careful.”
Azadeh had laughed. “My Erikki’s cleverer than your Tommy - when Erikki tried the quilts on our carpet he sighed all night and turned and turned and kept me awake - I was so exhausted after three nights I quite liked the bed. When I visit my family I sleep civilized, though when Erikki’s at the palace we use a bed. You know, darling, another problem: I love my Erikki but sometimes he’s so rude I almost die. He keeps saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ when I ask him something - how can you have a conversation after yes or no?”
She smiled to herself now. Yes, it’s very difficult living with him, but living without him now is unthinkable - all his love and good humor and size and strength and always doing what I want but only just a little too easily, so I have little chance to sharpen my wiles. “We’re both very lucky, Sharazad, aren’t we?”
“Oh, yes, darling. Can you stay for a week or two - even if Erikki has to go back, you stay, please?”
“I’d like to. When Erikki gets back… perhaps I’ll ask him.” Sharazad shifted in the bath, moving the bubbles over her breasts, blowing them off her hands. “Mac said they’d come here from the airport if they were delayed. Genny’s coming straight from the apartment but not before nine - I also asked Paula to join us, the Italian girl, but not for Nogger, for Charlie.” She chuckled. “Charlie almost swoons when she just looks at him!” “Charlie Pettikin? Oh, but that’s wonderful. Oh, that’s very good. Then we should help him - we owe him so much! Let’s help him snare the sexy Italian!”
“Wonderful! Let’s plan how to give Paula to him.”
“As a mistress or wife?”
“Mistress. Well… let me think! How old is she? She must be at least twenty-seven. Do you think she’d make him a good wife? He should have a wife. All the girls Tommy and I have shown him discreetly, he just smiles and shrugs - I even brought my third cousin who was fifteen, thinking that would tempt him, but nothing. Oh, good, now we have something to plan. We’ve plenty of time to plan and dress and get ready - and I’ve some lovely dresses for you to choose from.”
“It feels so strange, Sharazad, not to have anything - anything. Money, papers…” For an instant Azadeh was back in the Range Rover near the roadblock, and there before her was the fat-faced mujhadin who had stolen their papers, his machine gun blazing as Erikki rammed him against the other car, crushing him like a cockroach, blood and filth squeezed from his mouth. “Having nothing,” she said, forcing the bad away, “not even a lipstick.” “Never mind, I’ve lots of everything. And Tommy‘11 be so pleased to have you and Erikki here. He doesn’t like me to be alone either. Poor darling, don’t worry. You’re safe now.”
I don’t feel safe at all, Azadeh told herself, hating the fear that was so alien to her whole upbringing - that even now seemed to take away the warmth of the water. I haven’t felt safe since we left Rakoczy on the ground and even that had only lasted a moment, the ecstasy of escaping that devil - me, Erikki, and Charlie unhurt. Even the joy of finding a car with gasoline in it at the little airstrip didn’t take my fear away. I hate being afraid. She ducked down a little in the tub, then reached up and turned on the hot-water tap, swirling the hot currents.
“That feels so good,” Sharazad murmured, the foam heavy, and the water sensuous. “I’m so pleased you wanted to stay.”
Last evening, by the time Azadeh, Erikki, and Charlie had reached McIver’s apartment it was after dark. They had found Gavallan there, so no room for them - Azadeh had been too frightened to want to stay in her father’s apartment, even with Erikki - so she had asked Sharazad if they could move in with her until Lochart returned. Sharazad had delightedly agreed at once, glad for the company. Everything had begun to be fine and then, during dinner, there was gunfire nearby, making her jump.
“No need to worry, Azadeh,” McIver had said. “Just a few hotheads letting off steam, celebrating probably. Didn’t you hear Khomeini’s order to lay down all arms?” Everyone agreeing and Sharazad saying, “The Imam will be obeyed,” always referring to Khomeini as “the Imam,” almost associating him with the Twelve Imams of Shi’ism - the direct descendants of Mohammed the Prophet, near divinity - surely a sacrilege: “But what the Imam’s accomplished is almost a miracle, isn’t it?” Sharazad had said with her beguiling innocence. “Surely our freedom’s a gift of God?” Then so warm and toasty in bed with Erikki, but him strange and brooding and not the Erikki she had known. “What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” “Nothing, Azadeh, nothing. Tomorrow I’ll make a plan. There was no time tonight to talk to Mac or Gavallan. Tomorrow we’ll make a plan, now sleep, my darling.”
Twice in the night she had awakened from violent dreams, trembling and terrified, crying out for Erikki.
