The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer Page B

being an adulteress, and the third for being their sister.
    â€œWhat a day!” says the old man. “So clean you can smell jasmine in the air.”
    â€œYou have a vivid imagination, Muhammad-agha,” Reza says. “All I can smell is Mehdi’s stinking foot.” Turning to Mehdi he says, “You have to insist they take care of thatfoot of yours, or else you’ll end up with a stump. Look at it, the tip of your toe is almost black.”
    Mehdi extends his leg, examines his bandaged foot from a distance, and shrugs.
    â€œWait until it’s your turn, agha-Reza,” Hamid says. To Isaac this bitter admonition sounds more like a curse than a warning. Hamid has been subject to several interrogations, each accompanied by a round of lashings. His swollen feet bulging from brown plastic slippers are a sorry sight.
    â€œI shouldn’t even be here,” Reza retorts. “Everyone knows there has been a mistake.”
    â€œYou and I are from the same stock,” Hamid says quietly. “There has been no mistake. Your father and I both served the shah dutifully, did we not? We all know you’re the one who helped your father escape.”
    â€œNonsense. My father and I stopped talking a long time ago.”
    A guard approaches, points his rifle at the group. “Keep it down!” he yells.
    The men fall silent. Isaac brushes a hand over the cigarette burns on his chest and face, which throb from time to time. A pigeon flaps its wings overhead and lands a few feet away. It taps its beak on the ground, but finding nothing, takes flight and disappears into the blue sky.
    â€œI hear Fariborz got a carton of Marlboros,” Ramin says. “He just had a visit from his wife. He’s selling them for fifty tomans.”
    â€œPer cigarette?” Mehdi asks.
    â€œYes.”
    Isaac smiles at the outrageous fee; prison commerce intrigues him. But what intrigues him even more is the possibility of a family visit, which no one has ever mentioned.
    â€œSo there are visitation rights?” he asks.
    â€œWhat rights?” Hamid says. “It’s whoever manages to bribe the guards and slip through the gates. That’s your visitation rights.”
    â€œWhy the interest, Amin-agha?” Reza says. “You think you can continue running your business here?”
    Isaac looks out beyond the men, at the horizon rising from the dust. He does not answer.
    â€œYou know what your problem is?” Reza continues. “You have no beliefs. As long as you can buy your Italian shoes and your fancy watches and your villas by the sea, you’re happy. ‘Who cares what kind of regime it is, as long as I make money!’ Right? Am I not right, Amin-agha? Isn’t that what you’re all about?”
    Isaac senses the men’s eyes on him. He feels hot suddenly. He realizes that to a certain extent Reza is right; he does not have beliefs, at least not the way Reza does. Sure, he can discuss politics for hours, and in fact he often used to, sitting with his friends in his living room, whiskey on the rocks and freshly roasted pistachios fueling the men into the night. But a man like Reza is willing to die for a belief, something Isaac would not do.
    â€œSo what?” he says finally. “So what if I wanted a good life? So what if I like hand-stitched shoes and tailored suits and waking up with my wife and children by the sea? Is that a crime? You know what is my belief, agha-Reza? My beliefis that life is to be enjoyed. Don’t look at me bitterly because things didn’t work out the way you’d hoped.” In the silence that follows he remembers some Hāfez verses, which he had memorized long ago, when he was a student in Shiraz. He recites them, without further thought. “Give thanks for nights in good company…”
    The old man’s face lights up with recognition. He joins in. “And take the gifts a tranquil heart may