The Day of Sacrifice.

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The Day Of Sacrifice F.M. Esfandiary Copyright © by Fereidoun Esfandiary Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved. For my Mother and Father THE DAY OF SACRIFICE 1 Far, far away from where I sit here in my room, but well within seeing distance, the Alborz Mountains, red, brown, yellow, gleaming in the unobstructed light of the sun, rise in consonant succession, one above the other. Cuddling at the feet of these mountains is the green, shimmering Shemiran, with its many pleasure gardens, the country houses and villas of the rich, the meager huts of the farmers, the wide bridge which bridges no river. Here many young men and women from nearby Teheran go in the evenings and on Fridays to stroll with friends, to watch and be watched, to buy fresh walnuts from the walnut vendors who sit beside their bright lanterns, to breathe the cool, clear mountain air, and to stroll once more across the crowded bridge, and then just once more, hour after hour. The road from Shemiran, tree-lined and shady, meanders in and out of an undefined village or two, through groves and gardens, fields and wilderness, then groves again, and if you drive slowly you can hear the waterfalls in the groves, and the shor shor of the streams near which lovers spread their rugs. Finally, the road descends into Teheran, and if it is night, as you approach the city you can see its many lights, and if it is day, you can catch the iridescence of a dome, or tall trees in the distance, bowing their heads as if in welcome to the arriver. Teheran, like the other large cities of Asia, is replete with contradictions: it is at once modern and medieval, clean and unclean. Paradoxically, the old city has new, well-lighted avenues and elegant houses; the new city has dusty roads and inelegant clay huts. The time-worn Keesh Keesh of muleteers and the hollow, ancient jinglingling of lazy caravans blend not inharmoniously with the self-assertive honks of new cars; mosques stand bizarrely juxtaposed to cinemas; and women, completely veiled in forbidding raiments, walk cryptically through the arcaded bazaar, while women, with breasts half-exposed, limbs bold and naked, sit in air-conditioned cafés, drinking sodas, discussing politics, smoking, flirting. Strange things are happening every day — one can feel the motion, the uneasiness, the changes. One can feel the rumble beneath the surface of Time. Yes, things are changing — changing rapidly, changing slowly. The incongruities of Teheran are ample testimony to the changes that are taking place. From where I sit here, in my room, I cannot see much of Teheran; I can only see several shingled rooftops, some trees, and in the distance, Shemiran and the Alborz Mountains. I can always see the mountains. They have become so familiar and so dear to my eyes that I sometimes feel I am there rather than here. It is just as well that I have my back to Teheran, and cannot see it each time I am in my room. In this way, I can feel more to myself and sequestered from the crowds on the streets, the noises, the confusions, the activities. In fact, what I just wrote about the Alborz Mountains is not completely true: there are times when I don’t want to see them either and I close the blinds, shutting myself off from the world outside. During the day, while my father, a minor government employee, is at work at the Ministry of the Interior, and my mother goes about our small house, invoking holy names, cleaning our few rooms, preparing the inevitable pots of fluffy rice and aromatic sauces, I, their only son, sit in my room. My two younger sisters, both married and mothers now, left the parental home a few years ago, but I am still here, unmarried, unattached,

uninvolved in, and unconcerned with, the political demonstrations, uprisings, and revolutions that have been raging in the streets of Teheran since the end of the Second World War some two and a half or three years ago; and I am unoccupied. That is, I don’t hold a position. But I work — I work here in my room, thinking of the past and of the future, reading voraciously of places far, far away, and of centuries far, far back; and the more the surrounding realities encroach upon me, the farther I creep into the past; and the farther I settle my mind in far away places, irrepressibly weaving yarns and yarns around a cotton ball into which deeper and deeper I withdraw, unseeing, unhearing, alienated from the world without, alienated from the world within. That is the trouble with withdrawing: the more one withdraws, the more one needs to withdraw, becoming more apprehensive of life, more unfaithful to reality, comfortable only in extravagant phantasies. In our land — in our Asia, where for all its pleasantness, its intimacy, its fraternal solidarities and communal adhesions, there are poverty and famines that disintegrate body and mind, and primitive thoughts and primitive practices that turn people from their essential need to be themselves, free and fearless — men often turn inward: they withdraw, hiding within themselves, wallowing in malignant asceticism. But in Asia such men who withdraw and live for long periods in seclusion are said to be mystics, spirituals, inherently wise, prophetic men predestined to penetrate the depths of lifes mysteries. They gain respect for withdrawing. It has been so with me: some of my friends and relatives treat me with deference, convinced that I am imbued with oracular gifts, that I am a mystic, a spiritual. A spiritual. Any Asian who squanders his life fettered to a corner of his hut or forever sitting under a tree reciting saccharinely sentimental poetry is said to be a spiritual. But what is this spirituality? Who are these mystics and spirituals who have gained such respect? Are they realistic men who seek to understand life, or are they, as one cannot fail to wonder, men who are unable to cope with life — escapers from reality? Well, anyway, let them continue treating me with deference, let them continue whispering to each other that I am a solemn man, a spiritual, a mystic. What more comfortable way is there to gain respect, to gain justification for ones eccentricities? In fact, I shall act more solemn and preoccupied, affect a magisterial expression, and perhaps even call myself a darveesh or a yoga to gain more respect. One more thing: lest I have given the impression that I have completely sequestered myself away from every one and never venture out, let me hastily explain that I do go out — I go out sometimes during the day to buy provisions for my mother, or I visit friends, and often, in the evenings when my father is at home, I go out and stroll through the city, though, only the other day, it occurred to me that I usually go out at an hour when the streets are quiet or choose the least crowded and darkest roads to stroll on. Also, occasionally at nights, I go to a certain House of Pleasure on Galou Bandak and spend an hour or two with a woman. But recently, since my sister and her husband have temporarily left their two little sons at our house and hired Soura, a young village girl, to take care of them, I have been trying to seduce her. This is not very easy, however, because our house is small and my mother is always home. But I hope to get to Soura before she leaves. There was a faint tapping at my door. I said: Who is it? It is I, Soura replied. The Agha wants you downstairs. I can’t hear you, I said, getting back into bed. I am asleep. You are talking, how can you be asleep? she giggled. I always talk in my sleep. Come in and see for yourself. There was a brief pause before the door quietly opened, and Soura, dressed as always in her gaudy tribal dress, came into the room. Salam, she said, the Agha says he wants to see you. What does he want? She shrugged her shoulders, averting her eyes from my partially uncovered body. Soura, I said, my leg hurts, come here, let me show it to you. She laughed delightedly, but keeping her hand firmly on the doorknob, as if to insure a hasty retreat if necessary, said, I cannot stay, the Banou will think we are doing improper things.

Don’t worry about the Banou, I whispered, come, let me . . . But, just then, my mother called from downstairs, and Soura, not wasting another word, opened the door and hastily went out of the room. Arising from my bed, I put on my clothes and went downstairs. Salam, Mother. Salam, my son. Are you . . . What does he want? I asked. I don’t know, my son. He is in the bedroom; but Heaven bless you, don’t argue with him. Remember he is your father; he is older than you and has torn a few shirts more in this world, and can better distinguish between the right and the wrong. When he has finished speaking with you, come back here. I will prepare you a morsel or two to eat. I went into my parent’s room, and seeing my father, bowed my head slightly and said Salam, Father, and he said Salam. Did you want me? I asked. Bali. He was silent a good minute or two. Walking across the small room to stand in front of the window that opened on our small garden, he said: I don’t want to admonish you each time I see you. You are a man now and should know what is right and what is wrong without having your father advise and caution you day after day. But I find it imperative to repeat to you that I consider your conduct very improper. It is now well past eight o’clock and if I hadn’t sent Soura to wake you up, you would still be in your room asleep, and no doubt, would stay in your room all day, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. But, by God, KiaNoush, have you no blood in your veins, have you no shame? Is there nothing better you can do? Is there nowhere you prefer to go instead of staying, rotting, in that — that hole? Remember, you are not a boy any more, you are a man now; you are almost thirty-three years old. Are you going to waste the rest of your life sleeping in that room, always pretending that you are working, reading, when I know very well that you do nothing, absolutely nothing but sleep? He remained silent, expecting me to answer, but I did not answer, knowing from previous encounters that to give him an answer — any answer — would only provoke him further, encourage him to continue his ravings and, as I considered, his ill-advised efforts to exert authority. Have you nothing to say? I shook my head faintly but remained silent. I am speaking with you, KiaNoush. I said have you nothing to say? Seeing his anger rising, I somehow felt pleased, but instantly answered: What supplication can I make? I have no answer to submit. There is no answer, there is no answer. You are just vein-less and lazy. Lazy. To think that after all I have done for you, after all the struggles and difficulties I have undergone in raising you, you should grow up to be like this. Why are you like this, boy, why? I don’t know. Do you think that by not answering you can get away with it? Do you think you can get me angry? Well, let me tell you, boy, perhaps you think you are clever, perhaps you think that just because you have grown tall and big and are thirty-three years old you know everything. Well, let me tell you, perhaps you can fool your friends with your pretensions and your silly thoughts, but don’t forget: I am your father, I have seen and experienced ten times as much as you; to me you are nothing but a boy, a mere boy. So remember: don’t pretend with me. Walking away from the window, he sat on the bed and proceeded to put on his socks and shoes. I don’t want to raise my voice at you each time I see you, he said in a conciliatory tone. It is just that you make things difficult; I seldom, for instance, see you in the mornings before going to work. When your sisters lived here they always came into my room in the morning to greet me. Why can’t you be like them, KiaNoush, why? He remained seated on the bed and, looking at his watch, said: I have to go to the office now, it is

getting late. Before I go, I want to ask you what has happened to that friend you had who used to come to visit you? Which friend, Father? That friend who used to come here almost every day, don’t you remember? He was a very religious sort of person . . . Ball, ball, I answered; I know who you mean. The one who . . . I think his name was Hassan or Hussein or something like that. Hussein, I replied. His name was Hussein. Hussein what? Hussein eh, Hussein — it is on the tip of my tongue . . . Well, anyway, what happened to him? I will remember it in a minute. I don’t really know, not having seen him in the last two or three months. Why doesn’t he come to see you anymore? I think he is busy with politics. I thought he would be, he said, nodding meditatively. These days the Mollahs and all the others who claim to be exclusively involved in spiritual matters are inserting their fingers in every pot. They now have representatives, and parties and . . . Neekou. What? His name is Hussein Neekou. Well, anyway, can you find him? You want him? Bali. But if you can, you must find him immediately — find him today. Surprised at the urgency of his request, I said: I shall go to the School of Theology; I am sure I can find him there. What if you can’t find him there? If I can’t find him there, I shall — I shall — let me see — I shall . . . Don’t you know where he lives? I know he lives on the other side of town, but I don’t know exactly where. Well, go right away and see if you can find him at the school. If he is not there, perhaps his friends know where he can be reached. Shall I take him to the office? Bring him here this evening. If he asks why I want him to come here, what shall I say? He reflected a moment or two before answering: Don’t tell him anything. Just say you hadn’t seen him in a long time and wondered what had happened to him and how he was — you know, the usual greetings; then ask him to come to the house and have tea or sherbet or something to eat with us, as before. Very well, Father, I shall go right away. Go right away. May your shadow never grow less. God protect you. I ran upstairs to my room, put on my coat, and changed my shoes. Then, as I was going downstairs again to leave the house, my father called: KiaNoush, your mother says you have not had breakfast; come and have your breakfast, and we will leave together. As soon as we finished eating, we left the house, and as we walked to the bus stop, he said, Do your best to find him today; it is important. Yes, Father. He was silent for about twenty, thirty steps before he said:

No doubt you are curious to know why I want to see him, especially so urgently. Well, I will tell you, but you must make sure it stays between you and me. It will stay between you and . . . You have undoubtedly heard of this secret, so-called religious group whose members call themselves the Slaves of the Faith; they have sworn to rid the country of all politicians whom they consider to be corrupt, or unfaithful to Religion, or to hold policies contrary to their own. Three or four months ago they assassinated the Minister of War for his alleged collusion with the foreigners. The government tried to disband the group but failed. Some say the government failed because it was not strong enough and lacked organization; others say the government did not really try because it feared the reaction of the Mollahs and the religious politicians; and still others are convinced that the government tried hard enough but could not succeed because the group is very strong, its activities are cleverly shrouded, and its leader, a young, bearded zealot, commands the unflinching respect of its carefully selected members. Well, anyway, whatever the reason, this faction, as you know, is still very much alive, and it will be several months before it is obliterated. In the meantime, like most of the other short-lived parties and groups, it has been creating havoc here in the city. Hardly a month ago they assassinated one of the newly elected representatives to the Majlis, and was it not only ten, twelve days ago that they tried, fortunately without success, to assassinate one of the ex-prime ministers? Now there is a rumor that Ramesh, the Minister of the Interior, is on the list of those the group intends to assassinate because of his alleged mishandling of the elections. Two, three days ago, quite by accident, I came upon the startling information that the Slaves of the Faith will try to assassinate another minister of the present government this coming Sunday, which ironically is the Day of Sacrifice. There is no doubt that this time they are after Ramesh, especially because of his recent attempts to disband these political and religious parties and groups that have been creating disturbances in the streets, rioting, fighting, shedding blood, opposing every government that has come to power these last three or four years. Looking about him, as if to make sure no one was listening, he added, Before telling Ramesh of the threat to his life, I want to see if, through friends — I mean unofficially — we can get in touch with one of these Slaves of the Faith and somehow arrange to have him, or even their leader, meet Ramesh; perhaps they can come to an understanding and no blood need be spilled. You see, I know you are not interested in politics, neither am I; but as I was telling your mother the other day, I like this Ramesh, I like him very much and I don’t care what people say about him, nor am I at all sure that what they say about his being corrupt is all true. All I am sure of is that the man has been kind to me, he even once or twice came to my office and sat down to drink tea with me and speak with me as if I were his colleague, though what am I but a minor employee of the Ministry of the Interior, and he is the Minister, a prominent member of this government and many previous governments. I would like to do something for him, especially at this time when he is in need of help. I will confess my efforts are not altogether unselfish, for if I am able to render him a service, who knows, I might very well get a promotion, and after all these years of service, become an employee of even a little consequence. When we reached the bus stop, he took me to the side, away from the other people who were also waiting for the bus, and discreetly said: What is today? Tuesday. Well, let us see: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, that is six days. We have less than six days to do whatever we can. I know the government cannot do anything, or does not want to do anything; perhaps in an unofficial way something can be done to avoid another assassination this Sunday. Remember, now, there is no time to waste, make sure you — there is my bus. Bring him home this evening. Yes, Father. He took his bus and left, and before long I took the bus to the School of Theology, anxious to fulfill my fathers request, for it was so rare that he asked me to do anything for him, or spoke so confidingly. Hoping to find my friend, Hussein Neekou, and take him to the house that evening, I

went through the ancient school looking for him in the dark, damp corridors where for centuries the sing-song recitations of the Book have echoed, and in the classrooms where bead-fingering students of countless generations have sat on the floor, or on wooden benches, committing to memory passages written in a language alien to their own. Unable to find him anywhere in the school, I asked several students about him, but though they all said they knew him, none had seen him at the school in two or three weeks and none knew where he lived or where he could be reached. Whether they really did not know, or knew but would not tell, was difficult to decide; but determined to find him that same day, and well aware that there was no time to squander, I took a bus and went across the city to the University of Teheran on Shah Reza Avenue, expecting to find my friend, Karoun Azadeh, who, I was sure, could take me to Neekou. I walked through the pebbly, tree-lined path that leads to the classrooms and on one side of which are the volley ball courts and tennis courts, where young men and women in briefest briefs play, and on the other side of which are the neat, newly constructed buildings of the University. Winding my way among the buildings, I went to the Literature Department where Karoun Azadeh could always be found; but because the classes were in session I waited for him outside the building. I was leaning against the wall, wondering if after I found Neekou he could or would put us in contact with one of the Slaves of the Faith, when I noticed a woman, dressed in black, walking towards the building, looking this way and that as if she were lost or looking for someone. Seeing me standing alone by the wall, she came to me and said, Is Agha a student here? No, Banou. Then you cannot help me, she said, and apologizing for having disturbed me, walked away. Overcome with a desire to know who she was and curious to learn what she wanted, I hurriedly went after her, and before she could approach anyone else, went up to her and said: Perhaps I can help you, Banou, for though it is true I am not a student, yet I come here often enough to . . . I simply wish to know where the Medical Building is. The Medical Building? Let me see, that is somewhere in this area. I will find it, she said. Please don’t trouble yourself. I have nothing to do, I lied. Permit me to help you find it. I think it is somewhere in this direction. We walked up the shady, pebbly lane, and of the first person we came upon I asked for directions to the Medical Building. I can find it now, she said. May your kindness never diminish. I shall walk with you to the Medical Building, that is, if you don’t mind. Permit me to introduce myself: my name is KiaNoush Aryamanesh. I am pleased, she said, and as we continued walking towards the Medical Building, added, My name is Kousha — Mrs. Kousha. My husband is an officer in the army. An officer in the army? I echoed, pretending I was not surprised that she was married. That is very interesting. You don’t mean Colonel Kousha? Bali, she said placidly. Ah, yes, who hasn’t heard of Colonel Kousha? He is indeed very well known. She looked at me as if trying to decipher what I meant. Hoping to avert the embarrassment of a prolonged silence, I opened my mouth and heard myself say: So you are married to a military man? That is very interesting, very interesting. I have always been curious about military men: do they really take themselves seriously? I mean the uniform they wear, the sword that dangles at their side, the gun, the medals and all the rest — it is all so reminiscent of Boy Scouts, wooden swords and all that. I mean no offense to Colonel Kousha; I am sure he is a capable and impressive man, not to mention his good taste in having taken you for a wife. You are kind, she said unsmilingly. But why do you think a military man does not take himself seriously? I did not say a military man does not take himself seriously. I meant I cannot take a military man seriously. Goaded by an indefinable urge to dwell on the subject, I added: I just think that the

whole idea of a military career, aside from being primitive, is so decidedly infantile. To wear a uniform and brandish a sword for amusement is, I am sure, agreeable; it appeals to the lingering fascination with pageantry that is within everyone. But to wear a uniform and take ones self seriously that, I believe, is preposterous and foolish. It smells of shallow ideals and immature criteria for masculinity. In our own country, for instance, we have a small army, and yet we have dozens and dozens of generals and colonels and other high-ranking officers, whose greatest joy in life is to dress up in their uniforms, with epaulettes, shining belts, and dangling swords, and march up and down the streets of Teheran, saluting each other, shouting idiotic orders to their subordinates, and in general behaving as if someone had shoved a rod up their, their — please forgive my imprudence. We have three fishing boats on the Caspian Sea and two sailboats in the Persian Gulf; we call that our Navy, and have ten admirals and as many rear-admirals. We have borrowed a few antiquated planes from the foreigners; we call that our Air Force, and have, heaven knows how many, air commanders and Air Force generals. You see, it is all an illusion. These officers command imaginary armies and navies, they fight imaginary wars, and win imaginary victories; their uniforms, their swords, their shining boots help to give some substance to these daydreams. Whenever I see an officer, I cannot help thinking: here is another little boy who never grew up. Amazed at the satisfaction I was deriving from my insistent denigration of the military, and yet fearing that I might have gone too far and offended her, I hastily added: Of course, I do not mean to malign Colonel Kousha; as I said, I am sure he is quite different. But I shall not trouble your head any more with my thoughts. I hope it is not improper if I ask what you do, she said. I don’t do much; I suppose you could say I live in daydreams, too, though mine are not so ostentatious. I think this is the Medical Building. Now I have to find the Nurses Office. I want to inquire about nursing classes. Feeling that she perhaps did not wish me to leave, I said, We will go in and see. We walked through the corridors until we came to the Nurses Office, but the man in charge of the Department was not in, and Mrs. Kousha, the wife of the Colonel, was asked to come back the following day. As we walked out of the Medical Building, I said: There is a little restaurant not far away, on Shah Reza; perhaps you will bestow upon me the honor of having café glacé or some other refreshment with me. You are very kind, Mr. Aryamanesh, she smiled, but I really feel I have troubled you enough and besides I . . . I have nothing to do, I said, biting my lips. . . . have things to do. You must remember I am a married woman and have responsibilities. If you feel it is wrong for you to sit in a restaurant with me and have a café glacé, I shall not insist. I don’t feel it is wrong, it is just that . . . Then come, I said, taking her by the arm. We will only sit for a few minutes, for frankly, I, too, am busy. I have to meet a friend at the Literature Department. I was so pleased being with her that I did not then take the time to recriminate with myself for neglecting to carry out my share of the plan my Father had so unexpectedly confided in me. We went into a little restaurant on Shah Reza Avenue, not far from the University. Sitting opposite her, I had a full view of her face. Thinking back now, I believe it was her whiteness that then appealed to me most. She was so white, so white, and she had black hair, which, I suppose, made her whiteness even more pronounced. Her hair was arranged in a knot behind her head, leaving her white, white neck unconcealed. Her breasts bulged conspicuously beneath her dress, rendering it very difficult for me to avert my eyes. There was a refined, sophisticated air about her, and yet an air unmistakably licentious. She was at once warm and cold, forbidding and provocative; she would sit for long minutes, self-possessed and dispassionate, as if she were preoccupied with some inner virtues, then I would make an observation that amused her, and she

would suddenly lapse into a deep, almost drunken laughter, and look at me as if she were seeing through my clothes. Anyway, besides her whiteness and her physical attractiveness, there was something in her behavior, something difficult to explain about her variableness, her perplexing alternations between sedateness on the one hand and denuding light-heartedness on the other, that also appealed to me and stirred deep feelings within me. Mrs. Kousha, the wife of the officer, and I sat opposite each other in that little restaurant, talking, and as we talked my eyes, uneasy and distracted, settled again and again on her breasts, and my hands, at times only a few inches from her breasts, died to touch them, to hold them. Once or twice she caught my eyes staring at her breasts, she smiled and continued talking, and I continued thinking of her breasts, her white, white breasts. At length, we arose, and as we walked out of the little restaurant, I said, Perhaps tomorrow when you come to the University to inquire about the nursing classes, we can meet again and have café glacé. Tomorrow, I will be busy, she said with premeditated finality. Have you abandoned your interest in the nursing classes? I have not, she replied, but after I leave the University I shall be very busy. Mrs. Kousha, I said, simulating a displeased tone, if you do not wish to see me, or if you feel it is wrong to see me and sit with me, you need not harass your head thinking of excuses. I thought it would be pleasant if we met again and sat down in a restaurant like two civilized people, to talk and laugh, without feeling sinful because one of us is married. I don’t feel sinful, she objected. Why should I feel sinful? You shouldn’t, I said. After all, you are not like one of those women from the other end of town whose body and mind are still enveloped in a veil and who unfortunately believe that a man and woman must not sit together unless they are married to each other, and that it is sinful for a married woman to venture out of the house without her husband. I do not think like this, Mr. Aryamanesh. I certainly hope you don’t, I said, and transferring my eyes to her prominent breasts that were partly visible beneath her low-cut dress, I added, it is not enough to dress in a progressive way; what is more important is to think and behave in a progressive way. But, anyway, Mrs. Kousha, I do not wish to rob you of your time; tomorrow I will be at the University all morning. If you wish, we will meet and, as today, I will suggest nothing more than spending a harmless few minutes sitting together at a restaurant. Carefully avoiding my eyes, she said, Tomorrow I expect to be at the University about the same time as today. Very well, I will meet you then in front of the Medical Building. May your kindness never diminish. May your favor never grow less. Looking at my watch I was surprised to learn that I had spent a little less than two hours with Mrs. Kousha. Angry at myself, and fearing that I might not be able to find Hussein Neekou that day and take him to my father in the evening, I ran across the street into the University and ran all the way up the shady, pebbly lane to the Literature Department, urgently hoping to find Karoun Azadeh. But the literature classes had been dismissed, only a handful of students lingered in the empty classrooms. Dejectedly I walked back to the little restaurant on Shah Reza Avenue, and having had a brief lunch, returned to the Literature Department and waited for the classes to reconvene. I waited for him all afternoon, watching carefully each time the classes convened or were dismissed. But by eight o’clock I had still not found him. Resigning myself to the uncomfortable conclusion that I would not see him that evening, I left a message for him with one of his classmates, urging him to see me the following day, Wednesday, promptly at noon, in front of the Literature Building. I could have gone to his home and perhaps found him that evening, but, I

decided, though not without considerable hesitation, that because it was late and he lived far away, on the other end of town, I would do well to wait until the following day. I am sure my decision to wait was, at least partly, motivated by the need to give myself a valid reason to go to the University the following day when I had the felicitous appointment to meet Mrs. Kousha. Tired, hungry, happy, unhappy, I went home. As I sat down to eat the plateful of rice and sauce that my mother had put aside for me, my father came into the room. I jumped to my feet and bowing my head slightly said, Salam, Father. Sit down, sit down, he said. When you finish eating, come into my room. Yes, Father. He went back into his room, and I sat down once again to continue eating my dinner. When I finished, I took my plate to the kitchen where my mother was busy washing linen. My son, she said, when you go into his room, please don’t begin arguing with him. Remember, he is your father, he is much older than you and is therefore better able to determine what is right and what is wrong. Now go in there, and see what he wants, and never forget that whatever he says is for your own good. Even I, who am your mother, listen to him, for after all, he is the master of this house, and that is how God wanted it. Now go, my son, go. May Heaven never take you away from me. I knocked at the door of my father’s room, and he said, Come in. Quietly opening the door, I went into my father’s room and having quietly closed the door, stood still waiting for him to acknowledge me. A minute or two passed before he put aside the newspaper he had been reading and said, Do you have a watch? Bali, Father. What time is it now? It is a little after ten o’clock. It is after ten o’clock, very well, I want to ask you: is this the time for you to come home? Is this an hour when a man who has a family, a man who has been taught to lead a decent life, comes home? Are you a man without . . . Father, may I entreat your permission to answer? Permission to answer, permission to answer. You have my permission to answer. What is there to answer? There is no answer. There can be no answer. You are just late, KiaNoush, you are late, that is all there is to it . . . I was trying to fulfill the orders you gave me this morning . . . Damn the orders. If you have been out on the streets because of what I told you to do, you can forget about them. I don’t want you to do anything for me or for anyone that will keep you out on the streets until this absurd hour of the night. He paused a few moments before saying: Orders, orders, who are you seeking to deceive? Do you think I have just come from behind the mountains? Do you think you are being clever, dragging the orders into this? What I told you to do this morning was simple and plain and it could have easily been done during the day . . . But, Father, I could not find him at the School of Theology, I had to . . . If you couldn’t find him, you should have come home. What I asked you to do was not that important. You know very well that I don’t want you to come home late. How many times have I told you this, how many times? This is a home, a decent home, we are trying to lead decent lives here; this is not a hotel, this is not a public house, or a caravansary where you could go and come as you please without any respect for the elders, without any consideration for your mother who toils and sweats all day at home, and your father who struggles all day trying to earn a morsel of bread. Are you fatherless, motherless, homeless, that you live like this? Are you a man of the street, KiaNoush, a vagabond, that you stay out until all hours of the night? Why do you live like this, boy, why? It is shameful, shameful. Even vagabonds, pilferers, ruffians have some decency, even they have respect for their elders, for their fathers, their mothers, their family. Who taught you to live the life of a profligate, the life of a sinful, shameless degenerate? Who taught you that there

is nothing better in life than sleeping all day and running the streets all night? He folded the newspaper that he had been reading, and arising took it to a corner of the room and dropped it in the wastepaper basket. He then went to the bed and having sat down remained silent for a little while. At length he said: You are not a father, you don’t know what it is to have ones child behave in a way that is disagreeable. It makes me unhappy to see my son, my only son, who, thank Heavens, has intelligence and is now a man, behave contrary to my expectations, and to all the principles that I taught him. Here, sit down, you might as well sit down while I try to talk with you and tell you again the things I have already told you a thousand times. What else can I do? You are no longer a little boy that I could punish. When you were younger, if you did not behave in a decent way, I used to admonish you severely and if that did not help, I used to punish you, put you to shame in the presence of others, and beat you till you were black and blue. I never had difficulty handling you, and you always obeyed in the end. But now you are a man; you are as tall as I and no longer a little boy. What else then can I do but talk with you and hope that at least from my talks you will be able to see the right course, and be able to distinguish the good from the bad. I say staying out in the streets until ten o’clock at night is bad, it is wrong. I say that you are a man with a home, a decent home; you have a father and a mother who, though it is true are far from being rich enough to provide you with luxury, yet lead a respectable, honorable life, and you should do your share to uphold the respect of the house. You say you were out all day and night looking for your friend Mr. Neekou, but I say is Mr. Neekou so elusive, so difficult to locate that it takes you a whole day and night to find him? This morning you said you would bring him home in the evening; you not only failed to bring him home, but you yourself failed to come home in the evening, and instead came home well past ten o’clock and you would have me believe you were out all night looking for Mr. Neekou. Every one knows that the School of Theology never stays open this late, where then were you? Where were you looking for him? Tell me, maybe there is something I don’t know. I went to the School of Theology this morning, Father, but could not find him. His friends at the school said they had not seen him in two or three weeks and did not know where he lives, or maybe they knew, but would not tell. Then I . . . This morning, he interrupted, you were sure you could find him. I tried, Father, I tried my best. From the School of Theology I went across the city to the University where I hoped to find my friend, Karoun Azadeh, who, I am sure, knows of Neekous whereabouts. I waited for Azadeh at the Literature Department, where he has all his classes, until about eight o’clock. Then deciding it was useless to wait longer, I left him a message asking him to see me promptly at noon tomorrow at the University. Shaking his head he said, No, there is no use, there is no use. Tomorrow will be like today; you will . . . But tomorrow I will find him, I know I will. The way you found him today? Today Azadeh was not at the University in the afternoon. I don’t want to see this Azadeh, or whatever his name is; I told you to bring your friend Mr. Neekou. But when I find Azadeh, he will take me to Neekou. How do you know you can find this Azadeh? I have an appointment with him. What if he does not heed your message? I know he will. Karoun Azadeh, Hussein Neekou, and all these others will do almost anything I ask them. What is the use if they cannot be found immediately? Tomorrow is Wednesday, which means there are only four days left before Sunday. If we are going to do anything we have to do it tomorrow.

Tomorrow I will do my best, I will do my very best to find Neekou and bring him home in the evening. When you find your friend Mr. Neekou, don’t let him get away; stay with him until evening when I come home. Remember that this is very important, the life of the Minister of the Interior — the life of a human being is at stake. I am sure that if you find him tomorrow, and if he can and will put us in touch with the Slaves of the Faith, we may be able to arrange a meeting between them and Ramesh, and at least the murder of one man may be averted this Sunday. Even if we don’t succeed, we will have lost nothing trying; certainly it is our duty to try, especially when you have a friend who probably is a member of the group or is in touch with it, and who, as you said a few moments ago, will do almost anything you ask him — and I know this to be true, for I remember how he admired your eccentric asceticism and your, your, well, let us say your strange philosophies. If we do not do all we can and Ramesh is assassinated this Sunday, I will never forgive myself for my criminal negligence. Sometimes I wish I had not come upon this sinister information; it is especially disconcerting because I know it is authentic and not just a rumor or idle talk. Do you remember the day the Minister of War was assassinated? I don’t know if I told you, but I knew about it several days earlier, though then I thought it was a silly joke, or at best a wild conjecture. You can imagine my shock when the information proved to be true. Perhaps the reason these two bits of information were volunteered to me is because I am inconsequential and have never taken part in politics and am therefore considered safe for a man to air his thoughts to while disencumbering his mind of its heinous burdens. Groaning discontentedly to himself, he took off his slippers and climbed back into bed, this time pulling the covers over him. I have to sleep now; you go to sleep, too. I may not see you in the morning because I have to be at the office earlier than usual. Yes, Father. Remember now, don’t waste any time tomorrow, go out early, find your friend and bring him here in the evening. Yes, Father. I tell you again, there is no time to squander. Before you can blink Sunday will be upon us. Now go and sleep. Yes, Father. Turn off the lights. And tell your mother to come to bed; she has worked enough. Yes, Father. May your shadow never grow less. God protect you. 2 In the morning upon arising, I noticed that my wallet, which I had left in my coat pocket before going to sleep, was lying on the table; examining it, I discovered that, instead of the six tomans which had been in it, there were now thirty-one and the usual note from my father giving me instructions for spending the money. The note read: I have left you twenty-five tomans. Five tomans for the bath house, hair cut, and shoe-shine. (You have not been polishing your shoes lately.) Spend no more than five tomans for some socks. The man at the mouth of the bazaar from whom I buy my socks sells them quite cheaply. I suggest you buy them from him. Four tomans are for that book you have been wanting to buy. I still say it is a waste of money. But if you insist on buying it, bargain with the man and try to buy it for less. Deposit another five tomans in your account at the bank. The remaining six tomans you can have as pocket money. But remember: money doesn’t drop from the sky; what with my meager salary I cannot give you money every day. Therefore be careful with your spending.

I noticed you still carry prophylactics in your wallet. Why do you carry such things? It is irreverent and atheistic. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Folding the note, I put it in my pocket and upon re-examining my wallet noticed that he had removed the prophylactics. I put on my clothes, and going downstairs, ate a quick breakfast. Because my father had already left, and my mother was busy cleaning the house, and Soura was tending to my two little nephews, I decided to leave the house and go to the University, though it was still early for my appointment with Mrs. Kousha, the wife of the officer. When I reached the University I went to the tennis courts and watched the young men and women as they played. About ten o’clock I began to walk up the shady, pebbly lane toward the Medical Building, and shortly after I got there, Mrs. Kousha, too, arrived. My eyes are refreshed, I said, as we shook hands. You are kind. With your permission, we will go in and inquire about the nursing classes. I have already inquired. Ah, you did? Bali. If it is not impertinent to ask: what did they say? They said I will have to come back next week to register. Then, if you will permit, we can perhaps take a walk through the University grounds. It is such a beautiful day . . . Yes, it is. Then come, let us take a walk, I said, taking her by the arm, later we can sit in the restaurant and have café glacé. She began to walk, though with evident unwillingness. A few hesitant steps later, she stopped and said, I am sorry, but I would rather not walk here. You mean because you are married? And besides I have work to do in Shemiran. You have to go to Shemiran? I asked despondently. Bali, I have to go there. But Shemiran is so far away, can’t you go there at another time? It is so beautiful this morning, I thought I would do well to go there now and perhaps also walk in the gardens. I wish you would stay here; we could walk together. Shemiran is more convenient, she said, and I have the car with me. Suddenly it occurred to me that she perhaps wanted me to go with her to Shemiran. Overwhelmed with the anticipation of being with her, I said, I would love to stroll with you in the gardens of Shemiran, but I hesitate to allow myself this benediction, knowing that you have work to do there and I will only be in your way. What I have to do is not very important, she replied placidly. But I remember, yesterday you said you had work to do at the University today . . . What I have to do here is not very important either, I said, biting my lip. I want to see a friend, but I can see him later. We walked out of the University and as we got to her car which was parked on Shah Reza Avenue, she said: Mr. Aryamanesh, forgive me for my indecision, but I really think we should forget about going to Shemiran together. It was foolish to think of it in the first place. But why? I said, enormously disappointed. You forget, Mr. Aryamanesh, that I am a married woman. What if you are a married woman? I said irately. Can you not sit with a man, or stroll, or talk with a man without feeling that it is all wrong . . . I don’t think it is wrong, she replied.

