last night he had told ali kia that without paknouri there could be no loan, that if he himself was troubled the bazaar would revolt and all funds stopped
to the government, to khomeini, to the mosques, and to ali kia personally. "all won't fail," he said grimly. "he daren't. i know too much about them all."
the car stopped outside the main gate. idly the green bands stared at it. jared bakravan summoned his courage. "i won't be long."
"god protect you. we'll wait here for you we'll wait here." his wife kissed him and so did the others and there were more tears and then he was standing in front of the green bands. "salaam," he said. "i'm i'm a witness at the court of mullah alitallah uwari."
the leader of the guards took the paper, glanced at it upside down, gave it to one of the others who could read. "he's from the bazaar," the other youth said. "jared bakravan."
the leader shrugged. "show him where to go." the other man led the way through the broken doorway. bakravan followed, and as the barricade closed behind him, much of his confidence vanished. it was somber and dank in this small open dirt area between the walls and the main building complex. the air stank. eastward, hundreds of men were crammed together, sitting or lying down, huddled miserably against the cold. many wore uniforms officers. westward, the space was empty. ahead was a tall iron-barred gate and it swung open to admit him. in the waiting room were dozens of other men, weary frightened men, sitting in rows on benches or standing or just sitting on the floor, some uniformed officers, and he noticed one full colonel. some of the others he recognized, important businessmen, court favorites, administrators, deputies but none he knew intimately. a few recognized him. there was a sudden hush.
"hurry up," the guard said irritably. he was a pockmarked youth and he shoved through to the desk, to the harassed clerk who sat there. "here's another for excellency mullah uwari."
the clerk accepted the paper and waved at bakravan. "take a seat you'll be called when you're needed."
"salaam, excellency," bakravan said, shocked at the man's rudeness. "when will that be? i was to be here just after fir "
"as god wants. you'll be called when you're needed," the man said waving him away.
"but i'm jared bakravan of the baz "
"i can read, agha!" the man said more rudely. "when you're wanted you'll be called! iran's an islamic state now, one law for all, not one for the rich another for the people."
bakravan was jostled by others being shoved toward the clerk. weak with rage, he made his way toward a wall. to one side a man was using a latrine bucket that was already overfull, urine spilling onto the floor. eyes watched
bakravan. a few muttered, "god's peace on you." the room smelled vile. his heart was pounding. someone made a space for him on a bench and, thankfully, he sat down. "the blessings of god upon thee, excellencies."
"and on thee, agha," one of them said. "you're accused?"
"no, now i'm called as a witness," he said shocked.
"the excellency is a witness in front of mullah uwari?"
"yes, yes, i am, excellency. who is he?"
"a judge, a revolutionary judge," the man muttered. he was in his fifties, small, his face more lined than bakravan's, his hair tufted. he twitched nervously. "no one here seems to know what's happening, or why they're called, or who this uwari is, only that he's appointed by the ayatollah and judges in his name."
bakravan looked into the man's eyes and saw the terror and felt even more unnerved. "the excellency is also a witness?"
"yes, yes, i am, though why they should call me who was just a manager in the post office i don't know."
"the post office is very important they probably need your advice. do you think we'll be kept waiting long?"
"insha'allah. i was called yesterday after fourth prayer and i've been waiting ever since. they kept me here all night. we have to wait until we're called. that's the only toilet," the man said, pointing at the bucket. "the worst night i've ever had, terrible. during the night they... there was a great deal of firing; the rumor is three more generals and a dozen savak officials were executed."
"fifty or sixty," the man on the other side of him said, coming out of his stupor. "the number must be nearer sixty. the whole prison's crammed like bedbugs in a village mattress. all the cells're packed. two days ago the green bands broke down the gates, overpowered the guards, and stuffed them in the dungeons, let most prisoners out and then started filling up the cells with locals" he dropped his voice more "all the cells are crammed, much more than in the shah's time, god curse him for not... every hour the green bandstre bringing in more people, fedayeen and mujhadin and tudeh all mixed up with us innocents, the faithful..." he dropped his voice further, the whites of his eyes showing, "and good people who should never be touched and... when the mob broke the prison open they found electric probes and whips and... and torture beds and..." foam collected at the corner of his mouth. "... they say the... the new jailers are using them and... and once you're here, excellency, they keep you here." tears began to well in his little eyes set in a pudgy face. "the food's terrible, the prison terrible, and... and i've got stomach ulcers and that son of a dog of a clerk, he... he won't understand i have to have special foods..."
there was a commotion on the far side and the door crashed open. half a
dozen green bands came into the room and began shoving a passage clear with their rifles. behind them, other guards surrounded an air force officer who walked proudly, his head high, his arms tied behind him, his uniform disheveled, epaulets half torn off. bakravan gasped. it was colonel peshadi, commander of kowiss air base also a cousin.
others recognized the colonel, for much had been made of the victorious iranian expedition a few years ago to dhofar in southern oman, the successful smashing of the almost lethal marxist attack by south yemenis against oman, and also of peshadi's personal bravery leading iranian tanks in a key battle. "isn't that the hero of dhofar?" someone said incredulously.
"yes that's him..."
