from
the men’s booth, then leave a pen and paper atop the phone.
The idea was this: after all the madness—the out-of-order sign; the explosion across
the street—the girls would naturally be forced to use the men’s booth. Because I’d
already dialled our home phone, any girl who entered would themselves have access
to my number on redial.
As soon as a girl approached the booth, I’d line up behind her. This would appear
legitimate. It was the men’s booth, after all. Safe and confident, I’d lean close
to her hijab and whisper, ‘Hit redial!’ If she was anywhere near as daring, she would
do as I’d asked, causing my home phone number to come up on the screen. She would
then use the pen and paper I’d provided to write down my number, pocketing it for
later use. Mum never picked up the phone, and Dad was in Australia. So when she called
back later, I’d be the one picking up the phone.
It was elaborate, but life in Qom called for elaborate measures. If anything, this
guaranteed against failure.
Still, I was sweating, badly. I was worried about the sign hidden under my shirt—what
if the sweat rendered it illegible?
Musty was already in the shade beneath the minaret, where the Entezami officers liked
to park themselves. Mehdi looked about to die from anxiety, and Moe looked so high
I could’ve sworn he’d eaten pure octane for breakfast.
Musty started to natter away. I looked across to Moe. He beamed a smile and headed
to the bins, match and lighter in hand. Mehdi signalled a possible Monkerat at my
two o’clock; I waited, but then I saw the thug spit at a freshly painted wall, a
reasonable sign that he was not an undercover officer.
People walked past us rapidly, busy with their days, all ready to write and wipe
the next chapter of their lives and then:
BANG!
The noise of the explosions filled the street. God bless you, Moe, you truly are
the brother of my dreams. The chaos and the mayhem were too beautiful. There was
smoke, there was fire. The street felt under attack. I ran to the phone booth to
execute my end of the deal. I saw Moe smiling, resigned to the fact he was about
to be belted. His smile widened as the three officers prepared to take him down.
He gestured at me—victory!—and his eyes said: We did it, bro .
That’s when I pulled the plug on the operation.
I could not do it. I couldn’t go through with the plan—not when my little bro was
about to have his bones cracked in.
I ran to the site of the explosion and drew the officers’ attention, abusing them
with every name that came into my head.
‘Stop it, you dirty donkeys, you hairy camels! Leave him alone! Pick on someone your
own size, you two-legged mountain goats!’
They considered my suggestions.
They implemented them in due course.
WE’LL GET THERE WHEN WE GET THERE
Tehran, Iran, 2013: four days until visa expires
The chartered plane gets into Tehran just after midnight. I choose a cabbie without
arguing the price and tell him, ‘Take me somewhere cheap.’
‘How cheap?’ he asks me, snapping gum—a driver with an attitude. ‘Beetles-on-the-floor
cheap, mice-in-the-walls cheap, druggies-fighting-next-door cheap?’
‘Not that cheap,’ I say wearily.
He drops me at a strip of 24/7 motels. Before he goes, I enquire discreetly about
‘the drugs’, thinking I could use something to help me stay awake and alert—there’s
no time to sleep but a handful of hours here and there.
‘I’ve got prescription stuff, mainly. Codeine, Tramadol, Oxy…’
‘Oxy’s too strong,’ I say. ‘It’s like morphine.’
‘It’s an opiate! It’s good for you, my friend.’
His tramadies are 200,000 tomans for a box of twenty-four. I do some mental arithmetic—$70
Australian. What the fuck am I doing? I don’t need Tramadol. I’ve never had them
before—but I do read, and what I’ve read is they give you a sustained, relaxing high.
He guarantees they’re clean, and downs a tablet right in front of me, just
the men’s booth, then leave a pen and paper atop the phone.
The idea was this: after all the madness—the out-of-order sign; the explosion across
the street—the girls would naturally be forced to use the men’s booth. Because I’d
already dialled our home phone, any girl who entered would themselves have access
to my number on redial.
As soon as a girl approached the booth, I’d line up behind her. This would appear
legitimate. It was the men’s booth, after all. Safe and confident, I’d lean close
to her hijab and whisper, ‘Hit redial!’ If she was anywhere near as daring, she would
do as I’d asked, causing my home phone number to come up on the screen. She would
then use the pen and paper I’d provided to write down my number, pocketing it for
later use. Mum never picked up the phone, and Dad was in Australia. So when she called
back later, I’d be the one picking up the phone.
It was elaborate, but life in Qom called for elaborate measures. If anything, this
guaranteed against failure.
Still, I was sweating, badly. I was worried about the sign hidden under my shirt—what
if the sweat rendered it illegible?
Musty was already in the shade beneath the minaret, where the Entezami officers liked
to park themselves. Mehdi looked about to die from anxiety, and Moe looked so high
I could’ve sworn he’d eaten pure octane for breakfast.
Musty started to natter away. I looked across to Moe. He beamed a smile and headed
to the bins, match and lighter in hand. Mehdi signalled a possible Monkerat at my
two o’clock; I waited, but then I saw the thug spit at a freshly painted wall, a
reasonable sign that he was not an undercover officer.
People walked past us rapidly, busy with their days, all ready to write and wipe
the next chapter of their lives and then:
BANG!
The noise of the explosions filled the street. God bless you, Moe, you truly are
the brother of my dreams. The chaos and the mayhem were too beautiful. There was
smoke, there was fire. The street felt under attack. I ran to the phone booth to
execute my end of the deal. I saw Moe smiling, resigned to the fact he was about
to be belted. His smile widened as the three officers prepared to take him down.
He gestured at me—victory!—and his eyes said: We did it, bro .
That’s when I pulled the plug on the operation.
I could not do it. I couldn’t go through with the plan—not when my little bro was
about to have his bones cracked in.
I ran to the site of the explosion and drew the officers’ attention, abusing them
with every name that came into my head.
‘Stop it, you dirty donkeys, you hairy camels! Leave him alone! Pick on someone your
own size, you two-legged mountain goats!’
They considered my suggestions.
They implemented them in due course.
WE’LL GET THERE WHEN WE GET THERE
Tehran, Iran, 2013: four days until visa expires
The chartered plane gets into Tehran just after midnight. I choose a cabbie without
arguing the price and tell him, ‘Take me somewhere cheap.’
‘How cheap?’ he asks me, snapping gum—a driver with an attitude. ‘Beetles-on-the-floor
cheap, mice-in-the-walls cheap, druggies-fighting-next-door cheap?’
‘Not that cheap,’ I say wearily.
He drops me at a strip of 24/7 motels. Before he goes, I enquire discreetly about
‘the drugs’, thinking I could use something to help me stay awake and alert—there’s
no time to sleep but a handful of hours here and there.
‘I’ve got prescription stuff, mainly. Codeine, Tramadol, Oxy…’
‘Oxy’s too strong,’ I say. ‘It’s like morphine.’
‘It’s an opiate! It’s good for you, my friend.’
His tramadies are 200,000 tomans for a box of twenty-four. I do some mental arithmetic—$70
Australian. What the fuck am I doing? I don’t need Tramadol. I’ve never had them
before—but I do read, and what I’ve read is they give you a sustained, relaxing high.
He guarantees they’re clean, and downs a tablet right in front of me, just
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