Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  There was a stir and then a hush. The shah entered with his wife, Farah Diba. They were far later than expected, the delay unexplained.

  Amira would not have recognized the shah. The handsome, commanding, middle-aged man of the newspaper and magazine photographs looked shrunken, sallow-skinned, and old. Farah Diba, on the other hand, was even more beautiful than the images Amira had seen. In her thirties, and a mother of four, she nevertheless had the glamour of a movie star.

  Ali and Amira were honored guests, but not the most honored in the glittering crowd, and it was some time before they stood face to face with the shah and Farah. Through an interpreter, the shah and Ali exchanged conventional diplomatic greetings, and the shah made a little speech. After that, there was little to say, and Amira understood that it was time for them to move on.

  Then suddenly, Farah said, “You’re Karim’s parents! I should have known. I saw him upstairs with his servant. What a heartbreaker! Of course, the Remalis are famous for their looks.”

  The Remalis were famous for no such thing, but Amira was charmed nevertheless. So was Ali, she could tell. Even the shah seemed buoyed by his wife’s enthusiasm.

  A few more words, a little discussion of the mosque at Tabriz, and the audience was over. The American ambassador materialized to buttonhole Ali. Soon, the two were engaged in a discourse about aircraft. Amira, worn from the day’s journey and feeling distinctly peripheral, wished she could slip away to sleep.

  “Highness,” said a familiar voice over her shoulder, “how good to find you here.”

  “Philippe! What on Earth—”

  “Highness, Mr. Ambassador,” said Philippe to Ali and the American, both of whom greeted him by name.

  “Well, this is amazing,” said Ali. “What brings you here, my friend?” “I was about to tell the princess. I’m an interloper, I’m afraid—a party crasher, as you say, Mr. Ambassador? A colleague asked me to Teheran to consult on … on a particularly complicated case. When I learned that my old friends would be here tonight, I wangled my way in.”

  Amira forced herself to stop staring at him, to play the part of the pleasantly surprised international acquaintance.

  “Well, it’s certainly a small world,” said the ambassador affably. “And your patient? I trust he’s doing well?”

  “Ah, my friend Elliott, surely you’re not one of those obnoxious persons who insist on making us physicians discuss bunions and gallstones in our few moments of leisure.”

  “Sorry, doctor. Just curious.”

  The ambassador allowed himself a speculative glance across the room at the shah. So, Amira noticed, did Ali.

  It might be: the Shah was the kind of patient Philippe would travel thou- sands of miles to treat—the shah or cholera-stricken villagers in the back of beyond. But surely, Philippe was in Teheran for another reason—wasn’t he?

  “You’re here for long?’’ Philippe asked Ali. “Only through tomorrow.”

  “Then we go to Tabriz,” volunteered Amira.

  “Ah. Yes, I think you mentioned that the last time I saw you. I leave tomorrow myself.”

  What did that mean? Amira searched his eyes. She saw nothing except that his pupils seemed unnaturally dilated, and his face was flushed.

  “Please excuse me,” said Philippe. “I haven’t had a chance to eat since this morning.”

  He wandered away in the direction of the food tables.

  “The doctor looks a little unsteady tonight,” commented Ali.

  “The French,” said the ambassador, rolling his eyes. The two men returned to their discussion of the F-14.

  Amira felt as if she were going to explode.

  “Husband,” she ventured, “forgive me for interrupting, but may I bring you something? I’m going to get a little bite for myself.”

  “I’m glad to see your appetite has returned,” he said with a half-smile. “But nothing for me.”

  She found Philippe examining the vast carpet that formed the centerpiece of the ceremonial hall. He had a plate loaded with canapes but was not eating.

  “Ah, Princess. Someone told me that this carpet is more than two hundred square meters. I’ve seen smaller casinos.”

