The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer Page A

Charge: treason. Next to the charge is a log: eight o’clock, no one home; noon, housekeeper says they are traveling; midnight, guards break in, housekeeper gone also. Next attempt: suspect’s beach house in Ramsar.
    She opens other files. They are all the same, with different names, ages, and occupations, but similar charges— royalist, Zionist, advocate of indecency . What are these files, she wonders. Doesn’t charge mean doing something wrong, for which one must go to prison? But her father is in prison without having done anything wrong.
    She feels cold, as though a winter draft had just blown through the room. She looks over at Leila, who is busy sweeping, dust rising under her broom. She opens one of the files again and examines it more carefully. Here, in these files, are the names of men who, like her father, are destined to vanish. She glances at Leila again and finds her bent over a box of books, trying to sweep the space behind it. It occurs to her that if she were to make one file disappear, she could be saving one man’s life. She takes a file randomly and tucks it in her pants, under the long coat of her uniform, then quickly places the hat and scarves back in the closet.
    â€œI think I’ll call my mother and tell her to come get me,” she says, as casually as she can. “I’m not feeling well.”
    Leila looks up, her face red from her bent position. “Really? Do you want us to take you home?”
    â€œNo, no. I can see you have a lot to do.”
    â€œAll right. See you tomorrow.”
    Â 
    U PSTAIRS AS SHE waits for her mother, she takes the file from under her coat and slips it into her schoolbag. Leila’s mother brings her a glass of rosewater. “Sit down, Shirin-jan. Drink this. You look flushed. Do you have a fever?” She places her hand on Shirin’s forehead. “You do feel hot…”
    Shirin brings the glass to her mouth. Her fingers quiver a little and she fears she may drop it. She wonders if Leila’s mother can see her heart pounding through her clothes. What if she suspects something?
    â€œYou poor child,” Farideh-khanoum says. “You’re really not well…”
    When her mother honks she puts down the glass and reaches for her bag, but Farideh-khanoum lifts it first. “I’ll carry this to the car, Shirin-jan” she says.
    Outside the adults exchange formalities. “Thank you, Farideh-khanoum,” her mother says. “I’m sorry if she was a burden…”
    â€œNo, Amin-khanoum! Please don’t mention it.” Farideh-khanoum places the schoolbag in the backseat of the car. Then standing upright and facing Shirin’s mother, she rubs her hands together, lets them drop to her side, and finally tucks them in the pockets of her skirt. She seemsembarrassed, apologetic, almost—reactions that Shirin has seen her mother trigger in many people.
    â€œYou’re getting sick, Shirin-jan?” her mother says in the car. “We’ll go home and I’ll fix you a nice soup.”
    In her room, she opens her bag and pulls out the file. Ali Reza Rasti, 42. Occupation: professor of philosophy. Charge: advocate of indecency. She hides the file in the bottom drawer of her desk, under her old notebooks. Is it possible that Ali Reza Rasti will avoid her father’s fate?

TWELVE
    O nce a week the prisoners are allowed to spend an hour outside their cells. Today Isaac sits by the prison mosque with Mehdi and Ramin and a few other men he has met since his arrival, some six weeks ago: Hamid, a low-ranking general from the shah’s army; Reza, a young revolutionary who was involved in the capture of the American hostages but ended up in jail, presumably for helping his father, a minister of the shah, escape the country; and old man Muhammad, whom no one knows much about, except that he has three daughters in the women’s block—one for being a communist, one for