Whirlwind Page 52

  “And on thee, Agha,” one of them said. “You’re accused?”

  “No, no, 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 Bands’re 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 bazaari, 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 bazaari 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-Afghani, 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 irritabl
y 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.

  “This Paknouri, he practiced the Five Pillars as a true Believer?” one of the youths asked.

  “I—I believe so.”

  “It’s well known he didn’t, well known he was a Shah supporter. Eh?”

  “He was a patriot, a patriot who financially supported the revolution and supported Ayatollah Khomeini, the Blessings of God upon him, financially supported the mullahs over the years an—”

  “But he spoke American and worked for Americans and the Shah, helping them exploit and steal our wealth from the soil, didn’t he?”

  “He, he was a patriot who worked with the foreigners for the good of Iran.”

  “When the Satan Shah illegally formed a party, Paknouri joined it, served the Shah in the Majlis, didn’t he?” the mullah asked.

  “He was a deputy, yes,” Bakravan replied. “But he worked for the rev—”

  “And he voted for the Shah’s so-called White Revolution that took away land from the mosques, decreed equality of women, implanted civil courts and state education against the dictates of the Holy Koran…”

  Of course he voted for it, Bakravan wanted to scream, the sweat trickling down his face and back. Of course we all voted for it! Didn’t the people vote for it overwhelmingly and even many ayatollahs and mullahs? Didn’t the Shah control the government, the police, the gendarmerie, SAVAK, the armed forces and own most of the land? The Shah was ultimate power! Curse the Shah, he thought, beside himself with rage, curse him and his White Revolution of ’63 that started the rot, sent the mullahs mad, and continues to plague us, all his “modern reforms” that were directly responsible for the rise of the then obscure Ayatollah Khomeini to prominence. Didn’t we bazaaris warn the Shah’s advisers a thousand times! As if any of the reforms mattered. As if any of the reforms w—

  “Yes or no?”

  He was startled out of his reverie and cursed himself. Concentrate! he thought in panic. This vile son of a leprous dog is trying to trap you! What did he ask? Be careful—for your own life be careful! Ah, yes, the White Revolution! “Emir Pak—”

  “In the Name of God, yes or no!” the mullah overrode him harshly.

  “He—yes—yes, he voted for the, the White Revolution when he was a deputy in the Majlis. Yes, yes, he did.”

  The mullah sighed and the youths shifted in their seats. One yawned and scratched his groin, absently playing with himself.

  “You are a deputy?”

  “No—no, I resigned when Ayatollah Khomeini ordered it. The—”

  “You mean when Imam Khomeini, the Imam ordered it?”

  “Yes, yes,” Bakravan said flustered. “I resigned, the, er, the moment the Imam ordered it, I—I resigned at once,” he said, and did not add, We all resigned at Paknouri’s suggestion when it was safe and certain the Shah had decided to leave and to pass over power to the moderate and rational Prime Minister Bakhtiar, but not for power to be usurped by Khomeini, he wanted to shriek, that was never the plan! God curse the Americans who sold us out, the generals who sold us out, the Shah who’s responsible! “Everyone knows—knows how I supported the Imam, may he live forever.”

  “Yes, the Blessings of God on him,” the mullah echoed with the others. “But you, Jared Bakravan of the bazaar. Have you ever practiced usury?”

  “Never,” Bakravan said at once, believing it, though fear racked him. I’ve loaned money all of my life but the interest’s always been fair and reasonable, never usury, he thought, never. And all the times I acted as adviser to various people and ministers, arranging loans, private and public, transferring funds out of Iran, private and public, making money, a great deal of money, that was good business and not against the law. “I opposed the—I opposed the White Revolution and the Shah, wherever I could—it was well known that I opp—”

  “The Shah committed crimes against God, against Islam, against the Holy Koran, against the Imam—God protect him—against the Shi’a faith. All those who helped him are equally guilty.” The mullah’s eyes were relentless. “What crimes have you committed against God and the Word of God?”

  “None,” he cried out, almost at the limit. “In God’s name I swear, none!”

  The door swung open. Yusuf came into the room with Paknouri, Bakravan almost fainted again. Paknouri’s hands were manacled behind him. Muck and urine stained his trousers and vomit was on the front of his coat. His head was twitching uncontrollably, his hair matted and filthy, his mind gone. When he saw Bakravan, his face twisted into a grimace. “Ah, Jared, Jared, old friend and colleague, Excellency, have you come to join us all in hell?” He shrieked with laughter for a moment. “It’s not like I imagined, the devils haven’t arrived yet, nor the boiling oil or flames but there’s no air and just stink and you press against others and you can’t lie down or sit so you stand and and then the screaming begins again and the firing and, all the time you’re on an egg, packed like a caviar egg but but but—” The half-incoherent raving stopped as he saw the mullah. Terror swamped him. “Are you…are you God?”

  “Paknouri,” the mullah said gently, “you are charged with crimes against God. This witness against you says y—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve crimed against God, I’m guilty,” Paknouri screamed. “Why else am I in hell?” He fell on his knees in a flood of tears, raving. “There is no God but God is no God there is no God and Mohammed is his Prophet of no God and…” Abruptly he stopped. His face was even more twisted when he looked up. “I’m God—you’re Satan!”

  One of the youths broke the shocked silence. “He’s a blasphemer. He’s possessed by Satan. He declared himself guilty. As God wants.”

  All the others nodded agreement. The mullah said, “As God wants.” He motioned to a Green Band who pulled Paknouri to his feet and took him out and looked at Bakravan who stared after his friend, horrified how fast—just overnight—he had bee
n destroyed, “Now, Bakravan, you w—”

  “I’ve got this Turlak waiting outside,” Yusuf said, interrupting him.

  “Good,” the mullah said. Then he turned his eyes back onto Bakravan and Bakravan knew he was as lost as his friend Paknouri was lost and that the sentence would be the same. The blood was rushing in his ears. He saw the lips of the mullah moving, then they stopped and everyone was looking at him. “Please?” he asked numbly. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you—what you said.”

  “You can leave. For the moment. Do God’s work.” Impatiently the mullah glanced at one of the Green Bands, a tallish, ugly man. “Ahmed, take him out!” Then to Yusuf, “After Turlak, Police Captain Mohammed Dezi, cell 917…”

  Bakravan felt a tug on his arm and turned and went out. In the corridor he almost fell, but Ahmed caught him and, strangely kind, propped him against the wall.

  “Catch your breath, Excellency,” he said.

  “I’m—I’m free to go?”

  “I’m certainly as surprised as you, Agha,” the man said. “Before God and the Prophet I’m as surprised as you, you’re the first to be let go today, witness or accused.”

  “I—is there—is there any water?”

  “Not here. There’s plenty outside. Best you leave,” Ahmed dropped his voice even more. “Best to leave, eh? Lean on my arm.”

  Thankfully, Bakravan held on to him, hardly breathing. Slowly they went back the way he had come. He hardly noticed the other guards and prisoners and witnesses. In the corridor that led to the waiting room, Ahmed shouldered the way through a side door, out into the western space. The firing squad was there, three men tied to posts in front of them. One post was empty. Bakravan’s bowels and bladder emptied of their own volition.

  “Hurry up, Ahmed!” the man in charge said irritably.

  “As God wants,” Ahmed said. Happily, he half-carried Bakravan to the empty post that was next to Paknouri who was raving, lost in his own hell. “So you’re not to escape after all. That’s right, we all heard your lies, lies before God. We all know you, know your ways, know your lack of godliness, how you even tried to buy your way to heaven with gifts to the Imam, God protect him. Where did you get all that money if not through usury and theft?”