  “Philippe, it’s—”

  “Did you know,” he interrupted her, “that the Persian weavers always include a flaw in their work? The idea is that only God should be perfect.” He cut his eyes sideways. A few steps away stood a lone man in a tuxedo. Was he studying his drink too intently?

  “It’s a principle that French car makers seem to have carried to an extreme,” said Philippe. “At any rate, I’m not going to try to find the flaw in this monster.”

  He was steering her gently through the crowd. The man in the tuxedo did not follow. Paranoia?

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. “I didn’t know what to expect.” The noisy chatter of a large group nearby made a good screen for her words.

  Philippe had time to lean close to hear.

  “I would have come anyway,” he said. “The medical call was a piece of luck. Or maybe not so lucky, since it subjects me to a certain amount of scrutiny. The patient, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, is an important one. Are we still on for Tabriz?”

  He added the question so casually that Amira almost missed it. This was the moment, she realized: the moment to say no, to forget this crazy scheme, to commit herself to going home and trying to fight Ali on ground she knew.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Listen carefully,” said Philippe, smiling as if they were sharing an amusing reminiscence. “Someone will contact you in Tabriz. Do exactly as you are told. Exactly and immediately, do you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have one small bag packed—no more. Two changes of clothes for you and Karim. One traditional, one Western. Whatever personal articles you absolutely need. And your jewels. You have them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. That’s all.” “You’ll be there?”

  “Yes. No more now. It’s dangerous. The shah spies on everyone—on principle or just out of habit, who knows? Say it’s been a pleasure and you hope to see me in al-Remal.”

  “How good to see you again, doctor. You must promise to visit us when you’re in al-Remal.”

  “With pleasure, Highness. Please convey my regards to your husband again, in case I don’t see him. I’m afraid it’s bedtime for this poor carcass of mine.”

  A few words of good-bye and he disappeared in the crowd. He hadn’t touched his food, Amira thought irrelevantly.

  Once, in France, she had gone to a circus. There was a trapeze act in which a woman swinging from a bar high above the ring suddenly threw herself astonishingly into space. For one heart-stopping instant, she seemed certain to hurtle to her death—and then she was caught by the strong hands and powerful arms of a man swinging to meet her.

  Now, in the ceremonial hall of the shah’s palace in Teheran, Amira felt as if she were flying out on the thin air, the deadly earth rushing to meet her. Only Philippe could catch her, only he could save her. She was trusting him with her life.

  O

  Amira had expected an exotic town of old Persia, narrow streets within ancient walls, a suitable setting for intrigue. In reality, Tabriz was a city of several hundred thousand, as modern and nearly as sprawling as Teheran.

  They were greeted by the mayor of Tabriz and the governor of Azer- bai-jan-Sharghi province. Clearly, the Remali minister of culture was considered a very important guest. Amira and Ali had connecting suites that occupied most of the top floor of the Hotel Tabriz, with several of the hotel’s personnel assigned as servants. They also had their own SAVAK man lingering in the hallway.

  The first order of business was an official lunch. The women ate separately from the men. Despite the city’s reputation, Amira could not say that the citizens of Tabriz were less friendly than people elsewhere; they simply smiled less. They also had the sense to provide good local cuisine rather than to attempt cos
mopolitan delicacies.

  The main dish was abgusht, a stew of potatoes, lentils, and thick chunks of fatty mutton. It tasted better than it sounded, although there was a trick to eating it: a mortar and pestle were provided for mashing the meat and potatoes to just the right consistency to mix with the broth. The governor’s wife showed Amira how to do it, but the too-polite cheers of the other women convinced her that she hadn’t got it quite right.

  After lunch, there was an inspection of the Blue Mosque, the structure that Ali’s father, as a goodwill gesture to the Shia minority in his own country, had volunteered to restore. Amira did not enter the mosque, of course; she waited in a car with the governor’s wife and the wife of the mayor. Only a small part of the majestic building was open; the rest had an air of damage and neglect verging on ruin.

