Whirlwind Read online

  When Sharazad had married the second time, Jari had not gone to stay in the apartment. But that did not matter, for Sharazad spent the days here when the Infidel was away. All the household called him that and tolerated him because of her happiness that only women understood.

  “Eeeee, what devils men are,” she said and hid her smile, understanding very well. They had all heard the screams last night and the sobbing, and though they all knew a husband was entitled to beat his wife and that God had allowed the Infidel’s blows to shake their mistress out of her fit, she herself had heard the different cries, just before dawn this morning, the cries of her and him in the Garden of God.

  Never had she been there herself. Others had told her about being transported, so had Sharazad, but the few times her own husband had lain with her had been for his pleasure and not hers. Her share had been pain and six children before she was twenty, four dying in infancy. Then him dying to release her from the childbirth death that she knew, for her, would otherwise have been inevitable. As God wants! Oh, yes, she told herself so contentedly, God rescued me and made him die and now, surely, he bums in hell, for he was a foul blasphemer who barely prayed once a day. God also gave me Sharazad!

  She looked down on the beautiful, satin body and long, dark-dark hair. Eeeee, she told herself, how blessed to be so young, so moist, so resilient, so ready to do God’s work at long last.

  “Turn over, Princess, an—”

  “No, Jari, it hurts so.”

  “Yes, but I must knead your stomach muscles and condition them.” Jari chuckled. “They must be very strong soon.”

  At once, Sharazad turned and looked up at her, pain forgotten “Oh, Jari, are you sure?”

  “Only God is sure, Princess. But have you ever been late before? Isn’t your time overdue—and a son long overdue?”

  The two women laughed together, then Sharazad lay back and gave herself to the hands and to the future and to the happy time she would have when she told him: Tommy, I’m honored to tell…no, that’s no good. Tommy, God has blessed us…no, that’s no good either though it’s true. If only he was Muslim and Iranian it’d be so much easier. Oh, God, and Prophet of God, make Tommy Muslim and so save him from hell, make my son strong and let him grow up to have sons and daughters and them sons…oh, how blessed we are by God…

  She let herself drift. The night was calm, still a little snow falling and not much gunfire. Soon they would have their evening meal and then she would play backgammon with her cousin Karim or with Zarah, her brother Meshang’s wife, then to sleep contentedly, the day well spent.

  The morning when Jari had awakened her the sun was up, and though she had wept a little from the pain, oil and massage soon took most of it away. Then the ritual washing and first prayer of the day, kneeling in front of the little shrine in a corner of the bedroom and its sajadeh, the small square of lovely wrought tapestry with its bowl of sacred sand from Cabella and, beyond that, the string of prayer beads and her copy of the Koran, beautifully decorated. A quick breakfast of tea, fresh bread still hot from the kiln oven, butter and honey and milk, a boiled egg as always—rarely a shortage even during the bad troubles—then quickly to the bazaar, veiled and chadored, to see Meshang, her adored brother.

  “Oh Meshang, my darling, you look so tired. Did you hear about our apartment?”

  “Yes, yes, I did,” he said heavily, dark shadows around his eyes. The four days since their father had gone to Evin Jail had aged him, “Sons of dogs, all of them! But they’re not our people. I heard they’re PLO acting on instructions of this Revolutionary Komiteh.” He shuddered. “As God wants.”

  “As God wants, yes. But my husband said a man called Teymour, the leader, this man said we had until afternoon prayer today to take our things away.”

  “Yes, I know. Your husband left a message for me before he left this morning for Zagros. I’ve sent Ali and Hassan and some of the other servants, told them to pretend they were movers and to collect everything they could.”

  “Oh, thank you, Meshang, how clever you are.” She was greatly relieved. It would have been unthinkable for her to have gone herself. Her eyes filled with tears. “I know it’s the Will of God but I feel so empty without Father.”

