Authors: Sebastian Faulks
‘ Thank you, Farshad,’ said Darius, drily, in English. He put his hand on Zohreh’s to reassure her, but she seemed unperturbed. From what he’d seen in Tehran, Bond thought, it was possible that the girl thought this was normal driving.
Eventually, they stopped beside what looked like a warehouse, set back in a fenced yard a short way from the street. There were no signs or coloured lights. It reminded Bond of some of the dingier back lots of Los Angeles.
‘It’s called the Paradise Club,’ said Darius. For Bond, the name stirred the faint memory of an exciting juvenile visit to the gaming tables. They went past the bouncer on the front door, into whose
hand Darius pressed some notes, then down a concrete-lined corridor to double wooden doors with iron studs. A young woman in traditional costume welcomed them and pressed a pedal with her foot. The doors parted silently, letting Bond, Darius and Zohreh into an enormous room, the size of an aircraft hangar, whose furthest wall contained a waterfall cascading over crimson-illuminated rocks into a pool of turquoise water in which a dozen naked women were swimming. Around the pool, arranged as though in a garden, the guests lay on imitation-grass carpets or reclined on loungers and padded chairs, where the chastely clad waitresses brought them drinks and sweetmeats. To one side of the huge area was a raised platform where people danced to Western pop records, but in the ‘garden’ there was a string quintet of traditional Persian musicians.
Zohreh turned to Bond and smiled, her lips parting over dazzling white teeth. ‘You like it?’
A young woman approached them and spoke to Darius in Farsi. She wore the same uniform as the doorkeeper – a cream-coloured robe held with a scarlet sash. Although it was quite demure, Bond could see from where the two halves of the material met between her breasts that she wore nothing beneath it. The candlelight and the coloured bulbs in
the wall brackets gave a glow to her skin, the colour of rose under gold.
‘ This is Salma,’ Darius explained. ‘She is here to make sure we enjoy ourselves. There are a number of options open to us. I suggest we look into the opium room first, then the famous hammam.’
‘I’m not sure I feel like a Turkish bath,’ said Bond.
‘You will,’ said Darius, ‘when you see this one. It’s a rather special kind, I understand.’
They followed Salma to a raised platform on one side of the huge open area.
‘ The name Salma, by the way,’ said Darius, into Bond’s ear, ‘means ‘‘sweetheart’’.’
‘Her parents must have been clairvoyant.’
‘Enough English charm, James – though I shall tell her what you said. Have you ever smoked opium?’
They found themselves in a square room with tapestry-covered couches round the walls. On the floor lay outsize cushions, on a few of which men reclined as they sucked at opium pipes prepared for them by one of Salma’s colleagues at a low central table with a glowing brazier in the middle. Soft Persian music was playing, although no musicians were visible.
Zohreh sat down cross-legged near the table and gestured to Bond and Darius to do likewise. The girl
took a stick of opium, shaped as a tube, and cut a piece from it. She placed it in the china bowl of a pipe, then, with silver pincers, took an ember from the brazier and held it over the opium. She gave the mouthpiece of the pipe to Darius, who took it with a wink at Bond. Then the girl blew on the ember until it glowed red and the opium beneath it sizzled. Smoke rose through a small hole above the china bowl and Darius sucked it in. Eventually, he passed the pipe to Bond, who took it with some hesitation. He didn’t want his capacities impaired by drugs, but was reluctant to offend his host. He took some smoke into his mouth, nodded his approval, and passed the pipe back to Darius. When he thought no one was watching, he allowed the smoke to escape through his nostrils.
Around them, half a dozen men lay back among the cushions, their eyes closed, with expressions of dreamy pleasure.
‘It’s a problem for some of these men,’ Darius said. ‘Opium used in moderation is all right. Say once a week. But in this country too many people are its slave, not its master. At least it’s a pure drug, the untreated juice of poppy. Its compounds and derivatives, like heroin, are far more dangerous.’
The pipe was offered to Zohreh, who laughed
and shook her head. Darius smiled. ‘Our women are
‘‘liberated’’, but not quite that liberated yet, James.’
‘Who are the girls swimming in the pool beneath the waterfall?’
