"pay lochart yourself, jared, excellency," valik had said to him rudely the last time he'd asked him. "surely that's your own charge. you share everything
we gain and what's such a tiny amount to my favoritecousin and the richest bazaar) in tehran?"
"but it should be a partnership charge. we can use him when we have 100 percent control. with the new plan for the future of ihc, the partnership will be richer than ever an "
"i will at once consult the other partners. of course, it is their decision not mine..."
liar, the old man thought, sipping tea, but then, i would have said the same. he stifled a yawn, tired now and hungry. a nap before dinner would do me good. "so sorry, excellencies, so sorry but i have urgent business to attend to. paknouri, old friend, i'm glad everything is resolved. stay here tonight, meshang will arrange quilts and cushions, and don't worry! all, my friend, walk with me to the bazaar gate do you have transport?" he asked thinly, knowing that the first perk of a deputy minister would be a car and chauffeur and unlimited gasoline.
"yes, thank you, the pm insisted i arrange it, insisted the importance of our department, i suppose."
"as god wants!" bakravan said.
well satisfied, they all went out of the room, down the narrow stairs and into the small passageway that led to the open-fronted shop. their smiles vanished and bile filled their mouths.
waiting there were the same five green bands, lolling on the desks and chairs, all armed with u. s. army carbines, all in their early twenties, unshaven or bearded, their clothes poor and soiled, some with holed shoes, some sockless. the leader picked his teeth silently, the rest were smoking, carelessly dropping their ash on bakravan's priceless kash'kai carpets. one of these youths coughed badly as he smoked, his breath wheezing.
bakravan felt his knees weakening. all of his staff stood frozen against one of the walls. everyone. even his favorite teaboy. out in the street it was very quiet, no one about even the owners of the moneylending shops across the alley seemed to have vanished.
"salaam, agha, the blessing of god on you," he said politely, his voice sounding strange. "what can i do for you?"
the leader paid no attention to him, just kept his eyes boring into paknouri, his face handsome but scarred by the parasite disease, carried by sandflies and almost endemic in iran. he was in his early twenties, dark eyes and hair and work-scarred hands that toyed with the carbine. his name was yusuf senvar yusuf the bricklayer.
the silence grew and paknouri could stand the strain no longer. "it's all a mistake," he screamed. "you're making a mistake!"
"you thought you'd escape the vengeance of god by running away?" yusuf's
voice was soft, almost kind though with a coarse village accent that bakravan could not place.
"what vengeance of god?" paknouri screamed. "i've done nothing wrong, nothing."
"nothing? haven't you worked for and with foreigners for years, helping them to carry off the wealth of our nation?"
"of course not to do that but to create jobs and help the econ "
"nothing? haven't you served the satan shah for years?"
again paknouri shouted, "no, i was in opposition, everyone knows i... i was in oppo "
"but you still served him and did his bidding?"
paknouri's face was twisted and almost out of control. his mouth worked but he could not get the words out. then he croaked, "everyone served him of course everyone served him, he was the shah, but we worked for the revolution the shah was the shah, of course everyone served him while he was in power..."
"the imam didn't," yusuf said, his voice suddenly raw. "imam khomeini never served the shah. in the name of god, did he?" slowly he looked from face to face. no one answered him.
in the silence, bakravan watched the man reach into his torn pocket and find a piece of paper and peer at it and he knew that he was the only one here who could stop this nightmare.
"by order of the revolutionary komiteh," yusuf began, "and ali'allah uwari: miser paknouri, you are called to judgment. submit yo "
"no, excellency," bakravan said firmly but politely, his heart pounding in his ears. "this is the bazaar. since the beginning of time you know the bazaar has its own laws, its own leaders. emir paknouri is one of them, he cannot be arrested or taken away against his will. he cannot be touched that is bazaar) law from the beginning of time." he stared back at the young man, fearlessly, knowing that the shah, even savak, had never dared to challenge their laws or right of sanctuary.
"is bazaar) law greater than god's law, moneylender bakravan?"
he felt a wave of ice go through him. "no no, of course not."
"good. i obey god's law and do god's work."
"but you may not arres "
"i obey god's law and do only god's work." the man's eyes were brown and guileless under his black brows. he gestured at his carbine. "i do not need this gun none of us need guns to do god's work. i pray with all my heart to be a martyr for god, for then i'll go straight to paradise without the need to be judged, my sins forgiven me. if it's tonight, then i will die blessing him who kills me because i know i will die doing god's work."
"god is great," one of the men said, the others echoed him.
"yes, god is great. but you, moneylender bakravan, did you pray five times today as the prophet ordered?"
"of course, of course," bakravan heard himself say, knowing his lie to be sinless because of taqiyah concealment the prophet's permission to any muslim to lie about islam if he feels his life is threatened.
"good. be silent and be patient, i come back to you later." another chill racked him as he saw the man turn his attention back to paknouri. "by order of the revolutionary komiteh and alitallah uwari: miser paknouri, submit yourself to god for crimes against god."
paknouri's mouth struggled. "i... i... you cannot... there..." his voice trailed away. a little foam seeped from the corners of his lips. they all watched him, the green bands without emotion, the others with horror.
ali kia cleared his throat. "now, listen, perhaps it would be better to leave this until tomorrow," he began, trying to keep his voice important. "emir paknouri's clearly upset by the mista "
"whotre you?" the leader's eyes bored into him as they had into paknouri and bakravan. "eh?"
