The Moving Prison (11 page)

Moosa walked through the bazaar with a spring in his step. He felt elated; he had bargained a better rate for the currency exchange, and felt sure he could squeeze a few more decent trades out of the same fellow. If not, he could use the lower rate as a bargaining tool with other moneychangers.

Just as he reached the entrance to the covered bazaar, his eye fell on a display case near the outside street. It contained handguns: Berettas, Walthers, Kalashnikovs, and a few Smith and Wessons. Entranced, Moosa walked over to the case, admiring the dark sleekness of the weapons, the sensuality of their curves, and magnetic aura of nascent danger they emitted. He remembered the helpless feeling he had when the
pasdars
came for his father, and the muttered threat of Nathan Moosovi.

He glanced up at the attendant. “How much for the guns?” he asked.

TWELVE

Ezra stepped gingerly among the bodies, making his way toward a small vacant space along the far wall of the cell. Some of the men on the floor looked like corpses; their jaws were slack, their eyes vacant. Only their faint, shallow breathing gave any indication they still lived.

Ezra reached the far corner, carefully lowering himself so as to avoid touching the foul-smelling wretch on his right. To his left, a prisoner who looked more alive than most of the others turned his head as Ezra sat down.

“I think I know you,” the fellow said slowly.

Ezra looked at his cell mate, puzzled at being recognized by someone in this hellhole. “Were you speaking to me?”

“Yes, I’ve seen you somewhere. Are you a doctor perhaps?”

“Not a doctor, but I did own a pharmacy—on Khosrow Nasser.”

“Yes! That’s it!” the man said, with something like enthusiasm. “You’re the fellow who gives medicine to the poor. You helped a relative of mine, some time ago. I brought my aunt to you when a friend of ours recommended you.” The prisoner grinned, obviously pleased with himself for making the connection. Then he looked back at Ezra with a puzzled expression on his face. “What are you doing in this rat’s nest?”

“I don’t know,” said Ezra dejectedly. “The
pasdars
wouldn’t tell me, other than to say it was up to me to prove my innocence to the tribunal.”

“Those motherless curs,” spat the other man. “They don’t need a reason. Khomeini is their reason…. Khomeini and their bellies.” Again he looked at Ezra. “What is your name?”

“Ezra Solaiman.”

“Ah!” A look of grim illumination dawned upon the face of Ezra’s cell mate. “A Jew. And are you rich?” he queried.

Ezra looked at the man, open-mouthed. “What has that to do with—”

The prisoner nodded to himself. “As I thought. A rich Jew. I figured they’d get around to your neighborhoods pretty soon. You and I are the first minorities they’ve brought into this stinking place.”

Ezra’s eyes widened as he studied the other man’s face carefully. “Then … you are …”

“Jewish,” the other fellow answered matter-of-factly.

“
Mazel tov
, Ezra Solaiman,” he said wryly, holding out his hand. “I am Reuben Ibrahim. Pleased to meet you.” Incredulous, Ezra shook the hand of his newfound comrade.

Ezra looked around at the tangle of arms and legs in the cell, then back at his comrade. “Why did you assume the
pasdars
would begin arresting rich Jews?”

Reuben shrugged. “Simple. The
pasdars
are controlled by the mullahs, and the mullahs want money. You are rich, so they arrested you. They will try you, shoot you, and confiscate your estate.”

Ezra shuddered, remembering the phone call, and the news about Abraham Moosovi. He brushed his hand across his pant leg, feeling the rustle of the paper concealed there. “Why did they arrest you?” he asked. “I presume from what you’ve said that you aren’t rich. What do the mullahs want with you?”

Reuben sighed and looked away. “No, indeed, I’m not rich.” He gave a sad little chuckle. “And I don’t guess it would make any difference now if I were.” He looked up at Ezra. “I am here for not chanting slogans against the Shah.”

Glancing away, Reuben continued. “Like everyone else, I’ve got my opinions, which I kept to myself. But some neighbor or business competitor with a grudge denounced me to one of the revolutionary committees. So here I am.” Bitterly he continued, “I don’t know the name or face of my accuser, and yet I am trapped in this plague-infested prison, while by wife and daughter cower at home, not knowing whether I am alive or dead.” Reuben covered his face with his hands. “This country has gone mad, and I am trapped within its hallucinations.”

Esther wandered through the house like a lost soul. Her throat was raw and sore from weeping, and her eyes felt bruised with fatigue. She had been unable to sleep the night before. Each time her eyes closed, her imagination tortured her with grotesque scenes of Ezra’s fate. So she tossed upon her bed, crying until she could cry no more; then she lay exhausted, too overwrought to sleep.

Idly she paced into the study, flipping on the television. As she expected, there was nothing to watch except some wizened old mullah reading the Koran in Arabic—a language neither she nor the majority of the Farsi-speaking population understood. Since Khomeini had come to power, many of the TV producers and directors had been arrested, and the remainder were afraid to schedule any programming that could be deemed remotely offensive to the fundamentalist regime. So all one could watch now was the reading of the Koran or brief news programs, which were hardly more than Shiite propaganda.

She snapped off the set and went into the kitchen, drawn by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Glancing at the clock, she surmised that Sepi had already gone to school. She thought Moosa had left for the bazaar or to look for Mullah Hafizi.

As she poured a cup of coffee, she wondered about the wisdom of relying upon a mullah for deliverance from Ezra’s peril. Weren’t the mullahs responsible for much of the mayhem now tearing the country apart? Why should Hafizi be any different? Yet Ezra seemed to place some trust in the man.

She took a sip of coffee and glanced out the window toward the side yard. The branches of the cherry trees were beginning to swell with the nodules that would become blossoms in a few weeks. In this season of returning to life, she felt nothing but despair and desolation. At this moment, Ezra’s trust in his precious receipt and Hafizi’s help seemed absurdly remote. She placed her head on her forearms, as the tears again trickled down her cheeks.