‘Celestial virgins,’ said Darius, and began to cough. Bond couldn’t tell if he was laughing or whether it was the opium smoke.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Darius said, ‘ They are paid by the management to disport themselves in the water. I expect when they have their clothes on they are hostesses, like Salma. I think the setting is meant to represent heaven. If you have been a very good boy on earth, the Prophet promises that you will be welcomed in heaven by numerous virgins. I forget whether they merely serve you drinks or perform more intimate functions. It’s a long time since I read the Koran.’
‘But you used to believe it?’ said Bond.
‘Of course,’ said Darius. ‘I was a well-brought-up little boy in a proper Muslim household. My father had spent a good deal of time in America but that doesn’t mean he’d lost his roots. Anyway, once upon a time I dare say you believed in Father Christmas.’
‘Yes,’ said Bond. ‘ The evidence was more immediate. Coloured packages. Half-eaten carrots left by his reindeer on the hearth.’
Darius shook his head. ‘And to think that all we had was faith.’ He got to his feet, a little unsteadily.
‘I believe Salma would like to show us the hammam now.’
They went first to a bar in the main room, where Zohreh ordered gin and tonic and the men had whisky. Salma invited them to bring their drinks and follow her. They went down an open internal staircase until they were alongside the turquoise waters where the ‘virgins’ splashed. Bond found himself being taken by the arm. ‘Come along, Mr Bond,’ Zohreh whispered. ‘ There are more good things to see.’ She gave a tinkling laugh.
Through another iron-studded wooden door, they came to a tiled area where a young woman in a white robe welcomed them and handed Darius, Bond and Zohreh two large white towels each.
Zohreh pointed to a door with a figure of a man, then went through the women’s entrance.
‘ This is where we take our clothes off, James,’ said Darius.
‘Are we joining the virgins?’
‘I should explain,’ said Darius, removing his shirt to reveal a deep chest covered with black and grey hair. ‘ The hammam plays an important part in Persian life. We are a clean people. Everyone must wash
their hands and face before praying, but in certain circumstances – for instance, after sexual activity –
a Grand Ablution is necessary. Even the meanest village will have a bath-house where such things take place. Men and women go at different times. For the women it’s generally during the day, when the men are meant to be at work. Of course, it’s a very easy way for women to keep tabs on one another. A young bride generally goes every day until she’s pregnant. Then – sadly – rather less often. If a woman in her forties still goes regularly you can be sure the others will be gossiping like mad.’
‘So we’ll be going to the men’s section?’ said Bond.
‘Not exactly,’ said Darius. ‘Wrap your towel round your waist and take the spare one with you. As I understand from Zohreh, the idea of the Paradise Club is that you find heaven already on earth. And this is it: a mixed hammam. Shall we see?’
They went through a door and found themselves on a balcony that overlooked two large baths. Around the walls there were open steam rooms of differing temperatures and between them private cubicles with doors.
Although the whole area was clouded by steam and the lights were low, there was no mistaking the fact that in the main baths men and women bathed
naked together, laughing and occasionally drinking from the long glasses set down on the edge of the baths by girl attendants in white tunics.
Traditional music was playing, and the scent of roses and geraniums was carried on the steam. The tiled walls were painted with scenes from a heavenly garden. Bond saw Zohreh drop her towel and go down the steps into the smaller of the two baths.
‘Do you have clubs like this in London?’ said Darius, innocently.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Bond. ‘Pall Mall is full of them. But you don’t have to choose between the opium and the hammam. Just remember to pot the blue before the pink at snooker.’
A few moments later, Bond found himself face to face with Salma in the heated water. An attendant threw some fresh rose petals on to the surface. In this light Salma’s skin was an even more beguiling colour.
‘I’ve asked Zohreh to join us,’ said Darius. Shortly afterwards, the foursome was complete. Bond leaned back against the side and sipped the cold mint drink that had been offered him.
‘Is this . . . heaven?’ said Salma, in faltering English.
‘If so,’ said Bond, ‘I shall convert to Islam on my return home. What happens in those cubicles?’
‘Whatever you negotiate,’ said Darius.
‘For money?’
