the slap and saw there was none of the friendliness of olden times within the eyes. “Please sit here in comfort. Your journey was beneficent?”
“As God wants. I missed my home here in the Zagros, and my friends of the Zagros. You are blessed by God, Kalandar.” Lochart sat on the uncomfortable carpet and exchanged the interminable pleasantries, waiting for Nitchak Khan to allow him to come to the point. The room was claustrophobic and smelled rancid, the air heavy with body odors and goat smells and sheep smells. The other men watched silently.
“What brings Your Excellency to our village?” Nitchak Khan said and a current of expectancy went through the closeness.
“I was shocked to hear that strangers came to our village and had the impertinence to lay evil hands on you.”
“As God wants.” Nitchak’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Strangers came to our village but they went away leaving our village as it has always been. Your camp, unfortunately, is not to be the same.”
“But why, Kalandar? We have been good for the village and employ many of your peo - ”
“It is not for me to question our government or these komitehs of our government or our Commander of the People, the Ayatollah himself. The young flier saw and heard, so there is nothing more to be said.” Lochart perceived the trap. “The young flier heard and saw only what happened in the schoolhouse, Kalandar. I ask that we, as old but known guests…” he chose the word carefully, “that we be allowed time to seek a change in a ruling that appears to go against the interests of the Zagros.” “The Zagros extends a thousand miles and crosses Kash’kai lands into Bakhtiari and the lands of a hundred other tribes. Yazdek is Yazdek,” Nitchak rasped, then quoted from the Rubaiyat, “‘Resign your body to fate and put up with pain,/Because what the Pen has written for you, /It will not unwrite.’”
“True, but did not Omar Khayyam also write: ‘The good and evil that are in man’s heart, /The joy and sorrow that are our fortune and destiny,
A rustle went through the villagers. The old mullah nodded, pleased, and said nothing. Nitchak Khan’s eyes smiled though his mouth did not and Lochart knew the meeting would be better now. He blessed Sharazad who had opened his ears and eyes and senses to the Rubaiyat that, in Farsi, was beyond elegance.
Everyone waited. Nitchak Khan scratched his beard, reached into his pocket, and found a pack of cigarettes. Lochart casually brought out the pishkesh, a gold-plated Dunhill lighter he had bought from Effer Jordon for just this purpose: “Effer, I’ll goddamn kill you if it doesn’t work first time!” He caressed the flint. The wick ignited and he breathed again. His hand was very steady as he leaned forward and held the light for the old man. Nitchak Khan hesitated, then puffed and took a deep drag of smoke. “Thank you.” His eyes narrowed as Lochart put the lighter on the carpet in front of him.
“Perhaps you would accept this gift from all of us in our camp who are grateful for your guidance and protection. After all, didn’t you break down the gates and take possession of the base in the name of the People? Didn’t you win the toboggan race, beating the best of us, through the quality of your courage?”
Another rustle in the room, everyone waited filled with delight as the contest stiffened, though all knew the Infidel had said only what was true. The silence grew, then the Khan reached over ana picked up the lighter and looked at it closely. His gnarled thumb clicked up the lid as he had seen others in the camp do. With hardly any motion it lit the very first time and everyone was as pleased as he was with the quality of the pishkesh. “What guidance does His Excellency need?”
“Nothing in particular, not really, Excellency Kalandar,” Lochart said deprecatingly, continuing the game according to ancient custom. “But there must be something that might make His Excellency’s lot better?” The old man stubbed his cigarette into the earth.
At length Lochart allowed himself to be persuaded. “Well, since Your Excellency has the magnanimity to ask, if Your Excellency would intercede for us with the komiteh to give us a little more time, I would be very grateful. Your Excellency, who knows these mountains like the inside of his own eating bowl, knows we cannot obey the orders of strangers who obviously don’t know we cannot clear the rigs of personnel, nor safeguard the rigs - the Zagros property of the illustrious Yazdek branch of the Kash’kai - nor take away our machines and spares by tomorrow sunset.”
“True, strangers know nothing,” Nitchak Khan said agreeably. Yes, he thought, strangers know nothing and those sons of dogs who dared to try to implant their filthy strangers’ ways were quickly punished by God. “Perhaps the komiteh would grant an extra day.”
