12

Touran Jan was right when she said, “Why doesn’t anyone knock on the door of this house? Not even a single ring of the telephone!” She would ask Hasti, “What did you do with Salim . . . ? There’s no hope for Morad . . . To boot . . .”

Until finally someone did knock on the door of the house. Someone was pounding on the door with his fist, scratching on the door with his nails. It sounded as if he even kicked the door.

Hasti opened the door to a teenage boy who was wearing big sandals, without socks. On top of his tattered trousers, she recognized the blue-green sweater that she had given Morad as a gift, even though it now had many holes. All over the sweater, stains, mud, and clotted blood. Nevertheless, she recognized it. It was her own knitting.

The teenager gave Hasti a crumbled piece of paper and said, “This paper, it’s from Aqa Bak.”

Hasti took the letter. She recognized Morad’s handwriting, but still she looked at the signature on the letter. “Baktash. M.”

Help us. Bring whatever money you have in the house. If you come with the boy, he knows the address. Otherwise, tell the taxi driver, “The shantytown, Mansour Street, Shahbaz South.” Ask for Fatemeh Sabzevari’s house. Tell the driver that you are a social worker.

“Wait,” Hasti told the teenager. “I’ll come with you.” She went to the kitchen and showed the letter to Touran Jan. Touran Jan didn’t have her glasses handy, so Hasti read the letter to her.

“I wish Shahin hadn’t presented himself for his military duty . . . ,” Grandmother said. “We have cans of pear compote; take some for him.”

“If need be,” Hasti asked, “may I bring him here?”

“Of course! But he’s written, ‘Help us!’ Don’t bring them all here!”

Hasti set off with the boy. She held out her hand in front of several taxis, but they all passed by. Just before Khaneqah Street, she got a taxi. Hasti sat in the back and told the boy to sit next to the driver. The boy searched for the door handle and clawed on the car window. The driver opened the car door, and the teenager entered, but he didn’t know how to close the door. The driver closed the door and said, “What a wild creature we have here, first thing in the morning.”

Hasti gave the address, and the driver grumbled, “It’ll cost you a lot.”

Hasti put her hand on the boy’s shoulder and asked, “What is your name, sir?”

“I’m not a sir. I’m your servant, Fazlollah.”

“How did you find my house?” Hasti asked.

“Aqa Morteza came with me. But I would have found it even if he hadn’t come.”

“What do you do?” Hasti asked. “Do you go to school?”

“We went to school once. Queen Fanar had said to. The school said, ‘You slum children are wild.’ We didn’t have birth certificates, either.”

“Why didn’t you have birth certificates?”

“Well, we just didn’t have them.”

By then Hasti had realized where she was going. The squatter settlement—neighborhood of the undocumented. Now, why had Morad ended up there? And who are the “us” that he had written in the letter?

“What do you do now?” she asked Fazlollah.

“We pick through trash.”

“Why do you pick through trash?”

“We find stuff. There are lots of things in the trash: food, toys, many, many things.”

The driver looked at Hasti in the mirror and said, “I’ve taken many riders to the shacks of these unfortunate people. He’s right. Even Queen Farah has gone there. You’re probably a social worker. You do good deeds, but it’s no use.”

“You are doing a good deed, too,” Hasti said.

“Oh, lady, whenever I go there, I feel all the world’s sadness in my heart. The poor fellow is right. The end of the shantytown is Tehran’s sewer. On its other side, there’s the trash heap where garbage is dumped every day.”

They passed by a water pump and a crowd of women with basins, plastic buckets, plastic pitchers, and pots in their hands. The taxi stopped at a muddy area beside a gutter full of sludge. It seemed as if they had gathered all the garbage in the world and thrown it into that gutter, so that the gutter would bring it to the sewer of Tehran as a souvenir. The sun was the same Tehran sun, but wasn’t its heart filled with all the world’s sadness from what it was seeing? Like the taxi driver’s was?