"god protect us! if they arrest him..."
impatiently one of the guards pushed peshadi in the back, trying to force him to hurry up. at once the colonel lashed out at him, though badly hampered by his manacles. "son of a dog," he shouted, his rage bursting, "i'm going as fast as i can. may your father burn!" the green band cursed him back, then shoved the butt of his rifle in the colonel's stomach. the colonel lost his balance and fell at his mercy. but he still cursed his captors. and he cursed them as they pulled him to his feet, two on each arm, and frog-marched him outside into the western space between the walls. and there he cursed them, and khomeini, and false mullahs, in all the names of god, then shouted, "long live the shah, there is no other god but g " bullets silenced him.
in the waiting room there was a ghastly silence. someone whimpered. an old man began to vomit. others began whispering, many started to pray, and bakravan was sure all this was a nightmare, his tired brain rejecting reality. the fetid air was cold but he seemed to be in an oven and suffocating. am i dying? he asked himself helplessly and pulled the neck of his shirt open. then someone touched him and he opened his eyes. for a moment he could not focus them or fathom where he was. he was lying on the floor, the small man anxiously bending over him. "are you all right?"
"yes, yes, i think so," he said weakly.
"you fainted, excellency. are you sure you're all right?"
hands helped him sit again. dully he thanked them. his body seemed very heavy, his senses blunted, eyes leaden.
"listen," the man with ulcers was whispering, "this's like the french revolution, the guillotine and the terror, but how can it happen with ayatollah khomeini in charge, that's what i don't understand."
"he doesn't know," the small man said, equally fearfully. "he can't know, isn't he a man of god, pious and the most learned of all ayatollahs... ?"
tiredness surged through bakravan and he leaned against the wall, letting himself drift away.
later a rough hand shook him awake. "bakravan, you're wanted. come on!"
"yes, yes," he mumbled, and groped to his feet, finding it hard to talk, recognizing yusuf, the leader of the green bands who had come to the bazaar last night. he stumbled after him, through the others, out of the room and into the corridor, up steps and along another heatless corridor lined with cells, peepholes in the doors, past guards and others who eyed him strangely, someone crying nearby. "where where are you taking me?"
"save your strength, you'll need it."
yusuf stopped at a door, opened it, and shoved him through. the room was small, claustrophobic, crammed with men. in the center was a wooden table with a mullah and four young men seated on either side of him, some papers and a large koran on the table, a small barred window high up in the wall, a shaft of sunlight against the blue of the sky. green bands leaned against the walls.
"jared bakravan, the bazaar), the moneylender," yusuf said.
the mullah looked up from the list he had been studying. "ah, bakravan, salaam."
"salaam, excellency," bakravan said shakily. the mullah was fortyish, with black eyes and black beard, white turban and threadbare black robes. the men beside him were in their twenties, unshaven or bearded, and poorly dressed, guns propped behind them. "how how can i i help you?" he asked, trying to be calm.
"i am ali'allah uwari, appointed by the revolutionary komiteh as a judge, and these men are also judges. this court is ruled by the word of god and the holy book." the mullah's voice was harsh and his accent qazvini. "you know this paknouri, known as miser paknouri?"
"yes, but may i say, excellency, according to our constitution and to ancient bazaar) law th "
"better you answer the question," one of the youths interrupted, "we've no time to waste on speeches! do you know him or don't you?"
"yes, yes, of cour "
"excellency uwari," yusuf interrupted from the doorway. "please, who do you want next?"
"paknouri, then..." the mullah squinted at the list of names. "then police sergeant jufrudi."
one of the others sitting at the tables said, "that dog was judged by our other revolutionary court last night and shot this morning."
"as god wills." the mullah drew a line through the name. all the names above had lines through them. "then bring hassen turlak from cell 573."
bakravan almost cried out. turlak was a highly respected journalist and
writer, half-iranian-half-afghan), a courageous and zealous critic of the shah's regime who had even spent some years in jail because of his opposition.
the unshaven young man beside the mullah irritably scratched at the skin blemishes on his face. "who's turlak, excellency?"
the mullah read from the list. "newspaper reporter."
"it's a waste of time seeing him of course he's guilty," another said. "wasn't he the one who claimed the word could be changed, that the words of the prophet weren't correct for today? he's guilty, of course he's guilty."
"as god wills." the mullah turned his attention to bakravan. "paknouri. did he ever practice usury?"
bakravan dragged his mind off turlak. "no, never, and he w "
"did he lend money at interest?"
bakravan's stomach churned. he saw the cold black eyes and tried hard to get his brain working. "yes, but in a modern society int "
"isn't it written clearly in the holy koran that lending money at interest is usury and against the laws of god?"
"yes. usury is against the laws of god but in modern soc "
"the holy koran is blemishless. the word is clear and forever. usury is usury. the law is the law." the mullah's eyes flattened. "do you uphold the law?"
"yes, yes, excellency, of course, of course i do."
"do you practice the five pillars of islam?" these were obligatory to all muslims: the saying of the shahada; ritual prayer five times a day; the voluntary giving of zakat, a year tax, a tenth part; fasting from dawn to dusk during the holy month of ramadan; and last, making the hajj, the ritual journey to mecca once in a lifetime.
"yes, yes, i do, except except the last. i i haven't yet made the pilgrimage to mecca not yet."
"why not?" the young man with spots on his face asked. "you have more money than a dung heap has flies. with your money you could go in any air machine, any! why not?"
"it's it's my health," bakravan said, keeping his eyes down and praying the lie sounded convincing. "my my heart is weak."
"when were you last in the mosque?" the mullah said.
"on friday, last friday, at the mosque in the bazaar," he said. it was true that he was there, though not to pray but to have a business conference.
