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Authors: Joseph Koenig
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questions come up every day,” Darius said. “The prophets didn’t anticipate the modern age.”
“Nothing is new,” Bijan answered with conviction, “merely things that are not as they appear to be at first glance. For instance, dig deep at the Golabis’ and, if God wills it, you will uncover a robbery like countless others.”
“And if I dig here, what will I find?”
Bijan gazed at the apartment houses. It seemed to Darius that he focused on the bricks rather than glimpse inside the windows. “The girl was an Arab, a narcotics addict. It is not the responsibility of the National Police of the Islamic Republic to sort through the world’s garbage.”
“How do you know she used drugs?”
“On reflection it is plain.”
“Nothing is plain,” Darius said. “Dr. Baghai almost missed it.”
“We have our sources.”
“Your people killed her. That’s your source.”
“Slander against the Committee for the Revolution is a crime for which the penalty is years at hard labor,” Bijan said. “If you persist in such remarks, be prepared to back them up with fact.”
“She was yours.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by yours. The Pasdars found her body. We alerted the police, who took her away. So it follows that now she is yours, am I right? I came to tell you that pursuing more relevant investigations will enhance your worth to the Revolution. If you would rather waste time on a prostitute, it is up to you, of course, but—” Bijan slid his hand along the oiled barrel of the Uzi, fondled it—teased it, Darius thought. “But not useful to anyone.”
“How did you know—”
“That the girl used drugs? I told you—” Bijan stroked the muzzle, and wiped his hand on his pants. “The Komiteh has its sources, even in the morgue.”
“I don’t mean that,” Darius said.
“What?”
“How did you know I was here?”
Farib lay on her small piece of the mattress with her elbows like barbed wire around her body. Vaguely, Darius remembered when she sprawled across the bed and could not sleep unless he was pressed tight beside her. Over the years she had gravitated to one side from which he was excluded except upon invitation. He noticed a leg almost off the mattress. If he did not repair his marriage, soon she would be sleeping on the floor, or else he on the couch. In the morning he would offer to go shopping with her, look for nice things to put in her new valise.
Stepping out of his clothes, he raised the blanket. Without benefit of surgery Farib’s body was nearly as perfect as her nose. It was Darius’s complaint, never expressed, that he slept each night with the Venus de Milo, and worried about leaving smudges. Perversely, he anticipated her rages, when bloodless lips or the clumsy gesture that proved her to be human inspired new love—and more frustration. His eyes full of her cool beauty, he climbed under the covers trying not to brush against her.
He was awakened by the phone. Too tired to move, he lay on his chin and listened to it ring. When it stopped, he opened his eyes. He was alone in bed, the room flooded with late-morning sun. The ringing began again. He hurried into the kitchen, and picked up on the extension.
A whisper he couldn’t put a name to asked to speak to the lieutenant colonel. With the receiver against his shoulder he brought the teapot under the faucet. Running water washed away the cobwebs, and he recognized Farhad on the line.
“I’ve been thinking about the girl,” he was saying. “Possibly, there are other things I remember about her.”
“What things?”
Farhad had his own agenda. “Before I tell you, there’s a small favor you can do—”
“Keep out of trouble,” Darius said, “and you won’t need favors.”
“It’s not for me—for a friend, a girl very much like the one we talked about.”
“What kind of trouble is she in?”
“Evin Prison,” Farhad said. “That kind.”
A sound meant to be ironic laughter came out of
“Nothing is new,” Bijan answered with conviction, “merely things that are not as they appear to be at first glance. For instance, dig deep at the Golabis’ and, if God wills it, you will uncover a robbery like countless others.”
“And if I dig here, what will I find?”
Bijan gazed at the apartment houses. It seemed to Darius that he focused on the bricks rather than glimpse inside the windows. “The girl was an Arab, a narcotics addict. It is not the responsibility of the National Police of the Islamic Republic to sort through the world’s garbage.”
“How do you know she used drugs?”
“On reflection it is plain.”
“Nothing is plain,” Darius said. “Dr. Baghai almost missed it.”
“We have our sources.”
“Your people killed her. That’s your source.”
“Slander against the Committee for the Revolution is a crime for which the penalty is years at hard labor,” Bijan said. “If you persist in such remarks, be prepared to back them up with fact.”
“She was yours.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by yours. The Pasdars found her body. We alerted the police, who took her away. So it follows that now she is yours, am I right? I came to tell you that pursuing more relevant investigations will enhance your worth to the Revolution. If you would rather waste time on a prostitute, it is up to you, of course, but—” Bijan slid his hand along the oiled barrel of the Uzi, fondled it—teased it, Darius thought. “But not useful to anyone.”
“How did you know—”
“That the girl used drugs? I told you—” Bijan stroked the muzzle, and wiped his hand on his pants. “The Komiteh has its sources, even in the morgue.”
“I don’t mean that,” Darius said.
“What?”
“How did you know I was here?”
Farib lay on her small piece of the mattress with her elbows like barbed wire around her body. Vaguely, Darius remembered when she sprawled across the bed and could not sleep unless he was pressed tight beside her. Over the years she had gravitated to one side from which he was excluded except upon invitation. He noticed a leg almost off the mattress. If he did not repair his marriage, soon she would be sleeping on the floor, or else he on the couch. In the morning he would offer to go shopping with her, look for nice things to put in her new valise.
Stepping out of his clothes, he raised the blanket. Without benefit of surgery Farib’s body was nearly as perfect as her nose. It was Darius’s complaint, never expressed, that he slept each night with the Venus de Milo, and worried about leaving smudges. Perversely, he anticipated her rages, when bloodless lips or the clumsy gesture that proved her to be human inspired new love—and more frustration. His eyes full of her cool beauty, he climbed under the covers trying not to brush against her.
He was awakened by the phone. Too tired to move, he lay on his chin and listened to it ring. When it stopped, he opened his eyes. He was alone in bed, the room flooded with late-morning sun. The ringing began again. He hurried into the kitchen, and picked up on the extension.
A whisper he couldn’t put a name to asked to speak to the lieutenant colonel. With the receiver against his shoulder he brought the teapot under the faucet. Running water washed away the cobwebs, and he recognized Farhad on the line.
“I’ve been thinking about the girl,” he was saying. “Possibly, there are other things I remember about her.”
“What things?”
Farhad had his own agenda. “Before I tell you, there’s a small favor you can do—”
“Keep out of trouble,” Darius said, “and you won’t need favors.”
“It’s not for me—for a friend, a girl very much like the one we talked about.”
“What kind of trouble is she in?”
“Evin Prison,” Farhad said. “That kind.”
A sound meant to be ironic laughter came out of
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