They walked through passageways that you couldn’t even call alleys. Empty tins from vegetable oil and kerosene containers full of construction and demolition waste, stones, and mud had been piled on top of each other to make what were perhaps called walls. The cracks between the tin containers were filled with mud and straw. Some of them had been covered with plaster, but the plaster was chipped everywhere. Thin wooden roofs or three layers of tin or torn canvas sheltered the residents of the shantytown. If Hasti were to paint their image, even the paintbrush would weep blood in sadness.

“What do you do in the winter?” she asked Fazlollah.

“We sneeze and shiver.”

“How old are you?”

“How would I know?”

It seemed the path had no end. In the passageways of this matchbox city, city of the forgotten, city by the gate of a great civilization, children, roosters and chickens, cats and dogs were all wriggling together.

Hasti and Fazlollah reached a big canal over which several flimsy bridges made of wooden sticks and planks had been placed. These bridges would take the people of the shantytown to their beloved trash heap.

Beside the canal, Fazlollah pulled aside a gunnysack curtain, and they went inside a shack. The floor of the room was damp. A bearded Morad was lying on a mattress in a corner of the room. His eyes were closed, and a worn-out blanket covered him. In another corner of the room a two-burner kerosene stove was lit. On top of the stove was a pot in which something was boiling. The room was full of junk—old shoes, a radio, broken dolls, and shattered toys.

A woman entered—dark-skinned, middle-aged, with a black scarf on her head, a kerchief tied as a headband on her forehead, and a dress that came down to her ankles. Once long ago, it was a velvet dress. The woman had a withered bunch of herbs in her hand.

Hasti wanted to pound on the shack wall with both her fists, but she was scared that the roof would collapse on their heads or that the picture would fall—the picture hanging on the wall of a clergyman whose black turban meant that he was a descendent of the Prophet. The woman didn’t say hello. She sat to clean the herbs. Hasti gave the woman three cans of compote. Then the woman said hello.

Hasti sat beside Morad’s mattress and held his hand. It was very hot. She put her hand on his forehead, and it was even hotter. Morad opened his eyes.

“I must take you out of here as soon as possible,” Hasti said.

“First,” Morad replied, “you must take a man with a broken leg to the hospital . . .”

Fazlollah came in with a bag in his hand and shouted, “Onions!”

“Pour them in the tiki.”

Morad smiled and said, “Tiki means ‘soup.’”

Garbage soup, Hasti thought.

The middle-aged woman gave Fazlollah one of the cans of compote. “Son,” she said, “take this to the welding workshop to open it. His lips have grown tanas.”

“Tanas,” Morad translated, “means ‘swollen and cracked.’”

So, he wasn’t feeling too bad, since he was able to translate.

Fatemeh Sabzevari said, “Your fiancée should buy opium from Haji.” Addressing Hasti, she said, “He’s hallucinating. He’s become mad with fever.”

Fatemeh led the way, and Hasti followed her. They passed the welding workshop. Hooked nails had fallen in a corner. Fatemeh had raised her skirt, and she was wearing men’s shoes. They arrived at a shack that had a door. They knocked. Haji Ma‘sumeh dressed in men’s clothing opened the door to them. She still had Simin’s amber necklace around her neck. There was a rug on the floor of the room. Haji Ma‘sumeh even had a television. At first, she didn’t recognize Hasti, but when she did, she said, “My darling! Hasti Khanom, what brought you here? Please come in, and I’ll make you some tea.”

“Sell me some opium,” Hasti said.

“Of course!”

“Ja‘far, get up!” she shouted. Hasti just then recognized Ja‘far, Haji Ma‘sumeh’s brother. Ja‘far—Jeffrey—with his usual fuzzy hair, was lying on the rug with a stuffed bag under his head. Jeffrey got up and said hello. At Haji Ma‘sumeh’s indication, he took a long roll of opium from the bag. Hasti put her hand in her purse.

