older man.
“You don’t see yourself as others do,” Hormoz went on adamantly. “To believe anything is possible if you set your will to it, to place confidence in your judgment above all others, these are not Muslim traits.”
“I didn’t need America to teach me to be the way I am.” Darius could not contain himself. “From childhood I thought I would fit in comfortably there. But as an Iranian, as myself, not as a forced convert to a secular religion with a different set of uncompromising demands.”
“Certainly you don’t fit here. It will be easier for you in the United States, or Britain, or anywhere in Europe for that matter. I’ve asked myself often why you haven’t emigrated up to now, and concluded it was for the sake of your marriage. That will be of no consideration any longer.”
“You’re too quick to credit me with selflessness,” Darius said. “When you were enumerating the baggage that always travels with me, there’s one item you left out.”
“What is that?”
“Which land would open her doors to a murderer convicted and sentenced to death under the laws when Iran was not regarded as a pariah nation? Everything that was said about me at the trial was true. I am a ruthless killer with few qualms about destroying my perceived enemies. Why else would the ayatollahs have spared me? Who better than they can sympathize with that philosophy? There’s not a country on earth that will offer me a safe haven, no country wiser than this one.”
“All the more reason to use the Revolution to preserve your life,” Hormoz said. “I’m an old man; you can’t take cover behind my reputation forever. I may die at any moment.”
Darius filled a cup from the salty tap, and toasted Hormoz with a sip. “A long life to you, dear uncle,” he said. “A very long life.”
5
T HIRTEEN STRIPES OF RED and white were painted on the doorstep of a cinder block house off Shush Avenue, the border of the southern slums. White stars of David alternated with the hammer and sickle in a square corner of blue. Someone in waffle-sole shoes had stamped all over the stripes, while the paint was wet; foot traffic had worn away most of the blue. “Walking on the enemy” was casual warfare in the patriotic quarters of South Teheran.
Rocking on his heel, Darius vaulted over the flag. His momentum carried him into a hallway in which a trail of burned flashbulbs tapered into blackness along a bare floor. From where he stood he saw Ghaffari huddled in a closet with Hamid, the young criminalist, and listened to them cursing in the dark.
“Shut the damn door,” Ghaffari shouted. “You’re spoiling the film.”
“I didn’t know,” Darius said.
“What? It’s you?” Ghaffari backed out of the closet holding a camera that was strapped around Hamid’s neck. Shading his eyes, he sized up Darius. “You don’t look the worse for wear.”
“I’m fine.” Darius stared past him into the dim rear of the house, where uniformed officers had given up any attempt at looking busy. “Fine,” he said again, cutting short Ghaffari’s diagnosis. “Where are they?”
“This way,” Hamid said, and squeezed past the patrolmen. Outside the bedroom Ghaffari said, “Watch it,” and Darius turned his toe from a puddle of vomit just beyond the door.
A Japanese lantern softened the light from a frosted bulb over a double bed on which a man and woman lay in one another’s arms. The couple were in their early to mid thirties, Darius estimated, and were nude above a sheet that clung damply to their hips. A black crater in the woman’s forehead might have been made with a rock, or a bit of lead. Rivulets of gore crusting against her face and neck were shiny between globular breasts. A hole in the man’s armpit scarcely had leaked color. More had hemorrhaged through his nose.
The bedding was soaked with the woman’s blood; the vaguely metallic smell was everywhere in the room. Darius lifted the Venetian blinds, but no
“You don’t see yourself as others do,” Hormoz went on adamantly. “To believe anything is possible if you set your will to it, to place confidence in your judgment above all others, these are not Muslim traits.”
“I didn’t need America to teach me to be the way I am.” Darius could not contain himself. “From childhood I thought I would fit in comfortably there. But as an Iranian, as myself, not as a forced convert to a secular religion with a different set of uncompromising demands.”
“Certainly you don’t fit here. It will be easier for you in the United States, or Britain, or anywhere in Europe for that matter. I’ve asked myself often why you haven’t emigrated up to now, and concluded it was for the sake of your marriage. That will be of no consideration any longer.”
“You’re too quick to credit me with selflessness,” Darius said. “When you were enumerating the baggage that always travels with me, there’s one item you left out.”
“What is that?”
“Which land would open her doors to a murderer convicted and sentenced to death under the laws when Iran was not regarded as a pariah nation? Everything that was said about me at the trial was true. I am a ruthless killer with few qualms about destroying my perceived enemies. Why else would the ayatollahs have spared me? Who better than they can sympathize with that philosophy? There’s not a country on earth that will offer me a safe haven, no country wiser than this one.”
“All the more reason to use the Revolution to preserve your life,” Hormoz said. “I’m an old man; you can’t take cover behind my reputation forever. I may die at any moment.”
Darius filled a cup from the salty tap, and toasted Hormoz with a sip. “A long life to you, dear uncle,” he said. “A very long life.”
5
T HIRTEEN STRIPES OF RED and white were painted on the doorstep of a cinder block house off Shush Avenue, the border of the southern slums. White stars of David alternated with the hammer and sickle in a square corner of blue. Someone in waffle-sole shoes had stamped all over the stripes, while the paint was wet; foot traffic had worn away most of the blue. “Walking on the enemy” was casual warfare in the patriotic quarters of South Teheran.
Rocking on his heel, Darius vaulted over the flag. His momentum carried him into a hallway in which a trail of burned flashbulbs tapered into blackness along a bare floor. From where he stood he saw Ghaffari huddled in a closet with Hamid, the young criminalist, and listened to them cursing in the dark.
“Shut the damn door,” Ghaffari shouted. “You’re spoiling the film.”
“I didn’t know,” Darius said.
“What? It’s you?” Ghaffari backed out of the closet holding a camera that was strapped around Hamid’s neck. Shading his eyes, he sized up Darius. “You don’t look the worse for wear.”
“I’m fine.” Darius stared past him into the dim rear of the house, where uniformed officers had given up any attempt at looking busy. “Fine,” he said again, cutting short Ghaffari’s diagnosis. “Where are they?”
“This way,” Hamid said, and squeezed past the patrolmen. Outside the bedroom Ghaffari said, “Watch it,” and Darius turned his toe from a puddle of vomit just beyond the door.
A Japanese lantern softened the light from a frosted bulb over a double bed on which a man and woman lay in one another’s arms. The couple were in their early to mid thirties, Darius estimated, and were nude above a sheet that clung damply to their hips. A black crater in the woman’s forehead might have been made with a rock, or a bit of lead. Rivulets of gore crusting against her face and neck were shiny between globular breasts. A hole in the man’s armpit scarcely had leaked color. More had hemorrhaged through his nose.
The bedding was soaked with the woman’s blood; the vaguely metallic smell was everywhere in the room. Darius lifted the Venetian blinds, but no
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