"i'm deputy minister ali kia," ali replied, keeping his courage under the strength of the eyes, "of the department of finance, member of prime minister bazargan's cabinet and i suggest you wait u "
"in the name of god: you, your department of finance, your cabinet, your bazargan has nothing to do with me or us. we obey the mullah uwari, who obeys the komiteh, who obeys the imam, who obeys god." the man scratched absently and turned his attention back to paknouri. "in the street!" he ordered, his voice still gentle. "or we'll drag you."
paknouri collapsed with a groan and lay inert. the others watched helplessly, someone muttered, "the will of god," and the little teaboy began sobbing.
"be quiet, boy," yusuf said without anger. "is he dead?"
one of the men went over and squatted over paknouri. "no. as god wants."
"as god wants. hassan, pick him up, put his head in the water trough, and if he doesn't wake up, we'll carry him."
"no," bakravan interrupted bravely, "no, he'll stay here, he's sick an "
"are you deaf, old man?" an edge had crept into yusuf's voice. fear stalked the room. the little boy crammed his fist into his mouth to prevent himself from crying out. yusuf kept his eyes on bakravan as the man called hassan, broad-shouldered and strong, lifted paknouri easily and went out of the shop and up the alley. "as god wants," he said, eyes on bakravan. "eh?"
"where... please, where will you be taking him?"
"to jail, of course. where else should he go?"
"which... which jail, please?"
one of the other men laughed. "what does it maker what jail?"
for jared bakravan and the others, the room was now stifling and cell- like even though the air had not changed and the open front onto the alley was as it had ever been.
"i would like to know, excellency," bakravan said, his voice thick, trying to mask his hatred. "please."
"evin."
this had been the most infamous of tehran's prisons. yusuf sensed another wave of fear. they must all be guilty to be so afraid, he thought. he glanced behind him at his younger brother. "give me the paper."
his brother was barely fifteen, grubby and coughing badly. he took out half a dozen pieces of paper and shuffled through them. he found the one he sought. "here it is, yusuf."
the leader peered at it. "are you sure it's the right one?"
"yes." the youth pointed a stubby finger at the name. slowly he spelled out the characters. "j-a-r-e-d b-a-k-r-a-v-an."
someone muttered, "god protect us!" and in the vast silence yusuf took the paper and held it out to bakravan. the others watched, frozen.
hardly breathing, the old man took it, his fingers trembling. for a moment he could not focus his eyes. then he saw the words: "jared bakravan of the tehran bazaar, by order of the revolutionary komiteh and ali'allah uwari, you are summoned to the revolutionary tribunal at evin jail tomorrow immediately after first prayer to answer questions." the paper was signed, ali'allah, the writing illiterate.
"what questions?" he asked dully.
"as god wills." the leader shouldered his carbine and got up. "until dawn. bring the paper with you and don't be late." at that moment he noticed the silver tray and cut glasses and half-empty bottle of vodka that was on a low table almost hidden by a curtain in the dark hallway, glinting in some candlelight. "by god and the prophet," he said angrily, "have you forgotten the laws of god?"
the shop people scattered out of his way as he upended the bottle, emptying the contents on the dirt floor, and hurled the bottle away. some of the liquid ran onto one of the carpets. instinctively the teaboy fell on his knees and began to mop it up.
"leave it alone!"
petrified, the boy scuttled away. with his foot, yusuf carelessly diverted most of the flow. "let the stain remind you of the laws of god, old man," he said. "if it stains. " for a moment he studied the carpet. "what colors! beautiful! beautiful!" he sighed and scratched, then turned on bakravan and kia. "if you were to take all the wealth of all of us pasadan here, and add it to that of
all our families, and our fathers' families, still we could not afford even a corner of such a carpet." yusuf smiled crookedly. "but then, if i was as rich as you, moneylender bakravan do you know usury is also against the laws of god9. even if i was so rich, still i wouldn't buy such a carpet. i have no need of such treasure. i have nothing, we have nothing, we need nothing. only god."
he stalked out.
near the u.s. embassy: 8:15 p.m. erikki had been waiting for almost four hours. from where he sat in the first-floor window of his friend christian tollonen's apartment, he could see the high walls surrounding the floodlit u.s. compound down the road, uniformed marines near the huge iron gates stamping their feet against the cold, and the big embassy building beyond. traffic was still heavy, snarled here and there, everyone honking and trying to get ahead, pedestrians as impatient and self-cantered as usual. no traffic lights working. no police. not that they'd make any difference, he thought, tehranis don't give a damn for traffic regulations, never have, never will. like those madmen on the road down through the mountains who killed themselves. like tabrizis. or qazvinis.
his great fist bunched at the thought of qazvin. at the finnish embassy this morning there had been reports of qazvin in a state of revolt, that azerbaijan nationalists in tabriz had rebelled again and fighting was going on against forces loyal to the khomeini government and that the whole oil-rich and vastly strategic border province had again declared its independence of tehran, independence it had fought for over the centuries, always aided and abetted by russia, iran's permanent enemy and gobbler of her territory. rakoczy and others like him must be swarming all over azerbaijan.
"of course the soviets are after us," abdollah gorgon khan had said angrily, during the quarrel, just before he and azadeh had left for tehran. "of course your rakoczy and his men are here in strength. we walk the thinnest tightrope in the whole world because we're their key to the gulf and the key to hormuz, the jugular of the west. if it hadn't been for us gorgons, our tribal connections, and some of our kurdish allies, we'd be a soviet province now joined to the other half of azerbaijan that the soviets stole from us years ago, helped as always by the insidious british oh, how i hate the british, even more than americans who are just stupid and ill-mannered barbarians. it's the truth, isn't it?"
"they're not like that, not the ones i've met. and s-g's treated me fairly."