“I swear to the Kaaba’s black stone, that I have kissed,” Haji Ma‘sumeh said. “I will not accept even a penny from you.” Then she whispered, “Here, I’m Mr. Haji Ma‘sum.”

“This is too much,” Hasti said.

“Keep it. It will come in handy.”

Nevertheless, he, Haji Ma‘sum, split the opium roll in three parts and gave one part to Hasti. From Hasti’s part, he made a small ball in his hand.

Fazlollah’s mother spoke with the current Haji Ma‘sum in a language that Hasti couldn’t understand, except for “anxious” and “Aqa Bak.” She realized that Fatemeh Sabzevari was worried about Morad. Haji Ma‘sum, from the city of Qaen, said, “Go! You can leave!”

Finding Haji Ma‘sum in that wasteland of the homeless, where Hasti didn’t know the language, was a blessing. They set out together. On the way to the house where the man with a broken leg was, Haji Ma‘sum revealed to Hasti all the secrets of the shantytown . . .

“One day,” he told her, “three men came. One was Morteza, who is robust and husky and has blue eyes. One was Aqa Baktash, who smuggled electricity for them and made a welding workshop, where they are now making nails for sale. He sent men to work as laborers and women to work as maids. He forbad the renting of children to beggars. He tried to teach the women to stand in line by the water pump, but the women didn’t learn that. Now he has become ill . . . He has always been frail . . . All three of them have denied themselves of so much. They would cook lentils and eat them for three or four days. Cigarettes and tea, never. They would sleep on the bare floor. The man with the broken leg had gone to fix a bridge over the sewer—they themselves call it a canal—because children were falling into the water all the time and drowning. He himself fell from the bridge, and his thigh bone was shattered.”

They arrived at the room of the man with the shattered thigh. His beard was fuller than Morad’s beard, and Hasti thought she had seen him somewhere. When she put the opium ball in his mouth, she recognized him. It was none other than Hadi—Farhad Dorafshan. What were these three people doing in the slum of rental children?

“Where’s the nearest telephone?”

“Mashhadi Baqer’s shop on Shahbaz Street. What do you need it for?”

“I want to call an ambulance and get him to the hospital.”

“Ambulances don’t come here. State hospitals won’t admit him, either. And he wouldn’t go there himself. Get a taxi and take him to a private hospital.”

Hasti and Haji Ma‘sum stood on Shahbaz Street South and held out their hands for taxis. Some of the taxi drivers slowed down and motioned that they were going straight ahead. An empty taxi came by, and Haji Ma‘sum stood in the street in front of it. The driver slammed on the brakes and stopped within an inch of him. The driver jumped out of the car, but when he saw Haji Ma‘sum’s stature, he changed his mind about fighting. Instead, he said, “My good man, if I had run you over, you would have ruined my life.”

“Bastard,” Haji Ma‘sum said, “a man has broken his leg. You must take him to the hospital. If not, I’ll ruin both you and your taxi.” The driver seemingly succumbed to the plea of Hasti, who spoke of doing a good deed. They both got in, and the taxi stopped at the barren land in front of the shacks.

“Darling, Hasti Khanom, don’t get out of the taxi,” Haji Ma‘sum said. “Hossein Ali will carry the man with the broken leg on his back and bring him here. I’ll run and send them. You know that I have things to do.”

He was right. It was not good to leave a bag full of Afghan opium alone in a shack with fuzzy-haired Jeffrey.

Hossein Ali and the driver helped put Farhad Dorafshan on the back seat. Hossein Ali shouted, “Brother, lie straight, flat on your back!” Farhad lay on his back.

By then Hasti had a plan. She would take him to the National Iranian Oil Company Hospital. She would tell the hospital guard that he was a close friend of Dr. Bahari’s and that she was a social worker. Hossein Ali and Hasti sat in front.

“You make hooked nails, don’t you?” Hasti asked Hossein Ali.