  “It was built a little more than five hundred years ago, by the grace of God,” said the governor’s wife.

  “What happened to it?” asked Amira. It took an effort to show interest. More than half of her mind was on the contact Philippe had mentioned. Where? When? Who? Was it one of these women?

  “Earthquakes, mainly,” said the governor’s wife. “We have them often here—a very bad one just two years ago. But also invasions, fires—the usual thing.”

  Ali was to meet all afternoon with various civic and religious officials. Amira and the two wives, accompanied discreetly by the SAVAK man, went to see some of the sights of Tabriz, among them the teeming bazaar, which was every bit as winding and medieval as she had imagined the entire city to be. Another place that she would remember ever after was the Arg-Tabriz, the remains of a huge ancient fortress that had crumbled to ruin about the time the first stones of the Blue Mosque were laid. She would remember it because of a story.

  “In the old days,” said the governor’s wife, “they executed criminals by throwing them from the top of the Arg into a ditch. There was a woman sentenced to death for adultery, but when they threw her from the heights, her chador billowed out around her and caught the air like—like one of those things the military use.”

  “A parachute,” said the mayor’s wife.

  “Exactly. It broke her fall and saved her life, God be praised.” “She was allowed to live afterward?” asked Amira.

  “Of course. It was God’s will.”

  Back at the hotel, Amira collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She was exhausted. In a few minutes, she would have Karim brought to her … in a few minutes. Just now she needed rest.

  There was a soft knock at the door. A hotel maid entered.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Highness, but I’m to tell you that I’ll be your servant for the night. My name is Darya. Is there anything I can bring you?” She was Amira’s age and size and coloring; they could have been taken for sisters.

  “No, nothing,” said Amira.

  “Perhaps your Highness would like some music?” Darya indicated the suite’s receiver and tape deck, very new.

  “No,” said Amira patiently. “Nothing at the moment.”

  The maid came close and mouthed the word yes. Amira couldn’t understand the girl’s temerity. Then the awareness ran through her like an electric shock: this was it, the contact.

  “On second thought,” she said as calmly as she could, “a little music would be nice.”

  “Thank you, Highness.” Darya tuned the radio, raised the volume, and returned to Amira. “Are you ready?” she asked quietly.

  “Now? Right now?”

  “No. Later tonight. But are you ready?” “Yes.”

  “Good. You’re going to the affair?”

  “What? Oh. Yes.” A celebratory dinner was scheduled; apparently, the conclusion was foregone that al-Remal would help restore the mosque.

  “All right. Go as if everything were normal, but if you can, convince your husband to leave early rather than late. Plead sickness, exhaustion, whatever.”

  “That will be easy enough.”

  Darya did not smile. “As soon as you are back here, have your son brought to you. Is it likely that your husband will … visit you before he retires for the night?”

  “No. Very unlikely.”

  The girl nodded, as if confirming something she already knew. “His room is stocked with liquor—a special service the hotel offers some guests. Will he drink before going to bed?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Good. There’ll be something extra in each bottle. He’ll sleep very late tomorrow and appear to be drunk when he wakes.”

  Amira said nothing. Everything was moving so fast.

  “Be ready to go at a moment’s notice,” Darya instructed. “When it’s time, I’ll knock. Just one knock. Bring your things and follow me without a sound. Keep the boy quiet.”

  Amira was trying to sort it out. “Won’t they know? I mean, won’t they find out about whatever you put in the liquor? Won’t they know who did it?”

  “So what? We’ll all be far away.” “Where will you go?”

  Darya looked at her with something like contempt. “I’m sorry,” said Amira. “It was a stupid thing to ask.”

  “I won’t tell you where, but I’ll tell you a little about why. I want you to know that we’re not doing this for you, or for your friend, and certainly not for money.”

  “Then … why?”