Don’t say you don’t, Mrs. Kousha, it is obvious that you do. It is obvious that you think just because a woman is married she must belong exclusively and completely to her husband and never walk or talk or have anything to do with other men. No, it is not this, Mr. Aryamanesh, she said calmly, it is just that, that, I mean what if one of my friends or my husbands friends should see us together? If any of your friends see us together they will see us walking or talking or sitting in a restaurant, and certainly there is no wrong in that. We drove on Pahlavi Avenue, slowly climbing toward Shemiran at the foot of the Alborz Mountains. Winding our way along the cool tree-lined avenue, we passed through many fields, cow pastures, meadows, and through the groves where the trees stood so intimately near one another that the sunlight hardly managed to peek through. Slowly, as we climbed higher and higher, the mountains got closer and closer, and just before reaching the Shemiran Bridge, we turned right and parked the car in the shade of the trees behind the Garden of Paradise. Getting out of the car, we walked into the Garden. In the distance a few children played in the sun, their happy little voices and laughter occasionally mingling with the usual sounds of a garden. All around, the flowers, red, blue, green, white, yellow, violet, crimson, huddling together in geometrically designed groups, swayed in the breeze, now this way, now the other, whichever way the breeze blew. The trees, some short and fat, stood sulking above the flowers, while others, tall and graceful, with limbs conjoined in amorous embraces, stood protectively high, shutting the Garden away from the world outside. From where we stood, the Garden of Paradise descended in terraces, one upon the other. The cool, lucid streams that serpentined at the foot of the trees, leaped from terrace to terrace, and in leaping formed graceful little waterfalls whose steady music filled the fragrant air. Down, down below, on the lowest terrace, where the leaping waterfalls ceased to leap and were streams once more, several women were washing linen, and three or four laborers were sitting in the shade, their backs against the mud wall, eating, drinking, resting. Mrs. Kousha and I strolled on the tree-lined, pebbly paths that descended from terrace to terrace, all the way down. Some of the terraces were flat and green with rich abundant grass on which many bleating lambs grazed; other terraces were covered with fruit trees and carpeted with creeping, clinging vines; and still other terraces were so deluged with flowers that, as one passed, one became almost drunk with their fragrance. Slowly we went down, terrace after terrace, now and again pausing to watch the cascading water, or the sheep and lambs that grazed and playfully chased each other across little fields of grass. When, at length, we reached the lowest terrace, we turned around and looked up, and there, far, far away on the highest terrace, the trees rose so high that from down below where we stood, they seemed to touch the blue sky. We sat by the stream, not far away from the women who were scrubbing their linen, and washed our hands and faces in the cool mountain water. Having rested a while in the shade of a mud wall, we arose and walked out of the Garden of Paradise. We walked on dusty lanes that separated one mans property from another, on cool paths that were arcaded by leafy branches, and strolled in and out of groves and in and out of gardens — private gardens and public gardens, where children disported themselves in ponds of fresh water, and as we passed, stopped to regard us and giggle among themselves, perhaps thinking we were lovers. Long did we amble in the gardens — those gardens so ordinary and yet always so inspiring, so uplifting, so truly imbued with felicity and serenity. They were not all sumptuous gardens nor even large; many were plain and small, but there was something refreshing about these gardens where the fragrant breeze always blows among the trees, where rich and poor alike foregather regularly each evening after work to spread their rugs and sit to watch the sun set and the moon rise, where at night, the nightingale, mistaking the soft ripple of the streams for the warblings of another bird, answers with its thousand songs, and where, as in all the other gardens of Iran, every twilight one can hear from far, far away the indefinably beautiful voice of the laborer as he sings on his way

home from the fields at sunset. We stopped at a tea-house in a secluded garden, and having obtained a rug and bought some bread, cheese, olives, and watermelons, and borrowed a samovar to prepare tea, we found a suitable spot near a stream, beneath a cluster of trees, where we spread the rug and lay down to rest and eat. As Mrs. Kousha cut the watermelon and spread the tablets of hot oven-baked bread, I looked at my watch and discovered that it was twenty minutes before twelve. There was just enough time to drive back to the city to see my friend Karoun Azadeh whom I had urged to meet me at the University promptly at noon. I looked from the corners of my eyes at Mrs. Kousha, trying to decide how to go about telling her that I was busy, very busy, that I had an important appointment in the city at noon, and that after that I had yet another friend to find, another friend whom my father — heaps of earth upon his head — wanted to see in the evening about a matter that was said to be very, very important. How important could it be? Was it so important that I had to put so abrupt an end to those few moments in my life when I could really say I was happy and peaceful? To hell with those politicians who day and night think of miscellaneous ways of extracting riches from the people, and those rebels who day and night think of ways of exterminating the politicians. To hell with them all; why did they not spend their time in the gardens, living life? Why did they squander their days, fighting, struggling? How long did they think they were going to live? Somehow, I just could not bring myself to tell her that I was busy and had to go, that I had to fold the rug and forgo the many satisfactions of sitting in a secluded garden, by the lip of a lazy stream with a woman with whom I was in that early stage of a relationship when everything is new and strange and thrilling and beautiful. No, I would not tell her that I was busy. I would not debar myself from the continued pleasure of being with her. To hell with my father. Who did he think he was anyway? Why surrender so much to please him? And if in the evening or at night when I go home he gets angry and shouts at me for not having complied with his orders to find Neekou — heaps of earth upon Neekous head, too, where is he? — I will just remain seated and tell him, first of all, not to shout at me because he is not talking to a little boy, and secondly — well, come to think of it, it may not be necessary to talk back to him; I would do as well just to stand still, silent and unanswering — yes, unanswering — and win my victory that way. I would be patient through his vituperation. I would maintain my dignity and suffer in silence. Of course, I could avert all that if sometime later in the afternoon I got to the University and tried to find Karoun Azadeh; probably he would not be present for his appointment until two o’clock, anyway. No Iranian is ever on time. Mrs. Kousha placed the bread, cheese, olives, and watermelon in front of us and we ate. When we finished, we had some tea from the samovar, then we fell back on the rug and rested. I took off my shoes and socks and placed my feet in the cool stream that ran nearby, and presently Mrs. Kousha did the same. The sun was almost directly above our heads, but the branches formed an umbrella warding off the mid-day heat. Somewhere in a grove not far away a cuckoo was calling to its mate; and under one of the nearby trees several intrusive crickets jear jeared continuously. Would you like some more tea? Mrs. Kousha suddenly said, sitting up. Perhaps, a little later, I replied, without moving. I think we should have our tea now, and return the samovar and the rug. There is no hurry, I said. I must leave soon, she replied. I have work to attend to. Instead of saying: Yes, we must leave soon, I have things to do, too, I said: Why need we hurry? It is so peaceful here. She said: Yes, it is very peaceful here. But I really must leave soon. I know you become angry when I say I am a married woman, but the fact is I have a husband and must take care of my responsibilities. When does he usually come home? I don’t know, she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

Don’t you live together? Of course we live together, she rejoined, somewhat annoyed. Then why don’t you know when becomes home? He comes home whenever he pleases. Does one ever know when ones — I would rather not talk about this. Why not? Because these are private matters and one should not discuss them with everyone. I must admit I would be very interested to hear about your relationship with your husband and about your — please don’t misunderstand, my interest does not arise from officiousness, I am just interested to learn how other people live and think. There is nothing interesting about the way we live, she muttered. Do you have any children? I have two sons; one is ten and the other is nine. She thought a bit, then added: They both go to school during the day; that is why I have recently considered attending nursing classes at the University. My boys are at school all day and my husband goes away, to work or elsewhere, and I have nothing to do at home. Doesn’t Colonel Kousha come home for lunch? He used to at one time, but not any more. Now that he is a high-ranking officer, he is very busy. He is so busy that sometimes he goes away for days. He says he has to go out of the city for military duties. Where do you think he goes? How would I know? Where does a man go when he is so regularly away from his home, his wife and his — but really, I don’t want to discuss this any more. Do you feel jealous when he goes away? Jealous? Why should I feel jealous? Perhaps at one time I did, but now it does not really matter too much. I just think it is unfair; I think it is not just. Why should he go away and enjoy himself while I have to stay at home caring for the children when they come home, supervising the servants, and tending to a thousand and one boring little domestic chores? I say it is not just; it is not just. If he feels free to go out independently, I shall feel free to go out independently, too. If you have the need to go out independently, I think you should; but if you do it out of spite, I think you will hurt yourself more than enjoy yourself. But why shouldn’t I enjoy myself? Why should a man have the prerogative of indulging his senses and enjoying life, while a woman sits in the house, lonely, bored, and unhappy, not daring to go out because people will talk, not daring to enjoy herself because the word will spread like fire that she is a loose woman, available to all men? I say it is very unfair, very unfair. I, too, want to love and be loved. I, too, want to enjoy these few days of life. Why shouldn’t I? I have much more to give than he. I have much more warmth and love within me than he. Why should I sit at home and wait for His Excellency? Perhaps when your sons have passed adolescence and outgrown their need for a mother and father, you can sever this relationship. She stretched out on the rug again and said: Who will want to marry me then? I will have lost my youth and what little freshness I have, and I will not be worth the skin of an onion. I think that as long as there is warmth and love within you there will be freshness and you will remain appealing. And besides, a loveliness such as yours can never disappear. You are flattering me . . . I am not. I really think you are very attractive. There is a quality about you that is very appealing, at least, to me. I love your whiteness and your black hair. Then, too, I love this duality about you . . . The what? The duality — your two contradictory selves. There is something very puritanical and lady-like

about you and at the same time there is something about you that reminds one of a, a . . . A prostitute? I did not want to be impertinent. But whatever it is, I love it. Moving a little closer to her, I put my arm across her midriff but she hastily disengaged herself saying: Mr. Aryamanesh, you must not think that just because of what I said about my relations with my husband, I go about making love to every man I meet. I did not allow myself such a presumption, I said. I only allowed myself the bold hope that you liked me a little and would respond. Please, let us not talk about this. What is there better to talk about than love? I said, placing my hand on her body. No, please, she said, removing my hand again. But why not? I love to touch your body and feel your white soft skin. No, please, you must not do that, she said sitting up. But I suddenly held her firmly in my arms and putting her back on the rug buried my head in her neck. She tried to resist at first, but then stopped, and remained in my arms unresponding. When, at length, I removed my head from her neck, she said, You should not do this. What if someone I know sees us lying here? If he is small-minded he will think what we are doing is vulgar, but if he is poetic he will think what we are doing is very beautiful. You can well afford to think this way, she said, but I am a married woman with two children and a family, and I have to think of my self-respect and . . . I know of a small, inconspicuous hotel here in Shemiran where we could comfortably spend an hour or two; no one would see us there as it . . . Mr. Aryamanesh, please don’t mention such matters. We can have a quiet room and make love together. I would love to kiss your body, your white, white body, and to hold your breasts and . . . Mr. Aryamanesh, I must ask you again not to say such things. It is very improper. Please help me fold the rug, we must go back to the city. The hotel is not far from here, I said, getting up to help her fold the rug. We can make love together then return to the city in time to tend to our work. She shook her head. We returned the rug and the samovar to the tea-house, then walked back through the many gardens, on lanes and roads, through a meadow or two, and climbed the terraces of the Garden of Paradise, one after the other, all the way to the top. When we got to her car I said, Give me the key, I will drive. But you must drive us back to the city, she said, giving me the key. I drove to Pahlavi Avenue, but instead of turning left to return to the city, I turned right, and telling her we were going for a brief ride, drove to the Shemiran Bridge, passed the small arcaded bazaar, and turned right on a dirt road. I drove through several narrow, unasphalted roads before finally stopping in a deserted area, in the shade of a few trees. Where is this? she asked, looking about. That is the hotel, I said, pointing to a small brick house amid a colony of trees, about a hundred steps ahead. As you can see, it is small and inconspicuous and I don’t think anyone at all from Teheran knows about it. Come, we will go and get a room with a nice large bed. Mr. Aryamanesh, you know very well, I will not go in there. Why not, Mrs. Kousha? I want to make love to you . . . Please, let us not dwell on this again. But I have to see your white body. I put my hand on her lap and when she resisted, I took her hand and placed it on my lap. She did not withdraw her hand. The room was neat, and the bed nice and large. By the time we had undressed, all her earlier

placidity had left, and she was a woman full of warmth and passion and love. At four o’clock, after we had lain quietly for ten or fifteen minutes, I got up and began to put on my clothes. She said, Where are you going? I have to go back to the city. Why don’t you come and lie down here a little? I want to, I replied, but I really must go back to the city. Men will always be men, she muttered, sighing. What do you mean? They strive for hours to get a little love, and when they get it, they just jump up and leave. I went and sat down on the bed and said: My dear Mrs. Kousha, there is . . . Please don’t call me Mrs. Kousha. But I don’t know your first name. Firouzeh. Very well, Firouzeh. What was I saying? Yes, I was saying there is nothing I would love more than to lie here with you and hold your body close to mine. What is hindering you? You see, it is just that, that I have to be back in the city. What do you have to do there? I have to meet a friend. The one you had to meet at the University yesterday? Bali. Why don’t you meet him later? I have to find him as soon as I can. Don’t you have an appointment to meet him? Frankly, I had an appointment to meet him at noon today. Then you might as well forget about meeting him today, and instead arrange to meet him tomorrow. No, I can’t do that, I have to find him today. I know it is intrusive of me to ask: but why is it so important that you find him today? Well, you see, Mrs. Kousha — I mean Firouzeh, yes, Firouzeh — I got so accustomed to thinking of you as Mrs. Kousha, that it is a little difficult to call you anything else, but I wont forget again. Firouzeh, Firouzeh, Firouzeh, yes, I must not forget. But I forgot what I was saying . . . You were saying that . . . Yes, I was saying that it is very important that I find him today. But why is it so important? Because I want him to put me in touch with another friend who, it appears, is very difficult to find. I don’t understand, she said, shaking her head. If it is so important that you find these friends immediately, why did you waste so many hours coming to Shemiran with me, sitting in that garden and bringing me here? I wanted to be with you. If you wanted to be with me, then why can’t you be with me a little longer? Why do you spend six, seven hours trying to get me to make love with you, and then when finally I consent and lie down with you, you cannot wait to finish; you jump up and have to leave immediately and your work becomes suddenly very urgent. Taking her in my arms, I kissed her face and her neck. She said: I don’t want to grumble and in any way taint this beautiful experience we have had together, but KiaNoush, I just cannot help wondering if in trying to get me to make love with you, you were not seeking simply to prove something. You spent hours trying to get me to consent, and when I did you lost interest.

But, Mrs. Kousha, I mean Firouzeh, I have not lost interest. It is just that today I am busy. I can even tell you what I have to do; I see no reason why I should not tell you. I want to meet one of the Slaves of the Faith and think my friend — not the one at the University, but the other one — can help me meet one of them. What do you want with these Slaves of the Faith? They are all so fanatical. I just want to speak with one of them. I know someone who can put you in touch with them. Do you really? I asked interestedly. Bali. He is a member of this Enlightened Party that has been so active recently. He has been in politics for years and knows most of the members of the parties in politics today. I am quite sure he even knows this young leader of the Slaves of the Faith. That is excellent, I exclaimed, inordinately encouraged. When can I meet him? You can meet him any day at the partys office on Ferdausi Avenue. But don’t tell him that I gave you his name. Of course not. Just tell him an officer from the Club told you about him; he will do everything he can to help you. His name is Deldar; his first name, I think, is Sarveen. Very good. Come, let us go, perhaps I can find him immediately. He is never at party headquarters before seven or eight o’clock in the evening. There is no use going there now. I lay down once again beside her . . . About six o’clock we drove back to Teheran. We stopped in front of the University, and while she waited in the car, I ran to the Literature Department hoping to find Karoun Azadeh whose forgiveness I wanted to beg for my inability to appear at the appointment I myself had made with him, and also to ask him to try to find Neekou, while I was busy trying another way of reaching the Slaves of the Faith. Unable to find him, I returned to the car and we drove to Ferdausi Avenue and stopped in an inconspicuous spot two or three hundred paces away from the Enlightened Partys office. I hope we can meet tomorrow, I said. What is tomorrow? Wednesday? No, today is Wednesday, tomorrow will be Thursday. I will be busy. Then when can we meet? I asked, impatient to leave. Perhaps, Friday, the day after tomorrow. Wont Colonel Kousha and your sons be home on Friday? He has been away for the last five days and is not expected back in Teheran until next week; my sons can stay with their grandparents. Very well, then, we will meet on Friday. Perhaps we can go to Shemiran again and sit in the gardens as we did today. On Fridays Shemiran is crowded, I would rather not go there. Also, let us not meet at the University any more; perhaps we can meet on a quiet side street. Let us meet near the statue on Shah Reza Avenue. It is usually quiet there. I will be there at three o’clock in the afternoon, she said, and as we shook hands she whispered, KiaNoush, I will miss you tonight. When she drove away, I crossed the street and walked briskly to the offices of the Enlightened Party, hoping and praying to find Sarveen Deldar immediately, hoping he had friends among the Slaves of the Faith that I could meet without delay and take home to avert my fathers anger. I opened the door and walked into a long corridor with rooms on both sides. At the end of the corridor, several men, mostly young, were gathered around a desk, talking excitedly, talking simultaneously, almost as if each were speaking for himself and completely uninterested in the utterances of the others. I approached a man who was sitting alone in a corner, reading, and asked him if Mr. Sarveen Deldar were in. He said he did not know because he had just come in, but

suggested I ask one of the men who were gathered around the desk. I waited a while trying to gain the attention of one of them, but they all seemed inextricably immersed in their curious discussion, and none of them noticed me. At length, the man in the corner beckoned to me, and as I went to him, said: They are discussing politics. I think you would do well to go into that first room on the right and ask one of the men inside. They ought to know. I knocked at the first door on the right, and when a voice inside said Bali, I opened the door and went in. To my surprise I found Choubineh Neelan, a friend from secondary school days, sitting behind a small desk and talking with another man who was sitting behind a large desk. They both arose instantly and Choubineh with graceful indicative motions recited the introduction: The Exalted Mr. KiaNoush Aryamanesh, one of the enlightened, progressive gentlemen whose friendship I have had the honor to claim for many years. The Exalted Mr. Arad, one of the illustrious leaders of the Enlightened Party, a noble gentleman in whose refreshing shade I have been working here. Mr. Arad said: I am honored by your visit. I am discountenanced by your condescension, I bowed. Your kindness overwhelms me. I am your servant, forgive me for intruding. I am your slave, please sit down. You must sit first. I beg you to sit down. No, please. No, please. I beg you. Very well, here in the shade of your presence, I will sit. I sat down, then Mr. Arad sat down, then Choubineh sat down. We bowed our heads to one another once again. Is Agha in politics? Mr. Arad asked me. Mr. Aryamanesh is a philosopher, Choubineh interposed. A philosopher, Mr. Arad echoed. What kind of a philosopher? You see, in our country, any one who does nothing is called a philosopher. Now it is obvious that Mr. Aryamanesh is a different kind of a philosopher. Mr. Aryamanesh is a mystic, Choubineh interposed again. Ah, a mystic, Mr. Arad echoed. Bali, Choubineh replied. He spends his time in ascetic contemplation and deep-thinking. That is very interesting, very interesting, Mr. Arad said, and as he got up added: With your permission, I shall go into the other room. Choubineh and I got up and when Mr. Arad was out of the room we sat down again. I said, Choubineh, what are you doing here? What do you mean? When I last saw you, two, three weeks ago, you were with another political party. I left the other party and now, as you see, I am with this party. Yes, yes, I replied, but why did you change so suddenly? Well, you see, with the other party, there was no action; they just talked and talked and gave orders. But here there is action; they do things, they don’t just talk. You mean you don’t care what the principles are so long as there is action? I do not understand. I said . . . It does not matter; but tell me, KiaNoush, what are you doing here? I want to speak with Mr. Deldar. The Exalted Mr. Deldar has not come in yet. If you are not in a hurry to leave, you can wait here for him. He will be in later.

Do you think he will be back soon? I don’t know. Is it important? Yes, it is. And besides I am tired and want to go home. Do you work now? No. Then why are you tired? he asked. I was making love all day, I whispered, smiling. With whose wife? What? I asked, startled. I said whose wife were you making love with? Why do you think it was someone’s wife? I don’t know, he replied smiling. I think in Teheran these days the married women, especially of the better families, are the easiest to seduce. I read somewhere that it is part of their rebellion against our traditions; they want to be as free and untrammelled as the men. Well, I say, let them rebel! Now we don’t have to sleep with the maids and the prostitutes, nor do we have to go to the villages and the small towns to find girls to make love with. Right here, in Teheran, we can get the choicest morsels. And why not? Progressive people do it, why shouldn’t we? He was silent for a minute or two before saying: KiaNoush, if it is not indiscreet to ask: why do you want to see Mr. Deldar? I mean, if it is not private, perhaps I can help you. I just want to reach one of the Slaves of the Faith, and I was told that Mr. Deldar might have friends among them. Since when have you become interested in politics, KiaNoush? I am doing this for someone else. I see, I see, he nodded. Well, I am sure Mr. Deldar will be able to help you; he has been in politics many years and has friends in all the parties. As soon as he comes in, we will tell him what you want. Then don’t let me take you away from your work, I said. I will sit here and read one of these newspapers while I wait. I waited for Mr. Sarveen Deldar until about ten-thirty. Too tired to wait any longer, and eager to go home to sleep, though I dreaded my fathers anger I was sure awaited me at home, I got up and went into the corridor where my friend Choubineh Neelan had gone to discuss politics with the others. I tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around, I said: Choubineh, forgive me for disturbing you again, but Mr. Deldar has not come and I have to go home. As we walked away from the others, he said: We are having a mass meeting tomorrow. That is why the Exalted Mr. Deldar has been busy all evening and has not come in yet. If you cannot wait any longer, I suggest you come back tomorrow. Yes, I will comeback in the morning. In the morning he might be too busy, but come anyway. You can participate in the mass meeting, and the usual demonstrations in the streets and in front of the Majlis. There will be action tomorrow, action. As you know, Choubineh, these political activities do not interest me. But there will be so much action that, I am sure, it will be exciting even to you. Frankly, I cannot find anything exciting about running madly in the streets like wailing cows, shouting slogans, waving fists and banners and . . . Some of the things you say would make one wonder about you, he laughed. Well, I will come back tomorrow to see him. May your kindness never diminish. May your favor never grow less. I walked as briskly as I could, damning myself for the agitation within me that somehow increased with each step that got me closer to my house. Several times I seriously considered not going back home, but spending the night at a friends, pretending the next day that I had met with an

accident. I even thought of bandaging my head or my hand to lend greater credibility to my fabricated account. I cursed myself for the dread that urged me so strongly not to go back to my own home and not to face my father, who, beyond doubt, would be sitting in his room, waiting for me, waiting to unleash his anger — that anger which, for some unknown reason, always terrified and jolted me. The thought came to me that I was now bigger and stronger than he, that I was no longer a little boy helpless in his fathers tremendous hands, and that, therefore, if the worst came to the worst and our argument turned into a fight, or if he tried to slap me, I would defend myself, and what is more, I would strike him, I would knock him down. But somehow I could not feel reassured — my fear prevailed. In fact, the thought of striking my father, knocking him down, satisfying as it was in one way, filled me with even greater fear. What a shame, I thought, that I had to be afraid of my father, the one man in this world who was, or had to be, closest to me and of whom I therefore had to have no fear, only a feeling of complete confidence, a reassuring knowledge that no matter what evil I perpetrated he would not think of me as being evil, but would forgive me, accept me, uplift me. If I could not rely on him who was responsible for my very existence, whom then could I rely on? If I dreaded going to him because I had failed, whom then could I go to? Whom could I expect to accept me if my own father would not accept me? What had I done that was so wrong, so nefarious, so unforgivable, to warrant his anger and with it my fear? What evil had I committed to be so afraid of going back to my own home and facing my own father? My pondering notwithstanding, I felt I had committed many wrongs, and walked home, my heart in my throat. But when I reached home, I was very pleased to learn that my father had gone to sleep. Circumspectly I took the plate of food my mother had left me and tiptoed upstairs to my room. I ate hurriedly, then went to sleep. 3 It was well past nine o’clock when I woke up and was surprised that my father had not sent for me before leaving for his office. Eager to leave the house as soon as possible and go to the Enlightened Partys’ office to find Mr. Deldar and with his help fulfill my father’s wish, I put on my clothes and went downstairs. Hearing my footsteps, my two little nephews ran out of their room, and laughing and shouting, came to me for our usual morning ceremonies of kissing and playing. As I began to bend down to kiss them, Soura called from the room. Come back, children, she said, you have no clothes on. It is indecent to run in the house exposing the shame of your bodies. But the children, replete with energy and anxious to play, ignored her. She therefore said: If you don’t come back, I will send the ghoul after you; and don’t forget that when he catches you he will cut off your little things. The two little boys, still playful but no longer daring to ignore Soura’s threats to send the ghoul after them, ran back to their room, laughing uncertainly, holding their little penes and talking excitedly about the meanness of the ghoul. I followed the children to their room and standing at the door, said: Soura, why don’t you let the children play in the little garden where there is sunshine and where they can run about in the fresh air? I can’t, she said as she began to put on their clothes. Why not? Because they will go by the little pond. What if they do? Agha! she exclaimed horrified, please don’t speak like this in front of the children; I have enough difficulty as it is to keep them away from the water. But children love water; let them play there if they want. The pond is not even a meter deep.

I know you are joking, Agha, she said, and making sure that the children heard her, added, we all know that if children go near the pond, the water monster will snatch them away and take them to the bottom of the sea, where no one can get them back. Unwilling to tarry any longer, I shook my head and went into the other room to have a quick breakfast and leave. Just as I sat at the table and began to eat, my mother came in from the kitchen and I said, Salam, as I continued eating. Salam, my son, she replied. May God always protect you. Are you well, Mother? If God be willing, my son, if God be willing, she murmured, and looking away said: Yesterday I waited for you the whole day but you did not come home, and in the evening your father and I waited for you until nine o’clock before we finally had dinner. We worried for you, my son, we worried, for after all, we are your parents and . . . Please, Mother, let me eat in peace; I am tired of hearing these same words again and again . . . But, my son, it is only for your good that . . . If it was for my own good, you would both leave me alone, I said, and turning to her shouted, For Gods sake, what do you want from me? I am not a boy any more, I am a man now. Why don’t you let me do what I want? Why don’t you let me live my own life? I am sick of your obtrusiveness, sick of your constant fault-finding. For Gods sake, leave me alone. KiaNoush, what has gotten into you? All I said was . . . It is just that I am tired of this incessant haranguing; I am just sick and tired of it. But why are you so angry this early in the morning? I will tell you why I am angry: I am angry because no one ever has a kind word to say in this house. What have I said that was so unkind? Perhaps I did not mean you, I muttered. Then do you mean your father? But don’t you see, he only wants your good; he is your father and he loves you. What a way to love, what a way to love. My son, don’t speak like this; what will your little nephews think, hearing their uncle speak this way? Those two little boys have enough rubbish thrown at their heads all day to be shocked at what I say. What do you mean? Why don’t you tell Soura to stop frightening the children? How does she frighten the children? Haven’t you heard her tell them about the ghouls and the jinns and the monsters? How else can one make children behave? You are as . . . When you were a child, we taught you the same things to make you behave properly and to make you grow up into a fine man. Praise be to God, you are now a big healthy man and you cannot say that what we taught you did not help. Sit here, I will bring you some sweets. But you must tell Soura not to fill the children with such fears; there is no need for it. If they develop fears now, they will never outgrow them. My son, they will grow up and forget everything they have heard. But they wont forget, they wont forget, I said angrily. Don’t get upset, KiaNoush. After all, Soura is not to blame; how is one to handle a child? I don’t know, but certainly not by frightening him; that will only make him worse. Smiling, nodding, pretending she was in full agreement, though it was obvious she was not, she made her way into the adjoining room and was soon back with several boxes of sweets. When I finished eating I said, I have to leave now, I am very busy today.

Will you be out all day today, too? I don’t know, Mother, I don’t know. Why don’t you wait a while? Your father will be back soon. Didn’t he go to the office? I asked in surprise. Yes, he did, but he said he would be back before noon; I think he also wants to speak with you. No, I can’t, I mean, I have to leave. When he comes home, tell him I had to go out and do what he asked me. Tell him I am still trying, I am doing my best. I kissed her face and began to walk out of the room. Why don’t you wait a little? I cannot, Mother, I am very busy. Well, you are old enough to know what you are doing. God protect you, my son. God protect you, Mother. I walked briskly through the hall, across our small garden, and opening the outside door, walked into the street. I had hardly taken five steps when I saw the tall erect figure of my father slowly coming towards the house. I bowed my head slightly and when I was near enough, said, Salam, Father. He said, Where are you going? I am going to the . . . Was it not enough that you spent all of yesterday on the streets? he said acidly. He continued to walk towards the house, and I walked back with him. I opened the door and followed him into the garden. Stopping suddenly, he said, Why don’t you go on wherever you were going? I was going to the . . . I am not interested to hear where you are going, he interposed severely. Go and eat any dung you want. I was trying my best yesterday to . . . I don’t want to hear it, do you understand? I don’t want to hear it. I am not interested in anything you have to say. He began to walk away, but suddenly stopped, and turning around to face me once again, said: You are the most worthless, useless boy I have ever known. You are not worth the skin of an onion, the skin of an onion. I have never, in all my days, known anyone as stagnant and stupid as you. It was my great misfortune to have you as a son. Other men are proud of their sons; I am ashamed of mine, for you are good for nothing, nothing. Father, may I entreat your permission to . . . I told you I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. I am not interested. I don’t care what you do or where you go. I don’t even want to see you. But, Father . . . You are impudent and disobedient. If you think that what I tell you is to be ignored and laughed at, I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I don’t want a son who has no respect for me; I don’t want a son who does not obey me. How many thousand times must I repeat the same thing? I say a thing once, twice, thrice, ten times, twenty times, but I cannot go on repeating it over and over and over again. How many thousand times have I told you not to get up late in the morning? How many thousand times have I told you not to squander your day in that room sleeping and sleeping like a fat, slothful pig? How many thousand times have I told you not to stay out in the streets until all hours of the night? If you don’t want to obey what I say, if you think you have grown too big to listen to me, then I say you need not come here. You can go and sleep in any hell you want. Father, I must . . . For once in your . . . Father, I must explain what . . . For once in . . . Father, please . . .

For once in your life I gave you a task to fulfill, I asked you to do something — something that was simple and that required no talent and no great effort. I told you how important it was. I told you again and again how urgently it had to be done. I told you that there were only a few days left, that this Sunday they will try to do away with Ramesh; that I would have to go to him well before then and tell him that his life was in danger. I even told you things a man does not usually tell another. I was foolish enough to think that you could do something; I was gullible enough to believe you when you assured me that you would attend to the matter immediately. Well, what have you done all this time? What have you done all this time? You haven’t done a God damned thing. Not a God damned thing. I tried my . . . You don’t have to say anything; you said everything there was to say. On Tuesday you said you were sure you could find that man and bring him home in the evening. Tuesday came and went and what did you do? You didn’t do a damned thing. On Wednesday you said the same thing: you were sure you could do it, you were sure. Wednesday came and went and what did you do? You did nothing, absolutely nothing. Two, three days have already passed and you have not done a damned thing, not a damned thing. You have not even brought that Neekou of yours here. Even the smallest, simplest part of it you could not handle. What are you good for? Is there anything you are good for? Obviously you don’t wish me to answer. You have no answer . . . Of course I have an ans . . . Don’t say of course; do you forget that you are speaking with your father? But, Father, it is not fair. I want to . . . What is not fair? You are not fair. You who lie to me and tell me you will do something, and don’t. I should have known better than to ask you . . . It is not my fault if I could not find him. I did all I could. No, it is not your fault, it was my fault, my fault for being so foolish as to presume that you were a man at last, that you had a sense of responsibility and could perform a little task — the only task I have ever given you the responsibility of carrying out. But never again, never again . . . Last night I was trying another way of getting to the Slaves of the Faith . . . Basteh, basteh, I have heard enough of your empty talk and your clever plans to go about it this way and that. I have yet to see a single action from you, a single action. Even your sisters, who are younger than you and who are only women, can do more than you . . . Then you should have asked them to help you, I muttered. What did you say? I shrugged my shoulders. Say it again that I may hear what dung you ate, he said angrily. You always shout at me, I am not . . . Yes, I will always shout at you, because you are a little boy; you are spineless and worthless . . . I am not worthless and I am not spineless . . . Yes, you are and all your denying will not help. You are just a boy and I will go after you till you learn to grow up and act like . . . I am not a boy, and I don’t want to be shouted at. Don’t talk that way to me, I told you not to be impudent. I don’t want to be impudent, but after all I have pride and I don’t want to be offended. Pride? You have no pride, you have no shame. If you did you would behave like a man. For Gods sake, Father, what do you want me to do? KiaNoush, he snapped, don’t you dare shout at me. I will break every rib in your body and have you thrown out of the house . . . I don’t want to stay in this dungeon . . .