“Yes, sister. We sell them in the bazaar for three tomans a kilo. We make thirty to forty tomans a day.” Then he added, “Aqa Baktash built the forge. God bless him.”

Hasti explained to the driver that once they had taken the man with the broken leg to the hospital, they would return and take another sick man to Valiabad Street.

“I suppose you take quite a few sick people to their homes or the hospital . . . ,” the driver said. Then he asked Hossein Ali, “Mister, how many sick people are there in the shantytown?”

“There have to be forty or fifty.”

“What is the population of these slums?” Hasti asked.

Mister Hossein Ali said, “Aqa Morteza is counting people. Mostly, they are kids. There are so many mosquitos that the legs of young and old alike become pitted. Aqa Morteza says that it’s from lack of food.”

The hospital gate was open, but the gatekeeper would not let the taxi drive in. Dr. Bahari’s name and the social worker position were the charm, however, and the gatekeeper called for a stretcher. Two men came and laid Farhad on the stretcher. Hasti whispered in Hossein Ali’s ear to stay in the taxi.

In the hospital foyer, behind the information desk, a girl with an ironed nurse’s hat and a uniform as white as snow was talking on the phone. Above her head, there was a picture on the wall that showed a nurse with her finger to her lips. Hush.

“My darling,” the talking nurse said, “I told you that I can’t. I have guests tonight.” Pause.

“No, swear to God, my heart does not belong to anyone else.” Pause.

“Tomorrow night I am on call, too. No, swear to God, I’m not having an affair with the golden-eyed doctor. Believe me. You are so unappreciative! Bye-bye.”

The talking nurse took out a piece of paper. “Name?”

The patient moaned, “Mister Hossein Ali.”

“Occupation?”

“Lottery ticket . . .” He couldn’t even say “Lottery ticket seller.”

“Address?”

Hasti glanced at Farhad, who was wearing the same dark gray winter jacket that he had been wearing in Salim’s house. He was not a big oaf any longer. She thought of giving Salim’s address, but what came out of her mouth was her own address. “Valiabad . . .” What stupidity. Then she made up for that stupidity. “We don’t have a telephone, and even this address is mine. I’m a social worker.” She had said “social worker” a few hundred times already.

The girl guided them to Room 116 at the end of the corridor. The doctor was the same golden-eyed doctor, with eyeglasses that had golden rims. Hasti mentioned Dr. Bahari, and the golden-eyed doctor smiled and said, “Where did you find this monster? You’re doing good deeds.”

“You can do so as well,” Hasti said.

The doctor rang a bell. An old woman came in. The doctor commanded, “Room 520 . . . He’s a patient of Dr. Bahari.” Then, on the phone, he ordered an X-ray . . . and that they show the image to him.

The old woman asked Hasti, “Didn’t you bring any pajamas for him?” The doctor ordered her to get a patient gown from storage.

The old woman, the stretcher-bearers, and the patient all left. When Hasti sat, anxiety took over. “Would you like some tea?” the doctor asked, and he rang for some.

She had to find Dr. Bahari. She had to take Morad home. She had to bargain with the taxi driver over the fare. She wanted to pound the wall with both fists and say, “I am so worried.”

The wall was all white. In front of her was a cheap painting showing a farm in the sun. Several white lambs were grazing. She counted them. Seven. As she was about to feel calm, it occurred to her that there was a wolf hiding somewhere. She couldn’t see the wolf, but she could feel its presence.

The old woman returned. They had done the X-ray, and the patient had been put to bed. Hasti rose.

“Don’t you want some tea?” the doctor asked.

“Why, yes!” She was so tired . . .

Waiting for the tea, she stood in front of another cheap painting by the door. Several fish had their open mouths close to one another. Did they want to kiss each other? Were they talking to each other? Suddenly, a spark flashed in Hasti’s mind; if the damned worry was not there, a poem would have flown from the painting. The fish have convened a seminar on their struggle with fishermen. They are discussing different kinds of lures and traps. That big goldfish is saying, “The line of the trap looks like a straight long worm. The lure is the worm itself, or maybe it isn’t. The fisherman is a monster.” And that yellow fish is saying, “But the main enemy isn’t the fisherman. He works hard to keep body and soul together . . .”

