black dress and looking lovelier than ever. But now me and my lip made her sick. She told me to get out. And she started walking with the tray toward the living room. I still didn’t know if anyone was there. And the last person I would have thought of finding there was Rafik. I wasn’t thinking straight anymore. I picked up the statuette of a samurai I’d given her myself. I hit her as hard as I could. And that tray, it flew, and what a noise it made. Only then did I realize what I’d done. I heard footsteps running downstairs. People calling her name, knocking on her door. I was afraid. The first time I was ever at her place, she’d showed me the escape hatch to the boiler room. She’d even caressed my ugly lip when she said it: Just in case I ever need you to get out of here quickly. I to
ok the samurai I’d hit her with and ran out of there. I don’t know where the statue is now; I threw it off the Bridge of Simon that same evening.”
Kamran’s confession was done. There was a lot of commotion and coming and going for the next hour until the attorney came and faced him.
“Well, Mr. Abrishami, this changes things a bit, doesn’t it? We are releasing your friend, your so-called brother whom you held out on for a whole year and almost sent to his death.”
Looking utterly worn-out, Kamran asked if he could see Rafik for just one minute.
“Out of the question. It’s against the rules.”
“But I already made my confession,” he pleaded. “I’ll see him in your presence if you like. Please . . . accept this last request of an already-dead man. I don’t want to leave this world without him hearing it from my own mouth. We are brothers and were both in love with the same woman.”
Rafik was brought in. As soon as his eyes fell on Kamran, he went over and hugged him. Then quietly, so no one else in the room could hear, he whispered to his friend, “I knew today was the day you’d come for me.”
NOT EVERY BULLET IS MEANT FOR A KING
BY HOSSEIN ABKENAR
Shapur
Scene 1
The one holding the gun shouted, “All you motherfuckers lie on the floor right now!”
The bank’s customers began screaming and drawing close together before they all threw themselves to the floor. There was a chubby young soldier working security holding a cup of hot tea in one hand and an old G3 rifle on his shoulder. As soon as he tried to move, the lead robber smacked him in the face with the butt of his handgun. The soldier went down with his tea, the strap of the G3 still in his hand. He received a kick to the ribs and quickly let go of the weapon.
There were two of them. They both had black stockings drawn over their faces so that their eyes were hidden. One of them was slim and had long hair bunched up underneath the stocking. Robber #1, who was doing the shouting and the gun-waving, cursed some more, picked up the soldier’s gun, and gave it to Robber #2. Meanwhile the soldier, bleeding from the nose, slowly dragged himself to where the others were sprawled. Robber #2 appeared to have a bad leg and didn’t know how to hold the rifle properly. Nevertheless, he or she managed to smash the bank’s video camera with the rifle stock; the thing made a cracking sound and hung limp off of its hinges. In addition to the woman farther back at the safe-deposit desk, three other employees were still frozen behind the teller windows. Robber #1 now motioned them to join the others, which they did.
Since the bank manager was on vacation, his deputy sat in his chair to the side of the teller windows. The guy’s knees were shaking violently and he was desperately trying to find the alarm button beneath the table. He pressed on something with his foot but nothing happened. Now, with the eyes of Robber #1 on him, he slowly stood up like a kid who had been found out and tiptoed over to where the other captives were. Sitting next to him there had also been a bearded man, maybe around sixty, who had a set of red prayer beads in his hand. The man kept squeezing the side of his coat as he got up to follow the vice-manager. The two of them now stood together over another guy who sat on the floor as if he was about to eat his lunch there. This other man, looking bewildered and lost, had a newly shaven head that he kept scratching hard at with the edge of his mortgage booklet.
The safe-deposit woman was the only staff still left on the other side of the glass divider. Mechanically, she began pushing stacks of money that had been sitting on her table into the drawer. It was as if she were in a trance. The vice-manager noticed her doing this and his eyebrows went up in surprise; it was a good thing the bank robbers were not looking her way just then.
Scene 2
Zahra said, “Push the damn button!” Then she struck at the elevator button herself. You could still hear music from inside the apartment. Two young guys came out of there and ran toward the elevator. When its door closed, they about-faced and went for the stairway.