What did you say? I said I am tired of being shouted at all the time. I am sick and tired of you, too, you ungrateful son of a burnt father. Go away from me, get away, before I break your back. Don’t raise your hand to me . . . I will teach you what it is to eat such dung, you son of a dog. He rushed at me, and full of anger, tried to slap my face, but I dodged his hand in time, and taking a step or two backward, shouted: I will not stand for this, you have no right to raise your hand to me. Shut up, he shouted. Shut up, or by God I will break your neck. Disgusted at his harshness, I turned my back on him, and raging with anger, walked out into the street. Heaps of earth upon his head, I muttered nervously. Heaps of earth upon his head. I will show him; by God, one day I will show him. He is not my father, he is a tyrant, a tyrant; may all the dogs urinate upon his grave. I should have hit him, I should have slapped him back when he tried to slap me. Who does he think he is, trying to raise his hand to me? If I had only hit him, if I had only hit him, even once, perhaps then he would remember never again to eat such dung; he would never again dare raise a hand to me. Why do I take all this indignity? Why do I allow him to revile me? Why do I let him tyrannize me, day after day? What if he is my father? I don’t have to let him trample upon me, rule me, raise his hand to me, just because he is my father. To hell with all the fathers in the world. Why don’t I stand up for my rights? Why don’t I put him in his place? Why? Why? Why? I must be stupid, I must be a fool. He is right: I am worthless and spineless, otherwise I would not bear his contumely, I would not allow him to dominate me, to push me around in this shameless way. If I were a man, if I had a tinge of decency and self-respect, I would leave him, I would leave the house and never again go back. I would teach him what it is to terrorize others. By God, KiaNoush, this time you must leave him. How many times before have you said you would leave and not left? How many times? I tell you it is a shame; it is a shame. But this time you must leave; finish, you must. Just think how angry you will make him if you suddenly, and without letting him know, pack your things and go. Just go. Just think how unhappy and frustrated he will become as the days and the weeks and the months and the years pass and there is still no word from you, and he tries desperately to find you. He prays and weeps and prays for your return, and he repents and asks forgiveness for all the pain and all the humiliation he inflicted on you . . . Yes, yes, that is what I must do, I must leave him. Why for Gods sake don’t I leave? I must be asking for all this misery. Otherwise why should I stay? Why would I live with a man who grabs every excuse to expose my failings, belittle me, admonish me, put me to shame? Why don’t I leave and put an end to all this? Why didn’t I leave many years ago? I don’t understand; I just don’t understand. Either I have become so hardened to his tyranny that I don’t feel it any more, or else I have become so conditioned to it that I can’t do without it and must have someone to dominate over me and even to revile me. Now, really, why else would I stay? I get no kindness from him, no warmth — yes, I know, he gives me money, but money isn’t kindness, it isn’t warmth. When has that man given me love? Not since I was an infant. He thinks one must not show love to ones grownup children. Can you imagine that? He thinks one should show love only to infants, and when they grow up a bit, one should be hard and even cruel to them, or else one is spoiling them and they will not grow up to be fine ladies and gentlemen. What an ass. No wonder there are grownups who just refuse to grow up and insist on reverting to their infancy. How else can they recapture some paternal love, and avoid paternal cruelty? I have half a mind to go back and tell him what I really think of him. I should, I know. Perhaps, if he weren’t so angry, I mean, if I weren’t so angry, I would go back and with great dignity and solemnity — that is the most effective way — tell him that he is a very confused man, that his autocratic paternity smells of primitive tribes and that, therefore, it is he who lacks a sense of

responsibility, and it is he who does not behave like a grownup man. I am sure that would get him very angry. I know he would become indignant and say that my thoughts, or philosophies as he cynically refers to them, are not worth the skin of an onion, that I am still a boy, stupid, stupid. He will say anything to make himself appear more intelligent, better informed. He would not want to give me the upper hand or give me the smallest reason to lose my respect for him. Respect? Nonsense. I lost my respect for him many, many years ago, when I was a small child, full of love for him and the whole world, and he repeatedly jolted my sensibilities by beating me and slapping my face and making me stand for hours facing the brick wall of our house, while my little cousins and all the other children, who had come to our house with their parents, stood nearby, staring at me with frightened and shaming little eyes. The only respect I have had for him, the only respect I could have had for him, was that unctuous, unfelt, ostentatious show of respect that arises from fear and from tradition, and which is particularly practiced among the peoples of my continent. He has mistaken this unfelt show of respect for a genuine respect. He thinks that just because I bow to him and tell him may your shadow never grow less, and speak reverently to him, I have respect for him. How can I have respect for him? Respect stems from love. Not from fear. I have always been afraid of him — there is no use denying this. How then can I love and respect him when I fear him? No, no, there is no use. The more I think of it, the angrier I get. It would definitely be foolish to go back to that house — that is not a house, it is a dungeon, a black dungeon where I go each night, full of doubt and discomfort, always knowing that my father is sitting in his room, reading the newspapers, waiting for me, waiting to pour out his never-ending severity. At one time, the ghoul and the jinn and the water monster and a thousand other monsters also sat waiting for me in different parts of that house; now all these monsters have become fused into that one terrifying creature that still sits there, waiting, waiting. If I could only stop myself from going home tonight, tomorrow would be easy and I might yet be able to stay away permanently. If I could only stay angry the whole day, then tonight it might be easy to stay away. I must try, I must try. I cannot any more tolerate my fathers acrimony. Probably it has never occurred to him that he is acrimonious; probably he thinks he is very loving. May that love eat his head. I don’t want that kind of love; I don’t want a love that is filled with anger and bitterness and austerity. Love, I know, is filled with warmth, with gentleness; it is soothing, it is reassuring, uplifting. Where is the love in his love? Where is the warmth, the gentleness? Where is his respect for me? Or does he think that just because he is the father and I the son, he should have no respect for me, but treat me as if I were the dirt under his feet, slap me down, tear me down, and always justify himself by thinking that he is really doing everything out of his love for me, and for my own good. It makes me sick to think of this unfairness, to think of all the love that could be between us, but isn’t. It makes me so angry, so very angry, that our relationship should be like that of a master and slave; if this is the relationship between father and son, then I say I don’t want my father any more, I don’t want him, I don’t want ever to see him again . . . I was so angry, so deeply immersed in miasmic deliberations of revenge and hate, that I did not realize how briskly I had been walking, or that I was rapidly going towards the Enlightened Partys office on Ferdausi Avenue. Slackening my footsteps, I muttered to myself, Why am I going there? I don’t have to waste my time looking for Mr. Deldar. Why should I try to please my father? Let them assassinate the Minister of the Interior this Sunday; let them kill him that my father may feel guilty and frustrated the rest of his life. Let them assassinate him, probably he is another dictator; everyone says he is a dictator, a tyrant. Let them kill him, let them kill him. I even ought to help them. The sooner we get rid of these tyrants, the better. Nevertheless, I continued walking slowly toward the Enlightened Partys office, thinking: I will go in briefly and see my friend Choubineh Neelan, for after all, I told him I would come back today. I will just tell him that I don’t need to see Mr. Deldar anymore, and leave without further ado.

4 In front of the Enlightened Partys offices several dozen men, mostly secondary school and university students, were gathered, all talking excitedly about politics. Some members were practicing effective ways of carrying the enormous banners which bore the partys name and political principles, and slogans in huge letters praising a statesman or two, but mostly damning and denouncing the leaders of the government in power. Policemen milled about, keeping a close watch on the assembly, and a few spectators stood on the sidewalk across the street, presumably waiting for the demonstrators to begin their march to the Majlis which was due to convene within the hour. I pushed my way through the crowd and got to the long corridor inside, which was also filled with men, some of whom I had seen the previous night gathered around the desk. I went from room to room, looking for my friend Choubineh Neelan, and at length found him standing behind a desk, talking with several men. Upon seeing me, he waved his hand, and smiling a broad smile, came to me, saying: I am glad you came. I will take you to Mr. Deldar later, but in the meantime, you . . . I don’t need to see him any more, I said half aloud. Why not? I have already spoken with him about you; he said he would be honored to meet you after the demonstrations are over, and do whatever he can to help you. You are kind, I replied, uninterestedly. Not at all. It was my duty as your friend, he said. But please don’t go away in the meantime. Why not? Because we want you to participate in our demonstrations; every man counts, you know. As I told you last night, Choubineh, I receive no satisfaction marching in the streets, shouting slogans, and . . . But why, KiaNoush? If young, enlightened men like you do not stand up for their rights as free men, who will? We, the progressive, also the oppressed, must stand together, we must unite. The more there are of us, the stronger we will be, and the more quickly we will obtain the freedom and dignity that are our rights as civilized people. Come with us, KiaNoush, come, that you too may help us destroy that son of a burnt father, that heartless, ruthless tyrant who thinks that you, and men like you, are worthless sheep that can be pushed around, defiled and . . . Who are you speaking of? I asked. Who do you think I am speaking of? I am speaking of that tyrant, that merciless dictator who has been ruling you, robbing you of your freedom, your self-respect, your right to be yourself. I am confused, I interrupted. I still don’t know who you are referring to. But it is so obvious, KiaNoush, it is obvious that I am speaking of the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister? Of course; who else? Who else has been ruling this country for the last God knows how many months? Wake up, KiaNoush, open your eyes, don’t allow yourself to go through life tyrannized and degraded. You must stand up and fight for the rights that all civilized people must have. You must help us overthrow this despotism, this autocracy that has been suffocating us. You cannot allow such needless harshness to oppress you; you cannot sit back idly while that authoritarian son of a dog tramples upon you and denies you even the most elemental right, the right a human being should have to live his own life. You are an intelligent, educated man, KiaNoush, we need you, the country needs you, the whole fraternity of civilized men needs you and needs you desperately to overthrow the medieval tyranny of that blasted man, that son of a dog of a Prime Minister who — he is not a prime minister, he is a tyrant, a dictator, a dictator! Come, KiaNoush, come with us that we may wake up the rest of our people and obliterate that man that he may never again treat you and me and all the rest as if we were dung. Come, KiaNoush, you must . . .

I am sorry, Choubineh, I interposed, but I am really not interested in politics. But KiaNoush, this applies to your life too. Don’t you want to be free? Don’t you want to hold your head high and walk wherever you choose, without fear and without restraint? Don’t be afraid of rebelling. We are not asking you to stand alone and defy him alone; we are with you, we are all together, we will fight together, and I know that in the end we will win, we have to win because we are on the side of justice. Just then, Mr. Arad, one of the leaders of the Enlightened Party whom I had met the previous night, got up on a chair, and raising his voice above the excitement in the corridor and the offices, asked every one to go out into the street and make ready for the march to the Majlis. Come, let us go, Choubineh said, holding my arm. I will join you later, I lied. We must all go together, that is the most effective way. Come, KiaNoush, there is no time to waste. Don’t be afraid . . . I am not afraid. Then come, let us go like men and put an end to this tyranny. If we don’t go, that dictator will continue to abuse and terrorize us. Seeing that he insisted, and having nothing else to do, I said, Very well, I will just come and watch. We joined the others and slowly walked out of the corridor into the street. The crowds outside had increased and I noticed there were many more policemen, all busy keeping the spectators away from the demonstrators and making sure that there were no disorders. The leaders of the Enlightened Party, mostly young, necktie-wearing journalists and university students, ran this way and that issuing orders, making sure that the banners were held as high as possible, and instructing their followers to stand in line, four or five men in a row. There was considerable shouting and cheering, and when all the men were standing in line ready to move, one of the leaders, a young handsome man, whose name I soon learned was Radeen, got up on a high table and with remarkable fluency and an extraordinary frenzy, delivered a raging tirade against the government and the men in power, upbraiding them again and again for their ruthless autocracy, for their corruption, and greed, and megalomania. Just as he began to exhort the men to do everything they could to force the immediate resignation and the eventual punishment of the men in power, a police officer in elegant uniform pushed his way to the table upon which the speaker stood and told him to save his diatribe for the Majlis Square. Ignoring the order, Radeen continued inflaming the men, whereupon the police officer angrily warned him to get off the table instantly or he would be arrested for disorderly conduct and for holding up traffic. Pointing accusingly at the police officer, Radeen feverishly shouted, This is what I mean. This is the autocracy I am speaking of; this is the shameful dictatorship that rules our land, denying us even the right to express our thoughts. I leave it to you gentlemen to decide what you should do with this government. As he stood silently on the table, glaring at the officer, several demonstrators angrily cursed the government for its tyranny and the officer for his intrusion. One of the men, more stentorian than the others, encouraged Radeen to ignore the officers order and continue talking. The police officer, finding himself suddenly surrounded by the angry demonstrators, blew his whistle to summon a large group of policemen who stood not far away. A fight between the policemen and the demonstrators would have definitely developed if Mr. Arad had not intervened just in time. He asked the men not to violate the orders of the police, and to save their anger for the government instead of wasting it on an officer who was only performing his duty. He then spoke privately with the police officer, and within a few minutes order was once again established. As soon as we were all in line, we began to move. Choubineh and I were on the fourth or fifth row, and behind us the line was long. The banners were held high, and the men, restless with the fervor Radeen had inflamed in them, walked briskly and resolutely, like men who had a grave

mission to accomplish. Their heads were up and their faces were grim; they talked ceaselessly among themselves about the depravities of the government, as if they were afraid of losing their anger. We marched through the streets, flanked on both sides by several policemen, and led by an officer who drove in a jeep ahead of us, stopping traffic whenever we approached a street intersection. People on the sidewalks stopped to watch us pass; some cheered us, a few booed, and still others, by now accustomed to these frequent mass demonstrations — the banners, the slogans — went on about their business and did not spare us even a glance. The vast Majlis Square was already filled with hundreds and hundreds of demonstrators, and still others, like us, were arriving. Wherever one looked there were men, young and old, poor and not so poor, literate and illiterate, office clerks and peasants, university students and laborers, chapeautopped young men who looked more like successful gigolos than zealous rebels, and beadfingering, beard-sporting men enveloped in long loose coverings made of camel hair, who smelled of that peculiar smell of the devoutly religious. They belonged to different political parties and religious groups, and some did not belong to any group, but had come independently. Dozens and dozens of banners were raised high up above the heads of the people; some of these banners were small, but most of them were so large that even from a hundred meters or more away one could easily read them. The small banners bore the names of the parties for which they were raised, but the larger banners bore the names of many of the leading members of the government in power and the prominent representatives in the Majlis — some of whom were extolled and supported, but most of whom, in bold letters and yet bolder words, were reviled and asked to resign. In the houses around the vast Square, the people sat on their balconies watching the demonstrations and the excitement below, occasionally waving a flag, though to insure their own safety and the safety of their houses, they had no banners and no emblems to identify their political leanings. Now and again a fight would break out somewhere in the Square, and many policemen, some on foot, some in tanks, would rush to the scene and quell the altercation before it could spread and get out of hand. The tumult and the shouting were almost deafening. Everywhere men with waving arms and clenched, threatening fists, shouted defiance: cursing, slandering, admonishing, criticizing, damning this politician, damning the other, threatening to murder, threatening to assassinate, unless some official resigned or another was punished. From every comer of the Square there were shrill, blood-curdling calls for an end to tyranny, for an end to despotism and dictatorship, corruption and greed, and collusion with foreigners and collusion with injustice. Men, young and old, with fire and terror in their eyes and thunder in their voices, shrieked with spirit-stirring vehemence, asking for justice and freedom from oppression, for rights and equality, for clean government and humane politicians — asking for a thousand different things. The uproar was especially ear-splitting when one of the controversial members of the Majlis, or a cabinet member, would arrive to take part in the session that was already in progress within the stately edifice of the Majlis. The people would surge forward in one uncontrollable mass and surround his car, some praising him, some criticizing him, and others insisting that he resign. This shouting was so concurrent and so loud that one could not easily tell what people were clamoring for or fighting against. At times, the words and the names, the denunciations and the petitions all clashed against one another and burst into one thunderous, deafening noise. But it did not seem to matter that there was a confusion of sounds, that they all shouted simultaneously, and that, therefore, no one mans voice, no one mans threats or solicitations could be understood. They just shouted and shrieked, menaced and cursed, at the top of their lungs with all the power within them. The leaders of the many parties and groups sat, or stood, on the shoulders of their followers, screaming their defiance, goading, prodding, inciting the men around them, mobilizing every ones hates and suspicions and vindictiveness. And the men, inflamed by the tirades, and aroused to a frenzy by the frenzy of the leaders who urged them on and on, shouted continuously. It was

impossible to stand still and to avoid being drawn into the hysteria that the leaders, with their thunderous voices and electrifying words, created. Even I, who had no interest in politics, much less in demonstrations and riots, felt myself slowly dragged into the furor, and my bitterness, which I thought had disappeared an hour or two earlier, was once again simmering within me. Nearby a man stood silently looking about him, apparently unmoved by the excitement. When his head turned toward me, our eyes met and he said: Are you a member of the Enlightened Party? Pushing my way closer to him, I shouted, Did you ask me if I belonged to the Enlightened Party? He nodded. No, I shouted, I don’t belong to any party. He smiled, and looking about him briefly, turned to me once again and shouted, I don’t belong to any Party either. But I love this excitement. We nodded to each other and smiled. The next time my eyes caught him, he was standing near a banner, waving his fist furiously and shouting at the top of his lungs. I was going to move closer to him and hear what he was shouting, but just then the hypnotizing shriek of Radeen, the young leader of the Enlightened Party, burst in my ears, and I turned around to find him standing on the shoulders of several of his followers, gesticulating and shouting frantically. . . . tell them, he was screaming as he pointed to the Majlis, tell them, tell those men, we don’t want them. Tell them we are disgusted with their oppression; tell them we are disgusted with their rigor, their dishonesty, their hypocrisy. What have they done for us? What have they done for you? Answer me. Answer me. What have they done for you? Have they done anything? They have done nothing. They have done nothing. Nothing. Nothing. They just sit there, year after year after year; they just talk and talk and talk. We are tired of their talking. Tell them that. Tell them we are sick and tired of their talking. Tell them we will kill them, we will kill them, we will kill them. As Radeens impassioned voice rose higher and higher, the men around him echoed his threats with all the vehemence they could muster. Listen to me, Radeen screamed. Listen to me: these men, these shameless, godless men, who sit in that building, they are all tyrants, they are all despots, despots. Do you hear me? They are all despots and dictators. They are the blood-thirsty infidels who have been taking advantage of you. They are the oppressors who have been robbing you of all that is sacred to you. Are you going to let them continue ruling you, trampling upon you, tyrannizing you? I ask you: Are you? Are you? Are you going to sit back while these pitiless, honorless bulls gore you to death? Where is your courage? Where is your honor? Where is your love of God? Don’t just sit back and accept their tyranny. Do something; do something. By God, show them that you are men. Show them that you have courage and decency and faith. By that God in whom you and you and you and I believe, show them that we are not sheep to be pushed around. Show them that we are valiant Iranians, show them that we are Believers in the Faith. Overthrow their autocracy, obliterate their injustice, do away with them that they may never again eat such dung, that they may never again . . . He went on and on, screaming higher and higher. I listened carefully, wondering if he had any specific complaints, or any specific reasons for his angry opposition to the government and the men in power. Soon it was evident that there was nothing specific in his denunciations, nothing to support his bitter charges against the government. Nonetheless, the response he evoked in all of us who stood around him, was delirious. I heard myself angrily shouting with the others, Down with tyranny. Down with the tyranny of that pitiless man. Down with that son of a dog of a Prime Minister . . . The blasphemies flew out of my mouth with a spontaneity that baffled me; but feeling an indefinably satisfying release within me, I shouted on and on. I was going to ask my friend, Choubineh Neelan, how long the demonstration would last, when I noticed a man carrying the banner of another party, determinedly push his way through our lines, followed by a long line of followers who also pushed and elbowed their way, presumably hoping

to stand as close to the Gate of the Majlis as they could. One of the men from the Enlightened Party, obviously exasperated by this unruly trespassing, dashed to the man in front, and dealing him a sharp blow to the head, wrested the banner from his hands. In a moment, the two fastened upon each other, punching, slapping, kicking, and cursing each other, with all the exactness and attention to detail for which the Iranians have a singular skill. Presently, several members of the Enlightened Party and several men from the other party joined in the fight, and it was not long before every one was swinging and punching, slapping, kicking, and cursing and cursing. Come, Choubineh said, let us go and help our men. I began to say, It is silly to fight like this, when some one pushed me so forcibly from the back that I would surely have fallen on my face if there had not been some one standing in front of me. Turning around abruptly, I saw several policemen with guns and clubs pushing their way toward the fight. Hey, you, I shouted to the one who I was sure had pushed me, why don’t you look where you are going? Move away next time if you don’t want to be pushed; don’t you see there is a fight there? But you don’t have to push . . . Where do you think this is: Laleh Zar Avenue? But I was standing still, you had no right to push me. If you continue arguing, I will arrest you . . . Arrest me, I shouted nervously. By God, arrest me; it is true that you are all tyrants and oppressors . . . He began to move towards me. Afraid that he might hit me with his heavy club, I lunged forward and grabbed it; struggling with all the power of my big strong body, after some difficulty I succeeded in wrenching it out of his hand. Throwing the club away, I pounced upon him once again, and with enormous anger and hate and violence, lashed at him, striking and slapping his head again and again. Possessed with an irrepressible fury, raging with a bitterness and anger that seldom had raged that violently within me, I hit him and hit him and hit him. The policeman, taken aback by my overwhelming assault, tried his best to dodge my blows. But seeing that I was inexorable, and my frenzy unslackened, he took several hasty steps backwards and I went after him, ready to hit him again. But suddenly I felt paralyzed. My arms would not move. I tried to swing and lash out, but my arms just hung still and would not move. Terror-stricken and frustrated, I tried desperately, furiously. I tried and tried as hard as I could; I even angrily ordered my arms to move. But my arms did not move. They just remained motionless and paralyzed. My shock was incalculable. It must have been a few seconds before I realized that I was being held from the back. Turning my head, I noticed three, four policemen were holding my arms. Reassured that I could still have the use of my arms, I struggled to free myself, but soon, seeing that it was useless, and with my frenzied rage somewhat diminished, I stopped resisting and just stood still, unsure what to do next. Prodding me with their clubs, the policemen made me walk. As we went through the crowds, my anger slowly gave way to a sense of shame, for though in the eyes of the people, I am sure, I was a hero, yet I felt extremely uncomfortable and abashed for being subjected to the mortification of being handcuffed and pushed and prodded by several policemen. I tried to smile, hoping in this way to conceal my feeling of shame. I was pushed into a police car in which five or six other men also sat, handcuffed. Before long, the car began to move, and as we went slowly through the crowds, I could hear the people booing the police, and encouraging us not to lose heart, not to abandon our fight and our courage. We were taken to the city jail and made to sit in a rather large hall, where two or three dozen men who, I soon learned, had also been removed from the Majlis Square for disorderly conduct, sat at regular intervals from each other, closely watched by several policemen who stood against the walls, their firearms ready in their hands. Four or five of the men, apparently undaunted, continuously shouted their defiance of the authorities, damning the Chief of the Police, damning Ramesh, the Minister of

the Interior, damning many of the controversial generals and colonels. When they refused to obey the policemens orders to remain silent, they were removed from the hall and presumably taken to the cells downstairs. As soon as they were out, several other men began shouting and defying and reviling the authorities. The policemen warned them to remain silent or they would be taken downstairs where their heads would be shaved and they would be severely punished. Undismayed, they continued to rant and rave, whereupon they, too, were taken out of the hall. By about five o’clock in the afternoon, those men who were from the so-called better families and those who had influential friends in government or in the Police Department were set free. The few of us who remained were taken downstairs and put in small, dark, dirty cells to stay, probably till some one of consequence intervened in our behalf, or till the police got tired of keeping us. Looking about at the cold dark walls that seemed to be staring at me, and thinking of the disheartening prospect of having to spend days and even weeks in that hole, I felt a great anguish creep into me and settle like a load in the center of my mind. But this is silly, I muttered half aloud. This is really silly. I did not even want to participate in that damned demonstration. I was not part of it. I don’t care who sits in the Majlis and who rules the country. What will anyone say who hears I was hauled into the city jail like a goat and kept in a dirty cell that is no doubt filled with lice? Who knows, maybe people will admire and praise me for what they will call my bravery, my fearlessness in standing up for my rights and risking my life in front of the Majlis. Perhaps my relatives will feel proud, thinking that at last one member of their family is a revolutionary figure, active in politics and valiant enough to fight like a hero in front of the Majlis. These days many men from the better families are arrested during the demonstrations and dragged to jail. I think it is considered an honor to be arrested and taken to jail for unruliness at a political meeting. I suppose it shows that the man is a patriot, a fearless patriot, who dares defy the politicians and is anxious to help his country and his people, or the masses, as the fashion is to call them these days. Well, let them consider — God, I just remembered: I have an appointment tomorrow to meet Mrs. Kousha, I mean Firouzeh, the wife of the Colonel. What a misfortune if I should not be able to leave this wretched place and meet her at three o’clock in the afternoon, near the statue, where we agreed to meet. What a place to spend Friday in. Well, that will teach me never again to be so reckless. Next time I see a demonstration, I will run away as fast as I can. Yes, I must never again have . . . KiaNoush Aryamanesh. Who is KiaNoush Aryamanesh? It is I, it: is I, I shouted, jumping up from the uncomfortable wooden bench. Presently, two guards appeared on the other side of the bars that made up the door. Are you KiaNoush Aryamanesh? one of them asked. Bali, bali, I replied, my heart in my throat. How can you prove you are KiaNoush Aryamanesh? the same guard said. I tell you I am KiaNoush Aryamanesh. By the soul of my father, I am KiaNoush; by the . . . Anyone can swear; is there any other way you can prove you are KiaNoush Aryamanesh? But why would I lie to you? I swear by the Book that is so sacred, that I am none other than KiaNoush Aryamanesh and I live on . . . Very well, then, if you are KiaNoush Aryamanesh, you will have to come with us. We have orders to have you hanged tonight. What? Now you will begin swearing by everything that you are not KiaNoush Aryamanesh. But, but . . . Look, Agha, he laughed, seeing my shock, show us any papers that bear your name and you will be released. You sadistic son of a dog, I thought, how could anyone but a perverted barbarian like you spend his life guarding a morbid house where men are trapped and suffer. I showed him the old, tattered envelope which bore my name and address and in which I always carried miscellaneous bits of paper. Having examined the envelope and some of the papers in it, he said, I think this will do. As

he unlocked the door, he added: You are lucky that the Colonel consented to grant your release tonight. Ordinarily you would have had to wait till Saturday. Who is the Colonel? I asked in surprise. You don’t mean Colonel Kousha? Colonel Kousha has nothing to do with this place. I walked between the two guards, through the many dark, narrow corridors on both sides of which men, less fortunate than I, sat or reclined on hard benches in soul-suffocating cells, during many days, weeks, months, and even years. We climbed the stairs to the first floor, where the air seemed fresh compared to the closed-in air of the damp cells below. I was taken to a desk where I signed a paper and answered several questions that an officer asked. Just as I turned around and began to leave, I saw my friend Choubineh Neelan walking towards me. We kissed each other and quietly walked out into the street. I tried my best to get you out sooner, but I just couldn’t, Choubineh said gravely. Finally, I had to ask Mr. Arad, one of the leaders of our party, to speak with the Colonel and ask for your release. I am very thankful, very thankful, I said. I was afraid they would keep me there for days, perhaps even weeks. I must ask your forgiveness, KiaNoush, I hope you will forgive me. Forgive you for what? For persuading you to take part in the demonstration and . . . Perhaps you persuaded me to take part in the demonstration, but you certainly did not persuade me to become violent and strike a policeman. To tell you the truth, I wondered about that. I did not know you felt so strongly about politics. I don’t feel at all strongly about politics; I am not even interested in politics. I cannot understand why you always insist on denying that you are interested in politics. There is nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud for feeling so strongly about your country and your people; you should be proud for being bold enough to defy and fight the oppression of the police. We, too, resent the high-handed ways of the police; we, too, think that our whole government is dictatorial and must be done away with. This is what I was trying to tell you this morning. If you want to know the truth, Choubineh, it was not the fault of that policeman today. What? I said it was not the fault of that policeman today. It was my fault. You must be in a jesting mood, he said, staring at me. It was not your fault today; it was the fault of that policeman. It is always the fault of the police. They are tyrannical and oppressive. But that policeman today was not oppressive, Choubineh. He was only trying to . . . Then why did you strike him? I don’t know. I really don’t know, I replied, shrugging my shoulders. You would have killed him if they had not stopped you. Yes, I know, I know. I just had to hit him, I just had to. You must have really been angry. Of course I was angry. I was angry the whole day. But why? I don’t know, Choubineh, I don’t know. I was silent for a few moments before muttering, Maybe it was that bastard. Who? Who do you think? By God, one day, one day, I will show him . . . Don’t get angry again, KiaNoush. Why don’t you go home and rest? Does he know I was taken to jail? Does who know? My father, my father. Yes, he knows. I am sorry but I had to tell him, because after I tried unsuccessfully to obtain

your release, I was not sure that you would get home tonight, or tomorrow, and I did not want your parents to worry. Also I hoped that perhaps your father knew of a way we could get you released immediately. What did be say when you told him I was in jail? He did not say much; I could see he was very perturbed, though he tried not to reveal it. But don’t you remember anything he said or how he reacted? I told you he did not say much. Look, KiaNoush, why don’t you go home and rest; you are tired from all the activities. Yes, yes, I am very tired. Come back tomorrow to our offices on Ferdausi and I will introduce you to Mr. Deldar. I know he will be in tomorrow, and he will do his best to help you reach one of his friends from the Slaves of the Faith. I am not sure I need Mr. Deldars help any more. Well, you can make up your mind, and if you still need his help, you can come back tomorrow and find him. Very well, I said. Your kindness never diminishes. Sleep well, KiaNoush. When he left I took the bus and went home. I, who never again wanted to go home, went home. I tiptoed through the corridor and just as I began to go up the stairs to my room, my mothers voice issued from inside. Is that you, my son? Yes, Mother, it is I. Oh, my son, my son, she said, rushing into the corridor to meet me. May I be sacrificed for you. I begged God that you would come home tonight, safe and sound. Oh, KiaNoush, KiaNoush, God protect you. She held me firmly, kissing my head and face. What happened today? I pray to God that nothing has happened to you. Tell me, tell me, are you well? Yes, Mother, I am well. I worried so much for you; I worried so much. You cannot understand how much I worried and suffered. Since that gentleman, that friend of yours, came here and told your father about you, I have been praying to God to protect you. Oh, KiaNoush, may God always protect you. Are you hurt at all? Do you have any pains? Let me look at you; come in here where there is more light and let me look at you. I am well, Mother, I am well. Nothing happened to me. Believe me, there is no need to worry. The policemen were very kind. They took me to the city jail and asked me to rest in their parlor, because I was tired. When I had rested enough I thanked them and left. Is anyone home, Mother? Your nephews are asleep, and your father went out to try and find an influential man who would help him obtain your release from that place. He worried for you, KiaNoush, he worried very much. Thank God you are home, thank that God Who sees everything and knows everything. Come, let me give you a morsel of food to eat, you must be famished. I followed her into our small guest room that was also used as our dining room. Hoping to finish my meal and go to my room to sleep before my father came back, I sat down, and not too comfortably, ate the plateful of rice and sauce that my mother set in front of me. When I finished my meal, I gathered the plate and spoon and glass and went into the kitchen. As I began to set them in the sink the glass fell off my hand and crashed on the floor. Instantly, I went on my knees and proceeded to collect with my hand the many bits of shattered glass. As I anxiously and unthinkingly went about picking up the remnants of the broken glass, I noticed a drop of blood on the floor; looking at my hands, I noticed my right one was bleeding from several places. I calmly dropped the broken pieces into the waste-can, and leaving the rest on the floor, began to squeeze my hand as hard as I could, forcing blood to issue out of the many cuts. I thought of rushing to my room where I always kept alcohol and iodine and gauze, but somehow I did not move but just

stood still, staring with uncertain feelings at the blood that escaped unchecked from the wounds on my hand. Did you break anything, KiaNoush? my mother called from the dining room. I broke a glass. Be careful you don’t cut yourself. Soura or I will gather the pieces in the morning. I did not answer, but leaving the rest of the shattered glass on the floor, slowly walked back into the dining room where my mother was still sitting at the table, cleaning rice for tomorrows meals. Holding my bleeding hand in a conspicuously-inconspicuous way, as if to say don’t pay any attention to all this blood on my hand, I went towards the door muttering, I will gather the rest of the pieces later. Suddenly noticing my bleeding hand, my mother arose hastily, saying: Look at your hand; what have you done to it? It is bleeding. It is nothing, nothing at all; it will soon cease bleeding and I will gather the rest of the pieces. Never mind the pieces, KiaNoush; you should not have gathered the glass when it broke. Look what you have done to your hand. Sit here, let me fetch some things to stop the blood and dress the cuts. She hurried into the sleeping room and was soon back with the small box in which she always kept medicine, cotton, and gauze. As she began to apply alcohol to the wounds, I heard my fathers footsteps in the hall, and in a moment he was standing at the door. I slowly stood up and said, Salam. My mother, still holding my hand, said, Sit down, KiaNoush, sit down, this is no time for formalities. Your father will forgive you for not standing up. Staring with evident curiosity at me and my mother, who was busy tending to my hand, he stood at the door for a few moments, then said, When did you come home? About an hour ago, I replied. He went about the room, restlessly, and appeared very preoccupied with his thoughts. Without removing his eyes from my wounded hand, he quietly said, So now my son is a lawless renegade who fights policemen and sits in jail. My misfortune is now complete, it is . . . My mother interrupted him to say: Please spare the talk till some other time. It is now complete, my misfortune, my father went on. I suppose this bleeding hand, too, is another relic from the brawls on the street and . . . These cuts on his hand are from the glass he broke here in the kitchen, my mother interposed again, emphatically adding, now, please, leave him alone and let me finish dressing his hand before he loses more blood. Seeing the blood that continued to ooze out of the gashes in my hand, he stopped talking and just stood still, staring at us. Presently, he walked towards us, saying: Let me see your hand. My mother showed him my hand; he examined it carefully, then pulling up a chair from the table, turned to my mother saying: I will tend to his hand, perhaps I can stop the bleeding. Yes, see what you can do, my mother said. We cannot let it continue bleeding. It has already bled too much. My father took my hand and proceeded to tend it. Sitting so close to him, my hand in his hand, I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of shame surge within me. Inordinately uncomfortable, my mind throbbing with a confusion of feelings, I felt the perspiration cover my forehead and slowly trickle down both sides of my face. Do you feel sick? my father whispered as my mother went into the sleeping room. No, I don’t feel sick. Then why are you shaking like this? I don’t know. When I finish with your hand, go to your room and sleep. He poured a generous quantity of iodine on the cuts and began to dress my hand. Did you buy

any socks with the money I left you yesterday? No, Father, I have not bought any yet. Perhaps you can buy a few pairs on Saturday. Do you need anything else? No, Father. Then go to your room and sleep. You must be tired. Yes, I am tired, I replied as I got up, and bowing my head, said: May your shadow never grow less, Father. God protect you, my son, God protect you. As I slowly went up the stairs I could feel my whole being filled with a deep, deep uplifting love. God, how I need to love that man, I muttered to myself. How I need to love that man. 5 KiaNoush, KiaNoush! Yes, Mother, I shouted, getting out of bed. How is your hand today? I opened the door of my room, and not too loudly, called Salam, Mother. Salam, my son, she shouted from downstairs. How is your hand today? The bandage is still on, I replied, looking at my hand. Good, my son; God protect you. Can you come downstairs and have your breakfast now? Everyone else has eaten, and I want to clear the table. I will be downstairs in a minute. Yes, don’t be long; remember, today is Friday and your uncles, aunts, and cousins may come to visit us. I went back into my room and hastily put on my clothes, full of anticipation of finding Mr. Deldar at the Enlightened Party offices and at long last accomplishing my fathers request; and I was happy with the prospect of seeing Mrs. Kousha, the wife of the Colonel, with whom I hoped to spend a pleasure-filled Friday afternoon. I hurried downstairs, but before going to the guest room to have my breakfast, I stopped at my nephews room and asked Soura if my father was in. She said, He went out about half an hour ago. I think he went to buy a lamb for the Day of Sacrifice. Thank you, I said. Thank you for what? she laughed. Never mind. Will you heat some water for me, I want to shave after breakfast? I kneeled down and kissed my two little nephews. You are such lovely boys. God bless you both. You shouldn’t speak like this, Soura said quietly. Why not? I asked in surprise. Because it is sinful. Sinful? What are you talking about, Soura? What is sinful? It is sinful to utter Gods name when your mouth is dirty. But why? Because when the mouth is not washed in the morning it is dirty and, therefore, anything you say is dirty and if, God forbid, you mention God, that is defiling His name; it is a sacrilege, it is sinful, and He will punish you. Shaking my head, I laughed happily and said, Soura, where did you learn all this nonsense? Who told you that the mouth is dirty? The mouth is always dirty in the morning, she said conclusively. Tell me why. What is the use? You never believe me, she replied gravely.

