more than in the Shah’s time, God curse him for not… Every hour the Green Bands’re bringing in more people, fedayeen and mujhadin and Tudeh all mixed up with us innocents, the Faithful…” He dropped his voice further, the whites of his eyes showing, “and good people who should never be touched and … when the mob broke the prison open they found electric probes and whips and… and torture beds and…” Foam collected at the corner of his mouth. “… they say the… the new jailers are using them and… and once you’re here, Excellency, they keep you here.” Tears began to well in his little eyes set in a pudgy face. “The food’s terrible, the prison terrible, and… and I’ve got stomach ulcers and that son of a dog of a clerk, he… he won’t understand I have to have special foods …”
There was a commotion on the far side and the door crashed open. Half a dozen Green Bands came into the room and began shoving a passage clear with their rifles. Behind them, other Guards surrounded an air force officer who walked proudly, his head high, his arms tied behind him, his uniform disheveled, epaulets half torn off. Bakravan gasped. It was Colonel Peshadi, commander of Kowiss Air Base - also a cousin.
Others recognized the colonel, for much had been made of the victorious Iranian expedition a few years ago to Dhofar in southern Oman, the successful smashing of the almost lethal Marxist attack by South Yemenis against Oman, and also of Peshadi’s personal bravery leading Iranian tanks in a key battle. “Isn’t that the hero of Dhofar?” someone said incredulously.
“Yes that’s him…”
“God protect us! If they arrest him…”
Impatiently one of the Guards pushed Peshadi in the back, trying to force him to hurry up. At once the colonel lashed out at him, though badly hampered by his manacles. “Son of a dog,” he shouted, his rage bursting, “I’m going as fast as I can. May your father burn!” The Green Band cursed him back, then shoved the butt of his rifle in the colonel’s stomach. The colonel lost his balance and fell - at his mercy. But he still cursed his captors. And he cursed them as they pulled him to his feet, two on each arm, and frog-marched him outside into the western space between the walls. And there he cursed mem, and Khomeini, and false mullahs, in all the names of God, then shouted, “Long live the Shah, there is no other God but G - ” Bullets silenced him.
In the waiting room there was a ghastly silence. Someone whimpered. An old man began to vomit. Others began whispering, many started to pray, and Bakravan was sure all this was a nightmare, his tired brain rejecting reality. The fetid air was cold but he seemed to be in an oven and suffocating. Am I dying? he asked himself helplessly and pulled the neck of his shirt open. Then someone touched him and he opened his eyes. For a moment he could not focus them or fathom where he was. He was lying on the floor, the small man anxiously bending over him. “Are you all right?” “Yes, yes, I think so,” he said weakly. “You fainted, Excellency. Are you sure you’re all right?” Hands helped him sit again. Dully he thanked them. His body seemed very heavy, his senses blunted, eyes leaden. “Listen,” the man with ulcers was whispering, “this’s like the French Revolution, the guillotine and the Terror, but how can it happen with Ayatollah Khomeini in charge, that’s what I don’t understand?” “He doesn’t know,” the small man said, equally fearfully. “He can’t know, isn’t he a man of God, pious and the most learned of all ayatollahs … ?” Tiredness surged through Bakravan and he leaned against the wall, letting himself drift away.
Later a rough hand shook him awake. “Bakravan, you’re wanted. Come on!” “Yes, yes,” he mumbled, and groped to his feet, finding it hard to talk, recognizing Yusuf, the leader of the Green Bands who had come to the bazaar last night. He stumbled after him, through the others, out of the room and into the corridor, up steps and along another heatless corridor lined with cells, peepholes in the doors, past guards and others who eyed him strangely, someone crying nearby. “Where - where are you taking me?” “Save your strength, you’ll need it.”
Yusuf stopped at a door, opened it, and shoved him through. The room was small, claustrophobic, crammed with men. In the center was a wooden table with a mullah and four young men seated on either side of him, some papers and a large Koran on the table, a small barred window high up in the wall, a shaft of sunlight against the blue of the sky. Green Bands leaned against the walls.