The buzzer rudely interrupted her melancholy. Someone was at the gate. Pushing herself away from the table, she went to the front foyer, pulling aside the curtains to look outside. Fear brought her heart throbbing into her throat. Standing at the gate were two armed
pasdars
, accompanied by a mullah. What could they want? Why were they here again? Her hands trembling, she unlocked the front door, opening it only a few centimeters. “What do you want?” she called. “Your people were already here just yesterday.”

“In the name of Allah and the Imam Khomeini, I order you to open this gate,” commanded the mullah imperiously. “We are here on official business.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, trying desperately to control the hysterical beast inside her breast. Marjan, hearing the tones in her voice, began stalking toward the gate, hackles raised, showing his teeth in a low, rumbling growl.

“You will chain that dog or we will shoot him now!” said the mullah, his voice rising nervously as he measured the height of the gate with his eyes. One of the
pasdars
unholstered his pistol, training it with a two-fisted grip on the threatening Marjan.

Esther looked from Marjan to the mullah and his henchmen. What could she do? Either she would let them in now, or they would come back with more men and force their way in later. Feeling more helpless than ever before, she called out, “Marjan! Heel!”

The dog halted his advance, but kept his rigid, stalking pose. “Marjan! Kennel!” No change. “Kennel, Marjan!” Esther wondered at Marjan’s disobedience; perhaps he knew better than she how to respond to these intruders. She walked out to him, gripped his collar in one hand, and tugged him toward the kennel. The sinews along the dog’s back and hindquarters tensed, as he momentarily resisted her. Then, with a pathetic, puzzled whimper, he allowed her to lead him back to his shelter. Only when the chain was clipped to his collar did she turn to face the men at the gate.

“Why have you come here?” she asked again. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Your people have already taken away my husband, for no just cause. What else do you need here?”

“
Khanom,
” the mullah said, his lips curled in contempt, “I’m well aware of your husband’s arrest. We’re here to collect evidence related to his trial.”

Esther felt a faint tendril of hope. If Ezra was to be tried, he could not be dead, could he? Perhaps his receipt would indeed be of some value, if he were allowed to present it as evidence. From the way the rumors ran, she was not at all sure that fairness was a criterion by which the mullahs conducted their tribunals. She went to the gate and unlocked it. The
pasdars
pushed past her, followed by the mullah, who gave her a withering stare as he went by. The three men marched up the walk, glancing edgily at the kennel, where Marjan strained against his collar, still showing his teeth. Slowly Esther followed them into the house.

One of the guards went into the study, immediately going to the desk and yanking out the drawers, spilling the contents carelessly on the floor. With the toe of his boot, he sorted through the piles. Another of the men began tossing armfuls of books onto the floor. Alarmed, Esther said, “Stop it! Tell me what you are looking for, and I will tell you where to find it! Why should you wreck my house?”

The mullah appeared from behind her, carrying an old
chador
she kept in a cedar chest in the bedroom. “Shouldn’t you be wearing this,
khanom
?” he asked, smirking.

Esther felt her face flush with anger. “You’ve been in my bedroom, you animal!”

The mullah chuckled.

“In a civilized country, even a mullah’s wife wouldn’t wear a
chador
in her own home,” Esther raged. “She wouldn’t have to fear strangers invading her privacy!” The mullah only smiled in amusement. Another armload of books clattered to the floor behind them.

He turned to his lackeys. “Stop,” he ordered. “If they have anything of value, they’re not going to hide it anywhere obvious.” Turning again to Esther, he asked, “Tell me,
khanom
, do you have any outbuildings—or a cellar, perhaps?”

Esther tried with all her might not to allow her face to show any sign of alarm. “The dog is chained,” she said, in a tone she hoped sounded haughty. “Go anywhere on the premises you like.” With a final, icy glance, she turned her back on the mullah and walked into the drawing room.

She sat in one of the chairs, wringing her hands as she listened to the search party go out the kitchen door. What if, by some freak chance, they stumbled onto the cache in the cellar? If they did, they would find not only the money Ezra had realized from the sale of the store, but also the American dollars Moosa had obtained yesterday. The dollars would surely tip their hand to the authorities. Had she and Moosa been careful enough to hide the traces of their comings and goings to the cellar? Had they replaced the bricks properly and made the dirt between them look undisturbed: Had they been wise in leaving the cellar door unlocked? Again she heard Ezra’s words of warning:
“If a door is locked, they will want to know why. Everything should look innocuous, as though we have nothing to hide.”

Nothing to hide. She felt a manic laugh bubbling upward in her throat. It was almost hilarious—they were tossing a huge
chador
over the whole house, to conceal, to blend in, to cloak. Khomeini had decreed the
chador
, and he was getting it, in ways he would never have imagined.

The search party came back inside after about a quarter hour. Esther breathed a silent sigh when she saw their hands were empty. Sourly, the mullah in charge pointed toward the floor of the study, and the
pasdars
went into the room and began rolling up the expensive Kirman carpet that covered the floor.

“What are you doing?” demanded Esther.

The mullah scowled at her. “Collecting evidence,” he grunted, looking away.

“Evidence of what?” she grated. “Admit it—you are stealing. Is this in accordance with the laws of the Prophet?”

“Shut up, Jew!” he snarled. “I don’t answer to you! Watch your impudent tongue, woman, or you’ll find yourself in want of more than a rug.”

The violence in his voice strangled the rage in her breast, replacing it with fear. She turned away from him, gripping her elbows tightly against her sides. She stared in blinded misery into the side yard until she heard the front door close behind the intruders. Hearing a sound like a freight train roaring in her ears, she collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint.