Mahmud stopped and held out his hand in greeting. Mohsen looked at him blankly. Mahmud pronounced his own name as a reminder. Mohsen reacted only by saying, "I don't care." He just stood there, slumped over and staring at the ground. "Let's go somewhere," Mahmud said. "I'd like to talk with you." Still motionless, his head drooping, Mohsen replied, "I don't care." Mahmud felt a chill. "Look," he tried again, "why don't we make a date to talk soon?" Mohsen didn't reply, but only slumped lower. Finally, in a strangled whisper, he said, "Take the rats away."
Sometime later, Mahmud rented a small apartment in the center of town. He was still unpacking when three men came in, greeted him as a new resident of the district, and asked whether he belonged to Rastakhiz, the Shah's party. Mahmud said he did not belong, since he had only recently returned from spending some years in Europe. This raised their suspicions: Those who had a chance to leave seldom returned. They began asking why he had come back, and one of them wrote down Mahmud's answers in a notebook. With terror, Mahmud realized he was now going into the records for the third time. When the visitors handed him a membership application, Mahmud replied that he had been apolitical all his life and did not intend to join. They looked at him dumfoundedâthe new tenant, they must have thought, could not know what he was saying. So they gave him a leaflet in which a statement of the Shah's was printed in capital letters: THOSE WHO WILL NOT JOIN THE RASTAKHIZ PARTY ARE EITHER TRAITORS WHO BELONG IN PRISON OR PEOPLE WHO DO NOT BELIEVE IN THE SHAH, THE NATION, AND THE HOMELAND AND THUS OUGHT NOT TO EXPECT TO BE TREATED IN THE SAME WAY AS OTHERS. Nevertheless, Mahmud had the backbone to ask to think it over for a day, saying that he wanted to discuss it with his brother.
"You have no choice," his brother said. "We all belong! The whole nation has to belong as if it were a single man." Mahmud went home, and when the activists returned the next day he declared his allegiance to the party. Thus he became a warrior of the Great Civilization.
Soon he received an invitation to the nearby Rastakhiz local headquarters. A meeting of party members in the creative arts was in progress, attended by all those who wanted to contribute their work to the thirty-seventh anniversary of the Shah's coronation. The whole life of the empire flowed from anniversary to anniversary in an unctuous, ornate, dignified rhythm with the solemn and resplendent celebration of each date connected to the Shah and his outstanding achievements: the White Revolution and the Great Civilization. Vast staffs of people kept watch, calendars in hand, to make sure the monarch's birthday, his last wedding, his coronation, and the births of the heir to the throne and the other happily begotten offspring would not be forgotten. New feasts swelled the list of traditional holidays. As soon as one celebration ended, the preparations for the next one began, fever and excitement charged the air, all work came to a halt, and everyone made ready for the next day that would pass amid sumptuous banqueting, showers of distinctions, and a sublime liturgy.
As Mahmud was leaving the meeting, the writer and translator Golam Qasemi came up to him. They had not seen each other for years; while Mahmud was staying in London, Golam had remained at home writing stories that glorified the Great Civilization. He lived a splendid life, with free access to the palace and his books published in leather bindings. Golam had something to tell Mahmud. He dragged him to an Armenian café, spread a weekly on the table, and said proudly, "Look what I've managed to get published!" It was his translation of a poem by Paul Eluard. Mahmud glanced at it and said, "Well, what's so remarkable about this? What are you so proud of?" "What?" Golam burst out. "Don't you understand anything? Read it carefully:
Â
Now is the time of sorrow, of darkest night
When
Sometime later, Mahmud rented a small apartment in the center of town. He was still unpacking when three men came in, greeted him as a new resident of the district, and asked whether he belonged to Rastakhiz, the Shah's party. Mahmud said he did not belong, since he had only recently returned from spending some years in Europe. This raised their suspicions: Those who had a chance to leave seldom returned. They began asking why he had come back, and one of them wrote down Mahmud's answers in a notebook. With terror, Mahmud realized he was now going into the records for the third time. When the visitors handed him a membership application, Mahmud replied that he had been apolitical all his life and did not intend to join. They looked at him dumfoundedâthe new tenant, they must have thought, could not know what he was saying. So they gave him a leaflet in which a statement of the Shah's was printed in capital letters: THOSE WHO WILL NOT JOIN THE RASTAKHIZ PARTY ARE EITHER TRAITORS WHO BELONG IN PRISON OR PEOPLE WHO DO NOT BELIEVE IN THE SHAH, THE NATION, AND THE HOMELAND AND THUS OUGHT NOT TO EXPECT TO BE TREATED IN THE SAME WAY AS OTHERS. Nevertheless, Mahmud had the backbone to ask to think it over for a day, saying that he wanted to discuss it with his brother.
"You have no choice," his brother said. "We all belong! The whole nation has to belong as if it were a single man." Mahmud went home, and when the activists returned the next day he declared his allegiance to the party. Thus he became a warrior of the Great Civilization.
Soon he received an invitation to the nearby Rastakhiz local headquarters. A meeting of party members in the creative arts was in progress, attended by all those who wanted to contribute their work to the thirty-seventh anniversary of the Shah's coronation. The whole life of the empire flowed from anniversary to anniversary in an unctuous, ornate, dignified rhythm with the solemn and resplendent celebration of each date connected to the Shah and his outstanding achievements: the White Revolution and the Great Civilization. Vast staffs of people kept watch, calendars in hand, to make sure the monarch's birthday, his last wedding, his coronation, and the births of the heir to the throne and the other happily begotten offspring would not be forgotten. New feasts swelled the list of traditional holidays. As soon as one celebration ended, the preparations for the next one began, fever and excitement charged the air, all work came to a halt, and everyone made ready for the next day that would pass amid sumptuous banqueting, showers of distinctions, and a sublime liturgy.
As Mahmud was leaving the meeting, the writer and translator Golam Qasemi came up to him. They had not seen each other for years; while Mahmud was staying in London, Golam had remained at home writing stories that glorified the Great Civilization. He lived a splendid life, with free access to the palace and his books published in leather bindings. Golam had something to tell Mahmud. He dragged him to an Armenian café, spread a weekly on the table, and said proudly, "Look what I've managed to get published!" It was his translation of a poem by Paul Eluard. Mahmud glanced at it and said, "Well, what's so remarkable about this? What are you so proud of?" "What?" Golam burst out. "Don't you understand anything? Read it carefully:
Â
Now is the time of sorrow, of darkest night
When
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