“That would be more than I would dare ask. But, Kalandar, it would hardly be enough to show them how little they know about your Zagros. Perhaps they need to be taught a lesson. They should be told at least two weeks - after all, you are kalandar of Yazdek and of all eleven rigs and the whole Zagros knows of Nitchak Khan.”
Nitchak Khan was very proud and so were the villagers, pleasantly swept along with the Infidel’s logic. He took out his cigarettes and his lighter. It lit the first time. “Two weeks,” he said and everyone was very satisfied, including Lochart. Then he added, to give himself time to consider if two weeks was too long, “I will send a messenger and ask for two weeks.” Lochart got up and thanked the Khan profusely. Two weeks would give McIver time. Outside, the air tasted like wine and he filled his lungs gratefully, pleased with the way he had handled the delicate negotiation. “Salaam, Nitchak Khan, peace be upon you.”
“And upon you.”
Across the square was the mosque, and beside it the ruined schoolhouse. The other side of the mosque was Nitchak Khan’s two-storied house and, at the door, his wife and two of his children with some other village women also colorfully dressed. “Why was the schoolhouse burned, Kalandar?” “One of the komiteh was heard to say, ‘Thus should perish everything foreign. Thus will perish the base and all that it contains - we need no foreigners here, want no foreigners here.’”
Lochart was saddened. That’s what most of you believe, if not all of you, he thought. And yet lots of us try to be part of Iran, speak the language, want to be accepted but never will be. Then why do we stay, why do we try? Perhaps for the same reason Alexander the Great stayed, why he and ten thousand of his officers married Iranian women in one vast ceremony - because there’s a magic to them and to Iran that is indefinable, totally obsessive, that consumes as I am consumed.
A burst of laughter came from the women surrounding Nitchak Khan’s wife at something she had said.
“It’s better when wives are happy, eh? That’s God’s gift to men, eh?” the Khan said jovially, and Lochart nodded, thinking how fantastically lucky Nitchak Khan had been and what a gift of God his wife was - like Sharazad was to him and, thinking of her, once more the horror of last night welled up, his terror of almost losing her, her madness and unhappiness, then hitting her and seeing the bruises when all he wanted was her happiness in this world and the next, if there was a next.
“And lucky for me, God made her such a fine shot, eh?” “Yes,” Lochart said before he could stop himself. His stomach heaved and he cursed himself for letting his attention wander. He saw the shrewd eyes watching him and added hastily, “Shot? Your wife’s a fine shot? Please excuse me, Excellency, I didn’t hear you clearly. You mean with a rifle?”
The old man said nothing, just studied him, then nodded thoughtfully. Lochart kept his gaze steady and looked back across the square, wondering if it had been a deliberate trap. “I’ve heard that many Kash’kai women can use a rifle. It would seem that, er, that God has blessed you in many ways, Kalandar.”
After a moment Nitchak Khan said, “I will send word to you tomorrow, how much time the komiteh agrees. Peace be upon you.”
Going back to the base Lochart asked himself, Was it a trap I fell into? If the remark was involuntary, made from pride in her, then perhaps, perhaps we’re safe and Scot’s safe. In any event we’ve time - perhaps we have, but perhaps Scot hasn’t.
The sun had gone from this part of the plateau and the temperature had quickly fallen below freezing again. The cold helped to clear his head but did not eliminate his anxiety or overcome his weariness.
A week, two weeks, or a few days, you’ve not much time, he thought. In Tehran, McIver had told him about getting export licenses for three 212s to go to Al Shargaz “for repairs.” “Tom, I’ll send one of yours, one from here, and one from Kowiss - thence to Nigeria, but for God’s sake keep that part to yourself. Here’re the exit papers dated for Wednesday next. I think you should go yourself, and get out while you can. You get out and stay at Al Shargaz - there’re plenty of pilots there to take the 212 onwards.” Mac just doesn’t understand, he thought. He came up out of the trees and saw the base, Scot and JeanLuc waiting for him beside a 212. I’ll send Scot on the ferry whatever