Tell me anyway. Because when you are asleep at night the jinns get into your mouth and relieve themselves in it. That is why in the morning the mouth tastes so bad. Laughing prodigiously, I went out of the room, followed by my two little nephews who stared at me with great curiosity, uncertain whether to share Soura’s graveness or join in my laughter. As I sat down to eat, my mother came into the room, and having examined my bandaged hand, said: Was that you laughing in the corridor, KiaNoush? Yes, I replied, laughing. Soura says some very funny things. Managing a smile, she said: For instance what? Unable to repress my laughter, which came over me partly because I was amused at Soura’s absurdities and partly because I was just happy, I replied, She says that the mouth is dirty in the mornings because the jinn goes into it when one is asleep and — forgive my indelicacy — pisses in it. Well? my mother said, unamused. What? I said . . . Never mind. Mother, never mind, I laughed. Maybe there is something wrong with me, because I think it is very, very funny. Are you well, my son? my mother said, looking at me somewhat worriedly. Of course I am well. I am very well. Unconvinced, she said, God protect you; God protect you. When I finished eating, I went into the hall where Soura had left me a pitcher of hot water and the basin in which I always washed and shaved. As my two nephews stood nearby watching me and clutching my legs, I somehow managed to brush my teeth and wash my face. I then gave the mirror to the two little boys to hold for me, and sitting on a stool, began to shave. Children, Soura called from the room, don’t stand in the corridor. They are holding the mirror for me, I said. Don’t drop the mirror, children, she rejoined. Don’t do this, don’t do that! I mimicked her, making faces to amuse my nephews. Don’t go into the street; don’t play near the water; don’t play with your little things; don’t breathe too much. The thieves will steal you; the ghouls will devour you; the water monster will nibble at you. Amused at the mimicry and the faces I made, the two little boys laughed happily. When I finished shaving, I said: Soura, will you please fetch me one of the towels you washed the other day. I have been using the same one for more than two weeks. I am very busy, she replied. I cannot leave the room. Winking to the children, I whispered, Watch her come running out of the room. I lifted the pitcher in which there had been hot water but that was now empty and shouted, Soura, there is some hot water left. What shall I do with it? Please leave it there, she replied. I will take it away later. I cannot leave it here because I think my mother needs the pitcher, I lied, and raising my voice even higher so that she could hear me well, I added, I will pour out the hot water in the garden. Yes, I think that is what I will do. In a flash, Soura came running out of the room, shouting, No, Agha, you must not do that, you must not do that. Repressing my laughter, I began to go towards our little garden, holding the pitcher in my hand. Soura, I said, I thought you said you could not leave the room. Agha, she said, following me excitedly, don’t pour out the hot water; please don’t. But why not, Soura, why not? You know very well why not, she said somewhat impatiently. Oh, yes! Yes! I exclaimed, stopping suddenly. How stupid of me — I forgot that if hot water is

spilled on the ground it might burn the geniis feet and they will get so angry they will molest everyone in the house. Don’t laugh, Agha, she said gravely. That is not funny. God forbid, one day they will come after you and you will stop laughing. My mother came into the corridor, and looking at us, said: What is going on? I turned the pitcher upside down to show Soura that it was empty, and leaving it on the floor, walked back into the guest room, still laughing. My mother followed me into the room, and as I sat down to dry my face, said: My son, what has happened to you? You have been laughing all morning. It is good to laugh, but you have been laughing since you got up. I am happy, I said, getting up to kiss her face. It is good that you are happy, she said, then glancing rather suspiciously at me, asked, but why are you so happy? I don’t know, I am just happy. She was silent for a few moments, then said: I am glad that you are happy and that you laugh. She paused again, and studying me as if to determine what to say next, added before long, It is just that, that, well, I mean, it is good to laugh, but you should not laugh too much. Why not? Because it is a sacrilege. Sacrilege? I echoed in astonishment. Since when has laughing become a sacrilege? Do you forget, KiaNoush, that we are in mourning? But Mother, he passed away more than a month ago. How long must we mourn? How long must we remain sad? I am not sad. I am happy, very happy. I want to sing and laugh. God forgive you, my son, God forgive you. But why, Mother, why? You have already forgotten that he was your uncle and that you loved each other. I still love him. I, too, miss him and feel bereaved, but I don’t go about whining the whole day. Why do we have to be in mourning all our lives? When a man we love passes away, his memory should make us happy; it should uplift us, not encumber us with sadness. I see no reason why I should affect sadness when I do not feel sad, and why I should not laugh when I feel like laughing. It is a tradition that . . . Tradition, tradition, I interrupted her, they are ignoble traditions. Why should I observe a stupid, antiquated tradition that denies me the simple satisfaction of laughter? What is so holy and irreversible about these corrosive traditions? . . . Let us not argue, she interrupted quietly. I just thought I would tell you what I know is the right way and the right custom. I did not ask you to stay in mourning all your life; I just thought that at least the first forty days you could be a little more discreet with your gaiety. Next Tuesday will be the fortieth day; after that, if you want to be gay, I will say nothing. And don’t forget the fortiethday mourning session — it will be held in the evening at your aunts home. I will not attend it. Don’t say that, KiaNoush, don’t say that. All the family and all our friends will be present. If you don’t come, everyone will be offended. Let them be offended, I am offended, too. There is something morbidly exhibitionistic about these mourning sessions where all are so ostentatiously loud with their wailing and whining that one would think the next day were judgment day and they were trying to impress God with their sadness and suffering. God forgive you, I don’t know where you have gathered these ideas. Making me bend my head, she kissed my forehead and said: If you had not had your breakfast I should have thought you were hungry. I held her again and began to laugh, but suddenly remembering what she had said earlier, I withdrew my laughter and instead affected an enormous scowl.

Amused at the expression on my face, she said: Laugh, my son, laugh as much as you want; show everyone what beautiful teeth you have. Kissing her hand, I said: I have to leave now. Why do you have to leave? Stay in the house; today is Friday and we all want to be together. Your father has gone out to buy a lamb for the Day of Sacrifice, but he will be back soon, and you can play backgammon together. I would like to stay, but I am busy. Busy on Friday? What do you have to do? I want to take care of a request my father made of me. But, you have been saying that every day. What do you want me to do? I said irritably. I have been trying my best; it is not my fault if I have not succeeded. You don’t have to shout, KiaNoush. I just thought we could all be together today. I will be back as soon as I can, I said, going towards the door. I will be back very soon. God protect you. God protect you, my son. Hastily I went out of the house and, as briskly as I could, walked towards the offices of the Enlightened Party on Ferdausi Avenue. I must succeed today, I suddenly said aloud, then furtively looking this way and that to make sure that no one had heard me talking to myself, muttered, I must find Mr. Deldar today. There is not a minute to waste; if I don’t succeed in taking a Slave of the Faith, and perhaps also Mr. Deldar, to the house today to speak with my father, I might as well forget about the whole thing, because there will not be any time left. But I cannot forget about it; I must succeed today, I simply must. I know how important it is for that poor man. I cannot let him be disappointed. I found my friend Choubineh standing in the corridor talking with another man. Not far away, near the desk at the end of the corridor, several men were discussing politics, and several others were reading newspapers. KiaNoush, salam, Choubineh said, walking towards me. Salam, Choubineh, I said as we shook hands. What happened to your hand? Nothing, I replied. I broke a glass. Do you want to see Mr. Deldar? Yes; is he in? He will be in at one o’clock, Choubineh replied. If in the meantime you have nothing to do, let me take you to Mr. Arad, whom you met the other night. He would very much like to speak with you. I would like to see him, too. I want to thank him for helping secure my release from that infernal place last night. Choubineh knocked on the first door on the right, and when a voice inside said Bali, he opened the door and waited for me to go in. Upon seeing me, Mr. Arad, who had been sitting at his large desk, stood up quickly and bowing his head slightly said he was honored, and I bowed my head slightly, saying I was honored. When the prefatory ceremonies and all the concomitant civilities were folded away, we sat down. Bowing my head slightly, I thanked Mr. Arad for his help the previous night. It was a privilege, Mr. Aryamanesh, he replied. It is always a privilege to render service to a patriot, to a man who has the temerity to fight for noble principles. Unsure what he was saying, I muttered, I am overwhelmed with your condescension. No, no, he interrupted hastily. I am not saying this to be polite. I really believe you are a brave patriot and for this I admire you. But perhaps you will agree, Mr. Aryamanesh, that a man with your convictions and your initiative is too valuable for the cause of freedom to fight the government alone. What I mean is, that your valiant efforts should be coordinated with the

activities of a political party, any party whose principles coincide with yours . . . Forgive me for interrupting you, Mr. Arad, but I believe you have been misinformed. My interest in politics is limited to reading the newspapers and . . . Come, come, Mr. Aryamanesh, he interposed chuckling urbanely. I have not just come from behind the mountains. I know a political zealot when I see one. How can a man fight like a tiger in a political demonstration in front of the Majlis and still deny that he is interested in politics? If you are not in politics, Mr. Aryamanesh, then no one who shouts and fights in front of the Majlis is in politics either. That may be quite true, Mr. Arad. Do you mean to say that all your shouting and bold resistance in front of the Majlis yesterday was for amusement? I was angry, that is why I . . . But that is precisely what I mean. You say you were angry, but so were we all . . . But my anger, Mr. Arad, was really not directed against the government or the Majlis. My anger was altogether detached from politics. Taking a deep, impatient breath, he said, Mr. Aryamanesh, I do not wish to engage you in a debate. We are both too old for that. He thought a bit before adding, Even if it is true that you are not interested in politics, I still beg to state that you have the qualities for dynamic leadership. You are a born leader, Mr. Aryamanesh. You are big and strong, you have a powerful voice, and you can fight with courage and determination. You mean I fight with great anger, I smiled. What difference whether it is anger or something else, so long as you set an example for others and lead them. Are you suggesting, Mr. Arad, that the prerequisite for leadership among our people is a vast reserve of anger and bitterness and violence? I suppose in a way one could say that. Certainly if we look at our past, even at our recent past, we will note that our greatest leaders were men who, as you say, were angry — angry enough to fight the government and set up their own government. I had never thought of this, I said meditatively. It had never occurred to me that our leadership has stemmed from negative feelings rather than positive ones. I sat up suddenly and said, But I believe, Sir, that a leader who is angry and bitter and violent is inevitably dictatorial, and dictatorship is exactly what you say you are fighting now. You say you want a strong angry man to help overthrow the government because it is dictatorial; but it seems to me, Mr. Arad, that when this angry man has overthrown the government, he himself will establish another government that will be dictatorial, and you will have to find yet another angry man to overthrow the new government. I cannot see, Sir, how anger and bitterness and violence can uproot tyranny. Anger itself begets tyranny. Perhaps, the reason tyranny rules our land is because our people are angry. So long as there are angry men overthrowing tyrannies, there will be tyranny. One cannot fight oppression by being oppressive. Forgive my impertinence, Mr. Aryamanesh, but I believe that to sit back and allow an autocratic government to tyrannize over you and your people reveals a gross irresponsibility. Somehow, Mr. Arad, I am not affected by this alleged tyranny of the government. Perhaps the reason I do not wish to involve myself in politics can be partly explained by my fear of being confronted with autocracy or, for that matter, any kind of authority. You see, Mr. Arad, I too have fought autocracy; I have fought it all my life. I, too, fear it. I, too, hate it. If I entered politics and fought autocracy I would only be repeating the most disagreeable phase of my life. Hence, I apathetically look the other way. But this, as I said, does not mean that I have not been fighting. People express their rebellion in different ways: some politically, some socially, some sexually, some through religion, and so on. Basically, the rebellions are against the same evils; only the expressions are different.

Smiling as if to say I am listening only to be polite, Mr. Arad arose from his seat, and bowing his head slightly, said, If you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall go to the next room where I have some work to attend to. I arose and when he left the room, I said, Choubineh, I shall wait for Mr. Deldar in the corridor. Why in the corridor? Sit where you are and make yourself comfortable. Restless and somewhat disturbed, I sat down again. The first newspaper I picked up from the table near me had on its first page a large picture of several rioters fighting policemen in front of the Majlis. Instantly, I put aside this newspaper, and picking up another one, turned to the last page and read the obituaries. Hardly five minutes later, I suddenly arose and putting aside the newspaper, said, Choubineh, I have to leave. Looking up surprisedly at me, he said, Don’t you want to see Mr. Deldar? I do, but he has not come in yet. I told you he would be in at one o’clock; it is now ten past twelve. Then I will come back later. Very well, go and have your lunch and come back after one o’clock. When Mr. Deldar comes in, I will tell him you want to see him. Thank you, I said, and waving my hand to him, left the room. Unwilling to go home to have my lunch, I walked through Laleh Zar and Naderi looking at the shop windows and studying the pictures outside the cinemas. About one o’clock I went into a small restaurant and ordered the cheapest meal on the menu. When I next looked at my watch it was a few minutes before two o’clock. I just had enough time to catch a bus and go across the city to the statue on Shah Reza Avenue to meet Firouzeh. As I walked to the bus stop I cursed myself for neglecting to go back to the party offices at one o’clock to see Mr. Deldar. But I shall definitely go back there later this afternoon and see him, I thought. I am sure he will not be there before this evening anyway. I sat in the almost empty bus wondering if, deep within me, there were not something purposely hindering me from carrying out my fathers request. For though the prospect of pleasing my father and fulfilling his wish was, beyond doubt, satisfying to me, yet, it seemed that from the very onset I had done nearly everything to hinder the execution of that uncomplicated task. One would think, I mused, that I would do my very best to succeed, if for no other reason than to avert his dreaded displeasure. But unwilling to encumber my mind with these thoughts, I instead occupied myself with the anticipation of seeing Mrs. Kousha again and feeling the warmth of her white body. Because I still had fifteen minutes, I got off the bus at the University and leisurely walked the rest of the way. A few minutes after I reached the statue, Firouzeh arrived in her car. Moving aside to give me the driver’s seat, she said, Salam, KiaNoush. Salam, I said happily, pressing her hand in mine. As I began to drive she asked why my hand was bandaged and I explained that I had cut it at home. Did Deldar help you contact one of the Slaves of the Faith? she said. No, not yet. Why not? It is a long story, my dear; I will tell you some other time. I was sure he could help you. I am sure he can. It is just that I have not met him yet. You mean you have not even spoken with him? I nodded. But I thought, KiaNoush, you needed his help urgently. I did, I mean, I do. Firouzeh, let us talk about other things. I don’t know why I have not spoken

with him yet; he is always at the Enlightened Partys offices and is really not difficult to find. Yes, I know he is easy to find. I parked the car in the shade of a few trees on Shah Reza Avenue and began to take her in my arms and kiss her, but she quickly moved away saying, No, please, KiaNoush, not on the street. What if someone sees us? Please drive on. I just want to kiss you. No, please, KiaNoush, not here; it is risky enough that we are in the same car. Just one little kiss, Firouzeh. Oh, very well, she said, smiling, but be quick. I kissed her cheeks, but when I began to kiss her white, tempting neck, she resisted and I did not insist. As I began to drive, I said, Let us go to a peaceful, secluded place where we can be together and forget that there is anything else in this world besides love. She laughed, replying: Today you cannot find a single secluded place. Our little hotel in Shemiran is secluded. I don’t want to go to Shemiran today. I have an excellent idea, I beamed. Let us go to a bathhouse. A bathhouse? she laughed. Yes, a bathhouse. We will find a quiet bathhouse somewhere on the other side of town and . . . We can’t go to a bathhouse, KiaNoush . . . Why not, Firouzeh? Many couples go to the bathhouse. It is peaceful and secluded, and so suitable for making love. It is too bold, she laughed. It is too bold. What if it is bold, Firouzeh. I love our bathhouses. What with all the ointments, the perfumes, the aromatic cisterns, the vapor in the air, a bathhouse is the most sensuous place. Just think of it, Firouzeh, we will be able to lie together on the bed of warm tiles and make love for hours. Yes, it is a splendid idea, a splendid idea. I turned back on Shah Reza Avenue and, driving to Pahlavi, turned left and drove all the way to the other end of town. At length, I stopped in a deserted area not far away from a bathhouse where, several years earlier, I had spent many an afternoon with an Armenian woman I loved. This is very peculiar, she said, still laughing. We don’t even have any towels, soap, or ointments. They will provide everything at the bathhouse, I replied, and taking her arm, said, Come, let us go in. Looking this way and that to make sure no one was watching, she got out of the car and we walked hastily to the bathhouse. I paid the man who sat at the entrance hall, and having obtained several enormous towels, some soap and ointments, followed a robust bathhouse attendant whose only apparel was the usual loin cloth, and whose tattooed muscular arms were available for the kneading, massaging, washing and rubbing, and taking away of kinks from the tired bodies of customers. We followed him through the long wide corridor, on both sides of which were many doors that opened into private bathing apartments from which we could hear an occasional outburst of laughter and the splash of water. At length, he stopped at a door, and having knocked once or twice, presumably to make sure no one was inside, he opened it and we went in. Looking first at Firouzeh and then at me, he smiled and said, I don’t suppose you want an attendant to help you wash. Smiling and shaking my head, I replied, We will wash each other. May you have a pleasant bath together, he said, and left. I locked the door, and turning around, found Firouzeh spreading the towels on the enormous bed where one stretched to dry ones self after the bath. I took her in my arms and kissed her face and her white bare neck. I missed you, KiaNoush, she whispered. I missed you every minute we were apart.

I missed you, too. You have made me feel like a woman again. Let us take off our clothes and go into the other room, I said, as I began to unbutton her dress. I helped her undress, then she helped me undress, then taking the soap and the ointments, we went into the other room where the marble tiles on the walls glistened bizarrely in the weak light of an overhanging lantern. We sat on the bed of warm tiles and placed our feet in the aromatic water of the shallow cistern. We sprinkled water on each other and rubbed ointments on each others limbs, but soon, overcome by the closed-in, erotic atmosphere of that naked bathing retreat, we fell back on the warm smooth tiles and made love . . . Some time later I went to the door and asked an attendant to fetch us some fruits and refreshments. As we reclined once again and began eating oranges and tangerines, Firouzeh said: The bandage on your hand is wet; we must change it. I will change the bandage when I return home. Examining my hand, she said: It is bandaged very well; who did it for you? My father. Is he a doctor? I shook my head. Then what does he do, that is, if it is not too inquisitive to ask? He works at the Ministry of the Interior. My husband is closely connected with the Ministry of the Interior. Is he back from his trip? He will be back next week. Where did he go? Who knows. Esfahan, Shiraz, Hamadan. Let us not talk about him. When I am with you I don’t want to remember I am Mrs. Kousha I nodded and remained silent. I know it is unpleasant to speak this way of ones husband, but what can I do? This is the way I feel, and there is no use denying it. I cannot, in all honesty, blame him for wanting to be with women who are new to him, who find him impressive and with whom he can have thrilling relations. I just think it is unfair — very unfair — that he should feel free and be free to gratify his senses and enjoy life, but that I, who am equally bored with our stale marriage, should be expected to sit at home and be a devoted wife. It is this unfairness that irritates me. It is this complete inability of our society to understand a womans feelings that I find intolerably depressing. Our people are so ignorant that they think a woman is a creature radically different from a man, that she is self-sufficient, or passionless, and does not need to love and be loved. Offering her some pomegranate sherbet I said, Don’t be angry, Firouzeh. Taking the glass of sherbet, she said, How can I not be angry at this patriarchal way of life? Do you know that even today, after more than thirteen years of marriage, my husband still forbids me to get up and dance with another man at a party. If he dances with another woman, which he often does, that is quite all right, because he is a man. Because he is a man — a man, a man, a man. Damn it, what if he is a man? Does he have a passion that I do not have? Do they think that because he is a man he should be entitled to leave his home whenever he pleases and sleep with any woman he can find, while I, who am a woman, should sit at home, working, slaving, and when I feel passionate rub myself against the mattress? We might as well not have discarded our veils and not abandoned the practice of polygamy. No wonder our women are so apathetic, so fatalistic. No wonder our women age so quickly; at the young age of fifty, when they should be filled with the zest for life, when they should be fresh and vigorous and enjoying themselves, they are shrivelled old women who sit in their dingy rooms, muttering invocations, wasting their lives in soul-suffocating domesticity and loneliness. Our people try to justify this cruel unfairness by

persuading themselves that women are by nature withdrawn, that women enjoy loneliness, and enjoy staying at home to toil and scrub floors. She took a sip of the sherbet and said, Well, while I am young, I shall make sure I do not stay home, lonely and starved for love. When my husband goes out, I too shall go out and enjoy myself. These people think that a woman was created to rear children, and to work at home, because she alone has the talent to manage a house, cook, clean, and wash. They think that there is something noble and beautiful about a woman managing the house and cooking meals for her husband. Well, let me tell you, there is nothing noble and beautiful about cleaning a house, washing dirty linen, or cooking a meal. I have done it and I know. It is tedious and boring and requires no talent. It takes no intelligence to manage a household, even an obtuse, unlettered peasant girl from Baluchestan can tend to a house and prepare a meal. There is nothing romantic about — no, I shall not say any more, I have already said enough and no doubt bored you. You have not bored me at all; I enjoy listening to you. I shall say no more; not even one more word. We came here to lie down and make love, not for me to talk as if I had eaten the head of a parrot. Presently I arose and as I moved toward the front room, Firouzeh sat up and asked where I was going. I want to see what time it is. Yes, please see the time; I promised to fetch my sons at seven o’clock. I went into the front room, and taking my watch from my coat pocket, was surprised to learn it was about half past six. What time is it, KiaNoush? It is half past six, I shouted. Half past six? she exclaimed, hurrying into the front room. Time really flies in a bathhouse. We stretched out on the bed where the towels were spread and dried each other; then having put on our clothes we left the bathhouse. Shall I drive you to your home? she asked as she began to drive. I am going to the Enlightened Partys offices to see Mr. Deldar. I must see him tonight. What a coincidence: the last time we were together you also wanted to see Deldar urgently. I have certainly been trying my best, I said somewhat annoyed. She stopped on Ferdausi Avenue, at a little distance from the office. Will you be free this Sunday? she asked. You mean the day after tomorrow? Bali. It is the Day of Sacrifice and because my husband is away, my sons and I have been invited to a relatives home. After lunch, I can leave my sons to play with their cousins and meet you for two or three hours. Very well, then, let us meet at two o’clock at the statue on Shah Reza Avenue. As we shook hands, she whispered, KiaNoush, your place will be empty beside me. I pressed her hand, and when she drove away, I briskly crossed the street and walked to the Enlightened Partys headquarters. To my extreme surprise the door that led into the corridor and the partys offices was locked. I knocked several times, but there was no answer, and though I put my ear to the door and listened carefully, I could hear no sound from within. I waited by the door, hoping someone would appear and reopen the office, or tell me where I could find Mr. Deldar, or even my friend Choubineh. But after twenty, thirty minutes, no one appeared and the door remained locked. I concluded that the members of the party had gone to the Shemiran Bridge or elsewhere to spend a leisurely Friday afternoon and would not be back. Walking dejectedly to the nearest bus stop, I struggled to think of an excuse to offer my father, and cursed myself for the decidedly careless, irresponsible way I had tried to carry out my fathers request. I had wanted so desperately to succeed and please him, yet I had tried so hard to fail and displease him.

With panting heart, I went home. My father was fortunately not in, though if he had been in and had upbraided me, I would definitely not have argued with him, nor even resented his aspersions, but would have agreed with him that I was worthless. My little nephews and Soura were asleep. My mother, ever alone, was busy washing linen. After the usual greetings, and after she had told me how disappointed my relatives were at not seeing me, she fetched a plate of rice and sauce from the kitchen and set it in front of me. When I finished eating, I kissed my mother and slowly went upstairs to my room. As I undressed and went to bed I told myself that I still had one more day to make a final try to help my father arrange an informal meeting between Ramesh, the Minister of the Interior, and one of the Slaves of the Faith, and thus possibly avert an assassination on Sunday, the Day of Sacrifice. I shall surprise him tomorrow, I thought, chuckling complacently. On the very last day, when he has abandoned all hope of carrying out his plan, and when he is filled with disappointment at his sons incompetence, I shall suddenly change everything by taking Mr. Deldar, and one or two Slaves of the Faith to his office. I shall telephone him a few minutes before leaving for the Ministry and ask him to meet us outside at a — say, a café nearby. So pleased was I with this plan that I could not wait for the next day to come. 6 In the morning I was awakened by the insistent bleating of a lamb, and the happy voices of my two nephews who were playing with the animal in our little garden. Knowing there was not a minute to waste, for the members of the Enlightened Party would no doubt soon leave for Majlis Square, I leaped out of bed, put on my clothes, and rushed downstairs. As I passed Soura in the corridor, she said, The Agha just brought in the lamb he bought yesterday. Hoping not to see my father just then, I decided to forgo breakfast and leave the house immediately. I hurried through the corridor, and just as I got into our little garden, I saw my father standing with my two little nephews watching the lamb that was tied to a tree. Salam, Father, I said, bowing my head slightly. Salam. Hoping to avert the anger I suspected he might unleash, I said: Will you be at the office today? He stared at me quizzically before replying: I am not an idle man; I work all day and try to earn a living. Then if you will permit, I shall telephone you at the office today. He stared at me again and said: What are you trying to say? In a quiet, confidential tone, I replied: It is in connection with what you asked me to do. I don’t want to hear anything about that. I learned my lesson. Striving to remain calm, I said: Today I finally have an appointment with . . . You have had more appointments than I have hair on my head . . . Biting my lips for having to lie, I calmly interposed: I have been trying very hard these last few days to contact one of the Slaves. Fortunately, I have succeeded. Staring at me uncertainly, he said: I have heard you narrate such stories too often. He looked away, murmuring, And besides it is too late now to do anything. This afternoon or evening, I shall go to Ramesh and tell him that his life will be in danger tomorrow and he himself can probably think of a solution. Father, it may still not be too late. I shall do everything I can today to bring you one of the Slaves of the Faith. I cannot believe you any more. Alas, you have always been like this. But I shall say no more, for tomorrow is the Day of Sacrifice, a holy day, and it is a sacrilege to argue. There is much I have to say, but I shall wait until another time. Shaking his head he said, There is so much to say that I would not know where to begin. Yesterday was Friday, the one day when everywhere families

stay together. Our house had to appear like a caravansary because Mr. KiaNoush had decided to be out on the streets the whole day. If you want to live independently, why don’t you earn your own living, instead of depending on me to feed you and clothe you? Anger raged within me as I replied: I don’t want to depend on you to feed me and clothe me. I have wanted to go out and earn my own living; I asked you to speak with one of the directors at the Ministry of the Interior and help me secure even a temporary position till I found something better; but you did not help . . . Must I also help you find work? You have been at the Ministry of the Interior so many years and know so many people there, I thought you could help me obtain a position without much difficulty. What is the use of helping you find work? You don’t want to work. But I want to work. If you wanted to work, you would not have left that position your uncle found you at the Ministry of Health, five years ago. I left that position because my superior was a veritable tyrant. You know very well that is not true. Your superior was Dr. Valan, and he is known to be a very mild, unassuming man. He did not know how to give orders. It would be more correct to say that you don’t know how to take orders. I saw Dr. Valan, shortly after you left the Ministry of Health, and he told me each time he asked you to do something you became very angry and resentful and would do your best to disobey him. But I am sure I would do well under Mr. Pourya, at the Ministry of the Interior; he is a very democratic and enlightened gentleman, and his subordinates say he is unusually lenient. I still believe that if you spoke with him I could secure a position in his department. Do you know why I have not helped you obtain a position? Maybe because you don’t want me to stand on my own feet, I said without thinking. What a stupid thing to say, he remarked, glaring at me. I was suddenly so engrossed in what I had spontaneously uttered that I did not hear what else my father said. Anxious to get away, I waited till he finished speaking, then said: If you will excuse me, I shall run to the other side of town where I have the appointment. Go anywhere you want, he said somewhat sourly. May your shadow never grow less, I said, bowing my head slightly. Just as I opened the street door, he shouted, Don’t call me at the office unless you have concrete results. I shall wait at the — I shall be at the office until five o’clock. Yes, Father, I replied, and went into the street. As I walked briskly to the office of the Enlightened Party, I continued to ponder what I had said. It was so true: he unknowingly did not want me to stand on my own feet. He wanted me to remain dependent on him. That was the way it had always been from my earliest years. He had never encouraged me to make a decision, to think for myself, to feel free enough to reason and to resolve my own complications or assume any responsibilities. He always made the decisions for me, bore all the responsibilities, and whenever I was confronted with a complication, he was the one who resolved it. When he used to take me to the tailors to buy me a suit, he never asked me, much less encouraged me, to decide what material or what color or what design I wanted. He was the one who decided everything. He was the one who selected my friends, decided how I should spend the little money he gave me regularly, what courses I was to take at school, and later chose the profession I was to enter. Even on those two or three occasions when I was temporarily away from Teheran, his authority pursued me everywhere; letter after letter he sent, issuing detailed instructions as to what to do and what not to do. Unknowingly he had curtailed my freedom to think and act independently, he had discouraged the expression of my ego, stifled my initiative, my sense of self-esteem. In his efforts to help me

grow, he had stifled my growth. At thirty-three I still had the emotions of a child, afraid of standing on my own feet, and under pretext of wanting to study at the University, I had remained dependent on him, unable to earn even a meager salary — for I was forever afraid of superiors and resentful of their orders — yet unable to live my own life without having someone to make decisions for me. When I reached Ferdausi Avenue, men were already standing in line ready to leave for the Majlis Square. Pushing my way through the crowd of onlookers, I hastened across the street and proceeded to look for my friend Choubineh Neelan. As I carefully examined the long line of demonstrators, I heard someone call my name. Turning around I saw Choubineh, beckoning to me. As I went towards him he said, KiaNoush, why didn’t you come back yesterday? Mr. Deldar and I waited for you until well after four o’clock. I am sorry, Choubineh, I said. I just could not get back. Can I see him now? It is impossible now because we are ready to leave for the Majlis Square. Then when will the two of you be back here? I asked. Not before late afternoon when the demonstrations will end. That will be too late, Choubineh. I have to see him immediately. I have to. He thought a bit, then said: Come with us to the Majlis, and I will try to introduce you to him some time during the demonstration. I don’t want to go back to that Square; is there no other way? Shrugging his shoulders he said: I know of no other way, KiaNoush. Why can’t you wait till this evening when we are back here at the office? I cannot wait till then; there is no time. As I looked at him, debating what to do, someone in front shouted the order to begin marching. Knowing I bad no alternative but to go, I jumped into line beside Choubineh and began the march to the Majlis. As before, we went through the streets, waving the large and the small banners, and once in a while, the men, singly or collectively, shouted the usual slogans and denunciations. The square in front of the Majlis was already filled with demonstrators and still more were coming. The leaders, mostly men of thirty or forty, stood on the shoulders of their followers, shrieking with all the power within them. And the men responded by waving the banners up and down, up and down, and waving their fists, their sticks, their belts, and shouting frantically. The din was at times insupportable. The policemen, with firearms ready, kept vigilant watch over the demonstrators, removing those who were unruly, and rushing to put an end to the fights that broke out among the rioters everywhere in the vast Square. Determined not to become involved in the demonstration again, I just stood still, watching the people about me and the men and women who sat in their balconies overlooking the Square. I noticed a man a few steps away gazing about him as if he were lost. Seeing me standing idly, he made his way to me and said, Agha, I am looking for the Enlightened Party; may I entreat your kindness to guide me to them? Everyone else is so involved in the demonstration. My friend, if you will read the banners, you will see that this is the Enlightened Party. Agha, if I could read, would I ask you? I am sorry, I said. I did not know you could not read. Are you opposing the government, Agha? This Party is. That is what they told me, he replied looking about him. What did they tell you? They told me that the Enlightened Party is opposing the government and that I should stand with its members in front of the Majlis and demonstrate shoulder to shoulder with them. Why are you against the government? What a question to ask, Agha; I am against the government because it is corrupt and dictatorial.