  “Yes, yes, it’s the same for me… Insha’Allah.” There was nothing more he could do. He had done everything correctly, overseeing the washing of the body, binding it with the best muslin, and then the burial. Now the first part of mourning was over. On the fortieth day would be another ceremony at the cemetery when once more they would weep and rend their clothes and all would be inconsolable. But then, as now, each would once more take up the weight of living, there was the Shahada to say five times a day, the Five Pillars of Islam to obey to ensure you went to heaven and not to hell—your only important reason for life. I will certainly go to Paradise, he thought with total confidence.

  They sat silently in the small room over the shop that such a short time ago was the private domain of Jared Bakravan. Was it only four days since Father was negotiating with Ali Kia for the new loan—that we still somehow have to provide—and Paknouri burst in and all our troubles began? Son of a dog! It’s all his fault. He led the Green Bands here. Yes, and he’s been a curse for years. If it hadn’t been for his weakness, Sharazad would have had five or six children by now and we wouldn’t be saddled with the Infidel who makes us the butt of a thousand bazaari sneers.

  He saw the bruise around her left eye and did not comment. This morning he had thanked God and agreed with his wife that the beating had brought her out of her fit. “No harm to a good beating from time to time, Zarah,” he had said with relish, and thought, All women need a good beating now and then with their constant nagging and nattering and crying and bickering, and jealousies and interference and all this ungodly talk of voting and marches and protests. Against what? Against the laws of God!

  I’ll never understand women. Still, even the Prophet, whose Name be praised, he, the most perfect man that ever lived, even he had problems with women and ten more wives after Khadija, his first, had died after having given him six children—how sad that no sons survived him, only his daughter Fatima. Even after all this experience with women it’s written that even the Prophet, even he, would have to take himself aside for peace from time to time.

  Why can’t women be content to stay in the home, be obedient, keep quiet, and not meddle?

  So much to do. So many threads to pick up and to find, secrets to unlock, accounts and promissory notes and debts to uncover, and so little time. All our property stolen, villages, the estate on the Caspian, houses and apartments and buildings all over Tehran—all the ones the devils know about! Devils! The Revolutionary Komiteh and mullahs and Green Bands are devils on earth. How am I going to deal with them all? But I must, somehow. I must, then next year I will make the pilgrimage to Mecca.

  “As God wants,” he said and felt a little better. And it’s as God wants that I am put in charge long before I expected it, even though I’m as well trained as any son could be to take over an empire, even the Bakravan empire.

  It’s also as God wants that I already know where most of the secrets are, whispered to me by Father over the last few years when he discovered I was to be trusted, cleverer than he had ever expected. Didn’t I suggest the numbered Swiss bank accounts nearly seven years ago, and explain about U.S. Treasury bills, real-estate investment in America, and most of all about the Seven Sisters? We made millions, all of it safe from these sons of dogs, thanks be to God! Safe in Switzerland in gold, land, blue chips, dollars, deutsche marks, yen, and Swiss francs…

  He saw Sharazad looking at him, waiting. “The servants will do everything before sunset, Sharazad, don’t worry,” he said, loving her though wanting her to leave so that he could continue his work. But it was time to gather in other strings: “This husband of yours, he agreed to become a Muslim, didn’t he?”

  “How kind of you to remember, dear Meshang. My husband agreed to consider it,” she sa
id defensively. “I’ve been teaching him whenever I can.”

  “Good, When he returns please tell him to come to see me.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said at once. Meshang was head of the family now, and, as such, was to be obeyed without question.

  “The year and a day is overdue, is it not?”

  Sharazad’s face lit up. “I’m honored to tell you, darling Meshang, that perhaps God has blessed us, I am overdue one or two days.”

  “God be praised. Now that is worth celebrating! Father would have been so pleased.” He patted her hand. “Good. Now, what about him—your husband? This would be the perfect time to divorce, wouldn’t it?”

