Erikki had left it there. There was no point in arguing, no point in rehashing what had been the source of much violence and many tears. Better it’s in the open than buried, better to let her rave from time to time. Ahead now the road left the fields and entered Qazvin, a city like most every other Iranian city, noisy, cramped, dirty, polluted, and traffic-jammed. Beside the road were the joub that skirted most roads in Iran. Here the ditches were three feet deep, in parts concreted, with slush and ice and a little water trickling down them. Trees grew out of them, townsfolk washed their clothes in them, sometimes used them as a source of drinking water, or as a sewer. Beyond the ditches the walls began. Walls that hid houses or gardens, big or small, rich or eyesores. Usually the town and city houses were two floors, drab and boxlike, some brick, adobe, some plastered, and almost all of them hidden. Most had dirt floors, a few had running water, electricity, and some sanitation.
Traffic built up with startling suddenness. Bicycles, motorcycles, buses, trucks, cars of all sizes and makes and ages from ancient to very old, almost all dented and patched, some highly decorated with different-colored paints and small lights to suit the owners’ fancy. Erikki had driven this way many times over the last few years and he knew the bottlenecks that could happen. But there was no other way, no detour around the city though one had been planned for years. He smiled scornfully, trying to shut his ears to the noise, and thought, There’ll never be a detour, the Qazvinis couldn’t stand the quiet. Qazvinis and Rashtians - people from Rasht on the Caspian - were the butts of many Iranian jokes.
He skirted a burned-out wreck, then put in a cassette of Beethoven and turned the volume up to soothe the noise away. But it didn’t help much. “This traffic’s worse than usual! Where are the police?” Azadeh said, wide awake now. “Are you thirsty?”
“No, no thanks.” He glanced across at her, the sweater and tumbling hair enhancing her. He grinned. “But I’m hungry - hungry for you!” She laughed and took his arm. “I’m not hungry - just ravenous!” “Good.” They were content together.
As usual the road surface was bad. Here and there it was torn up - partially because of wear, partially because of never-ending repairs and road works though these rarely were signposted or had safety barriers. He skirted a deep hole then eased past another wreck that had been shoved carelessly into the side. As he did so a crumpled truck came from the other direction, its horn blaring angrily. It was brightly decorated, the fenders tied up with wire, the cab open and glassless, a piece of cloth the tank cap. On the flatbed was brushwood, piled high, with three passengers hanging on precariously. The driver was huddled up and wrapped in a ragged sheepskin coat. Two other men were beside him. As Erikki passed he was surprised to see them glaring at him. A few yards farther on a battered, overladen bus lumbered toward him. With great care he went closer to the joub, hugging the side to give the bus room, his wheels on the rim, and stopped. Again he saw the driver and all the passengers stare at him as they passed, women in their chadors, young men, bearded and clothed heavily against the cold. One of them shook his fist at him. Another shouted a curse.
We’ve never had any trouble before, Erikki thought uneasily. Everywhere he looked were the same angry glances. From the street and from the vehicles. He had to go very slowly because of the swarms of rogue motorcycles, bicycles, among the cars, buses, and trucks, in single lanes that fought for space - obedient to no traffic laws other than those which pleased the individual - and now a flock of sheep poured out of a side street to clutter the road, the motorists screaming abuse at the herdsmen, the herdsmen screaming abuse back and everyone angry and impatient, horns blaring. “Damned traffic! Stupid sheep!” Azadeh said impatiently, wide awake now. “Sound your horn, Erikki!”
“Be patient, go back to sleep. There’s no way I can overtake anyone,” he shouted over the tumult, conscious of the unfriendliness that surrounded them. “Be patient!”
Another three hundred yards took half an hour, other traffic coming from both sides to join the stream that got slower and slower. Street vendors and pedestrians and refuse. Now he was inching along behind a bus that took up most of the roadway, almost scraping cars on the other side, most times with one wheel half over the lip of the joub. Motorcyclists shoved past carelessly, banging the sides of the Range Rover and other vehicles, cursing each other and everyone else, pushing and kicking the sheep out of the way, stampeding them. From behind, a small car nudged him, then the driver jammed his hand on his horn in a paroxysm of rage that sent a sudden shaft of anger into Erikki’s head. Close your ears, he ordered himself. Be calm! There’s nothing you can do! Be calm!