How do you know? How do I know? he rejoined, staring at me. How does anyone know? The newspapers are filled with reports of the governments corruption and . . . But you say you do not read . . . Agha, why are you questioning me this way? he asked, looking at me suspiciously. One would think I had committed a crime. I am sorry, I said. Still looking at me, he slowly moved away. Before long he was standing by one of the huge banners of the Enlightened Party, shouting with the rest at the top of his lungs. What did he want? Choubineh asked, nudging me. He wants to denounce the government for its corruption and dictatorship, I replied. Just then a fight broke out not far away in the lines of another of the many parties. The policemen, with guns and sticks in their hands, rushed to the scene. In a moment, as often happens in a crowd, the fight spread, and still more policemen appeared, struggling desperately to quell the riot. But the people, as if finding it a very effective opportunity to give vent to their anger and bitterness and violence, abandoned their shouting and clamoring and instead joined in the fight. Suddenly, all the hate and the anger that they had mobilized against the government and its leaders became directed against one another. The fight spread like fire and it was not long before almost everyone in the vast Majlis Square was involved in the brawl. They kicked and slapped and struck one another with all the fury with which, only a few moments earlier, they had been denouncing the government and its leading statesmen. One could hear them cursing and upbraiding one another, calling one another infidels, thieves. And the young leaders, striving to balance themselves on the shoulders of their men, roared with their fiery voices, goading and prodding their followers to fight the oppression and the high-handed ways of the members of the other parties. The policemen struggled in vain to put an end to the disorder. The rioters were inexorable. Wildeyed, frantic, still shouting slogans, denouncing and arraigning each other, they pounced upon one another and fought as wildly as they could. And it did not seem to matter whom they hit, or whom they cursed; they just wanted to fight and to curse. At length, the policemen, seeing that the strife had gotten out of hand, and unable to quell it with their sticks and bayoneted guns, began to shoot into the air and brought in the tanks that were always present at a demonstration. Almost an hour passed before the policemen succeeded in gaining control over the tense scene, and the fighting stopped. The demonstrators once again raised their banners, and continued bellowing as they waited for the members of the government and other leading politicians to arrive for the usual session of the Majlis. Those who had been seriously wounded in the fight were hastily taken away by ambulance, the others sat on the shoulders of their friends, yelling with unmitigated vengefulness and complacently exhibiting their bleeding faces and arms and their torn shirts. Somehow I had managed to stay out of the fight, though several times I was kicked and pushed by those who were fighting nearby. Turning to Choubineh, I asked him if he was all right. He nodded and smiling said, I always feel better after these fights. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turning around, saw a young man whose shirt was somewhat torn, probably during the fight. He said, Agha, what is the demonstration about today? Shrugging my shoulders, I replied that I was not sure, and referred him to Choubineh. He repeated his question and Choubineh said: We are demonstrating for Arayesh. Arayesh? the man repeated as if to make sure. Bali, Choubineh replied. The man nodded, and pushing his way forward shouted: Long live Arayesh; long live Arayesh; down with his enemies. Suddenly realizing what the man was shouting, Choubineh went after him, and as I followed, I heard him tell the man:

You fool, we are demonstrating for Arayesh, which means against him. We are against him. Against him? the man exclaimed in surprise. I thought you meant for him. We are against him, against him, Choubineh repeated. Who is he, anyway? He is a despot, Choubineh replied. The most evil-minded prime minister our country has ever had. The man nodded, and pushing his way forward again, shouted: Down with Arayesh; death to Arayesh . . . I looked at him in amazement. He was clamoring and cursing with such fervor and bitterness that one would have thought Arayesh had robbed or murdered his father. And yet it was evident that he did not even know Arayesh. Whom was he really fighting? Whom were they all fighting? Having not a minute to waste as it was already well past two o’clock, I said to Choubineh, Will you please take me to Mr. Deldar; I cannot wait any longer. You have waited so long, he said, why don’t you wait a little longer, till the demonstration is finished, and you will be able to speak with him at leisure? I cannot wait any longer, Choubineh; in an hour or two it will be too late. Please take me to him now. He thought a bit, then said: Very well, wait here; I shall fetch him for you. Making his way through the crowd of his fellow party members, he went to one of the large banners in front where several leaders of the Enlightened Party were forgathered. Stretching myself as high as I could, I saw him talking with several men. At length, he slowly made his way back to me and said, Mr. Deldar is not here; he has gone back to our partys office. Disappointed at what I learned, I said, Will he be back here soon? He is not expected back; he has some work to attend to at the office. Then I will go there and speak with him. As I began to go, Choubineh stopped me, saying: Wait a few minutes, KiaNoush, and we will go together. I have to go to the office, too. Once again he made his way to the front where the leaders were assembled. Before long he returned and we began pushing our way through the hundreds and hundreds of demonstrators who were still clamoring in that vast Square. We walked rapidly through the streets and as we passed the cafes on crowded Istanbul Avenue, I said, I have not eaten all day; let us stop somewhere and have a quick lunch. I am hungry, too, Choubineh said. We went into a small Armenian cafe and ordered two sausage sandwiches and beer. As we ate, a man came toward our table and removing his hat, said, Salam, Choubineh. Choubineh jumped to his feet, and shaking hands with the man, said, Salam, Abadani. As I slowly got up Choubineh introduced me to his friend. Bowing to each other, Mr. Abadani and I shook hands. Choubineh said, Abadani, sit here and join us. I must deny myself the pleasure of joining you because I do not have any time, Mr. Abadani replied, and turning to me said, I beg you to sit down, Mr. Aryamanesh. Thanking him, I sat down, and Choubineh, having once again asked his friend to join us, also sat down. Is this your lunch or your dinner? Mr. Abadani asked, as he remained standing. This is our lunch, Choubineh replied. We were at the demonstration in front of the Majlis and were unable to eat earlier. Then Mr. Aryamanesh is also in politics, Mr. Abadani said, turning to me. I smiled and remained silent. Choubineh, also smiling, said, We are trying to drag him into politics; I think he would be a strong ally. Turning once again to Mr. Abadani, he said, Why haven’t you joined our political demonstrations lately?

I have been too busy, Mr. Abadani said. You cannot be that busy, Choubineh replied. Everyone in the party has been asking about you. You must come back, and become active once again. We are having demonstrations almost every day, and our membership is rapidly increasing. Why don’t you come to the office this Monday; we are having a mass meeting and then we will march to the Majlis. To tell you the truth, Mr. Abadani replied, I got tired of these demonstrations and political parties. One day I would be asked to support a man and exalt him at the top of my lungs; next day, when that man became prime minister, I would be asked to oppose him and malign him with all the vehemence with which I had just finished praising him. Smiling and shaking his head, he said, It was too confusing for me; too confusing. Perhaps you opposed . . . Choubineh began, but Mr. Abadani interrupted to say: And besides, I don’t enjoy political activities the way I used to. Instead of trying to make conquests in politics I now prefer making conquests among the women. He smiled and, bowing his head, walked away to join a woman who had just entered the café. It is true that I supported Arayesh last year and even idolized him, Choubineh said, but I for one did not oppose him as soon as he became prime minister; I opposed him two, three months later, when he proved by his policies that he was really not an honest man, and behaved as if he were God Almighty. Forgive me, Choubineh, I replied, but, my friend, you have said this about every man who became the leader of our government. I have known you many years, and as far back as I can remember you were always busy opposing and defying governments. I remember three years ago you were violently opposed to the rightist government of Ardavan. Hardly two months later, if you remember, I saw you at the house of my uncle one day, and you were bitterly against the leftist government of that man — I have forgotten his name, who later fled the country. Last year I used to see you almost every day on Shemiran Bridge and you were then opposing the nationalist government of Javeed. It does not seem to matter who the people in authority are; you just want to defy and fight. You don’t understand politics, KiaNoush. One does not have to know politics to see what is really going on. These are elementary truths about life. Looking at his watch he said: I suggest we leave, or else we will be late. Arising instantly, I said: Yes, let us leave immediately. We left the café and continued walking rapidly towards the Enlightened Partys office. Is Mr. Deldar trustworthy? I asked, as we walked. He is the most trustworthy and sincere man in politics today, Choubineh replied. Because he will not be able to help me effectively unless I tell him everything. You can tell him anything you want; he will never repeat a word. That is why he has so many friends in all the parties; everyone trusts him. That is very good, I replied, considerably encouraged. I hope I can finally succeed today. He will help you as well as he can — that is, if he is still at the office. I followed Choubineh into the hall at the partys office. He knocked at a door and when a voice inside said, Bali, he opened the door and motioned me to go in. A tall, middle-aged, pleasant looking man jumped to his feet behind a large desk and bowed his head slightly. Indicating me with a graceful motion of the hand, Choubineh said: The Exalted Mr. KiaNoush Aryamanesh, a very fine gentleman, who, long ago, bestowed upon me the privilege of his friendship. He then indicated the tall gentleman and said: The Exalted Mr. Sarveen Deldar, a noble gentleman and an uncompromising patriot whose probity and whose fidelity to the cause of freedom and justice have been the object of everyones admiration. As we shook hands, Mr. Deldar said: I have been anxious to have the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Aryamanesh. Please sit down.

I beg you to sit down, Mr. Deldar. After you, Mr. Aryamanesh. You must sit down first. Impossible. I beg you. Impossible. I am your servant, I bowed, sitting down. Mr. Deldar also bowed and sat down. Choubineh said, If the gentlemen will excuse me, I shall withdraw into the other room. I got up and Mr. Deldar got up and as Choubineh left the room, I sat down and Mr. Deldar sat down. Before submitting my problem, Mr. Deldar, I beg to ask that my supplications remain in strictest confidence. As he nodded and got up from his chair behind the desk to sit down in a chair closer to me, presumably to enable me to speak quietly, I said: Someone close to the Slaves of the Faith has revealed to my father a sinister bit of information. What my father has learned is that tomorrow, Sunday, the Day of Sacrifice, the Slaves of the Faith plan to assassinate Mr. Ramesh, the Minister of the Interior. I paused, perhaps expecting Mr. Deldar to show some surprise; but he remained unmoved and did not even bat an eyelash. My father believes that if we could arrange an informal meeting between one of the Slaves of the Faith and Ramesh we might be able to avert a murder this Sunday. I have been hoping that perhaps you could help put us in touch with a friend you might have among the Slaves of the Faith. Needless to say, there is no time to waste; if we can do anything, we must do it immediately. This plan to assassinate Ramesh is not such a secret, Mr. Aryamanesh. The Slaves of the Faith have been after Ramesh for quite some time. Frankly, I, myself, had suspected that they might try to get him this Sunday. He thought a bit, then said: What you have asked me is certainly not difficult to grant. But I beg to state that it seems to me that your efforts will be ineffective, for if the Slaves are resolved to assassinate Ramesh tomorrow, I don’t believe anyone can deter them. Perhaps the only thing that could save the life of the Minister of the Interior would be his immediate resignation — meaning today or tonight. Of course, as you know, Ramesh is not one to be intimidated; it is therefore very unlikely that he will resign now. I had suspected that my fathers plan was not a very logical one. But there is nothing to lose in trying to deter the Slaves from their murderous course. If our efforts are successful, the murder of a man will be avoided. Very well, then, Mr. Aryamanesh, we shall see what we can do. Arising from his chair, he slowly walked to his desk, then suddenly turning around again, walked back and sat down on the chair nearest to me. If it is not impertinent to ask, Mr. Aryamanesh: why do you want to try to avert the assassination of Ramesh tomorrow? I do not condone murders and assassinations, but when a man is greedy and dishonest enough to take advantage of the ignorance of others and rob them of the very bread they eat, then, I believe, it is necessary to do away with him. Ramesh has stolen from the people, he has accepted bribes from the foreigners, and lately as Minister of the Interior has dictatorially interfered with the election of members of the Majlis. It is necessary that he be done away with, not only to free the country from his greed and autocracy but also to show the other politicians that we, the people, are now awake, and if they attempt to take advantage of us, or abuse the responsibilities we entrust to their hands, we shall do away with them, too. You, Mr. Deldar, say that Ramesh is dishonest; I know others who say that Ramesh is honest. Who is one to believe? But even if it is true that Ramesh is dishonest or dictatorial, I still cannot agree that doing away with him will help matters. You cannot right a wrong with a wrong, Mr. Deldar. I say murdering a man is wrong — it is wrong regardless of the charges against him. Killing a man for a crime is itself a crime. What do we stand to gain if we assassinate one allegedly corrupt or dictatorial politician, or even five or ten? What will we gain? Do you think, Mr. Deldar,

that the government will thereafter become honest and democratic? Do you think that the other politicians will be terrified and cease to be greedy or dictatorial? In the past few years many politicians have been assassinated in our country; and yet have our governments changed? Has the rebellion of our people diminished? No, Mr. Deldar, it is my humble opinion that there is a much more basic problem confronting our people. Perhaps, if you had been in politics as long as some of us, you would not think this way. Sometimes a man can be so deeply submerged in something that he completely loses objectivity. I have never been too involved in politics, hence I have been able to observe from the outside, and with greater objectivity than most men who are intimately involved. These men, Mr. Deldar, who demonstrate in the streets waving banners, shouting slogans, fighting, rioting, assassinating, they are not political rebels, they are delinquents. The demonstrations, the parties, the mass meetings, provide them with opportunities to channel their resentment and anger at society, and to give expression to the defiance and rebellion that each man on his own dare not reveal so flagrantly. Would these men, these so-called political rebels, be so sensitive to authority, fight so frantically to overthrow the rule of government, if they, as individuals, had not at one time been oppressed by those in authority within their homes and their schools? Would they struggle with such urgency to snatch political freedom, if their own individual freedoms had not at one time been denied them? Would political justice and political rights bear such significance if each one of them had not been hurt by the injustices of his social environment and denied the fundamental rights that all human beings should have? It seems to me, Mr. Deldar, that what we are chiefly rebelling against are the impossible repressions of our religious and cultural traditions, the morbid mysticism, the holy superstitions, the autocracy of well-intentioned but ignorant parents and teachers. These are the forces we are fighting and defying, for these are the autocratic forces which, in our most sensitive years, robbed us of our freedom to grow, our love and dignity, our confidence and will to improve, and instead filled us with fear and hate, apathy and rebelliousness. Making his eyebrows meet, Mr. Deldar said: Are you implying that there are no political problems confronting us, no corruption in our governments, no — I am not implying this. We do have political problems. Corruption in our government, abuse of power, foreign exploitation, etc . . . these are all problems — they are real problems and they must be resolved. But our masses are, alas, too illiterate and uninformed to understand the issues and too poor and apathetic to take effective interest. They fight whomever and whenever the young, educated leaders prod them to fight; and because these leaders are themselves governed by primitive, destructive feelings, the fighting has been, for the most part, irrational, and our political problems mostly symbolic substitutes. Shaking his head, Mr. Deldar said: These are strange beliefs you have, Mr. Aryamanesh. I don’t know what to say. I know, Mr. Deldar, that it is very difficult to accept and face the easily overlooked and painful reality that we are essentially fighting our autocratic family organization, our religion, and the other social traditions we hold sacred. But we must face our problems realistically. For one thing, we must understand that the foundations of our society are autocratic, and therefore overthrowing dictatorial regimes will not do away with autocracy. We have had dictatorships because dictatorship is the only form of authority we understand; it is the only authority we have known from the very beginning of our lives. We seem to ask for, and even idolize, a strong man who will rule us, make all the decisions for us and assume all the responsibilities. And yet we rebel against dictatorship because, essentially, men need to be free. But freedom can prevail in our land only if we have freedom in our homes and social environment. Mr. Deldar glanced at his watch, and I arose instantly saying, Forgive me for imposing on your time. Not at all, Mr. Aryamanesh, I have listened carefully to what you have said. These ideas are new,

at least to me, and they deserve to be examined. Looking at his watch again, he said, But if we want to find one of these Slaves of the Faith, we will have to hurry. Yes, I promised to call my father before five o’clock at his office. It is not much before five now. 7 Mr. deldar and i walked on Ferdausi Avenue, and as we passed a restaurant he said: Let us go in here, and I shall call one of the Slaves. We walked through the almost empty restaurant and went to a small back room where there was a telephone. Having closed the door, Mr. Deldar dialed a number, but the person he wanted was not in. He thought a bit, then called another number, and when someone answered he said: Is Mr. Neekou in? . . . Will he be back? . . . Thank you. When he put down the receiver I said: Was that Neekou you asked for? He nodded. Is it Hussein Neekou? He looked at me in surprise, and thought a bit, as if trying to decide what to answer. Do you know Hussein Neekou? Yes, I know him very well. He is the friend from the School of Theology we hoped could help us. Didn’t he help you? I could not find him. Well, he was not at this place I just called, Mr. Deldar said. He was silent for a while as he rubbed his chin and made his eyebrows meet. At length he said: Neekou may be at his home; if you know him well, I think you should go to his house and speak with him. Do you know where he lives? I know he lives on the other side of town, but I don’t know exactly where. You say you know him very well? Yes, I know him very well. Until several weeks ago he often came to our house. He knows my father and my family; and many a time he has spent hours sitting with my mother discussing religion. He was very fond of all of us. Mr. Deldar continued to rub his chin as he said: I will tell you where he lives, but I entreat you not to tell him that I revealed his whereabouts. I am sure he will not mind that I have gone to see him. He would have told me where he lived if the occasion had arisen. We took a bus and went to the other side of town where many of the bazaar people and the more religious families lived. When we got off the bus, we walked along an unasphalted road, on both sides of which dilapidated mud huts nudged each other. We stopped at an old tea-house where several peasants and laborers sat on the floor leaning against the mud wall, drinking tea and talking. I shall wait here for you, Mr. Deldar said. Neekou lives five minutes away from here, in the second house on the left side of the Road of the Cypress Trees. Turn right at that corner and you will get to it. I shall sit here for half an hour; if by then you have not returned, I will conclude that he is at home, and I shall go back to the office. Shaking his hand, I said: Mr. Deldar, I am overwhelmed with your kindness. It has been an honor for me, he replied. You are a sensitive, intelligent man, Mr. Aryamanesh, I admire you. Bowing my head slightly, I waved my hand to him and walked away. I went from one dirt road to another, and at length reached the Road of the Cypress Trees which, though unpaved, was perhaps a little less unclean than the other streets. Neekous home was a small brick hut in front of which a lonely tree stood, with limbs outstretched. I knocked at the small green door and waited. Presently, I heard footsteps inside; then the door, with many a groan and

grumble, slowly opened and a person, presumably a woman, completely enveloped in a long black veil, peered at me with large dark eyes. I said, Salam, Banou. She said, Salam, Agha. Is Mr. Hussein Neekou in, Banou? What is your name, Agha? My name is KiaNoush; I am a friend of Hussein Neekou. She hesitated, then said: Will you come in, Agha, and rest yourself while I call him. I am grateful, I bowed, and as she opened the door wider I went in and stood in a narrow, dimly lit corridor. Ushering me into the first room on the left, she said: This is a humble house, Agha, forgive us. The excellence of a dwelling lies in the dweller, I said as I went into the room. You are kind, Agha, God protect you. God protect you. She invited me to sit on one of the wooden chairs, then begging my forgiveness, hastily went out of the room. I sat down and looked about at the worn table and chairs that looked as if they would collapse any minute from age and exhaustion. The rug on the floor, once alive with intricate patterns and rich colors, was now discolored and disfigured, lying there in tatters, full of resentment at the hard, dirty shoes like mine that had stepped on it, robbing it of its youth and beauty. Four or five small, cheap statues sat on the mantelpiece, with arms folded, staring at me with dark, quizzical eyes. Pasted to the walls were half a dozen framed cardboards on which quotations from the Book, in large calligraphy, reminded one that the dwellers of the house were God-fearing people. As I sat there looking at the crippled furnishings of that small room, the lady, still cryptically enshrouded in her long black veil, came back bringing with her a small glass of tea, precariously set in a loose filigreed holder. She rushed out of the room but was back again with some sweets and fruits. She went out yet another time, only to return with more confectionery. Each time she came into the room, I jumped to my feet, begging her not to incommode herself; and she, insisting that it was all an honor for the house, begged me to remain seated. Is Banou the sister of Hussein? I asked. I heard her chuckle somewhere in her veil as she said, I am his mother. His mother? I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. Forgive me, Banou, forgive me. God forgive you, Agha, how were you to know? Please sit down and have some of this meager food. These sweets are excellent. May your head never ache. May your head never ache. I have told Hussein that you have arrived; he will come in as soon as he puts on his clothes. Bowing her concealed head, she went out of the room, and I sat down again. As I drank the tea and sampled the sweets the woman had so hospitably offered me, I thought of the discomforts and confused feelings I would have been spared if I had been able to find my friend, Neekou, that first day I went to the School of Theology to fetch him. Nevertheless, I was very pleased that at long last I had succeeded in finding Neekou, who, I was somewhat surprised to learn, was now one of the Slaves of the Faith. With great anticipation I thought of my fathers satisfaction when, in a little while, I would take Neekou to him, and at the last minute arrange a meeting with Ramesh, and, heaven knows, perhaps even avoid bloodshed. I heard footsteps in the corridor and my heart began to pound. The footsteps, hasty and too heavy to be a womans, drew nearer. Then I heard the street door open and shut. Going to the window that fronted the street, I looked out, and, to my perplexity, saw Hussein Neekou briskly walking away. Instantly I ran out of the room into the hall, and opening the street door, ran after him. Hussein, I shouted, Hussein. He turned around and, seeing me running towards him, stopped and said nervously, KiaNoush,

what are you doing here? I came here to see you, Hussein. How did you know where I lived? I have always known where you lived, I lied. That is not true, he panted, his face livid with excitement. I have only recently gone back to my mothers house. You could not have known; who told you, KiaNoush? Who told you? Does it matter who? I must speak with you, Hussein. You have to tell me who sent you here? he urged angrily. I cannot tell you, Hussein. You must tell me, KiaNoush, you must. Will you stop and speak with me if I tell you? Tell me who it was; tell me. Very well, I will tell you, but you must first swear by the Book that you will not repeat what I tell you. You know very well that I do not swear; but I give you my promise. That is not enough. It is enough, damn it! he shouted angrily. I am a religious man and do not lie. Now tell me, KiaNoush, don’t make me angry. I found out from someone at the School of Theology, I lied. The School of Theology? That is not true. I am telling you it is true. What was his name? How would I know? I grumbled, affecting great indignation. Look, Hussein, I have not come here to be called a liar; you have disappointed me enough trying to run away when, after so long, I came to visit you. I am sorry, KiaNoush, it is just that I am very busy. I must speak with you, Hussein. I can’t, KiaNoush, I don’t have the time. But I must speak with you; it is very important. He continued walking and said, I am in a hurry, don’t you understand? I walked with him and replied, But this is a matter of life and death. Whose life? he exclaimed, stopping short. I cannot tell you, Hussein; you must come home with me, and my father will tell you about it. That is impossible, he shouted, as he began to walk briskly, I will come to your house one day next week. It will be too late, I shouted, catching up with him. Hussein, you must come with me now. You must. It is impossible, impossible, he shouted, then suddenly began to run and he ran as fast as he could, like a man possessed. I stood there staring at him as he ran. Son of a burnt father, I muttered angrily. Son of a burnt father. I was so unprepared for such a reaction that I stood still like a man transfixed, and tried with difficulty to digest the hapless realization that my friend Hussein Neekou had run away from me. When, still running, he turned into a side street and disappeared from view, I looked about to see if anyone had seen us arguing together. But the dull habitations remained glum and indifferent; about fifty yards away several children played in the street, but they, too, appeared indifferent to us. Hoping to find Mr. Deldar again, I hurried back through the dusty roads and reached the tea-house just as he was leaving. Didn’t you find Neekou? he asked. I found him, but he said he was very busy and could not come to our house. Yes, I know, he said, nodding. While you were away, I telephoned two, three other Slaves, but

they were all away busy. They are having an important meeting tonight. As we walked to the nearest bus stop, I said, Mr. Deldar, couldn’t we go to their place of meeting and persuade one of them to come with us? Shaking his head, he said, That is out of the question, Mr. Aryamanesh. For one thing, I don’t know where they will meet tonight, as they always change their meeting place, and I doubt that anyone but the Slaves themselves know where the meeting will be. And even if I knew where they were meeting, I would not go, much less take someone with me, for I would be abusing their trust. I understand, I said, fiercely disappointed that I had not succeeded, and that, on this last and final night, I must go to my father, still empty-handed, with my many promises to carry out his request still unfulfilled — and now remain forever unfulfilled. Perhaps sensing my disappointment and unhappiness, Mr. Deldar pressed my arm saying, Don’t feel dejected, Mr. Aryamanesh, perhaps the Slaves will not attempt to assassinate Ramesh tomorrow. Dear, dear man, I thought, it is not only the assassination of that man that troubles me — that is sorrowful no doubt, but there is yet another sorrow in me that has made my heart heavy. It is the sorrow I feel for having disappointed my father who, for the first time, gave me a little task to perform, a small responsibility to discharge. There is no use now in saying that I behaved irresponsibly because he had never given me any responsibilities. The truth — the uncomfortable truth — was that I had not succeeded; I had given him every reason to continue treating me as a child. And how sorrowful it is, dear friend, when a man wilfully disobeys his father and, ironically, disregards the one wish that must be attended to — for it involves the life of a man. If you but knew, dear Mr. Deldar, what rebellion rages within me, who, only an hour or two ago, spoke to you of the futility of other mens’ rebellion. Am I really any different from them? I said: Mr. Deldar, you are kind to try to dispel my discomfort, but there is no use in hoping that the Slaves of the Faith will suddenly abandon their criminality. These men have murdered or tried to murder many politicians in the last few months; what reason is there to believe that they will now not murder another man? They might very well wait another week or two, if they consider this an unsuitable time to assassinate him. When the bus finally arrived we climbed into it, and as we sat down I said: I am astonished that a man like Hussein Neekou could be a member of so nefarious a group as the Slaves of the Faith. He has always been so puritanical and God-fearing that one would never think he could have recourse to such ungodly vileness. My friend, he replied, if what you said was correct — that when men fight for political causes they are often essentially fighting the social forces that robbed them of their inner freedom and filled them instead with fear and hate — then would it not follow that when fighting for God or religious causes they are essentially rebelling against the same evil forces? Yes, yes, I nodded, that must be so. We were silent for a long time before I said: Mr. Deldar, are you returning to your partys office? With your permission, I will have to, he replied. I have some work to do. I am ashamed of having made such free use of your time. It was my duty as a friend, he said, bowing his head. I am only sorry I was not able to help. Yes, it is a pity we did not succeed; my fathers disappointment will indeed be great. Turning to look at me he said: Is there any other service I can render? It would be inconsiderate to impose any more on your kindness. Let us brush aside the formalities. Then, to tell you the truth, there is one more kindness I would like to beg of you. I think that if you spoke with my father and explained to him that his plan to avert the assassination of Ramesh tomorrow was impractical and useless, his disappointment might be somewhat lessened. I understand, I understand, he said turning to look at me again and nodding as if to say he

understood my situation very well. When we reached home, it was well past eight o’clock. Seeing Mr. Deldar, my father stared at me questioningly, perhaps thinking he was one of the Slaves of the Faith. I quickly introduced Mr. Deldar to my father and explained that he was a close friend from the Enlightened Party, who had been in politics for many years and was kind enough to help me try to reach a member of the Slaves. My father and Mr. Deldar shook hands and after the usual prefatory exchange of greetings we all sat down. We all got up again when, hardly a minute later, my mother suddenly appeared with tea and sweets and fruits which she set in front of Mr. Deldar. I told her that Mr. Deldar and I had not had dinner, whereupon she lapsed into elaborate exclamations of regret that we were hungry and, no doubt, starving. She rushed into the kitchen and was back before long with two plates of rice and sauce. Perhaps sensing that my Father was eager to learn the result of our efforts, Mr. Deldar said: The Slaves of the Faith are having an important meeting tonight, and it has been impossible to persuade any one of them to give us even an hour of his time. As you know, Mr. Aryamanesh, the Slaves of the Faith is the most active party in politics today, and it is extremely difficult to find one of its members who has any time to spare. He paused, perhaps expecting to hear my fathers reaction; but the latter responded only by nodding once or twice, whereupon Mr. Deldar said: I hope it is not improper if I venture the humble opinion that the plan to arrange a meeting between one of the Slaves of the Faith and Mr. Ramesh, noble as it is, nevertheless is impractical. As I told my friend KiaNoush, it is almost impossible to deter the Slaves from their resolve. They are a fanatical lot who honestly believe that everything they do, every political assassination, is for the good of our religion and our country. My father, as if suddenly emboldened by what he had heard, sat up saying: I am, in a way, pleased by what you have just said. It is very true, very true. I myself had feared that it was foolish even to harbor a hope of averting this needless bloodshed. But I could not help hoping, for after all there is always a small chance. But it is too late now, too late. God, why are these men so cruel? Why? Shaking his head, he took a deep breath, adding: Mr. Deldar, I have been at the Ministry of the Interior for thirty, forty years, and I daresay Ramesh is one of the ablest ministers we have had. He is a conscientious man, and the efficiency, the organization, the democratic spirit he has brought to our Ministry are truly remarkable. Do you know that, after more than ten years, he was the first head of our Ministry to have the boldness to apply pressure at the Majlis to raise the salary of his employees who previously starved on their meager salaries? You should come and see, Mr. Deldar, with what initiative and enthusiasm everyone now works; he himself is constantly in and out of the many offices, fraternizing with even the lowliest employees, encouraging everyone, praising everyone, and always offering new and helpful ideas. These are accomplishments I have seen with my own eyes, and I do not need anyone or any newspapers to tell me about them. If agitators would only let that man alone and stop pouncing on him — how can anyone render service to our country when he is relentlessly traduced and criticized and forever exposed to the threat of being assassinated? Mr. Deldar listened attentively as he ate. Mr. Aryamanesh, he said, I hope with you that they do not assassinate Ramesh. It is useless to hope now, my father muttered dejectedly. I know they will try to do away with him tomorrow. They may not try tomorrow, Mr. Deldar replied. They may suddenly decide to postpone this plan to assassinate Ramesh for a more suitable time. Perhaps that is why they have an emergency meeting tonight. May God listen from your mouth, Mr. Deldar, my father said. But somehow I cannot share your optimism. Not long after Mr. Deldar finished eating, he got up and said that because he had work to attend to at his office, he unfortunately had to leave. Having thanked my father and my mother for their

hospitality, he walked out of the room and I followed. I walked with him to the bus stop and when, after a long wait, the bus arrived, we shook hands and I once again expressed to him my gratitude for his many kindnesses and for his having graced our humble house with his presence. When he left, I slowly walked back home. In our little garden, the lamb, still tied to the tree, stared at me as I passed, its meek, innocent eyes showing no awareness that on the next day, the Day of Sacrifice, its life would be taken away. Hearing no sounds in the house, I concluded that my father and mother had retired for the night, and I quietly went to my room. For a long time I lay in bed, unable to fall asleep, my mind compulsively dwelling on what I considered my criminal negligence in not having done my share in the effort to avert an assassination. I had postponed my part of the work too many times and acted too late. The nagging, uncomfortable thought came to me, again and again, that in a way I too was collaborating in the assassination that was to take place the next day. For even if my fathers plan to arrange an informal meeting between Ramesh and those who wanted to take away his life was not a very practical one, still there was always a chance of succeeding — a chance well worth taking for it involved the life of a man. I had had five days to do what I could, and many friends to help me. But after five days, I had done nothing. Sometime after I had fallen asleep I heard a knock at my door. Thinking I was dreaming, I paid no attention. But soon I heard someone call me, and opening my eyes, saw my father standing by my bed. I sat up instantly and said, Salam, Father. Salam, salam, he whispered. When did you come back? I was waiting for you. Getting out of bed to stand up, I replied: I came back a long time ago, but the house was quiet and I thought you had gone to sleep. He sat on my bed and motioned to me to sit down, too. This evening, he said, I waited for you until five o’clock, then went to the home of Ramesh hoping to find him and warn him about tomorrow. But the gendarmes at his house told me he had gone out of town. Whether he was really away or not, I don’t know, but the fact remains I could not see him and tell him what I know. I would have gone back to his house but I thought that the gendarmes might again refuse to let me see him; also I am an employee of the Ministry of the Interior and it is not proper for me to be seen lingering by the Ministers door. The reason I have come here is to ask you to go to his house and see if you can get to speak with him. There is no use now in fretting over what you could have done; the least you can do now is to go and warn him of the threat to his life. Very well, Father, I shall go immediately. He got up and taking some money out of his pocket, said: It is now well past midnight and there are no buses. Here are two tomans for the taxi. Go to his house immediately and do your best to find him and speak with him. If the gendarmes refuse to let you see him, tell them it is a matter of life and death; tell them you must see His Excellency, Mr. Ramesh, because you have a very urgent message to deliver to him. If you succeed in seeing him, introduce yourself with great humility, tell him you are the son of Aryamanesh, who has been a faithful servant of the government for three, four decades. Then tell him that you have heard from a very reliable source that the Slaves of the Faith will do their best to assassinate him tomorrow. As he spoke I put on my clothes and combed my hair; when I was ready he said: There is no time to tell you more; only remember to be humble, for you will be in the presence of one of our leading statesmen. And above all, don’t proceed to pour out your philosophies and theories; remember, he is not a child. I will wait for you downstairs. He gave me the address of the Minister of the Interior and I forthwith left. The streets, in that first hour of morning, were empty and quiet. The gaslights, hanging overhead at regular intervals, swung gently in the breeze. Several cats chased one another in the deserted streets, now stopping to regard one another, now running, now stopping, now wailing the disquietingly human wails cats utter at night when they want things from each other. At length, I found a taxi, and it was not long before I was standing before the lovely gate of