Inside the elevator, the other girl, Samira, could barely keep her eyes open. She pressed herself against Zahra. “You danced like a queen tonight.” She brought her face closer to kiss Zahra on the lips but Zahra pushed her away.
“How much did you drink? Your mouth smells like a toilet. Damn you, Samira!”
Samira continued laughing and trying to kiss Zahra with her eyes closed. When the elevator door opened, Zahra pulled her out of there while yanking her chador out of her bag. The sound of the guys’ footsteps was getting closer. She let go of Samira and threw the chador on.
One of the guys protested, “Zahra, you just got here. It’s not even nine thirty.”
“It’s late for me. I gotta go, Ali jaan.”
Arash whispered, “Did Milad say something to make you mad?”
Zahra glanced away. “Thanks for everything. Say goodbye to Rasul too. The cab’s waiting outside.”
“Do you want me to tell the driver to leave?” Arash volunteered. “One of us can drive you home later.”
Samira giggled and hung onto Zahra’s arm. “Come on! We were just starting to have fun. Let’s stay.”
Zahra’s voice was full of irritation: “It’s my mother. I’ve had a dozen missed calls from her already.”
“Oooh, Mrs. Mayor’s office!” Samira chuckled again.
“Shut up, Samira.”
“Do you need some gum at least?” Ali asked.
“But Zahra didn’t drink anything,” Samira said, giggling.
The phone in Zahra’s bag began to vibrate. “Goodbye, guys.”
Scene 3
The flimsy shopping bag’s handle tore out of Puri’s hand and several of the oranges went rolling down the street. Before she could get to them, a passing motorcycle crushed one of them and raced on.
Puri sighed, then laughed in resignation when she saw Milad had caught up to her and was already salvaging the oranges that hadn’t been damaged.
“Let me take the bags for you,” he said.
“It’s like you descended from the sky, Milad jaan.” She gave him the bags but held onto the two big round flatbreads. “Thank you.”
They walked past the local barbershop. Milad slowed down and got the guy’s attention and pointed to his own head. I’ll be back, he pantomimed.
The barber nodded and went about his work.
Puri said, “Why do you want to cut it? You look great with a ponytail.”
“I’m tired of it, to be honest.”
They walked several more blocks in easy silence until Puri stopped in front of an alms box and dropped a small bill in there. “I can take it from here.”
“No, let me help you. I don’t live too far.”
“Don’t you and your brother live back the other way?”
“We did. But I moved down here recently, to Vazir Daftar Street. It’s that big old building over there. I’m renting just a small studio.”
“What about your brother?”
“Well, he’s got his family.”
“Hmm. Does he want to cut his hair too? You guys look so similar.”
“Actually, he does. Or maybe he has by now. Says it itches too much.” He laughed. “Maybe I’ll keep mine so we won’t look so much alike.” His attention now went to the other side of the street where several black-clad men stood in front of a mosque. You could hear the sounds of a noha, lamentation, coming from inside the place.
Puri nudged him with the bread. “Take a piece. It’s fresh.”
Milad tore off some bread and put it in his mouth. They started walking again. In front of her building, she paused for a second and gave a kick to one of the front wheels of her car.
“That tire needs some serious air in it,” Milad remarked.
“I know,” she said.
“It’s dangerous like that—is it yours?”
“More of a gas-guzzler than a car, to be honest. It used to belong to Shahin’s father. I don’t think you ever met my kid, Shahin.”
Milad shook h
is head.
Puri was about to ring the buzzer but then remembered that Goljaan, her Afghan helper, must be gone by now. It took her awhile to find her keys.
They climbed side by side up a dark and dank stairway.
“Come in for a minute,” she offered.
He glanced down at his muddy boots. “I won’t bother you.”
“You’re not a bother, come in.”
As he went to set the shopping bags inside the door their hands brushed one other ever so slightly. Their eyes met.
“Only if you’d like to come in,” she added.
There was noise from inside and they both peered in. A boy of about ten or eleven, drool hanging from his mouth, was staring at them with glazed eyes. Puri suddenly became nervous.