  “No! Oh, how could you say such a thing?” she burst out before she could stop herself. “Oh, absolutely not, oh, no, that would be terrible, I would die, it would be terr—”

  “Be quiet, Sharazad! Think!” Meshang was astonished by her bad manners. “He’s not Iranian, not Muslim, he has no money, no future, he’s hardly worthy to be part of the Bakravans, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I… I agree to everything you say but if I may add…” she said hastily, keeping her eyes lowered to cover her shock, cursing herself for not being aware how much Meshang was opposed to her Tommy, that therefore he was enemy, to be guarded against. How could I have been so naive and so stupid? “I agree there may be problems, my darling, and agree with everything you say…” she heard herself tell him in her most honeyed voice, her mind working with the speed of light, analyzing, discarding, trying to make a plan—for now and for the future—for without Meshang’s benevolence, life would be very difficult. “You’re the wisest man I know…but perhaps I may be allowed to say that God put him into my path, Father agreed to my marriage, so until God takes him out of my path and guides m—”

  “But now I am head of the family and everything’s changed—the Ayatollah’s changed everything,” he said curtly. He had never liked Lochart, resented him as an Infidel, the cause of all their present and past troubles, despised him as an interloper and an unwarranted expense, but because he had had no power to interfere and because of their father’s tacit agreement he had always kept it hidden. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, but the revolution’s changed everything. We live in a different world, and in the light of this I must consider your future and the future of your son.”

  “You’re perfectly right, Meshang, and I bless you for thinking of me and my child, how wonderful you are and how fortunate that you’re here to take care of us,” she said, back in control now. She continued to flatter, cajole, being penitent for her lack of manners, using all of her guile, allowing him no opening and turning their conversation to other things. Then at the perfect time she said, “I know you must be very busy.” She got up, smiling. “Will you and Zarah be home for dinner? Cousin Karim’s coming if he can get away from the base, won’t that be fun? I haven’t seen him since…” She stopped herself in time. “For at least a week, but most important, Meshang, cook is making your favorite horisht, just the way you like it.”

  “Oh? He is? Oh, well, yes, yes, we will—but tell him not to use too much garlic—now concerning your husb—”

  “Oh that reminds me, darling Meshang,” she said, playing her last card—for the moment. “I heard that Zarah now has your permission to go on the Women’s March, the day after tomorrow, how sensitive of you.” She saw the sudden flush and laughed to herself, knowing that Zarah was as adamant about going as he was adamant against it. His fury soared. She listened patiently, her eyes guileless, nodding in agreement from time to perfect time.

  “My husband agrees with you totally, darling Meshang,” she said with suitable fervor. “Yes, totally, dearest brother, and I’ll certainly remind Zarah, if she asks me, about your feelings…” Not that this will make the slightest difference to her, or to me, because on this protest march we will go. She kissed him lightly. “Good-bye, my darling, try not to work too hard. I’ll make sure about the horisht.”

  Then she had gone at once to Zarah and had warned her that Meshang was still furious against the march: “Ridiculous! All our friends will be there, Sharazad. Does he want us shamed before our friends?” Together they had made a plan. By this time it was late afternoon and she had rushed home to command horisht, “just as the Master likes it and if you use too much garlic and it’s not perfect I’ll… I’ll get old Ashabageh the Soothsayer to put the evil eye on you! Go to the market and buy the melon he adores!”

  “But, mistress, there haven’t been any melons for s—”

  “Get one!” she had screeched and stamped her foot. “Of course you can get one!”

  Then supervising Jari tidying away all her clothes and Tommy’s clothes, shedding a tear now and then, not for the loss of their apartment that he had wanted and enjoyed more than she, but only from happiness to be home again. A rest, last prayer, and then a bath and now the massage.

  “There, Princess,” Jari said, her arms tired. “Now you should dress for dinner. What would you like to wear?”

  Wearing the dress that would please Meshang the most, the multicolored woolen skirt and blouse he admired. Then once more checking on the horisht and the polo—the golden-crusted, mouth-watering Iranian way of cooking rice—and the other Meshang specialty, the melon, sweet-smelling and juicy and perfectly sculptured.