Rameshs residence, which was in that neat and refreshingly beautiful residential area near the Karaj Waterfall. All around, the elegant houses were quiet, though now and again I could hear music and the laughter of men and women somewhere in the gardens. The aromas of flowers and citrus trees filled the air, and the birds talked ceaselessly in a nearby grove. I rang the bell at the gate, and almost instantly two gendarmes, with firearms in hand, opened the gate and stood before me. I said: I have come to see His Excellency, Mr. Ramesh. Agha, this is a late hour to call on His Excellency, one of the gendarmes said. I am aware that it is a late hour to disturb His Excellency, but I have a message of urgent importance. But His Excellency is not in, the same gendarme replied. I looked at him, unsure whether he was telling the truth. This is a very grave matter, I said solemnly. Agha, whether it is grave or not, His Excellency is not in; he is out of town. I looked at him again and said: Gendarme, if he is in I must see him, even if he is asleep. This is a matter of life and death. Do you understand, Gendarme, it is a matter of life and death. Yes, yes, I understand, Agha, it is a matter of life and death. But what is there to do, if His Excellency is not in? Are you sure he is not in? I asked. We are very sure, Agha. His Excellency left an hour or two ago. Then I am sure he is in, because someone else came here to see him earlier this evening and you told him His Excellency had left the city. Agha, I am sorry, but I do not have the time to stand here and debate with you whether His Excellency is in or not. I know His Excellency is not in, and so I told you, Agha. Is there anyone else I can speak with? The Banou is the only one in, but she is asleep and we cannot wake her up. Then can you tell me where I can reach His Excellency? I don’t know where you can reach him, Agha. Very well, I said as I began to go, but remember, gentlemen, if blood is spilled any time now, you will be held responsible. As I slowly walked away, I heard them whispering excitedly to each other. They called me back, and the gendarme who had spoken before, said: What is your message, Agha? We will submit it to His Excellency when he returns. I have to submit it to him directly. Agha, I mean no offense, but every day people come here claiming to have important messages for His Excellency. We cannot let everyone go in; for one thing, he is very busy from morning till night, and cannot see everyone. Give me your message, and I, myself, will take it to him as soon as he comes back. I cannot give you the message. I will only repeat that it is a matter of life and death. Would I come here at this hour of the night if my message were not of the utmost importance? He stared at me as if trying to decide what to do. What is your name, Agha? My name is KiaNoush Aryamanesh. Kindly wait here, Agha, I shall be back. He disappeared into the garden and I stood at the gate with the other gendarme. About fifteen minutes passed before he was back. The Banou will see you, he said. I followed him into the garden and the other gendarme closed the gate. The garden was large and filled with graceful cypress trees, shade trees and flowers. As we passed by the usual pond that is present in every Persian garden, I noticed three lambs tied to a tree. Soon, no doubt, they would be slaughtered and the flesh, as was the custom on the Day of Sacrifice, would be partly distributed among the poor, and the rest feasted upon by members of the household and their relatives. I followed the gendarme into the elegant brick house and we walked through a long carpeted

corridor, on both sides of which were stairs leading upstairs or downstairs. I was ushered into a room and asked to wait. I sat on a sofa and looked about at the inviting deevan that was covered with a beautiful Persian carpet, and the small ornamental, delicately designed coffee tables, and the rich plush rugs on the floor that had lost none of their colors and beautiful patterns. Hanging on the walls were many photographs of men and women and views of foreign cites. The room was not ostentatious in its decorations; it was furnished and arranged in good simple taste. I got up when the Banou, an attractive, middle-aged woman in a negligee, came in. We greeted each other briefly, then as she sat down, she invited me to sit down too. I said: I implore your forgiveness, Banou, for having disrupted your rest. I myself was awakened from my sleep and urged to come here. It must be important, she said with the fortitude of someone who is accustomed to receiving important news. Yes, Banou, it is very important. I was asked to deliver the message directly to His Excellency, Mr. Ramesh. My husband is not in, Agha. He went to — he went away. Can you tell me where I can reach him immediately? If you will give me the message, Agha, I will relay it to him immediately. Very well, Banou, I shall give you the message, I said, and lowering my voice added, I was sent here by a gentleman who has learned from very reliable sources that tomorrow, or rather today, the Day of Sacrifice, they will try to take away the life of Your Excellency, I mean His Excellency, Mr. Ramesh. Making her eyebrows meet, she vexedly asked, Who will try to take away his life? I cannot say, Banou; I can only say that it is one of the religious groups active in politics. It could not be any other religious group but the Slaves of the Faith, may the hand of God strike them, for they have shed so much innocent blood. Turning to look at me she said: Are you sure, Agha, that this baleful information comes from reliable sources? Yes, Banou, unfortunately I am sure. Are you sure they will try today? Yes, Banou, I am sure, that is, unless they suddenly change their plans. But why do they want to murder my husband, Agha? Why? I do not know, Banou. These blood-thirsty Slaves have been after my husband for so long, they have threatened to take away his life so many times, that we cannot be sure whether they are trying to intimidate him and force him to resign, or whether they really want to murder him the way they have already murdered so many others. She looked away and shaking her head said: Why are these people so bloodthirsty? Why do they continuously fight and kill? What sinister crime has my husband perpetrated that they should want to take away his life? They say he is a man without faith, and without love for God. Well, I know that he has more faith and more love for God than these blood-thirsty Slaves who kill and murder and claim that it is all for God and for the good of our Faith. They say my husband is corrupt; but have you, Agha, known of a politician or statesman in our country who, at one time or another, was not called corrupt? In our country any man who works hard and succeeds in providing some comfort for his family and himself is called corrupt and a thief. But why, Agha? Why? My husband is not a thief, he has not stolen from the people. He has given more time and energy and money to bettering our country than all those Slaves will ever give. My husband has worked hard all his life; he had enough self-respect and initiative to better himself, to rise above the squalor in which his parents lived. If these other men, too, had the will to better themselves, they, too, could live in comfort and hold respectable positions. But all they do is fight and criticize those who succeed. Arising suddenly, she said: I will go and telephone my husband and relay to him the information

you have brought. Yes, Banou, I said, also arising, you must urge His Excellency to take the necessary precautions. That is the trouble, she said somewhat unhappily, he is never appalled by these threats. If the Prime Minister and I had not insisted, we would not even have gendarmes protecting our house. She began to walk towards the door, then suddenly stopping, turned around and said, Forgive me, Agha, but I am so disturbed by what you have just told me that I forgot to ask you if you would like some tea or sherbet. Bowing my head slightly I said: Thank you, Banou, but it is a late hour and I shall not trouble you any more. You are Mr. Aryamanesh? Yes, Banou. I am the son of Aryamanesh who has been a faithful servant of the Ministry of the Interior for well over thirty years. My father has a world of respect and admiration for His Excellency and all he has done at the Ministry of the Interior. Your father is kind, Agha. I shall tell my husband what you have said; I know he will be very pleased. Nothing inspires him more to serve our country than hearing of people who are behind him and who show some appreciation for his efforts. May God protect you, Agha, may God protect you. The news you have brought is disquieting, but it is heartening to know that there are also people in our country who are sober and who know that the way to progress is not through fighting and shedding blood. As we shook hands she said, If you wait here a moment, I shall call someone to show you the way. When she left the room, I sat down. A few minutes later, one of the gendarmes opened the door and I followed him through the hall into the garden. When we reached the gate, I noticed a taxi waiting outside. Opening the door of the car, the gendarme said, This taxi is for you, Agha. The one toman fare has already been paid. Extravagantly pleased that I did not have to walk at that late hour when I was so tired and sleepy, I thanked the gendarme and asked him to thank the Banou for me. I got in the taxi, and as we drove away, the two gendarmes saluted smartly. When I arrived home, my father was sitting on a chair in our guest room, trying very hard to keep awake. When his eyes opened and he saw me standing in the room, he sat up and asked what I had done. When I finished recounting all that had taken place, he got up and as he slowly walked to his room said: Go to your room and sleep; you must be tired. We will wait and see what tomorrow will bring. 8 By nine o’clock several of our nearest relatives were gathered at our house. They had come to celebrate the Day of Sacrifice. Two or three of them had shared with us the expense of the lamb that was tied to the tree in our little garden; the rest had made modest donations to charity. We all sat on the carpeted floor of our small guest room, and as one of the younger women sang the tuneful songs of our country, the rest of us clapped in rhythmic unison, and now and again one of the men or one of the women would get up and dance. When Soura came into the room to help me remove the empty glasses of tea, one of the men, noticing her gaudy-colored dress, which clearly bespoke her tribal origin, insisted she dance for us the dances of her people. Blushing and giggling, Soura refused. But the men persistently encouraged her, clapping their hands in flawless rhythm, loudly praising her beauty and gracefulness. Finding herself in the middle of the room and seeing that the men refused to let her leave, she looked about, still blushing; then suddenly, as if the rhythm of the clapping hands and the syncopated jingle bingle of the tambourine that one of the men was beating got into her blood, she kicked off her slippers and began to dance. Her long dark hair tossing from side to side, she swayed her hips and moved her limbs with

sinuous grace. Her sensuous face was alive with joy and enthusiasm as she performed the tribal dances with all the self-abandoned, light-hearted voluptuousness so much a part of the Persian spirit. And as she danced, her gaudy-colored dress flowed about her, revealing her lithe olivecolored legs. The more the beat of the tambourine urged her on, and the more the men exhorted her with their systematic clapping and encouraging shouts, the more impetuous became her movements. She danced with intense exhilaration, as if in each movement of her limbs she experienced a myriad of thrills. Her dancing, so refreshed and refreshing, lasted a long time. She danced on and on and on. I watched her in amazement, more amazed at the complete freedom of her movements than at her unstudied gracefulness. I had never thought that she, whose mind was trapped in a monastery of primitive fears and superstitions, could be capable of such splendid freedom of bodily expression. When, at length, she finished dancing, she picked up her slippers and ran out of the room. The men, noticeably aroused by the sensual rite they had just witnessed, passed around the bottles of Shiraz wine and fell back on the rug to digest every detail of Soura’s movements, and exchange the inevitable pleasantries men use when they see a woman who appeals to their senses. One of the men sitting near me, whispered, Have you, you know what, with that girl? I smiled and shook my head. Staring at me with comical anguish he whispered, You are a very sick man, KiaNoush; a very sick man! When the neighborhood butcher arrived to help us slaughter the lamb, several of us got up and went out in the little garden. My two cousins, both shopkeepers from the bazaar, volunteered to help the butcher. They removed their coats and shirts and tied aprons over their trousers. While the butcher sat by the small pond sharpening his long knives, the rest of us gathered in the shade of a nearby tree. My mother, who was in the kitchen preparing the feast with the help of three or four of the women, asked that the children play in the house while the lamb was being slaughtered; but the children, their eyes filled with fright and curiosity, ignored her request, and stood under the tree with the rest of us. When the butcher had finished sharpening his knives, my two cousins helped him untie the lamb from the tree and lead it to a spot near the pond. As if sensing the impending danger, the lamb stood still and refused to budge. The men pulled and pushed it, but the lamb, bleating furiously, resisted with all its power. Seeing that they could not lead it or even drag it where they wanted, the men tried to carry it; but the lamb, visibly filled with fright, kicked and struggled so hard that they had to put it down. Three or four of the children, watching the lambs struggle, wailed and cried, whereupon Soura was asked to take them into the house. A few moments later, she came running back and stood with us to watch the slaughter. Teasing my cousins for their inability to manage the lamb, the butcher put aside his knives, and with great dexterity, subdued the animal and carried it to the pond. While my cousins kept the lamb down by holding its limbs firmly, the butcher, as was the custom, forced open the animals mouth, and poured some water into it. As was also the custom on this occasion, a brief prayer was recited asking God to accept the sacrifice that was being offered. Meanwhile, the lamb, finding itself on the ground with its legs pinioned, fought with all the power it could muster and struggled with such urgency and desperation that several people, moved by pity, had to turn their heads away. The lamb, its eyes laden with great terror, panting and throbbing, strained and struggled to free itself, and shrieked almost human shrieks, begging and begging not to be hurt. Cautioning my cousins not to release the animals limbs, the butcher picked up his sharpest butcher knife and holding back the lambs struggling head began to cut its throat. In one final, desperate effort the lamb heaved itself up and almost succeeded in getting away, but my cousins, using all their power, held it down and the butcher kept its head in place firmly and continued cutting. The lamb wailed and wept, straining to hold on to dear life. Its eyes, once soft and innocent, now rolled and rolled full of terror, pleading, pleading; and it moaned and shrieked as

its meek, harmless life was slowly, cruelly taken. As the relentless knife cut deeper the weeping of the lamb became more and more agonized, and finally it let out one last cry — a cry so mournful, so filled with pain, so desperate in its appeal for one more breath, that it made everyone shudder. The blood spurted out in every direction as its head slowly sagged. Soon the soft, fine wool of the lamb was covered with its own blood. The eyes closed, then opened again, and remained misty and staring — all the tenderness and gentleness had left them. The limbs no longer had to be held; they moved a little as life quickly deserted them, but they did not struggle. The butchers knife continued to cut the bleeding, gory throat, till the head was severed from the body. Setting aside the disjointed head, the butcher picked up another knife and proceeded to rip open the body. As the stark carcass slowly appeared with all its gory, messy parts and the butcher cut through the rib cage, I was suddenly reminded of the autopsies I used to observe at different hospitals. I watched with increasing perplexity as the butcher cut all the organs and placed them in a bucket. The lungs, the liver, the intestines, the many fleshy pipes and sacs, and the heart, were all so akin to a human beings that there were moments when I was genuinely confounded, uncertain whether I was watching another autopsy or the slaughter of a sacrificial lamb that was soon to be devoured. The thought passed through my mind that if there are men who murder an innocent, harmless animal and feast on its dead flesh, believing that it is all a sacrifice to God, then is it so strange that there should also be men who murder other men and conveniently believe that it is for God? My cousins removed their bloody aprons and washed their hands and faces in the pond. One of them came to me and asked if we had iodine in the house. I told him I had some in my room and, as we walked to the house, asked him why he needed the iodine. Pulling up his trousers he showed me the bruise on his leg. The lamb kicked me when I was trying to hold it down, he said, and smilingly added, somehow I felt better after it kicked me. Did you feel you were being cruel killing it? I asked. Perhaps, he smiled, shrugging his shoulders. When I had finished dressing the bruise on my cousins leg, we went downstairs again, and the smoke and smell of kebab was slowly filling the kitchen and the hall. We spread a large sheet on the carpeted floor of our guest room and when lunch was ready, the many dishes of rice and sauce and aromatic herbs were brought in large trays from the kitchen and placed on the sheet. Last of all the many skewers of kebab were brought in, and a large dish which contained the cooked head of the lamb, its speechless tongue protruding slightly, its benighted eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. I ate the kebab and tried not to think of what I was eating. It was nevertheless difficult to chew with relish on that flesh, which only a few hours earlier was alive and sentient. When we finished eating, we fell back on the floor, resting our heads on cushions or pillows or the lap of the nearest one. Glancing at my watch I was surprised to learn it was a little after one o’clock. I hardly had time to catch a bus and go to the statue on Shah Reza Avenue for my two o’clock appointment with Firouzeh. Quietly I went out of the room and, making sure that no one saw me, left the house. When I reached the statue on Shah Reza Avenue, Firouzeh was already there, waiting in her car. We greeted each other without much ceremony; but when I began to get into the drivers seat, she said, If you don’t mind, today I want to drive. Very well, I said, shrugging my shoulders. Get into the car, KiaNoush; today I have a surprise for you. A surprise? I asked. She nodded. What is the surprise? I inquired, as I sat in the car. You will soon find out, she replied as she began to drive. Let us go to that bathhouse again.

Today I shall select a place, she replied, and turning to smile at me said, You must not think that just because you are a man, you must each time decide where we should go. Do you have a suitable place in mind? Perhaps I do. Firouzeh, why don’t you park the car under one of those trees for just one minute. Not even for one second, she laughed. Did you find Deldar the other day? I found him the following day. He is indeed an amiable man. Yes, he is. Did he help you reach the Slaves of the Faith? He tried; but I went to him too late. Too late for what? Perhaps later today, if it happens, I will tell you. If what happens, KiaNoush? I cannot tell you yet. She drove along Shah Reza Avenue and, just before we reached Ferdausi Square, she turned left on a quiet side street. Soon we were driving on an unpaved picturesque road with shade trees on both sides. The houses were few, though here and there several apartment houses were being constructed. At length, Firouzeh drove up a driveway and parked her car in front of a small, onestory cottage. Getting out of the car she said, Come with me, KiaNoush, I will show you the place. I followed her to the back of the house. She produced a key from her bag and, unlocking the door, went in and I followed her. Showing me the one room, its small kitchen and small bathroom, she said: This is the surprise I have for you. I hope you like it, KiaNoush. I have rented it for us. Henceforth, we can meet here, and avoid the worry of being seen in the car together, or wasting an hour searching for a suitable place to be alone with each other. Do you like it, KiaNoush? I was not sure whether to be proud and affect displeasure because she had not consulted me, and what was embarrassing — though convenient — had paid for the place, or whether to be wise and accept the place without concerning myself with the particulars. I said: There is no doubt that it is a very congenial place, Firouzeh. Yes, it is very congenial, she replied, that is why I took it. We will feel at home here; and I can prepare foods and drinks for you in that kitchen. Looking about, she said, It is so homey here and so secluded and private. I will always park the car on Shah Reza Avenue and walk the rest of the way here. No one will know where we are or what we are doing. As I looked at the graceful samovar that sat statuesquely in a corner of the room, she said, I brought the samovar so we could have tea. I have also brought kitchen utensils, linens, and towels. Yesterday I was here, decorating this room and putting the kitchen in order. I put up those curtains on the windows and spread these small rugs on the floor. I have tried to make our place comfortable and intimate. The cottage was indeed comfortable and intimate. The kitchen and the bathroom, though small, were adequate for two people. The room was quiet and somewhat dusky. There were no tables or chairs, only a wide and inviting deevan, which was covered with ornamental cushions. The rugs on the floor were neat and soft; and the tapestries on the walls made the room appear smaller and more intimate. We took off our clothes and lay down together on the comfortable deevan. I held her in my arms and caressed her white, lovely body. Overcome with passion, I kissed her neck and slowly began to kiss the rest of her body. She suddenly said: I saw your father yesterday. What? I said yesterday I saw your father. Why? I mean where? I asked, sitting up. Smiling complacently she said: I had to go to the Ministry of the Interior yesterday to see someone, and while I was there I decided to find your father and see what he looks like. I

recognized him the moment I saw him. You look alike. But God, he is a striking man. He is so big, almost terrifying. You never told me your father was like that. How? I said, trying to conceal my exasperation. I mean so impressive, she smiled. Between you and me, I think he liked me. I caught him staring at me several times and, just as I was about to leave the room where he and two or three other gentlemen were working, he came over to me and asked if there was anything he could do for me. You see, KiaNoush, now you have a rival. She put her arms around me and began to kiss my neck. But somehow my body did not respond and I felt a deep cold creep into me. Touching my body she said, What happened, KiaNoush? I shrugged my shoulders. Letting her hand roam all over my body, she said: A few moments ago you felt so passionate; now it is all gone. Did I say anything that was displeasing to you? I don’t know, I replied, lying still. Her hand softly caressed my body. I will make you feel passionate again; we must not spoil our first day in our house. She kissed my face, my neck, then slowly her soft lips moved down . . . When we left the hut she gave me a key to the door, saying, Now we each have a key and can henceforth meet directly here. Also, you will be able to come here whenever you want to be alone. She drove through quiet, side streets and at length, parked the car about five minutes walk from my house. As I got out of the car she said, When will we meet again? Anytime you want, I replied, anxious to return home. Tomorrow I will . . . Tomorrow is well with me, I interposed. I shall be at the cottage all afternoon. I love you, she said softly. I pressed her hand in mine, then briskly walked home. As I quietly opened the street door and entered our little garden, my father, who was sitting by the pond washing his hands, turned his head, and seeing me instantly arose saying: Where did you suddenly vanish? Salam, I bowed. I went to . . . Salam. Mr. Deldar has been waiting to see you. Mr. Deldar? I asked in surprise. Bali; he came here about half an hour ago. Did he say what he wants? No, he didn’t; but go in and see him. He says it is urgent, very urgent. Immensely curious to know why Mr. Deldar had so unexpectedly come to see me, I ran into the house, and found him standing at the door of our guest room, bowing to my relatives, and thanking my mother for her hospitality. Hearing my footsteps in the hall, he turned around and seeing me, said: Salam, Mr. Aryamanesh. I was just leaving. Why so soon, Mr. Deldar? I replied, shaking hands with him. I just came for a brief visit and must leave now. Then I shall walk out with you. He bowed once again to my relatives, kissed my mothers hand, and walked into the corridor, as I followed. As we got into the little garden he whispered, KiaNoush, can you come out into the street with me? I must speak with you in private. Yes, yes, let us go into the street, I whispered. We crossed the little garden and when we were in the street we continued to walk, though not as briskly. KiaNoush, I am afraid on this holy day I bring very bad news. Yes, what is it, my friend? I said, my heart rushing to my throat. I just learned that the Slaves of the Faith are determined to assassinate Ramesh this evening. I stopped short and stared at him in shocked disbelief. For though the information was not new to

me, yet I had somehow persuaded myself that the Slaves of the Faith had postponed or even abandoned their plan to assassinate Ramesh. Are you sure that they will try to assassinate him this evening? Yes, I am sure, KiaNoush, I am very sure. But I was convinced they would change their plan. I, too, thought they might at least postpone their action, but they have not. Looking this way and that to make sure no one was listening he said, They will try to assassinate him later today when he and some other notables are gathered at the Mosque of Sepah Salar for the observance of the Day of Sacrifice. I don’t know what to say, I muttered, shaking my head. I don’t know what to say. We walked a few steps before he said, I think Hussein Neekou is the one who will try to assassinate him. What? I think so. Hussein Neekou? As I say, I am not sure. But I cannot believe this, I cannot believe this. Again, I say I am . . . But it is impossible. Hussein Neekou is very — no, no, it is impossible. I know Hussein Neekou very well. Yes, I know you know him. I know him very well. I know he will not do such a thing. No, no, I know he will not do it — he cannot do it. I know he cannot. Hussein Neekou is a pious man, a very pious man . . . They are all pious men . . . I suddenly turned and stared at him. Then nodding dejectedly I muttered, It is true they are all pious men. May their piety eat their heads, they are . . . Listening to them one cannot help believing that they are the most pious, God-fearing men and will . . . God-fearing, God-fearing, I muttered angrily, they must be filled with fears or they would not fight and kill and . . . This is not the time to get angry, KiaNoush. It may still not be too late to try to avert this assassination. That is why I have come here and informed you of what I learned, though God knows, I never abuse anyones trust. But this plan is not a secret to you, and besides the life of a man is at stake. Scratching his head he said, He must be warned not to go to the Mosque this evening. If he goes there, I know he will be murdered. Can’t we inform the police? If we telephone Police Headquarters they might think it is another false alarm and not take the necessary precautions. And besides I have many friends among the Slaves of the Faith and do not want to be responsible for their arrest and their execution. I understand, I said, nodding. The best way is to go directly to him and warn him not to attend the ceremonies at the Mosque. Can you go to his house and . . . ? I went to his house last night, I am sure I can go again. Then you must go immediately, KiaNoush, and warn him before it is too late. Will you come too? I will come with you, but not to the house. I do not want to be seen anywhere near there. We hurried through the streets and before long found a taxi. We got off several blocks this side of Mr. Rameshs residence. Because all the cafés and shops in that immediate area were closed, Sarveen Deldar suggested waiting for me by the gate of the Municipal Garden. When, after a hurried walk, I reached the residence of Mr. Ramesh, I rang the bell at the gate.

Soon, two gendarmes, neither of whom I had seen the previous night, appeared from within. Is His Excellency, Mr. Ramesh in? I asked anxiously. No, Agha, His Excellency is not in, the older gendarme replied. I must speak with him immediately about a very important matter, I said. But His Excellency is not in, Agha, the same gendarme replied. How can His Excellency not be in? I said irately. This is the Day of Sacrifice and everyone is at home celebrating the occasion. His Excellency was in until about an hour ago, but he left. Very well, then, is the Banou in? I asked impatiently. The Banou is in, the gendarme calmly replied. But she is busy with her guests. Yes, yes, I know, but this is very important. I am sorry, Agha, but . . . Gendarme, I said angrily, I must speak with the Banou. Don’t shout, Agha, the same gendarme warned. We have orders not to . . . But the Banou knows me, she knows me, I said with increasing anger and frustration. That is what everyone says, he replied, chuckling. Struggling to suppress my erupting indignation, I said, I was here last night, the other two gendarmes know me, they even called a taxi for me. Why don’t you go and ask the Banou; my name is KiaNoush Aryamanesh; go and ask her; I will wait here for you. I cannot, Agha; this morning another man was here also insisting that he was a friend of His Excellency, and that he had come to visit the family. We let him in, but it turned out no one knew him and he proceeded to make demands of His Excellency and created such a commotion that we finally had to take him out by force. I understand, Gendarme; but I have a very urgent message; you can surely go and tell her about me . . . I cannot, Agha; the Banou is very busy and I cannot keep disturbing her. But I tell you, Gendarme, she knows me, she knows me. I must ask you not to shout, Agha. But don’t you understand, Gendarme, I must speak with her. There is no time, there is no time. Agha, if you continue shouting I will have you arrested. But, Gendarme, this is a matter of life and death, this is . . . Wait here, Agha, wait here, he said, and turning to the other gendarme whispered in his ear. The younger gendarme instantly disappeared into the garden, and I, relieved that at last I would be able to see the Banou, waited restlessly by the gate. The young gendarme did not reappear, but before long, a military jeep appeared on the street and stopped in front of the gate. Three gendarmes, armed with bayoneted guns, jumped out of the vehicle and suddenly surrounded me. An officer remained in the jeep regarding me; then, he too got out and, going to the gate, spoke in whispers with the older gendarme on duty at the house of Mr. Ramesh. Coming towards me, the officer said: Agha, come with us. Officer, I said, I have come to see Mrs. Ramesh; she knows me and . . . The gendarme on duty says you have no appointment with her, the officer interposed. It is true that I do not have an appointment, but I . . . Then, Agha, it is better that you don’t disturb her today, for after all it is the Day of Sacrifice and she is, no doubt, busy with guests. But I must see her, Officer; I promised her I . . . The officer interrupted me again saying, Agha, let us try to avoid creating an awkward situation here; come quietly with us and we will . . . But, Officer, I must speak with the Banou, I persisted. Ignoring my words, the officer went towards the jeep and said, Gendarmes, bring in the Agha. The gendarmes ordered me to go to the jeep, but when I hesitated, one of them pressed his

bayonet against my coat and threatened to push it in if I didn’t obey their order instantly. Angry and frustrated, I walked to the jeep, then turning around to address the older gendarme who was still standing by the gate, shouted, Heaps of earth upon your head. Just wait, by God, I will have them burn your father. One of the gendarmes pushed me on, and I turned around and climbed into the jeep. I was made to sit in the back between two of the gendarmes. As the jeep began to move, the officer, who was sitting in front, said: You must realize, Agha, that the situation in Teheran is somewhat tense these days, and these prominent people don’t want to be disturbed every minute. I understand this, I said, trying to curb my enormous anger; but I had to see the Banou about a very urgent matter. What is the urgent matter, he asked. It is private and I am not allowed to reveal it. Well, perhaps you can see her another time, he said. But don’t go back there today. We will take you to Laleh Zar and you can stroll with the other people. As we passed by the Municipal Garden, I noticed Sarveen Deldar standing in front of the wide gate. Officer, I said, instead of driving me to Laleh Zar, kindly let me off here. I can’t do that, he said. You might be tempted to go back to that house, and next time we will have to arrest you and take you to the station. I will not go back to that house, I said. Look, Agha, don’t be difficult; this is the Day of Sacrifice, a holy day, and we don’t want to have to arrest you or anyone. We will take you to Laleh Zar, and you can spend the rest of the day strolling with the others. The jeep stopped at the corner of Laleh Zar and Istanbul Avenues, and I was let out, though not before the officer had once again warned me not to go back to the house of Mr. Ramesh. I nodded several times, then walked away and mixed with the crowds. I hurried through Istanbul Avenue and when I reached the corner of Naderi, jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take me as quickly as possible to the Municipal Garden. Sarveen Deldar was still standing in front of the gate. As I got off the taxi, he saw me, and rushing forward said, You took so long, KiaNoush, did you find him? I didn’t. You mean you . . .? I could not get into the house; the gendarmes would not let me in. This is very bad, he exclaimed, looking at his watch. In an hour or two it will be too late. I know, I know . . . You must find him immediately KiaNoush — you must stop him from going to that Mosque. Let us cross the street, I said. Why? I will call his house from that telephone on the corner. But KiaNoush, you cannot discuss this on the telephone. I will not discuss it on the telephone, I replied impatiently, and taking his arm added, Come, let us cross immediately; I will speak with the Banou and ask to see her. We ran across the street, and going into the circular telephone booth hastily checked the directory for the telephone number of the Ramesh residence. I dialed the number, then waited, my heart beating furiously. The telephone rang once, twice, then stopped. I said, Salam. A childs voice said, Salam. Is His Excellency in? Who is His Excellency? the little girl asked, giggling. His Excellency, Mr. Ramesh. Oh you mean my father. Yes, yes . . .

My father is not in. Then is the Banou in? Who are you? I am, I am — please call the Banou. I asked you first — what is your name? My name is KiaNoush; now, please, let me speak with the Banou. KiaNoush? That is a nice name . . . Look little one, I shouted, this is important, go and call your . . . Why do you shout at me — you are bad; I don’t like you . . . I am sorry, but . . . No, I don’t like you, I don’t like you . . . My dear little . . . I began — but she hung up. Son of a burnt father, I shouted angrily. What happened? Sarveen Deldar asked. She hung up, I replied, throwing out my arms. Who was it? His daughter, I muttered, the son of a burnt father. Please call again, KiaNoush; there is no time. We both checked our pockets but could not find the right change for a telephone call. Because the shops in that area were all closed for the holiday, we had to ask for change from a passer-by in front of the Municipal Garden. At length, having obtained the right change, we ran back to the circular telephone booth, and I called the Ramesh residence again. The telephone rang once, twice, thrice, then stopped. I said, Salam. A man said Salam. May I speak with the Banou, please? What is your name, Agha? Aryamanesh. Hold on, Agha. As he went to call the Banou, I could hear faintly over the telephone the voices and laughter of many people, and music and singing. No doubt relatives and friends were gathered at that house, celebrating the Day of Sacrifice. What a shame, I thought, that on such an occasion as this . . . Salam, Mr. Aryamanesh. Salam, Banou. Forgive me for disturbing you on this holy occasion. Not at all, it is a pleasure. Banou, I must speak with you immediately. I have an . . . Is it in connection with what we discussed last night? Yes, it is. I must speak with you immediately. She lapsed into a deep, flustered sigh before saying, The car is not here to fetch you; can you come on your own? Yes, yes, I can come immediately. Will you please tell the gendarmes at the gate to expect me. Bali, she replied, and her voice was understandably dispirited. I told Sarveen Deldar to wait for me in the Municipal Garden where he could sit on one of the many benches under the trees. He nodded several times and reminding me that there was no time, motioned to me to go immediately. I ran part of the way and walked rapidly the rest of the way to the Ramesh residence. I rang the bell and almost instantly the two gendarmes with whom I had spoken earlier opened the gate, and the older gendarme, saluting, asked me to come in. We exchanged hasty, uncomfortable glances; then as I stepped into the garden, he saluted again and said, Agha, I beg your forgiveness for the inconvenience we inflicted upon you; we were only performing our duty and meant no disrespect.

I understand, I muttered. The Banou is waiting for you in the living room; shall I show you the way? I told him I knew my way and walked away rapidly on the narrow, pebbly path that led to the house. The happy voices of people filled the fresh, gentle air of the late afternoon. As I reached the pond I saw many guests, elegant in their evening dresses and well-tailored suits, their rich perfumes mingling not inharmoniously with the delightful aroma of the flowers. Several importantlooking gentlemen were sitting unimportantly on the porch near the pond, playing backgammon and cards, their ceaseless conversations frequently erupting into indiscreet, self-assertive challenges, or loud, triumphant laughter. The ladies, some in gentle-colored silken veils that concealed them from head to foot, and others, younger and braver, dressed in a lovely décolletage that concealed very little of their bodies, sat or reclined on the bamboo easy chairs around the pond the clear water of which reflected the embracing branches of surrounding trees. Here and there, young men and young women, some in intimate pairs, others in small groups of five or ten, stood or strolled beneath the grape arbors, singing, laughing, whispering, flirting, disappearing behind the hedges. Children played everywhere, chasing one another across the plush lawns, climbing the tall trees to drop twigs on the heads of the adults below, surreptitiously following and, with giggles, watching the young couples who strolled hand in hand or sat very close together, whispering tantalizingly in each others ears. Dozens of intricately-designed coffee tables and larger folding tables stood around the pond and on the porch, covered with many silver dishes full of delicacies and enormous bowls heaped with a great variety of fruit. Tall, graceful pitchers which, I soon learned, were filled with syrups and sherbets and Shiraz wine stood on these tables. Resting on the ledge of the porch were several earthen pots and jars of flowers. Slackening my pace so as not to attract attention, I quietly continued to move towards the house, now and again dodging the children who raced each other on the pebbly lane. I was passing by the pond, anxious to find the Banou immediately, when a richly-dressed lady whose heavily powdered and rouged face did not quite successfully conceal the betraying lines, suddenly walked away from the group of men and women with whom she had been standing and planted herself in my way. Removing the long cigarette holder from her mouth she said, Where are you going, young man? I am going into the house to find Mrs. Ramesh. She is busy right now, the woman said and taking my hand added, Come with me, I will introduce you to my friends. What is your name? My name is Aryamanesh, but Banou, with your permission, I must find Mrs. Ramesh immediately. Don’t try to run away from me, I will not eat you, she laughed. I tried again to get away, explaining that I had an important appointment with Mrs. Ramesh and that she was waiting for me in the house. But the lady turned a deaf ear to my explanations, and re-introducing the long cigarette holder into her mouth, placed her hand under my arm and resolutely led me to the pond where the ladies were sitting. She introduced me to one lady after another, one lady after another, sparing none of the elaborate civilities and little niceties that are part of the ceremony of introduction. Sometimes she laughingly introduced me as her new paramour, and once or twice simply as the young man who was impatiently going into the house to be with Mrs. Ramesh — then, a diabolical pause that carried the unmistakable implication that there were romantic connections between Mrs. Ramesh and me. The ladies sat up and shook hands with me, some expressing their surprise that we had not met earlier, others proceeding to wonder if they knew anyone from the Aryamanesh family and if I were related to this one or to that one. Angry at myself for getting involved in such timeconsuming ceremonies, and overcome with frustration at not being able to get away, I continued to shake hands and bow my head up and down, up and down, trying nevertheless to be brief with my answers, and I muttered apologies for not being able to stay and consider whether a certain

Aryamanesh who thirty years before was a guest at a certain ladys house was perhaps one of my distant relatives. Slowly — enervatingly slowly, we went all the way around the large pond meeting every last one of these guests. When the tour was finally completed, I began to thank the lady whose hand was still locked under my arm, but paying no attention to my hasty expressions of gratitude and my insistent apologies for being unable to stay any longer, she determinedly led me to the small circle of men and women with whom she had been standing previously. Elaborately, ceremoniously, she introduced me to them, one by one. I shook hands with them and we exchanged the inevitable greetings — greetings whose prolixity was especially disconcerting to me that evening. At length, indicating an innocently attractive young woman who was standing several steps away from the others, she said, And this is my daughter Layla. As I shook hands with Layla, the lady said, Layla, this is Mr. Aryamanesh; he is from one of the noble families of Teheran, and I think he has just come from abroad. Why don’t you serve him something to eat or drink. Relinquishing my arm, she let her eyes roam the length of my body and muttered, If I were a decade or two younger, I would feed him myself. She placed the elongated cigarette holder in her mouth and, smiling, turned around to join her friends. Inviting me to a table nearby, Layla asked what I wanted to eat and drink. As I followed her to the table I replied that because my hands were not clean I wanted to wash them before eating. You can wash your hands in the house, she said. Yes, I shall go there and wash my hands, I replied, and bowing my head slightly, walked away with hurried steps. As I entered the carpeted hallway my heart once again began to pound furiously. How can I go about telling the Banou that on this very evening, perhaps within an hour or two, an attempt will be made to assassinate her husband? How can I tell her this and bring her immeasurable sadness and worry when she can be so happy at the garden party she has given for her relatives and friends? Heaps of earth upon their heads, why are they like this? The door of the living room was open and the Banou was inside, pacing back and forth in the center of the room. When I knocked on the door she looked up and, seeing me, instantly came forward. Come in, Mr. Aryamanesh, she said and as we shook hands added, I am very sorry for what happened at the gate with the . . . Banou, I am the one who must apologize for having to disturb you on this day. As we sat down she offered me some fruits and said, I delivered your message to my husband; but he thinks that the Slaves are only trying intimidation to make him resign. This is not so, Banou. I have just learned that they will definitely try to assassinate His Excellency this evening. Looking directly at me she said, Mr. Aryamanesh, are you one of the Slaves of the Faith? What? I said . . . Of course not, I said, arising. Suddenly her suspicion evoked overwhelming anger in me, and I was seized with an incomprehensible urge to run away — to go away from her. She also arose saying, Then if you are not a Slave of the Faith, how do you know that they will try to assassinate my husband this evening? I took a step or two away from her and, striving very hard not to be insulting, replied, First of all, I never said that the Slaves of the Faith are the ones who want to assassinate him. I just said a religious group; there are several religious groups active in politics. And secondly, I cannot reveal the source of my information. I just thought I would render Mr. Ramesh a service and let him know what I had learned. If you don’t want to take precautions that is not my business. All I know is that if he goes to the Mosque this evening they will murder him. I must go now, I . . . The Mosque? Yes the Mosque of Sepah Salar where he and several other notables are due to go this evening.