‘No. For love of your fellow heaven-seeker. But not, alas,’ he added, looking at Salma, ‘with the staff. Otherwise it would not be a club but – ’
‘I know what it would be,’ said Bond.
Too quickly, their time was up. Zohreh indicated to Darius, with a regretful glance at her watchless wrist, that she needed to return. Bond allowed his eyes to linger on the naked girls as they preceded them from the water and took up their towels.
‘You look sad to see them go, James.’
‘It breaks my heart,’ said Bond.
‘We’ll see what we can do to mend it while you’re with us in Tehran. Now let’s go and rescue poor old Farshad.’
Dried, dressed and reassembled, the three said goodbye to Salma, whom Bond and Darius tipped handsomely, then walked back through the main area, past the waterfall and up to the entrance. Outside, the air, by comparison with the fragrance of the Paradise Club, seemed unbearably hot, and heavy with exhaust fumes. They began to walk across the lot to where the blue Mercedes was parked. As they approached it, Bond grabbed Darius’s arm.
‘Wait here,’ he said.
He took his gun from its holster and went forward carefully. Something about the angle of Farshad’s body, visible through the driver’s window, was wrong. Holding his gun ahead of him, Bond circled the car with his back to the bodywork. Without looking round, he opened the driver’s door. Farshad’s body tumbled out on to the ground. The footwell was awash with blood. Farshad was dead, but his hand was clamped tight round something that had recently been ripped from his mouth.
9. The Strawberry Mark
Breakfast was brought to Bond’s room at eight the next morning, although he had placed no order. It consisted of tea without milk, a rectangle of sheep’s cheese with herbs and a slab of flatbread that looked like the bathmat in the next room. He told the waiter to take it away and try again. After two tense telephone calls, he eventually managed to extract some black coffee and an omelette from the kitchen, which he consumed while he glanced through the
Herald
Tribune
, sitting at his window overlooked by Mount Demavend.
Darius had to go to Farshad’s funeral, which, by Islamic law, had to take place within twenty-four hours. Bond felt uneasy at the thought that his own presence in Tehran had led to the man’s death, which he presumed was a warning from Gorner’s people.
But Farshad must have known the risks his job entailed, and doubtless Darius would compensate his family well. ‘Happy’ in his life, but not in its ending, thought Bond, as he headed for the shower. He decided to drive to Noshahr to investigate the docks and see if he could find out what Gorner was up to there. He would need an interpreter and thought that whoever he found might as well double as a driver. It was unlikely that Tehran would come up with a car that he would want to drive, and in any case a local man would be more at home with the rules of the road – if there were any – on the hairpin bends of the Elburz mountains.
First, Bond took one of the orange taxis from the rank outside the hotel and ordered it to the main post office. It was another intensely hot day and, as the cab engaged with the traffic of Pahlavi Avenue, he thought wistfully of the cooler air he might find at the Caspian. The taxi eventually swung on to Sepah Avenue, with ministerial offices on one side, the old Palace of the Kingdom and the Senate on the other.
They pulled up outside the yellow brick fac¸ade of the post office, and Bond told the driver to wait. In his hotel room he had already composed a hundredgroup cable addressed to the Chairman, Universal
Export, London. He used a simple transposition code based on the fact that it was the third day of the week and that the date was the fourth of the seventh month. He knew little about cryptography and, for security’s sake, in case he was ever captured, had preferred to keep it that way.
He lit one of his remaining Morland’s cigarettes with the three gold rings and stood beneath the idly turning ceiling fan while he waited for the cable boy to tell him he had transmitted successfully. As he did so, he noticed that he was being watched by a thin man with reddish-brown hair and white skin. He was sitting at a table where other Tehranis were filling in forms and stamping letters. He held a paper cup of water to his mouth, but didn’t seem to drink from it. Although his head was steady, his eyes were swivelling constantly round the room, while the unmoving cup seemed only to be a cover for his mouth.
The cable boy called out the all-clear and Bond collected his papers from the counter.
As he went down the steps of the post office, he heard a voice behind him.
‘Mr Bond?’
He turned, without speaking.
It was the man from inside. He held out his hand.
‘My name is Silver. J. D. Silver. I work for General Motors.’