  “It may not have occurred to you, Highness, but your disappearance will embarrass the shah—and perhaps strain relations between him and your father-in-law. Creating problems for the Peacock Throne is the cause to which I—and many like me—have dedicated ourselves.”

  “You’re a fundamentalist?” asked Amira.

  “Hardly. Do I strike you as one of those? But we work with them when it suits our needs.” Darya paused. “I’m talking too much. Rest, Highness. You have a very long night ahead. Call the front desk if you need me.”

  After a while, Amira turned the radio down. She had heard revolution spouted by students in the cafés of Paris, but she had never met a real revolutionary. Now, suddenly, she was a pawn in someone’s deadly chess game against the shah.

  It had to be God’s will, she thought, for never could she have willed it herself.

  O

  Karim was asleep. Amira waited in the traveling clothes she had worn on the flight from Teheran. From time to time, she heard the soft footsteps of the SAVAK man patrolling the hall. What would be done about him?

  There was no sound from Ali’s suite. Earlier, she had heard faintly through the door the familiar tink of bottle against glass, followed after a time by noises of clumsy stumbling. Now nothing.

  For the dozenth time, she checked to make sure that the jewel case was in her bag. It was. Stop being obsessive, Amira. Just wait calmly. It’s in Philippe’s hands. And Darya’s. And God knows who else’s. Had she remembered her passport? Yes, there it was. Would she even need it?

  She listened. Something was different. The hall was quiet now, but some- one was there. She could sense it.

  The single knock seemed as loud as a pistol shot. Surely, Ali had heard it. She scrambled for the bag, dropped it, picked it up again, and cradled Karim in her other arm.

  Darya opened the door and whispered, “Hurry!” Amira followed her to a door at the end of the hallway. Darya used a key to open it. A stairway. Amira’s heels clacked loudly, echoing in the stairwell. They went down several flights. Another door, another key. They were out in the night, in some kind of alleyway.

  “Damn it!” said Darya. “He should be waiting.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend. He’s late.”

  “Women,” said a heavy voice behind them, “what are you doing out in the night?”

  They both froze.

  The SAVAK man stepped from the shadows. “You’ll have to come with me and explain yourselves,” he said.

  It’s over, thought Amira.

  Darya flew past her with animal speed and clawed at the man’s face. Cursing, he knocked her aside, but suddenly there was movement b
ehind him. Amira heard a slapping thud, then another, and the SAVAK man’s legs gave way. Two young men stood over him.

  “Are you all right, Darya?” one of them said.

  “Yes. Damn! Where did that son of a bitch come from?” “God knows. What do we do with him?”

  “Let me think.”

  “What is it, Mommy?” said Karim, half asleep. “It’s all right, baby.”

  “There’s only one place to take him,” said Darya. “If we can get him there.” She looked down the alley. “Damn it, Princess, where’s your friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, maybe the best thing for you to do is go back upstairs. Try to get into your room without being seen.”

  “I can’t. I left my keys. I didn’t think I’d be back.”

  “God! Here—take mine. One of them is for your room. Wait! Who’s that?” A tan vehicle had pulled into the alley.

  “That’s him! For God’s sake, Highness, go!” “I want to thank—”

  “Go!”

  She ran to the car, a battered Land Rover. Philippe pushed open the door and pulled her in.

  “I’m late—sorry,” he said. “Trouble there?” “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it later. For now, let’s get out of here.”

  It must have been around midnight. There was little traffic, but the side- walks were crowded with men out on the town. Amira felt as if every one of them were staring at her, memorizing her face, as Philippe pulled onto the boulevard and accelerated.

  Brother Peter

  Philippe drove west on a cobblestone boulevard through the heart of the city, counting cross streets under his breath as he passed them. Amira did not interrupt his concentration. She wanted only to be far away from this place. Karim woke long enough to say “Hello, Uncle Ph’lipe,” then drifted back to sleep in her lap. Around them cars sped slapdash, threatening to demolish clopping two-horse droshkys.