Still jolted by her unexpected suspicion I said, I cannot stay any longer; I must leave. She sat down again and looking fixedly at me said, Agha, are you sure that they will try to assassinate my husband at the Mosque this evening? I have told you that I am sure. If you don’t . . . Covering her head with her hands, she muttered, That is where they murdered the Minister of War several months ago. Oh God, this is terrible; this is terrible. What a Day of Sacrifice this has been. What a Day of Sacrifice. Seeing the tears that were slowly trickling down her cheeks, my anger diminished somewhat, and I felt a deep compassion for her. I looked at her, hesitating, then slowly moving closer to her said: Banou, it is still not too late. You must find him immediately and convince him that this time they are not intimidating him, that this time they are determined to — to harm him. Moving still closer to her I added Banou, you must stop him from going there this evening. You must. Shaking her head she muttered, How can I stop him? I am not sure where he is right now. But didn’t His Excellency say where he was going? He had to go and pay official visits to his colleagues. But I don’t . . . Then I suggest, Banou, that you try to find him by telephone. If you don’t find him immediately, you must send someone to the gate of the Mosque to warn him not to enter — not even to get out of his car. Arising hastily the Banou said, I will call his colleagues homes and try to find him before he leaves for the Mosque. Yes, Banou, try to find him immediately, because once he is in the crowded Mosque it will be too late. She went to the door and as I followed her she said, I am sorry if I offended you, Mr. Aryamanesh, but I have been very upset, and you will forgive me. I beg you to go into the garden and have something to eat. Glancing at my watch I thanked her and said that I could not stay because I had an appointment. Then perhaps some other time you will grace our house, she said going towards another room. I bowed to her, then hurried through the corridor and out into the garden. Afraid of becoming once again involved with the guests, I took a roundabout way through the garden, and after getting lost once or twice finally reached the entrance. The gendarmes opened the gate and saluted as I walked out. I hurried through the streets. Unable to find Sarveen Deldar outside the Municipal Garden, I went in and found him sitting on one of the benches near the promenade. Did you find him? he asked, getting up. The Banou is now trying to find him and warn him not to go to the Mosque. As we went into the street he said, Well, there is nothing to do now but to wait and see. If instead of waiting and doing nothing, I could only find Hussein Neekou and . . . Turning to look at me he interrupted to ask: What will you do if you find him? If I find him I will do my very best to deter him from this madness that will inevitably bring his own end too. Shaking his head he said, That is a futile effort, KiaNoush. I am well aware that you can be very persuasive, but it is almost impossible to dissuade Hussein Neekou or any of the Slaves from carrying out this plan, least of all at this final minute. There is nothing to lose by trying. It is well worth making the effort. Looking at him I said, Do you think he is now at the Mosque? He looked at his watch before replying, I don’t think so. Then do you know where I can find him now? He was silent for a minute or two. At length, he looked away and quietly said, I suppose they are all staying inconspicuously in their respective homes until the last minute. Do you think Hussein Neekou is at home, too?

Again he was silent. Then again he looked away and quietly said, You might find him at home. Then I will go there immediately. Deldar suddenly grabbed my arm. I tell you KiaNoush, it is a waste of time, he said with evident agitation. But I must try, Deldar, I must. I am afraid of what might happen. Still holding my arm he said, Then, KiaNoush, please remember not to mention me. Don’t mention me at all. Don’t worry, no one will know. Where will you go after you have spoken with Hussein Neekou? I will go home, I replied. Very well, I might wait for you there, he said relinquishing my arm. I ran several blocks and when I reached Naderi Avenue, I got into a taxi and asked the driver to rush to the Road of the Cypress Trees on the other side of town. When, after a twenty-minute ride, we reached the dirty, unasphalted street where Hussein Neekou lived, I jumped out of the taxi and, having paid the one-toman fare, waited for the car to leave. The Road of the Cypress Trees was quiet; here and there, a few children, dressed in tattered clothes, sat in front of their ungainly habitations showing one another the few sweets they had received as presents. As I passed by the huts, I could now and again hear singing and festive voices. I knocked at the door of Neekous house. Several minutes passed before I heard footsteps inside. The door, with many a groan, slowly opened, and a veiled head appeared in the narrow opening. Salam, Banou, I bowed. Is that you, Mr. Aryamanesh? Yes, it is I, Banou. Forgive me for . . . God forgive you, Agha, she said, opening the door wider. Your footsteps be propitious, come in. I went in and stood in the narrow, lighted passageway. Come inside and rest, she said, ushering me into the first room on the left. As I followed her into the room I said, I do not want to disturb you, Banou; I have just come to speak with Hussein. I entreat you to sit down, Mr. Aryamanesh; please sit down and rest. I thanked her, then said, Is Hussein in, Banou? Again she motioned to me to sit down. Afraid of offending her, I reluctantly sat down on one of the wooden chairs. I began to ask her again if Hussein was in, but she interrupted me to say that I should first rest a little, then, nodding her veiled head, she hurried out of the room. Too restless and impatient to remain seated, I got up and walked about the room, staring blankly at the conspicuous calligraphs that hung limply on the walls and the cheap statuettes that sat with folded arms on the mantelpiece, their silly faces disquieting in their imperturbability. I went and stood by the door hoping to catch Husseins voice. But the house was quiet and I could not hear any voices. Apparently there were no guests in the house celebrating the Day of Sacrifice — no relatives or friends gathered together to spend the day, eating, drinking, conversing — no children playing — no music, no singing. I walked to the window and looked out into the street, wondering if Hussein Neekou was at home, and if upon learning that I had again come to see him he would, as on the previous day, try to avoid me. If I find him this time, I thought, I will not let him get away. I heard footsteps in the adjoining room and turning around saw the Banou coming in, carrying on a tray a small glass of tea. Placing the tray on a table near one of the wooden chairs, she invited me to sit down and drink the tea. I went towards her saying, Banou, I must . . . I beg you to sit down, Mr. Aryamanesh. But, Banou, I must speak with Hussein immediately, I said. This is a humble house, Agha, we are a poor people, what we offer is not worthy of you; but Agha, you have honored us with your visit, now you must not go away without accepting our meager offerings.

I am overwhelmed by your condescension, Banou, it is just that . . . Then please sit down and drink the tea before it gets cold, she said and hurried out of the room. Damn it, I muttered to myself, and sat down. Hoping to finish the tea instantly, I took an enormous gulp, forgetting for a moment that the liquid was hot. Indeed, the tea was so hot that I burned my mouth and had to run to the window and spit it out. My palate burning painfully, I walked back to the chair, sat down, and slowly, carefully sipped the rest of the wretched brew. I got up again thinking, This is absurd, absurd. I came here about a matter of life and death and here I sit sipping tea. This is really . . . I heard her footsteps and instantly sat down. She came into the room, holding in one hand three small dishes containing delicacies, while the other hand still held her veil firmly over her face. Setting the dishes on the table before me she said, Eat, Agha, eat. I just ate at home, Banou. I beg you to eat, Mr. Aryamanesh. But really, Banou, I cannot eat any more. Shaking her head somewhat despondently she said, You don’t like these sweets I have brought you. I like them, Banou, I like them very much — it is just that, that — very well I shall take some. I helped myself to some confections and several pistachio nuts. As soon as she left the room, I hastily emptied the three small dishes into my pocket and remained seated, calmly eating the pistachios I had in my hand. Presently she was back bringing a small bowl of fruit which she placed on the already cluttered table before me. Suddenly her eyes fell on the dishes, and finding them completely empty made her eyebrows meet; she looked again, as if she could not believe her eyes. I picked a pear from the fruit bowl and as I began eating it said: The sweets you brought were excellent. Excellent. Furtively glancing at me from the corners of her eyes she said, God protect you, Agha, I am glad you enjoyed them. Do you have some more? She suddenly turned and looked at me, then slowly looking away, said, You would like some more? If it is not inconvenient, I would like a little more, I replied. As she went towards the door I said, Banou, while I am eating these delicacies, may I know if Hussein is in? She stopped and turning around said, Do you want to speak with him? Yes, Banou, I would like to speak with him immediately. I hope it is nothing serious, she muttered, looking at me. No, Banou, it is . . . I don’t know why he ran out of the house yesterday when you came to see him. She came a little closer to me and lowering her voice said, I don’t know what to do, Agha, recently he has been behaving strangely. I worry about him. God protect him, he is everything to me. I got up instantly and going towards her whispered, Nothing will happen to him, Banou. Is he here now that I may speak with him? He left about half an hour before you arrived, Agha. Do you know where he went, Banou? I asked going towards the door. I think he said he was going to the Mosque to pray for . . . The Mosque? Which Mosque? He didn’t say, Agha. He just said he . . . Banou, with your permission I must go immediately, I said, opening the door. She followed me into the corridor and as I opened the street door she said, Agha, I pray that it is nothing serious. No, Banou, no. But I must run now. I ran into the street and continued running as fast as I could till I reached a busy, paved street. Though I had very little money left, I was nevertheless going to

catch a taxi, and rush to the Mosque hoping to find Hussein Neekou in the crowd. But then realizing that the Mosque was far away on the other side of town and that I might not arrive there in time, I decided to first call Mrs. Ramesh and tell her that if her husband was in the Mosque he had to be warned instantly to leave. I went into several shops before I finally found a telephone. Hastily I dialed the numbers of the Ramesh residence, and when, a few moments later a man answered, I asked to speak with the Banou. He said that the Banou was not in. I told him that it was very important that I speak with her at once. But again he replied that she was not in, adding that she had just gone out but would be back very soon. I ran out of the shop and waited on the street for a taxi. After an unnervingly long wait, I found one, and after an equally long and unnerving ride reached the Mosque of Sepah Salar on the Kingdom of Spring Avenue. I ran across the street, and pushing my way through the small crowd that was gathered on the sidewalk, reached the open gate of the Mosque. Turning around I stood on my toes, and examined the people in the crowd; but unable to find Hussein Neekou, I turned around again and hurried into the outer courtyard of the Mosque. I carefully threaded my way through the crowds, examining the many, many faces, and continually looking this way and that, tense in my determination to find Hussein Neekou, yet unsure what to tell him if I found him. I looked under the arches where men sat on their little rugs eating and conversing, and where bead-fingering Mollahs and acolytes, dressed in their long, loose camel hair coverings, strolled singly or in small groups. Several times I walked around the long pool in the center where people were performing ablutions before diving into their callisthenic prayers. I took off my shoes and went into the arcaded courtyard where the notables sometimes gathered for religious or official ceremonies. Because there were not as many people there, I was able to move about more freely and scan the faces of the men who sat on the carpeted floor or quietly crossed this hall to enter the Mosque. Seeing a man, sitting alone in a corner, his back against the wall, I went to him and bending low, quietly asked him if any of the notables had arrived. Raising himself a little, he looked across the vast hall and whispered that four, five of them were present. Is Mr. Ramesh here, too? I asked. Shaking his head he replied, I don’t think Mr. Ramesh has arrived yet. Having thanked him I walked across the hall and entered the Mosque. Anxious to find Hussein Neekou before the ceremonies began I went through the dusky Mosque, peering in every corner, walking back and forth through the vast halls, leaving no face unexamined. I went and stood near several men who were saying their prayers; one of them, who remained in a bent over position much longer than the others, aroused my suspicion. But, when he raised his head, I could plainly see that it was not Hussein. Somewhere far away a man recited the Verses in a singsong way, his beautiful voice softly echoing through the otherwise quiet Mosque. I walked through the courtyard again, looking everywhere. At length, unable to find Hussein Neekou, I went back to the entrance, and having put on my shoes hurried through the gate into the street. Still afraid that if Mr. Ramesh came to the Mosque he would be assassinated, I hoped to find a telephone to call the Banou again. Because the shops in that area were closed, I had to walk several blocks to a restaurant. I called the Ramesh residence, and asked to speak with the Banou. As I waited for her, I could hear again over the telephone the voices and laughter of the guests, some of whom I now knew. Presently the Banou came to the telephone, and I asked if she had been able to find His Excellency and warn him not to go to the Mosque. She said, I cannot discuss this on the telephone, Mr. Aryamanesh, but I want you to know that I did speak with my husband. I told him everything you told me, and he said that he had known about it for some time . . . Yes, thank God, everything has been resolved. Someone, at the last minute arranged for my husband to meet . . . you know who I speak of, and they have reached a tentative agreement. But did His Excellency go to the Mosque? I asked her.

Yes. And I told him not to go, but he said that everything is well, that there is nothing to worry about. It has been called off. My husband has promised to meet them again in a day or two and have a more lengthy discussion. Banou, I said, I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear this news. Yes, Mr. Aryamanesh, she said elatedly, we are all very happy, very happy. God has not forsaken us, He is compassionate. I thank Him; I thank Him. She paused to catch her breath before adding, Mr. Aryamanesh, you must come to our house, one day soon; you must come here with your father. My husband and I will be honored by your visit. I walked out of that restaurant immensely exhilarated. I felt relieved that at last, on the final day, the assassination of Ramesh, the murder of a human being, had been avoided. I walked calmly on the street, humming to myself, my whole being filled with a deep, deep sense of satisfaction and relief. Indeed, so immense and overwhelming was this relief within me that I was baffled, genuinely baffled that the fate of a man I had never seen, not even spoken with, could mean so much to me. It was as if I had suddenly been delivered from an unsupportable burden. I felt so relieved, so relieved. I went to crowded Istanbul Avenue and strolled first on one side of the street, then walked back on the other side. I strolled several times back and forth, stopping frequently to greet my friends, or look at the shop windows. When I had well digested the comforting news, I decided to go home and share it with my father, knowing how happy it would make him too. I went to the corner of Sādi Avenue and when, before long, a bus arrived, I climbed in. The bus moved slowly, stopping often to pick up passengers. As we went through the Majlis Square and approached the Kingdom of Spring Avenue I looked out to watch the crowd outside the Mosque. To my intense surprise, I noticed that the crowd outside the Mosque had greatly increased and there was considerable excitement. Numerous policemen and heavily armed gendarmes filled the sidewalks and more were arriving in jeeps and military trucks. Overcome with curiosity, I got off the bus at the next stop and ran towards the Mosque. As I got nearer I saw four or five handcuffed men being led to a police car nearby. I made my way through the multitude, but when, after some difficulty, I reached the gate I was surprised to learn that no one was being admitted. On the other side of the gate, several police officers, guarded by dozens of heavily armed policemen, were questioning the people who, presumably, had been in the Mosque. Around me the people were talking excitedly among themselves. Turning to a neatly dressed man, I asked why no one was being admitted to the Mosque. One of the ministers, he replied calmly, was just shot by an assassin. What? Yes, he nodded, smiling, there was another assassination today. Which minister? Ramesh, the Minister of . . . Ramesh? I echoed, horrified. Yes, Ramesh, he nodded, still smiling. They just shot Ramesh. But I cannot believe this, I muttered shaking my head. I just cannot believe it. Why can’t you believe it, Agha? Is he dead? I suppose he is dead; he was hit by three bullets. Staring blankly at the minarets of the Mosque in front, I slowly repeated to myself what the man had just told me. It was as if I was trying to convince myself of something I refused to believe. Turning to the man again, I asked: Is he dead? Who? Ramesh, Agha, Ramesh. You just asked me that, he said, staring at me in surprise. Yes, yes, I am sorry; you said he was hit by several bullets.

Three bullets, the man said, waving three fingers at me. Yes, three bullets, I nodded mechanically. Were you here, Agha, when it happened? Indicating the Mosque he said: I was in there when it happened. I saw the whole performance, from beginning to end, as if I were sitting in a loge watching a film. Please tell me what happened, Agha. He regarded me for a moment or two before saying, Are you from one of the newspapers? I have nothing to do with the newspapers; I am just curious. Well, Ramesh and three, four other ministers and several of the representatives of the Majlis were at the Mosque for the religious ceremonies of the Day of Sacrifice. They were all sitting on the floor of the courtyard with the rest of the people, waiting to recite the usual prayer, when a man, a young man, suddenly ran to where the notables were sitting and, removing a revolver from his coat, began shooting at Ramesh, shouting: Tyrant, thief, despot! The other notables jumped up and ran in every direction trying to dodge the bullets; but Ramesh, who was suddenly covered with blood, fell back on the floor. Just then several bullets struck the assassin and in a moment he, too, was sprawled on the floor, his head and body drenched in a mess of blood. Have the police determined if the assassin belonged to any party? How could they? He was shot dead before the police could get to him. Probably, as usual, the conspirators shot the assassin to hinder the authorities from getting any information about the plot and the party. Is Ramesh in there now? Just a few minutes ago the ambulance took him to a hospital. Do you know which hospital? I asked nervously. Shrugging his shoulders, he said: I don’t know. Perhaps they took him to Reza Nour, which is not far away, and where they usually rush these notables who are assassinated. Waving my hand to him, I turned around to push my way out of the crowd, when he seized my shoulder and said: Agha, you seem so shaken and depressed, was Ramesh a relative of yours? I shook my head and hastily made my way through the crowd. Having crossed the Kingdom of Spring Avenue, I suddenly began to run. I ran like a man possessed, unsure where I was going, perplexed that I should be running, nevertheless running, running, running. All at once I heard someone shout: Hey, you, stop! Slackening my pace, I turned around and saw a gendarme running after me. My first impulse was to stop and see what he wanted, but somehow I kept on running, and I ran as fast as I possibly could. I heard the gendarmes footsteps quicken behind me. Looking over my shoulder again I noticed several other gendarmes had also joined in the pursuit. Flushed and horrified, I again and again told myself to stop. But I did not stop. I could not stop. One of the gendarmes ordered me to halt or he would shoot. Knowing that he would not shoot because of the people on the sidewalk, I did not heed his warning but continued to run ever faster. I turned at the next corner and dashed into a side street, then into an alley and again turned at the next corner and ran with full might through another side street. I ran in and out of several side streets and in and out of several alleys, hoping in this way to confuse my pursuers and discourage them from trying to overtake me with jeeps or other vehicles. At length, still running I reached the crowded Laleh Zar, relieved that I had eluded the gendarmes, and feeling somewhat reassured that they could not find me on that busy, swarming street. Though I was panting and terribly exhausted, I continued to run, going towards Istanbul Avenue. But why am I running? I thought. Why am I running? I have violated no law; I have committed no offense. It is silly to be running this way. One would think that I had committed a crime, that I had stolen something or killed someone. I ought to go back and face those gendarmes; I ought to go and tell them how stupid they were for wasting their time chasing me. I ought to go back to that Mosque and with great dignity say, Gentlemen, admit that you were wrong and submit your apologies for embarrassing me with your decidedly disrespectful behavior. As you can see, gentlemen, I have

committed no wrong. Do you understand, I have committed no wrong. I have committed no wrong! 9 When i reached istanbul avenue, I stopped running. Looking this way and that to make sure that there were no gendarmes following me, I paused for a few moments to catch my breath, then entered a crowded café. I ordered a lemonade at the counter, but my hands were shaking so much that I had considerable difficulty holding the glass. I sipped the cool, refreshing drink, spilling part of it on my trousers and on the floor; but, too restless to remain at that place and struggle with the glass, I walked out. As my excitement gradually abated, I became more and more anxious to know whether the assassins bullets had killed Ramesh. I continued walking on Istanbul Avenue and scarcely fifteen minutes later reached Reza Nour Hospital. A small crowd was gathered at the gate, and many policemen, with guns in hand, stood on the sidewalk as well as within the hospital grounds. Hearing the people talking among themselves, I soon learned that Ramesh had been brought there about an hour earlier. Some said he was still alive, but others believed he had died on the way to the hospital. I made my way to the gate but as I was going in, a policeman stopped me to ask if I was a doctor. When I answered in the negative, he said he had orders not to let in any visitors for an hour or two. Then perhaps you can tell me whether Mr. Ramesh is dead or alive? I asked. I am sorry, Agha, I cannot say, he replied. As I stood on the sidewalk, I noticed the gendarme with whom I had spoken the previous night at the residence of Mr. Ramesh, standing on the hospital grounds, talking with a man. Making my way to the gate once again, I asked the policeman to whom I had just spoken to kindly call the gendarme. Does the gendarme know you, Agha? Yes, he knows me, I replied. Please call him, it is important that I speak with him. Wait here, Agha, I shall call him. He went in and walking to the gendarme spoke with him. They turned their heads to look at me, then walked towards the gate where I stood. As the gendarme saluted I went to him and whispered, I pray that God has spared the life of His Excellency. The gendarme whispered, His Excellency is in critical condition, Agha. I shook my head sorrowfully, though within me I felt a great relief to learn that Ramesh was still alive. Does the Banou know about this? I whispered. Yes, the Banou has been terribly shaken by this tragedy. Where is she now? I asked. She is inside, he replied. Do you want to speak with her? I was thinking whether or not to go in and see her when he said: The Banou spoke well of you last night; perhaps she will feel comforted if she speaks with you again. Then take me to her, I said, my heart in my throat. As I followed him through the gate, a policeman stopped me again and asked if I was a doctor. The gendarme intervened, explaining that I was a close friend of the Ramesh family. We crossed the garden, went through two or three buildings, crossed a courtyard where several policemen stood at attention, then entered a lodge. Many men and women, some of whom I had met or seen earlier at the Ramesh garden, were gathered in the front room, talking quietly to one another. Among them I recognized several of our statesmen and many notables whose pictures I had seen in newspapers. The Banou is in there, the gendarme whispered, pointing to another room in the back. Where is the Agha? I asked.

He is in the emergency room, the gendarme whispered, and quietly tiptoed out of the room into the courtyard. The grave faces of the many distinguished men who were gathered in that room made me very uncomfortable. I tried to find an inconspicuous corner to stand in but the corners were all taken, and I could only stand in the center. I stared at the intricate patterns on the carpet and simulated a preoccupied air; but soon, feeling I was being stared at by everyone, I slowly walked to the open doorway that separated the two rooms and made as if I were looking for someone. In the back room, the Banou was sitting on the edge of an armchair, her head buried in her hands as she whimpered. Three ladies whom I had met earlier at the garden party sat nearby dabbing at their eyes and occasionally uttering an invocation or an exclamation of grief. There were no other people in the room. Seeing me standing at the doorway, one of the ladies said: Do you wish something, Mr. Aryamanesh? The Banou suddenly raised her head and seeing me, burst out crying. Mr. Aryamanesh, she wailed, Mr. Aryamanesh, may you never know a day as black as this. As she cried, I walked across the room and stood before her. I told him, Mr. Aryamanesh, I told him everything you told me . . . but he would not listen, he would not listen . . . I told him not to go there today. By the soul of my father, I told him not to go there today. I knew this would happen . . . Oh, God, God, have you no pity? . . . God, have you no consideration for the feelings of your creatures? . . . Why did You allow this to happen? Why, God? Why? She buried her face in her hands once again and wept convulsively. I tried to think of something to say, but could think of nothing. Sit down, Mr. Aryamanesh, she said, and raising her head to look at me added sobbingly: Why did they shoot my husband? . . . Why did they want to murder him, Agha? . . . What has he done? . . . Please tell me, Agha, what has he done that they should want to see him dead? I entreat you to tell me, Agha; maybe there is something I do not know . . . I only know that he always tried to do what he considered was best for our country . . . I swear by the life of my children, Agha, that that man loved his country and his people no less than any other patriot . . . that man tried his best to serve our people; may I go blind if what I say is not what I know to be the truth . . . That man tried, Agha, he tried . . . By the soul of my father, he tried, he tried . . . She covered her tearfilled face with her hands and wept so convulsively that her whole body shook. I sat on the nearest chair and holding her arm whispered: God will spare him, Banou; you must be strong and help him recover. What did these murderers want from him? she wept. Why did they want to murder my husband? . . . I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it . . . Oh, Agha, I am so shaken I don’t know what to say . . . What can one say when ones husband has been shot in the head . . .? Oh God, please spare my husband . . . God, please spare him; please, God, please. There was a stir in the front room and presently an elderly man in a white uniform stood in the doorway, and several gentlemen and ladies stood immediately behind him. Seeing the Banou, the man in the white uniform slowly and quietly walked to where she was sitting. I removed my hand from the Banous arm and stood up. She raised her head slightly and, seeing the elderly man standing before her, got up instantly and said: Doctor, how is my husband? Please tell me, tell me. The Doctor hesitated, then quietly said, His condition is not good, my dear Banou. Is he still unconscious, Doctor? The Doctor nodded. Seizing the doctors arm she said, Please tell me he will recover, Doctor, please tell me . . . The Doctor hesitated again, then quietly said: You must be strong, Banou; be strong and have faith . . . I am strong, Doctor, but please tell me he will recover; I beg you, Doctor . . . The doctor softly shook his head two or three times.

The Banou suddenly stopped weeping and stared at him as if she were hypnotized. Doctor, she whispered, clutching his arm again, do you mean, you mean . . . Yes, Banou, he nodded, holding her, he has gone before God. Instantly she disentangled herself from his hands and looked about her, completely dazed. No, no, she muttered impetuously, I don’t believe it; I don’t believe it. Take me to him; he will speak with me; take me to him . . . The doctor and one of the ladies began to hold her and calm her, but she disentangled herself again and began to weep and shriek, I want to see him; I want to see him . . . Homayoun, don’t leave me . . . Please, Homayoun, don’t leave me . . . I love you, I love you, Homayoun, I love you . . . She fell on the armchair, shrieking hysterically, They murdered my husband . . . They murdered him . . . HOMAYOUN . . . HOMAYOUN, HOMAYOUN . . . She fell back on the armchair and fainted. The doctor called one of his assistants and they knelt on the rug and began to minister to her. Many of the people from the front room slowly came in and surrounded the armchair on which the Banou had collapsed. The elderly doctor got up and asked everyone to kindly leave the room. I looked once again at the unconscious Banou, and shaking my head, walked out of the room, and slowly, sadly, made my way through the hospital grounds into the street. Before long the Banou would regain consciousness and suddenly, painfully remember that her husband had been shot dead. She would suddenly find herself faced with the dispiriting realization that she was no longer a married woman, that she had, all at once, lost the man with whom she had lived many years and loved. The children that they together had brought into the world, would ask for their father, and before long she would have to tell them that they no longer had a father. She would go through the years, perhaps through all the rest of her years, haunted by the memory of that bleak Sunday afternoon, the Day of Sacrifice, when her husband, sitting in the courtyard of the Mosque, saying his prayers, was murdered by a man he had probably never met or even seen before. I walked slowly on Naderi Avenue, and when I reached the crowded Laleh Zar, the newspaper boys were already running on the sidewalks, shouting the ghastly headlines. Many young men and women, elegantly dressed, strolled in gay little groups, or sat in the cafés eating ice cream or drinking sodas. They did not appear at all concerned with the assassination that had taken place barely two or three hours earlier. Perhaps they had become inured to, or weary of, these criminal acts that had been occurring with disquieting frequency in the city and preferred to occupy themselves with pleasant activities. I remembered how I sometimes avoided the newspapers when they carried accounts of an assassination, and thus spared myself anguish by deliberately refusing to learn what had happened. But unlike the previous times, the assassination of Ramesh had touched me very deeply, and within me I felt a painful uneasiness and confusion. I bought a paper and as I walked glanced at the headlines and the large picture of Ramesh. I was going to read the details of the gruesome crime, when my eyes fell on the picture of a man at the bottom of the front page. I stopped short and stared at this picture and the caption beneath it which introduced the man as the assassin who, after shooting Ramesh three times, was himself shot and beaten to death. I stood staring at the picture, for the assassin was none other than my friend Hussein Neekou. With great agitation I continued to walk, stopping several times to re-examine the picture and reread the caption beneath it and the accounts of the assassination. It was painful to learn that Hussein Neekou, my friend of many years, was the man who, in cold blood, had murdered Ramesh and that he himself was murdered. Again and again I stared at the familiar face, unsure whether my eyes were seeing correctly. I continued walking, still unable to believe it, trying to find a place in my mind for this evil fact. It was as if I had been hammered on the head. I remembered how perturbed and frightened he had been when, the previous day, I had gone to his mothers home to find him. I had never seen Hussein Neekou as restless and tense as he was then. He had always appeared calm and composed; his infectious tranquility had never suggested to

me anything but passiveness. His self-effacing civility was marked. Indeed, my parents often spoke with praise of his politeness and humility. Then, too, they admired his piety and his uncommon ability to recite by heart every passage of the Book. It was this calmness and purity in him that made it especially difficult to believe that he could have so cruelly murdered another man. It was difficult to understand how a man, who always appeared mild and passive could be capable of so destructive and criminal an act. How could a man, pious and chaste, who a thousand times a day spoke of the compassion of God, the tolerance and forgivingness of God, and who had memorized those passages from the Book which clearly speak of the sinfulness of killing and destroying life, take it upon himself to commit the ungodly transgression of killing and destroying life? How could one believe that a man, who always bent his head in submission and reverence when he spoke with others, and abased himself to exalt his fellow human beings, could so arrogantly and irreverently seek to destroy the dignity of life? But then, was it not Sadi, who sagely wrote that the lamp of politeness emits so great a glare as to completely conceal the bitterness of the resolutions men may harbor in their minds? Who knows the posture of the mind when the body assumes the bent-over posture of reverence? Who can hear the defiance and the resentment that howl in the hearts of men whose lips are mechanically uttering self-abasing civilities? Who can witness the depravities in the inner recesses of a mind that is draped in the vestments of piety? Who can tell what angers rage beneath kind gestures; what violence burns beneath serene façades? What is it that prods a man to kill another man? What force is it that makes a man walk to another man and suddenly shoot at his head, his heart, his life? Why does a man so brutally cancel the existence of another man, and thus bring sadness and pain and suffering to an entire family, forever bereaving the bereaved children of their love and their faith? Does it matter whether it is an assassination, a murder or an execution? Does it matter whether the victim was a statesman or a beggar, a thief or a saint? Does it matter why or when or how or who? Immeasurably shaken by the events that had taken place, I walked briskly, aimlessly. With the few remaining rials in my pocket I bought the newspapers that were rapidly coming out, some with the final news of the unsuccessful efforts of the doctors to save the life of Ramesh. The government had just issued a statement claiming it had conclusive proofs that the assassin was a member of the Slaves of the Faith Group, and in a special interview the Prime Minister had vowed to disband the group immediately and punish all its members severely. The newspapers believed that in doing away with Ramesh, the rebellious Slaves of the Faith had brought about their own downfall. Once again it occurred to me how irrational these men were in their politics. Couldn’t they see that their terrorism would inevitably bring about their downfall? What did they expect to accomplish by violence? Hadn’t they noticed that each time a tyrant was assassinated a hundred other tyrants took his place to suppress the people with a greater vengeance, just as each time a rebel was executed there were a thousand other rebels who rose to fight with greater defiance and resentment? As I reluctantly walked home, I thought of Husseins mother, that poor, lonely woman who would now be sitting in her dingy hut, horror-stricken by the sudden, violent death of her son. Years before she had lost her husband when he bled to death while participating in one of those rituals in which men paraded in the streets, masochistically beating and cutting themselves while chanting religious verses. Now she had lost her son. He had died like his father, for he, too, had died in the name of religion, and yet in destroying himself, he, too, had destroyed the religion within him. My father was sitting alone in the guest room; the newspapers with their black glaring headlines rested on the table beside him. Looking at him, the confusion and the unrest that had harassed me all evening once again began to blaze within my mind. A terrible, unsupportable pain made the muscles of my stomach shrivel