“I’m sorry, I . . . I know you’re waiting for a loan from the bank. But my boss there still hasn’t gotten around to any of the recent loan requests. He’s on vacation.”
Milad was back to gazing at his own boots. “Right. Sure thing.”
“That last loan you took, how many more payments do you have on it?”
“Two.”
“Pay those off first. I think it’s better that way. Then I can speak to the bank manager.”
“Of course. Whatever you say.” He slowly retreated from the door and turned at the stairway.
Scene 4
“You think you’re smart, don’t you? I knew it. I fucking knew it. You’ve been acting strange for a while. Always nagging me about something. Making me look bad. I spit on myself. Yeah, on myself, for having a wife who sends me a court order after six years of being at her every beck and call every moment of every day. Shut up! Shut your trap up and stop crying. What did you tell them? That your husband is an addict? That I’m crazy? That I beat you up? That I don’t give you enough pocket money? What did you say, bitch? Talk to me! So fucking what if I take a couple of tokes at the end of the day? I do it so I can keep working. Do you know how the pain in my back feels? Like pins and needles. I work so I can put food on the table. It takes a man, a real man, to sit sixteen hours a day behind the wheel of those buses. You think anyone can do it? You think these motherfuckers sitting in those real estate offices moving millions around and getting fatter every day—you think those pieces of shit could do what I do even for one day? Look at me. Look at this bank book I carry around and not a penny to my name. I tell you what I’ll do: I’ll shave my head. That’s what I’ve decided. My scalp is itchy from my nerves, and this stupid bank book is only good for one thing: it’s a head-scratcher. Excuse me, what? Stop that mumbling. You think your own husband can’t ask where you go off to when I’m working? Always leaving your one-year-old baby with the neighbors and going off God knows where. You think I don’t know? And I’m not supposed to ask? I spit on this fucking life I got! Not worth a shit. Work two shifts a day and what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Zilch. Zero. Just drive that fucking route up and down this nasty motherfucker of a city with no time off, no weekend, not an hour to call my own. And suddenly I’m the bad guy? The court wants me to explain myself? Fuck you all. And fuck those passengers who always give me shit. One guy says he doesn’t have exact change. Another wants to get off before the next station. Another refuses to pay. Another curses me out and says I passed her stop and wishes hellfire on me and mine for seven generations. This is my lot in this miserable country. I spit on every Iranian that ever walked the earth. You want a divorce, do you? You want your freedom? Be my guest. Go! Go and see what’s waiting for you out there. Plenty of streetwalkers where you’re headed. And guess what? They’re even glad to take a nobody like me for a ride. I know, because I see it every night on my way to the terminal. Sixteen-year-olds, forty-year-olds, doesn’t matter. They got no place to stay. They won’t get off the bus. I tell them, Sister, it’s time to get off. Go home. But they got no home. They got nowhere. You crying now? Today you cry, tomorrow you’ll have the cops on me. I know your kind. Just because I’m not rich, just because I don’t own my own home, I don’t have the latest-model car, I don’t have a country house, I don’t have . . . don’t have a pot to piss in. What do you want me to do? Go rob a bank? Will you shut that baby up, for God’s sake! Or are you above taking care of your own child now too? When you first came to Tehran you were a simple girl. None of this lipstick this, lipstick that. I should have known better, but I waited. Told myself you’d come around. It was just a new stage with all the makeup, I told myself. You’d settle down, I told myself. But it got worse. First you nagged my poor little brother so much that he ran off. The kid’s just a college student. But do you care? Of course not. You don’t care that he has to pay three hundred a month for a hole-in-the-wall two streets down from here. And you’re still not satisfied, are you? Stop that crying. I swear I’ll hit you. Ouch! What happened? I didn’t mean it. Let me see. You happy now? Now you’ll have more evidence for the judge, won’t you? You can tell them your husband hit you in the face with his key ring. Who’ll believe I didn’t mean it? No one. But you know what? I don’t give a damn anymore either way. You go your way, I’ll go mine. What’s a pauper like yours truly supposed to worry about—that they’ll take my bread? I got news for you: they already took my bread; they took it from me a long, long time ago.”