But he found it increasingly difficult. After half an hour the sheep turned off into an alley, and traffic picked up a little. Then around the next corner the whole roadway was dug up and an unmarked ten-foot ditch - some six feet deep and half-filled with water - barred the way. A group of insolent workmen squatted nearby, hurling back abuse. And obscene gestures. It was impossible to go forward or back, so all traffic had to detour into a narrow side street, the bus ahead not making the turn, having to stop and reverse to more screams of rage and more tumult and when Erikki backed to give it room, a battered blue car behind him swerved around him on the opposite side of the road into the small opening ahead and forced the oncoming car to brake suddenly and skid. One of its wheels sank into the joub and the whole car tipped dangerously. Now traffic was totally snarled. Enraged, Erikki put on his brake, tore his door open, and went over to the car in the ditch and used his great strength to drag it back on the road. No one else helped, just swore and added to the uproar. Then he strode for the blue car. At that moment the bus made the corner and now there was room to move, the driver of the blue car let in his clutch and roared off with an obscene gesture.
With an effort Erikki unclenched his fists. Traffic on both sides of the road was honking at him. He got into the driver’s seat and let in the clutch.
“Here,” Azadeh said uneasily. She gave him a cup of coffee. “Thanks.” He drank it, driving with one hand, the traffic slowing again. The blue car had vanished. When he could talk calmly, he said, “If I’d got my hands on him or his car I’d have torn it and him to pieces.” “Yes. Yes, I know. Erikki, have you noticed how hostile everyone is to us? So angry?”
“Yes, yes, I have.”
“But why? We’ve driven though Qazvin twenty tim - ” Azadeh ducked involuntarily as refuse suddenly hit her window, then lurched across into his protection, frightened. He cursed and rolled up the windows, then reached across her and locked her door. Dung hit the windshield. “What the hell’s up with these matyeryebyets?” he muttered. “It’s as though we’ve an American flag flying and we’re waving pictures of the Shah.” A stone came out of nowhere and ricocheted off the metal sides. Then, ahead, the bus broke out of the narrow side-street diversion into the wide square in front of a mosque where there were market stalls and two lanes of traffic on either side. To Erikki’s relief they picked up some speed. The traffic was still heavy but it was moving and he got into second, heading for the Tehran exit the far side of the square. Halfway around the square the two lanes began to tighten as more vehicles joined those heading for the Tehran road.
“It’s never been this bad,” he muttered. “What the hell’s the holdup for?” “It must be another accident,” Azadeh said, very unsettled. “Or road works. Should we turn back - the traffic’s not so bad that way?” “We’ve plenty of time,” he said, encouraging her. “We’ll be out of here in a minute. Once-through the town we’ll be fine.” Ahead everything was slowing again, the din picking up. The two lanes were clogging, gradually becoming one again with much hooting, swearing, stopping, starting again and grinding along at about ten miles an hour, street stores and pushcarts encroaching the roadway and straddling the joub. They were almost at the exit when some youths ran alongside, began shouting insults, some foul. One of the youths banged on his side window. “American dog…”
“Pig Amer’can…”
These men were joined by others and some women in chador, fists raised. Erikki was bottled in and could not get out of the traffic or speed up or slow down nor could be turn around and he felt rage growing at his helplessness. Some of the men were banging on the hood and sides of the Range Rover and on his window. Now there was a pack of them and those on Azadeh’s side were taunting her, making obscene gestures, trying to open the door. One of the youths jumped on the hood but slipped and fell off and just managed to scramble out of the way before Erikki drove over him. The bus ahead stopped. Immediately there was a frantic melee as would-be passengers fought to get on and others fought to get off. Then Erikki saw an opening, stamped on the accelerator throwing off another man, got around the bus, just missing pedestrians who carelessly flooded through the traffic, and swung into a side street that miraculously was clear, raced up it and cut into another, narrowly avoided a mass of motorcyclists, and continued on again. Soon he was quite lost, for there was no pattern to the city or town except refuse and stray dogs and traffic, but he took his bearings from the sun’s shadows and at length came out onto a wider road, shoved his way into the traffic and around it, and soon came onto a road that he recognized, one that took him into another square in front of another mosque and then back on the Tehran road. “We’re all right now, Azadeh, they were just hooligans.” “Yes,” she said shakily. “They should be whipped.”