and contract. I was seized with an indefinable urge to go away, to get away from him. Bowing mechanically, I hurried into the hall and ran upstairs to my room. I locked the door securely and sat on the bed, listening to the thumping of my heart. Too restless to remain seated, I got up and began to pace the room, back and forth, back and forth. But I felt too uncomfortable in that room — that house. I told myself I ought to go to Husseins mother and try to comfort her. Without tarrying a moment longer I took two tomans from the small box in which I always kept some money and hurried downstairs. When I got to the hall I heard my father call me. Pretending I had not heard him, I began to run. I ran with great agitation. I ran the way I had run away from the Mosque and from the gendarmes. I ran and ran and ran. At the nearest station I took the bus and went to the other side of town. I got off and walked through several streets before reaching the little house of the unfortunate Banou. The small green door was open. I knocked once and waited. But the house remained quiet and no one appeared from inside. I knocked again, and waited. Then I knocked again and again and again. I looked about to see if I could find any neighbors in the street or on nearby doorsteps. But the Road of the Cypress Trees was empty and quiet. A few steps away, the scraggy, forgotten tree stood with its two limbs outstretched in a transfixed stance. Overhead large, dark clouds of birds moved rapidly across the twilight sky, their hundreds of wings flapping energetically before their long nocturnal rest. The door uttered harsh complaints as I opened it wider. Thinking that the Banou might be inside, I entered the dark passageway and groped to the door of the living room. I knocked once, then opened the door and looked in. The room was empty. I went into the other rooms, carefully avoiding the trunks and sacks and bales that were piled upon one another in confused heaps. The rooms, small and dingy, were cluttered with old, discolored tapestries, and decrepit, legless cots. Cardboards pasted to the walls carried in large, bold letters the names of the Disciples; and hanging near them were many faded pictures and drawings of bearded Mollahs whose forbidding stares seemed to follow me as I went from room to room looking for the Banou. Unable to find her inside, I entered the small courtyard in the back. A tattered prayer rug lay on the ground. Several long, black veils hung on the line, fluttering eerily in the evening breeze. A few trees seemed to droop with oldness, and the branches, as if spent and exhausted, rested themselves upon each other in anarchic confusion. The water in the small pond, aged and still, was blistered with sickly yellow leaves, and nearby two or three shameless frogs disturbed the stillness with their raucous croaks. The air in that monastic courtyard smelled of sickness, as if it had been trapped there for centuries. Hastily I walked back through the corridor, my footsteps echoing hollowly in the forsaken house. As I stepped into the street, I saw a woman standing by the tree. Who do you want, Agha? she asked, holding her veil firmly over her face. I have come to see Mrs. Neekou. She looked at me as if trying to decide who I was. Presently she said, The Banou has gone away. Her son was — her son passed away this afternoon. Yes, I know about Hussein; I have come to see if I can help the Banou in any way. Did you know her son? she asked surprisedly. Hussein and I were very close friends, I replied quietly. She looked at me again. After a somewhat longer pause, she said, If you want to help the Banou, I will tell you where she is. As I nodded, she said, Turn right on that corner and walk to house number 57. She is there now. Is she with her relatives? Shaking her head she said, She doesn’t have any relatives in Teheran. I think that the house she is in now belongs to one of Husseins friends. No one is with her now; I have come to fetch her something to eat and will be back there soon. Having thanked her, I hurried to the next corner and after a ten-minute walk reached the house. I

was debating whether or not to knock on the half-open door when I heard someone inside moving. In a moment the door opened wider and a man appeared; seeing me, he stopped short, and glared at me suspiciously. Who are you? he asked, his face suddenly turning cadaverously livid. I am . . . What do you want? he interposed severely. I have come to see Mrs. Neekou. I was told she is here. He did not wait for me to finish, but shrugging his shoulders transferred the small bundle he carried from one hand to another and hurried away. I entered the house, and as I slowly walked through the hall, I could hear a woman weeping. Unsure which of the many doors to open, I went through the house and looked into the small garden in the back. The garden was empty; only the leaves on the branches moved, now this way, now the other. I was slowly walking back along the corridor, listening carefully to decide from which room the sound of the weeping issued, when I heard a car stop abruptly in front of the house, and then another car arrived, and yet another. In an instant the street door was flung open, and several gendarmes with machine guns ready in hand, rushed into the corridor. Startled by my presence, they stopped short. An officer came forward and pointing his revolver at me shouted, Don’t move or I will have you riddled with bullets. He took another step or two and still threatening with his revolver ordered me to raise my hands. Higher, he shouted. I raised my hands higher. One of the gendarmes searched my pockets. Where are the others? the officer shouted. What others? I asked. Don’t try to be funny; I will kill you, he shouted angrily, brandishing his revolver in my face. They don’t have a chance, do you hear, they don’t have a chance. The whole house is surrounded. More gendarmes came rushing into the hall; they banged on the doors and ordered everyone to give up. Receiving no response, they broke into the rooms. Still more gendarmes appeared from the street and in a moment, the whole house was filled with them. They went through the rooms, searching the closets, overturning the cots and tables and chairs, and running upstairs to the rooftop, and downstairs to the cellar. Several gendarmes rushed to the garden in the back, and the officer ordered several others to begin searching the neighboring houses. A gendarme appeared from one of the rooms and informed the officer that there was a woman weeping inside, and that she refused to move. As the officer disappeared into the room, I was handcuffed and made to go outside. Numerous gendarmes and policemen, all armed with machine guns filled the street, and several jeeps and military vehicles stood in front of the house. On a nearby corner a small crowd of onlookers had already gathered. As I stepped into the street, three or four men, in civilian clothes, rushed forward and took pictures of me. An officer also came forward and one of the gendarmes behind me said, Your Excellency, here is another one of them. Glaring at me, the officer said: Yes, another one of them. Another fatherless, motherless murderer. We will catch them all that they may never again . . . Officer, I said, there has been a mistake. I came here to see . . . Shut up, he shouted. Shut up. But, Officer, I . . . I said shut up. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. You are worthless, worthless. Turning to the gendarmes he ordered them to take me to the police truck. As I passed by many vehicles, I noticed the man whom I had seen earlier, running with a bundle out of the house, sitting handcuffed in one of the jeeps, surrounded by gendarmes. I was made to climb into the truck, and as I sat down several policemen and gendarmes encircled the vehicle. Still dazed by what was going on, I just remained seated, staring at the many, many

officers and gendarmes and policemen who ran in and out of the modest houses, searching the rooms, the rooftops, the courtyards, the gardens, and repeatedly shouting their warnings to the men to give up. The people who occupied these cabins — bead-fingering men, veiled women, and shabbily dressed children, were brought out into the street and questioned exhaustively by the officers. More than an hour later, while the gendarmes were still searching, and the officers issuing orders and questioning the people, two of the jeeps and the police truck, in which I sat, began to move. The crowd that had gathered at the intersection was ordered into another street to enable the three cars to pass. We sped through the streets, escorted by several motorcycle officers who stopped the traffic at busy intersections so we could pass quickly. The people on the sidewalk, enjoying a leisurely Day of Sacrifice, paused to watch us as we hurried on. When we reached the large prison where only the most notorious criminals and dangerous political prisoners are kept, the handcuffed man in the jeep was the first to be taken in. A few minutes later I was made to get out of the truck, and still surrounded by gendarmes, I, too, was rushed inside. More pictures were taken as I entered the famous prison. Dozens and dozens of officers were gathered in the vast entrance hall, and as I passed they all stared at me, and though I was enormously ruffled and embarrassed, I could hear them whispering excitedly among themselves. I was taken through two or three interminable corridors and at last ordered into a room. Several officers and civilians were standing around a table; when I entered the room they all turned to regard me, then, one of the officers indicated a bench and told me to sit down. One by one these men cross-examined me. I answered all the ordinary questions about my age and my family and friends, but when they asked about the other Slaves of the Faith and where they could be found, I, of course, had no answer. This angered them, and they repeatedly threatened to have me hanged immediately if I did not cooperate and help them find quickly the few Slaves who were still at large. It was in vain that I protested their accusations and sought to explain as soberly as I could that I was not a Slave of the Faith, that I had nothing to do with them, that I did not even know the Slaves, much less know where they could be found. And when I insisted that I was not even in politics, they became even angrier and threatened to cut out my tongue for my impudence. The futility of my denials and my attempts to exonerate myself became even more apparent when various officers and gendarmes were brought in and asked if, earlier in the evening, they had seen me at the Mosque of Sepah Salar. Many of these officers and gendarmes remembered seeing me lingering at the gate of the Mosque and what was more disconcerting, three of the gendarmes instantly recognized me as the man who shortly after the assassination of Ramesh was seen running away from the Mosque and who ignored their repeated orders to stop. What were you doing at the Mosque of Sepah Salar this evening? one of the civilians asked. I went there twice, I replied; the first time I went there hoping to deter Hussein Neekou from attempting to assassinate Ramesh, and the second time, I . . . A moment ago you vehemently denied knowing any of the Slaves of the Faith. I don’t know any of them, I said. I only knew Hussein Neekou. How well did you know Hussein Neekou? I knew him very well; he was a . . . How often did you meet lately? Lately we did not meet at all. In fact except for two minutes yesterday I had not seen or spoken with Hussein Neekou for well over two or three months. When you saw him yesterday did you discuss the assassination of Ramesh? Of course not, I replied. Are you sure?

Of course I am sure. I am very sure. Very well, then, if you are sure you did not discuss the assassination with Hussein Neekou yesterday, and if that was the only occasion you met during the last three months, and if you don’t know any other Slaves and are not a Slave yourself, how then did you know that today during the evening ceremonies of the Day of Sacrifice, Hussein Neekou, one of the members of a secret group would try to assassinate Ramesh, the Minister of the Interior at the Mosque of Sepah Salar? How did you know all this? It is a very long story . . . We have time. Tell us. Shaking my head I said, Unfortunately I cannot tell you. I was pledged not to reveal anything. Yes, we know that the Slaves are all pledged not to reveal anything. But I tell you, I am not a Slave, I have nothing . . . Why did you run away from the Mosque of Sepah Salar? I don’t know, Agha. I really . . . If you are innocent why didn’t you stop when the gendarmes followed you and ordered you to stop? I don’t know, Agha, I really don’t know. I think I was afraid . . . Afraid? he said, why does an innocent man have to be afraid? Still shaking my head I replied, I don’t know. All I know is that I had nothing to do with the Slaves and with the assassination of Ramesh. But I will admit that I was afraid when I learned that he was assassinated; I will admit that. But I don’t know why I was afraid. I think it was something within my mind. I don’t know, I really don’t know. One of the senior officers suddenly came forward, angrily shouting, Whom are you trying to deceive with your stupid stories? We know why you ran away from the Mosque, we know why you were afraid, we know why you were at your meeting-place where you and this other man were finally tracked down. Can there be any doubt who you are? Can there be any doubt that you are one of the Slaves of the Faith? Can there be any doubt that you took part in that ignoble, ignoble assassination this evening? I did not take part in the assassination of Ramesh, I shouted. I was trying to avert it, avert it; I am a close friend of Mrs. Ramesh . . . Don’t try to jest, he snapped, slapping my face. I jumped up angrily shouting, Don’t hit me, I will kill you . . . As the others made me sit down again he said, You have killed before, no doubt you could kill again. But let me tell you, there will be no other time. We will have you hanged. You will hang that we may all be rid of your terrorism and pestilence. Turning to the gendarmes who were standing at the door he ordered them to take me away, adding bitterly, Tomorrow we will make him talk, we will make all of them talk. I was taken through the corridors, across a vast courtyard, through another long, dark corridor, then up a series of narrow stairs, and finally I was ordered into a cell. One of the guards removed my handcuffs, and as I entered, the heavy wooden door closed behind me. The cell was small — very small. Standing in the middle of the cell, I could easily touch the four walls. The only furniture was a narrow cot that was covered with two blankets. A small windowlike aperture in the wall permitted some light and air to enter. Too exhausted and perturbed to remain awake, I took off my coat and stretched out on the cot, under the covers. For a long time I tossed and turned. Each time I was on the verge of falling off to sleep, I would jump up with great fright. Then once again I would struggle to go to sleep. Sometime later, I was, all at once, jolted out of my sleep by the voices of men outside the door. Instinctively I crept lower beneath the covers. Then the door suddenly opened, and as I sat up I saw several gendarmes with machine guns enter the cell. I was going to ask them what they wanted, when the gendarme nearest me said, You are to hang now for the murder of your father.

I leaped out of my sleep, terror-stricken, my whole body covered with sweat. I looked about the cell: it was dark and quiet and the heavy door was closed. Reassured that no one was in the cell, I lay down once again. But the cold, clear voice of the gendarme persistently reverberated through every crevice of my system: You are to hang for the murder of your father. You are to hang for the murder of your father . . . for the murder of your father . . . the murder of your father . . . 10 Not far away the Alborz Mountains stand familiarly. Fluffy clouds tiptoe over the slopes, casting huge shadows which move so massively that looking at them from here one gets the impression that the entire mountain is moving. The green Shemiran rises at the feet of the mountains in untidy terraces. Occasionally the windowpane of a distant villa manages to arrest the busy sunlight and for an enthusiastic minute or two signals messagelessly. I cannot see Teheran from here and it is just as well. In this way I can better put it out of my mind. Several times today they have taken me downstairs to a large room where numerous officers and civilians questioned me at length. They ask the same questions over and over again. Sometimes they word the questions in different ways, trying to confuse me, to get me to contradict myself or reveal information that they think I am withholding. Now and again they try to get me angry, or intimidate me by threatening to have me executed instantly if I don’t cooperate with them. Then sometimes they are kind and courteous and make extravagant promises. I suppose these are tactics officials employ to extract confessions and information from suspects. But they don’t need to be wily with me, they don’t need to employ such tactics . . . I answered all their questions last night. What else is there to add? The heavy wooden door of my cell opened, and my friend Choubineh Neelan unexpectedly came in, followed by an officer; three armed guards stood at the door. I got up hastily and as Choubineh and I embraced, I said: Choubineh, what are you doing here? I have come to see you, he replied, somewhat embarrassedly. Your footsteps be propitious, but how did they allow you to see me? Lowering his voice to a whisper so the guards could not hear, Choubineh indicated the officer and said, This is my brother, Jehan Shah. He is one of the officers on duty here and was able to help me come to see you. As I shook hands with the officer I said, I beg you to sit down. Choubineh thanked me, then said, We cannot sit down, KiaNoush, we can only stay a minute. How is Mr. Deldar and how are the other gentlemen at the Enlightened Party? I asked. I don’t know, Choubineh muttered. Why not? Looking away he said, I am no longer with the Enlightened Party. You are not? Why not? Looking away again he said, Because the leaders of that party are all corrupt, corrupt; and they all act as if they were God. But they are nothing. All they do is talk and give orders. You mean you have withdrawn from politics? Of course not, he replied. I am now with the United Asia Party. It is an illustrious party. They don’t talk. They act. There is action here, action. Then you probably know my old friend, Anoushiravan Demavandi, who is one of the leaders of that party. Smiling and nodding Choubineh replied, Yes, yes, I know the Exalted Mr. Demavandi. He is a formidable man. It is an honor for me to sit and work in his exalted shade. We all worship him at our party. He is strong and incorruptible. His fidelity to the cause of freedom and justice is the object of everyones admiration.

I stared at him, amused and yet sorry for him. Choubineh regarded me in silence, then shrugging his shoulders said, Well, this is not an occasion for discussing politics. I shook my head and remained silent. Coming closer to me, he whispered, KiaNoush, I want to congratulate you . . . Congratulate me? For what? I asked in surprise. You know what, he smiled. I don’t know. For taking part in the assassination of Ramesh. What are you talking about? I said. I did not take part in the assassination of Ramesh. Nodding and smiling, he whispered, I understand, I understand. What do you understand? I said, with undiminished anger. Leaning forward, he whispered, I know that you must deny having taken part in the assassination. You are mad, I said, moving away from him. I had nothing to do with it. He continued to smile and nod. Patting my shoulder he whispered, I just wanted to let you know that we all think very highly of you. You are a brave patriot, KiaNoush, you are very brave. I have always admired you for your convictions and your political activities . . . Look Choubineh, I interposed harshly, I have told you a million times that I am not in politics. Do you understand, I have nothing to do with politics! You are splendid, KiaNoush, splendid. Even here in this political prison you deny being in politics. It is this discretion, this secretiveness, I admire in you. You go about everything so quietly . . . Choubineh, you are exhausting my patience. I know, I should not discuss such things at this time. It is just that I could not help admiring you, KiaNoush. You are so strong, so independent. I think it is a shame that you were caught. But I want you to know that we are all on your side; we admire you for what you did. Ramesh deserved what he got, he was . . . Choubineh, get out of here; get out of here, I shouted, pushing him towards the door. Very well, I will not say any more. I will not say any more. Still angry, I turned my back to him and leaned against the wall. We were all silent for a few moments. At length, Choubineh moved close behind me and said, KiaNoush, I must speak with you. What else is there to say? I muttered. There is one more thing I must tell you, KiaNoush, he replied gravely. Please listen to me. What is it? Please turn around and listen to me. I hesitated, then turned around and looked at him. His face had lost its smile. Suddenly he appeared tense and uncomfortable. KiaNoush, he whispered, you must do everything you can to get out of here immediately. There is no time. Grabbing my arm he said excitedly, KiaNoush, the government is under strong pressures to have all the Slaves shot immediately. My brother says that the order for the execution of the Slaves has already been issued. Yes, the government has just issued the order, Jehan Shah rejoined. Three of the Slaves were shot this afternoon. Two more are to be executed tomorrow morning. He paused, then turning to look at me again quietly added, Mr. Aryamanesh, I am sorry to say that you are one of the two. I stared at him, completely dazed. Choubineh grabbed my arm again. KiaNoush, you must do something, he said. You must act quickly. There is no time. You must do something. There is no time. As he kissed my face, I felt the tears running down his cheeks. KiaNoush, please try, please. Don’t let them do anything to you.

When they left, I stretched out on the cot, still dazed by what I had learned. What a sinister irony. Here I am convicted of a murder that I had set out to avert. How can I persuade them to believe that I was really not involved in the murder of Ramesh? How can I prove that I am innocent? God, why did I get involved in this dispiriting spectacle? Why did I allow myself to be dragged into that odious, emotion-strewn cow-pasture of politics? Couldn’t I see that our politics are trapped in the dangerous quicksand of personality problems? Couldn’t I see that my own conflict with my father was trapping me in that vengeful political plot against Ramesh? Couldn’t I see . . . I heard voices outside the door of my cell and quickly sat up. Presently the door opened and a guard came in. Two other armed guards stood at the door. What do you want? I asked anxiously. Get up and put on your coat, the guard ordered. What do they want? Don’t waste time; get up, get up. As I slowly, hesitantly got up, he said, You are only allowed fifteen minutes, so hurry up. Fifteen minutes for what? Your father is here to see you. I sat down again and said, Tell him I am sick. What? I said tell him I am sick. But you are not sick. You can come and see him for fifteen minutes. All day he has been here asking to see you. Now permission has been granted for you to see each other. I suggest you come and see him. You may not be allowed to see him again. I lay on the cot and did not answer. Get up, Aryamanesh, get up. Go away, I said. But he wants to see you. I said go away. But he is your father. Look, I shouted, sitting up, don’t give me orders. I have the right to refuse to see anyone. He stared at me with astonished eyes. Shaking his head he muttered, It is true what they say about you and the others. You are all heartless. As he turned to go I shouted, Who are you to speak of the heart, you son of a burnt father, you who spend your life locking people up and walking them to their deaths. You are the criminal, not these men who sit in the cells . . . If you don’t keep quiet, I will report you for misconduct. Go and eat any dung you want, I shouted; but if one day I get out of here, if only I get out of . . . What will you do that you have not already done? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you who hide from your own father. I fell back on the cot and as I turned my back to him, he locked the door and left. Why should I see him? I don’t care if I never see him. I should have left him long ago, I should have gone away, as so many men do who leave their homes and families to go to far away continents supposedly to study or to work, but who stay away year after year, and never come back. I should have gone away too, perhaps even to another city . . . Shiraz or Abadan . . . anywhere, away from him. What does he want now? Hasn’t he brought me enough trouble that he should come here to abuse and threaten me? Who knows what he might say and do? Have I ever been so sure of his love that I could be sure of it now? I know that he has always wanted to love his children, but that he never knew how because he himself is a child. But can my knowing and my understanding restore any of the freedom and the love and the self-esteem of which I was deprived earlier? Does it really matter that I say I have forgiven him? Can one ever really forgive? If you mutilate a child, he may, in time, say he has forgiven you simply because he wants to forgive you. But can his forgiveness ever

make him well again and can it ever release him from the terrible clutches of fear and hate? If you . . . the door of the cell opened and as two armed guards stood at the doorway, the Chief Guard with whom I had spoken a little earlier came in again. Your father is still waiting downstairs, he said. Have you changed your mind? I told you that I . . . If you don’t come to see him, he will be brought up here. I sat up and said, You have no right to make me see him. He stared at me in silence, then turning around to leave the cell, murmured that they would be back with my father. I got up and seizing his arm said, Please don’t bring him to see me. Then put on your coat, he said impatiently, and come downstairs. Seeing that it was futile to protest any more, I muttered, Very well, I shall go and see him. I put on my coat and surrounded by the guards went downstairs. I walked through the interminable corridors, gripped with a deep anxiety. But my father’s behavior took me aback. No sooner had I entered the room than he threw himself at me. Thinking that he wanted to slap me, I instantly jumped back. But he threw himself at me again and holding me with all his power suddenly began to hug and embrace me, kiss me and kiss me. I was so unprepared for such treatment that I stood immobile, not knowing what to do. He continued to hug me feverishly, covering my head and my perspiring face with numerous kisses. My son, my son, he muttered again and again, pressing me harder in his arms. He let go for a moment to look at me, then again holding me in a firm embrace remained silent for a long time. The guards, as if embarrassed, looked away and whispered among themselves. At length, my father released me and looking at my face and body said, Are you well, my son? I am well, Father, I replied. Why didn’t you want to see me, KiaNoush? I have been here all day. You are my son. You are dear to me, you are very dear to me. Is my mother well? I asked. She is very upset. We are all praying to God that He help you and bring you back to us. He paused and sighed deeply, then shook his head. In a quiet voice, he said, KiaNoush, why did you run away from the house yesterday? I called you many times but you just ran. Why did you run? I only . . . I don’t know, I muttered, looking away. I wanted to go and comfort Husseins mother. Yes, yes, I know. But you should not have gone there. You knew that the police were hunting the rest of them and would pick up any suspects in that area. You should never have gone there, particularly because you were so involved in the whole case. What you did was foolish, my son. Clearly enough you invited them to pick you up, you asked for all this. He sighed and shook his head, then added, It is useless to dwell on this now. We must do everything to obtain your release. I have been doing my best to convince the authorities that you are innocent, that you learned about the plot from me and had nothing to do with the Slaves. But they think I am trying to cover up for you. They are very angry. They are convinced that you are one of the Slaves of the Faith. Yes, I know, I muttered. But you must not lose hope, my son. We are doing our best. I tried several times to reach Mrs. Ramesh and ask her to testify on your behalf but she is in a state of shock and cannot be reached. That would not help anyway . . . Why not? I hesitated, unsure whether or not to answer. At last, I quietly said, They say I behaved suspiciously at the Mosque after the assassination and ran away and would not stop when the gendarmes ran after me. He looked at me suddenly, his forehead wrinkling in numerous pleats. Coming closer to me, he whispered, Yes, I read about all this in the newspapers. Why did you run away from the gendarmes? Why? Still staring at me, he whispered: You are innocent, KiaNoush, arent you?

The words exploded in my head like a bomb. I knew it. By God, I knew it. Instantly I moved away from him, and struggling not to lose my composure, replied, Of course, I am innocent. Of course, I am. Well, don’t be so sensitive, he said, coming towards me. How do you expect me not to be sensitive when you . . . I only . . . . . . suspect me of being guilty. KiaNoush, listen my son. I did not say that you are guilty. Of course you are not guilty. I know that you are innocent, I know that. I only told you what I read in the newspapers . . . The newspapers . . . what do the newspapers know? How do the newspapers know why I ran away from the Mosque? There may be a thousand reasons why I ran away. Maybe I was late for an appointment or maybe . . . Late for an appointment? my father rejoined, smiling coldly. Son, do you think the authorities are children? Do you think . . . Father, I did . . . It is when you speak like this that, that . . . That what, Father? Nothing, KiaNoush, nothing. Look, I . . . Do you think I am guilty? I did not say that you were guilty. All my life you have treated me as if I were guilty. All my life, Father, all my life. KiaNoush, listen to me. I have not come here to scold you or argue with you. I want to help you, we have no time . . . Help? All my life you have wanted to help me, Father. What has your help brought me? What has it brought me? With your help I became a terrified, apathetic man, and sat, rotting in the corner of my room, and with your help I am now here, waiting to face the firing squad. All my life you helped me . . . you beat me and rejected me and abused me and domineered over me and browbeat me, and all the time you said you were helping me, helping me. Well, I don’t need that sort of help, Father, I don’t need it, I never needed it. I felt the tears welling in my eyes, and looking away added, The only help I ever wanted you to give, the only help I ever asked from you, was some kindness, some understanding, some gentleness. I wanted you to treat me as a son, I wanted you to treat me as a friend, a loved one. Not as a culprit. My father stared at me in great astonishment. My son, it is obvious that these events have depressed you. You have forgotten that I am your father, but I will not say anything . . . I did not forget that you are my father, but you forgot that I am your son. You ran me and ran our home the way these colonels run our country. I did not want a dictator, I wanted a father, a father. KiaNoush, you are angry and don’t know what . . . Of course, I am angry, I am very angry, I have always been angry . . . Why didn’t you ever tell me how you . . . How could I ever tell you anything? You never let me talk, you never let me say anything, you never wanted to hear how I felt about anything. KiaNoush, my son . . . The only place I could ever voice an opinion or protest was among the mobs in the streets. No wonder these students and young men run in the streets shouting and protesting . . . KiaNoush, don’t talk about these demonstrators and mobs . . . they are all ruffians. They are criminals . . . They are not criminals. You have no right to call them criminals. They are . . . KiaNoush, don’t defend these men . . . Why shouldn’t I defend them? I am sorry for them, I am really sorry for them. They are a poor persecuted people . . . persecuted by their families, their teachers, their elders, their leaders. They

are oppressed and abused and maligned and . . . KiaNoush, don’t speak like this. It is sacrilege, sacrilege. These men are murderers; can’t you see, KiaNoush, they are bloodthirsty murderers. Wasnt the assassination of that innocent man yesterday enough to convince you that these men are all criminals, that your own friend, Hussein Neekou, was nothing but a bloodthirsty murderer? How do you expect . . . These men are savages, KiaNoush, listen to me, they are savages. They think they can correct everything with violence, well they can’t, they can’t . . . How can you call them savages when you yourself always tried to correct everything at home with violence and anger and punishment? How do you expect these men to behave when their own parents and elders set them an example of brutality and oppression? Is it surprising that there are so many assassinations and bloody uprisings, that there is so much violence in our politics . . . look at all the violence in our homes, look at all the suppression and . . . KiaNoush, you are now talking like these men. I am not talking like them, but I say that they are not at fault. Love and kindness and humaneness begin at home. These men are victims of miserable, miserable homes, they are victims of . . . They are victims of nothing. How can you be so blind, KiaNoush? Can’t you see that these bloodthirsty men are all guilty? These men are . . . You don’t have to tell me how these men are. Remember, I am your father and have torn more shirts than you and therefore know what is right and what is wrong. I say that these men are wrong, I say that these men don’t know the right way from the wrong. They are all worthless, worthless. They must be punished, they must be flogged publicly that they may never again eat such dung. Shaking my head, I stared at him and nervously muttered, I am really sorry that there are fathers like you. KiaNoush, he interposed severely, I don’t like the way you talk . . . Father, I don’t care what you think, I really don’t care. Still shaking my head I turned around and walked away from him. I went towards the door, tense with anger, but greatly relieved that I had, at last, expressed my anger for him, relieved that I had, at last, told him how I really felt. I heard my Father call: KiaNoush, KiaNoush! but I did not heed his call and continued to walk away. As I went through the doorway, I looked over my shoulder to see if he was still following, but was surprised to see him crouched in a chair, his head buried in his hands. I stopped short, and turning around, stood watching him. One of the guards behind me said, Back to your cell, Aryamanesh. Don’t waste time. I ignored his orders and continued to regard the crouched figure of my father. Hearing him whimpering my anger quickly dissolved. All at once, I was filled with a deep compassion for him. I began to walk toward my father, but the guards stopped me saying, You can’t go back in there. Your time is up. I must speak with him, I said and pushed him aside. But another guard stood in the doorway and refused to let me go in. They closed the door of the room and shoving me into the corridor ordered me to walk. I took several steps, then stopped and said, But I must see my father. Move on, Aryamanesh, move on. Don’t waste time, the Chief Guard ordered. But I must see him. I told you it is too late now. It is not late. I must see him. Please let me speak with him. He stared at me in astonishment. A little while ago you did not even want to see him . . . But now I want to see him . . . It is too late now, too late.

It can’t be too late, I said and turned to run back to the room, but the guards held me. I struggled to free myself, shouting I must see my father, I must see him. I grappled with the guards and, pushing them off with all my power, succeeded in freeing myself. But they grabbed me again, and began to pull me through the corridor. I lost my balance for a moment, and was dragged several steps; then I once again struggled with the guards, pushing and hitting. A young officer suddenly appeared in the corridor and asked the Chief Guard why we were fighting. As the latter began to explain, I freed myself again and darted towards the room. I heard a guard shout: Stop, or I will shoot. But I continued to run, and opening the door, dashed into the room. My father raised his head and looked at me, his eyes filled with tears. As I kneeled by the chair, he placed his arm around my head and drew me to him, then pressing his head against mine, began to sob. My son, my son, he said. What have I done to you? Father, I am sorry if I hurt you . . . My son, it is not for you to be sorry. If anyone has to be sorry, it is I for having failed you. Pressing me closer, he whispered, KiaNoush, where did I fail you? Where did I fail you? You did not fail me, I said quietly. If I had not failed you, you would not be here now. Shaking his head, he whispered, Where did I fail you, where? God only knows, my son, I always tried, I always tried . . . I know, Father. I always did what I thought was right. I treated you the way my own father treated me . . . Yes, you always did what you thought was right. Still shaking his head he said, But what is the use if what I thought was right was not right, but was wrong? He brought out a handkerchief and began to dry his face. I had never seen my father in such a state. He had always appeared to me hard and unbending. Seeing him so shaken, so distressed, so openly avowing his misjudgments and limitations . . . I felt a deep warmth for him. From his anguish and his despair, I seemed to derive strength. In seeking to uplift him, I felt uplifted myself. I felt someone tapping my shoulder. Turning around, I saw the guards standing behind me. You have had your extra time, the Chief Guard said. Now back to your cell. I got up and as my father arose from the chair, we embraced. God protect you, my son, God protect you. I walked away, followed by the guards. As I got to the door I turned around, and bowing my head to my father, said, Father, may your shadow never grow less. The guards closed the heavy wooden door of the cell, and left. I have been resting on the cot, gazing at the mountains. The sun, red and round, is slowly sinking behind the Alborz peak. The trees in Shemiran are aglow in the soft red of the setting sun. The lanterns in the distant villas are lighted up, one by one. Soon, the moon will rise, and the people in Shemiran will begin to stroll on the bridge and in the gardens. They will spread their rugs by the streams, under the trees, and tell stories, play their tambourines, sing, dance, laugh, love . . . Here, the quiet evening air is alive with the aroma of orange blossoms. In a nearby grove a bird is calling to its mate. Somewhere in the gardens, far, far away, a man — probably a laborer on his way home — has been chanting. His rich resonant voice, at first far and faint, is now coming closer, and soon will slowly fade away in the distance. At home, in that home where I spent all the years of my life, my parents are probably now grieving the loss of their son. It was a Strange Day of Sacrifice. It is strange that these recent events which have brought me to the doorstep of death have also brought me to somewhat better terms with life. But how can I now win back my life? How can I, at this late hour, prove to the authorities that I am really innocent? How can I go about telling them that I really did not want to see Ramesh murdered, but that I nevertheless took part in the plot because I wanted to harm . . . perhaps even to destroy . . . someone else? How can I explain to them that I am sure I could have

averted the assassination, but that I did not really try because I wanted to vent my own resentment of my father? How then shall I go about telling them that I, too, am responsible for the assassination of Ramesh, and that yet, I am not really responsible for it? How shall I prove that I am innocent? If I am innocent, then are not Hussein Neekou and all the other Slaves of the Faith innocent, too? Can it not be said that they, too, were really not interested in the death of Ramesh, but that in destroying him, a convenient symbol, they were seeking to destroy something more fundamental within their own minds? But when has the law understood or interested itself in fundamentals? When has a man been judged for what he was really trying to do rather than for what he has done? When has the law paused to listen to the desperate, agonized pleas of the mutilated child who lies trapped within the so-called adult? When has the law been wise enough to try to correct, rather than pour out its own anger and vengeance? And if today, tomorrow, the impatient anger and vengeance of the authorities send me to my death, who will pause to consider whether I was really executed for a political crime . . . an assassination . . . or whether I was destroyed for having tried to destroy the decrepit, sickly, tyrannical traditions and institutions which had mutilated and disfigured me . . . and whose unwitting representative was my poor, dear father?

about the author Fereidoun Esfandiary is a 28-year-old Iranian. His childhood was spent in consulates, embassies and other government outposts all over the world, and he feels equally at home in New York and London, Teheran and Tel-Aviv and Damascus. His formal education began in an Iranian primary school, continued in an English school, a French Jesuit school in Jerusalem and a term in a girl’s convent school in Lebanon where he was the only boy and the only Moslem. In 1949, following a tour of schools and colleges in Europe, he came to the United States and attended the University of California at Berkeley, then U.C.L.A. In 1948 he went to London as a member of the Iranian team at the Olympic Games. After finishing at UCLA, Mr. Esfandiary worked in camps for underprivileged children in California and New York and at the United Nations on the Conciliation Commission for Palestine. In 1954 he left the United Nations to return to Los Angeles and devote all his time to writing. He has published articles in the New York Times Sunday Magazine and other publications. He is now working on another novel and a book about the Middle East.