“It’s all right, Azadeh, I’m here. It was only a dream, you’re quite safe now.”
“No, no, we’re not. I don’t feel safe, Erikki - what’s happening to me? Let’s go back to Tabriz, or let’s go away, go away from these awful people.” In the morning Erikki had left her to join McIver and Gavallan, and she had slept some more but gathered little strength from the sleep. Passing the rest of the morning daydreaming or hearing Sharazad’s news about going to Galeg Morghi, or listening to the hourly crop of rumors from her servants: many more generals shot, many new arrests, the prisons burst open by mobs, Western hotels set on fire or shot up. Rumors of Bazargan taking the reins of government, mujhadin in open rebellion in the south, Kurds rebelling in the north, Azerbaijan declaring independence, the nomad tribes of the Kash’kai and Bakhtiari throwing off the yoke of Tehran; everyone laying down their arms or no one laying down their arms. Rumors that Prime Minister Bakhtiar had been captured and shot or escaped to the hills or to Turkey, to America; President Carter preparing an invasion or Carter recognizing Khomeini’s government; Soviet troops massing on the border ready to invade or Brezhnev coming to Tehran to congratulate Khomeini; the Shah landing in Kurdistan supported by American troops or the Shah dead in exile. ” Then going to lunch with Sharazad’s parents at the Bakravan house near the bazaar, but only after Sharazad had insisted she wear the chador, hating the chador and everything it stood for. More rumors at the huge family house, but benign there, no fear and absolute confidence. Abundance as always, just as in her own home in Tabriz, servants smiling and safe and thanks be to God for victory, Jared Bakravan had told them jovially, and now with the bazaar going to open and all foreign banks closed, business will be marvelous as it was before the ungodly laws the Shah instituted. After lunch they had returned to Sharazad’s apartment. By foot. Wrapped in the chador. Never a problem for them and every man deferential. The bazaar was crowded, with pitifully little for sale though every merchant foretold abundance ready to be trucked, trained, or flown in - ports clogged with hundreds of ships, laden with merchandise. On the street, thousands walked this way and that, Khomeini’s name on every lip, chanting “Allah-u Akbarrr,” almost all men and boys armed - none of the old people. In some areas Green Bands, in place of police, haphazardly and amateurishly directed traffic, or stood around truculently. In other areas police as always. Two tanks rumbled past driven by soldiers, masses of guards and civilians on them, waving to the cheering pedestrians.
Even so, everyone was tense under the patina of joy, particularly the women enveloped in their shrouds. Once, they had turned a corner and seen ahead a group of youths surrounding a dark-haired woman dressed in Western clothes, jeering at her, abusing her, shouting insults, and making obscene signs, several of them exposing themselves, waggling their penises at her. The woman was in her thirties, dressed neatly, a short coat over her skirt, long legs and long hair under a little hat. Then she was joined by a man who shoved through the crowd to her. At once he began shouting that they were English and to leave them alone, but the men paid no attention to him, jostling him, concentrating on the woman. She was petrified. There was no way for Sharazad and Azadeh to walk around the crowd that grew quickly, hemming them in, so they were forced to watch. Then a mullah arrived and told the crowd to leave, harangued the two foreigners to obey Islamic customs. By the time they got home they were tired and both felt soiled. They had taken off their clothes and collapsed on the quilt bed. “I’m glad I went out today,” Azadeh had said wearily, deeply concerned. “But we women better organize a protest before it’s too late. We better march through the streets, without chador or veils, to make our point with the mullahs: that we’re not chattel, we have rights, and wearing the chador’s up to us - not to them.”
“Yes, let’s! After all, we helped win the victory too!” Sharazad had yawned, half asleep. “Oh, I’m so tired.”
The nap had helped.
Idly Azadeh was watching the bubbles of foam crackling, the water hotter now, the sweet-smelling vapor very pleasing. Then she sat up for a moment, smoothing the foam on her breasts and shoulders. “It’s curious, Sharazad, but I was glad to wear chador today - those men were so awful.” “Men on the street are always awful, darling Azadeh.” Sharazad opened her eyes and watched her, golden skin glistening, nipples proud. “You’re so beautiful, Azadeh darling.”
“Ah, thank you - but you’re the beautiful one.” Azadeh rested her hand on her friend’s stomach and patted her. “Little mother, eh?” “Oh, I do so hope so.” Sharazad sighed, closed her eyes and gave herself back to the heat. “I can hardly imagine myself a mother. Three more days and then I’ll know. When are you and Erikki going to have