  Waiting for her cousin Karim Peshadi to arrive—loving him, remembering their lovely times growing up, their families always intermingled, summers on their Caspian estates, swimming and sailing and, in the winter, skiing near Tehran, nothing but parties and dances and laughter, Karim tall like his father, the colonel commandant at Kowiss, and as fine. Always associating Karim with that first September evening she had seen the strange tall foreigner with the blue-gray eyes—eyes that had glowed with the heavenly fire the ancient poets wrote about, the instant he had seen her…

  “Highness, His Excellency your cousin Captain Karim Peshadi requests permission to see you.”

  Joyfully running to greet him. He was staring out of a window in the smaller of the reception rooms, the walls all small mirrors and windows set into an artistic Persian design, the only furniture the usual low, continuous sofa around the walls, a few inches off the close-sheared carpet, soft-padded and upholstered with the finest Persian fabric—like the backrest that was attached to the walls.

  “Darling Karim, how wonder—” She stopped. This was the first time she had seen him since the day, a week ago, when they had gone together to the riot of Doshan Tappeh, and now she was looking at a stranger—stretched skin over the high cheekbones, the dreadful pallor, dark rings around his eyes, stubbled beard, untidy clothes when usually he was impeccably dressed and groomed. “Oh, Karim, what is it?”

  His lips moved but no sound came out. He tried again. “Father’s dead, shot for crimes against Islam, I’m suspect and suspended and may be arrested any moment,” he said bitterly. “Most of our friends are suspect, Colonel Jabani’s vanished, accused of treason—you remember him, the one who led the people against the Immortals and had most of his hand blown off…”

  Numbed, she sat listening, watching him.

  “…but there’s worse to come, darling Sharazad. Uncle… Uncle Valik and Annoush and little Jalal and Setarem are all dead, killed trying to escape to Iraq in a civilian 212…”

  Her heart seemed to stop and doom began.

  “…they were intercepted and shot down near the Iraqi border. I was at HQ today, waiting to answer our komiteh’s questions when the telex came in from our base at Abadan—those komiteh sons of dogs can’t read so they asked me to read it out, not knowing I had any connection with Valik, that we were related. The telex was marked secret and it said the traitors General Valik and a General Seladi had been identified in the 212’s wreckage from identity cards, along with others and…and a woman and two children…and asked us to check out the chopper, supposedly one of Tom’s company that’d been hijacked, EP-HBC…”

  She fainted.
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  When she came to, Jari was patting her forehead with a cold towel, other servants anxiously grouped around, Karim, white-faced and apologetic in the background. Blankly she stared at him. Then what he had said flooded back, what Erikki had said flooded back, and Tommy’s strangeness. And once again the three mixed, another wave of terror started to engulf her. “Has…has Excellency Meshang arrived yet?” she asked weakly.

  “No, no, Princess. Let me help you to bed, you’ll feel bett—”

  “I’m…no, thank you, Jari, I’m… I’m fine. Please leave us alone.”

  “But, Prin—”

  “Leave us alone!”

  They obeyed. Karim was filled with anguish. “Please excuse me, darling Sharazad, I shouldn’t have worried you with all these problems, but I’m… I only discovered about…about Father this morning, I’m so sorry, Sharazad, it’s not a woman’s place to worry about wh—”

  “Karim, listen to me, I beg you,” she interrupted with growing desperation. “Whatever you do, don’t mention about Uncle Valik, don’t mention to Meshang about him and…and the others, not yet, please, not yet! Don’t mention about Valik!”

  “But why?”

  “Because…because…” Oh God oh God what do I do? she was thinking, wanting to cry out, I’m sure Tommy was flying HBC, oh God let me be wrong but I’m sure that’s what Erikki said when I asked him how long Tommy’d be away. Didn’t Erikki say: “Don’t worry, Tommy’s charter’s to Bandar Delam—HBC with spares—that shouldn’t take but a day or two.” Isn’t Bandar Delam beside Abadan that’s beside the border? Didn’t Uncle Valik come to see Tommy late at night, much too late unless the matter was very urgent, and then, after he’d left, wasn’t Tommy changed, in misery, staring into the fire? “Family must look after family,” wasn’t that what he muttered? Oh God help me…