“Jared Bakravan, the bazaari, the moneylender,” Yusuf said. The mullah looked up from the list he had been studying. “Ah, Bakravan, Salaam.” “Salaam, Excellency,” Bakravan said shakily. The mullah was fortyish, with black eyes and black beard, white turban and threadbare black robes. The men beside him were in their twenties, unshaven or bearded, and poorly dressed, guns propped behind them. “How - how can I - I help you?” he asked, trying to be calm.
“I am Ali’allah Uwari, appointed by the Revolutionary Komiteh as a judge, and these men are also judges. This court is ruled by the Word of God and the Holy Book.” The mullah’s voice was harsh and his accent Qazvini. “You know this Paknouri, known as Miser Paknouri?”
“Yes, but may I say, Excellency, according to our Constitution and to ancient bazaari law th - ”
“Better you answer the question,” one of the youths interrupted, “we’ve no time to waste on speeches! Do you know him or don’t you?” “Yes, yes, of cour - ”
“Excellency Uwari,” Yusuf interrupted from the doorway. “Please, who do you want next?”
“Paknouri, then…” The mullah squinted at the list of names. “Then Police Sergeant Jufrudi.”
One of the others sitting at the tables said, “That dog was judged by our other revolutionary court last night and shot this morning.” “As God wills.” The mullah drew a line through the name. All the names above had lines through them. “Then bring Hassen Turlak - from cell 573.” Bakravan almost cried out. Turlak was a highly respected journalist and writer, half-Iranian-half-Afghani, a courageous and zealous critic of the Shah’s regime who had even spent some years in jail because of his opposition.
The unshaven young man beside the mullah irritably scratched at the skin blemishes on his face. “Who’s Turlak, Excellency?”
The mullah read from the list. “Newspaper reporter.”
“It’s a waste of time seeing him - of course he’s guilty,” another said. “Wasn’t he the one who claimed the Word could be changed, that the Words of the Prophet weren’t correct for today? He’s guilty, of course he’s guilty.” “As God wills.” The mullah turned his attention to Bakravan. “Paknouri. Did he ever practice usury?”
Bakravan dragged his mind off Turlak. “No, never, and he w - ” “Did he lend money at interest?”
Bakravan’s stomach churned. He saw the cold black eyes and tried hard to get his brain working. “Yes, but in a modern society int - ”
“Isn’t it written clearly in the Holy Koran that lending money at interest is usury and against the laws of God?”
“Yes. Usury is against the laws of God but in modern soc - ” “The Holy Koran is blemishless. The Word is clear and forever. Usury is usury. The law is the law.” The mullah’s eyes flattened. “Do you uphold the law?”
“Yes, yes, Excellency, of course, of course I do.”
“Do you practice the Five Pillars of Islam?” These were obligatory to all Muslims: the saying of the Shahada; ritual prayer five times a day; the voluntary giving of Zakat, a year tax, a tenth part; fasting from dawn to dusk during the Holy Month of Ramadan; and last, making the Hajj, the ritual journey to Mecca once in a lifetime.
“Yes, yes, I do, except - except the last. I - I haven’t yet made the pilgrimage to Mecca - not yet.”
“Why not?” the young man with spots on his face asked. “You have more money than a dung heap has flies. With your money you could go in any air machine, any! Why not?”
“It’s - it’s my health,” Bakravan said, keeping his eyes down and praying the lie sounded convincing. “My - my heart is weak.”
“When were you last in the mosque?” the mullah said.
“On Friday, last Friday, at the mosque in the bazaar,” he said. It was true that he was there, though not to pray but to have a business conference. “This Paknouri, he practiced the Five Pillars as a true Believer?” one of the youths asked.
“I - I believe so.”
“It’s well known he didn’t, well known he was a Shah supporter. Eh?” “He was a patriot, a patriot who financially supported the revolution and supported Ayatollah Khomeini, the Blessings of God upon him, financially supported the mullahs over the years an - ”
“But he spoke American and worked for Americans and the Shah, helping them exploit and steal our wealth from the soil, didn’t he?”
“He, he was a patriot who worked with the foreigners for the good of Iran.” “When the Satan Shah illegally formed a party, Paknouri joined it, served the Shah in the Majlis, didn’t he?” the mullah asked. “He was a deputy, yes,” Bakravan replied. “But he worked for the rev - ” “And he voted for the Shah’s so-called White Revolution that took away land from the mosques, decreed equality of women, implanted civil courts and state education against