When they brought the tea, Hasti asked the doctor to have them take two glasses outside—one for the driver and one for the man with him.

“Three,” the doctor ordered. “Take a glass of tea for the gatekeeper, too.”

When they arrived back at the barren land in front of the shacks, the taxi stopped, and the driver told Hasti, “Sister, go bring your other patient.”

Hasti and the real Hossein Ali arrived at Fazlollah’s mother’s house. A man with blue eyes was sitting by Morad’s mattress. When he saw Hasti, he rose, said hello, and asked, “Did you hospitalize Hadi?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“National Iranian Oil Company Hospital, Room 520.”

“This is Morteza,” Morad said.

“That’s right!” Morteza added.

“Now, I must take you to my house,” Hasti told Morad. “This young man will carry you on his back.”

“This,” Morad replied, “is a place where faith in the heavens has disappeared.”

Morteza asked permission to call and inquire about Baktash’s health. He said that when he finds a place, he will come pick him up.

Hossein Ali put Morad on his back, and Fazlollah’s mother covered him with a blanket. In her men’s shoes, she walked along with Hasti, saying, “Aqa Bak’s fiancée, I hope you always live in comfort. I hope you always go to weddings. I hope you always eat good food, like meat and fava-bean rice . . .”

Hasti sat in the back seat of the taxi and put Morad’s head on her lap. Fazlollah’s mother removed the blanket from atop Morad. Hasti asked Hossein Ali to sit in the front. She took off her jacket and put it over Morad.

Morad was shivering. He was saying, “A warm place under a secure roof . . . My bones are cracking . . . They have crucified me . . .”

Grandmother and Teimur Khan were standing at the door. Teimur Khan put Morad on his back. All the passengers of the taxi came inside the house, and the driver, too. They laid Morad on the living room sofa. New sheets, new pillowcases, an old comforter with a new cover. Hasti took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and brought it back to the living room with a glass. The driver and Hossein Ali each had some water.

“How much do I owe you?” Hasti asked the driver.

“If I didn’t have a wife and children, nothing. But you can pay whatever you can afford.”

Hasti took out all the money she had in her purse and held it in front of the driver. The driver took thirty tomans and said, “If only we could be captured and taken to a different land.”

Hasti put ten tomans in Hossein Ali’s pocket. Hossein Ali took out the money and said, “All of us are in debt to Aqa Baktash. I am a Muslim, not an ungrateful infidel!”

“Take it, man!” Morad shouted. And the driver said that he would take Hossein Ali as far as Jaleh Square.

With Teimur Khan’s help, Touran Jan gave Morad a footbath with warm water, vinegar, and mustard and put Shahin’s pajama bottoms on him. His jeans had turned to oilcloth. Hadi’s jacket was the same way. Teimur Khan was soaking cotton balls in medicinal alcohol and rubbing them on Morad’s body beneath his sweater. He took off the sweater and put Shahin’s shirt on him. Touran Jan took his temperature. It was 103 degrees. Morad’s teeth were chattering. With that high fever, why was he shivering? Hasti brought Shahin’s blanket and covered him. There was a damp cloth on Morad’s forehead. Teimur Khan had probably put it there.

Now she had to find Dr. Bahari at whatever cost. Hasti decided to call Mr. Ganjur, but Grandmother dissuaded her from that. Instead, she called Mardan Khan. Peggy answered and said that they had guests. She added that in that caravanserai, there were always some guests. “He must have his friends around him, smoke cigarettes, then pipes, then whisky and soda . . . Right now, your mother is reading his coffee cup.”

Hasti said that she had to talk to Mardan Khan urgently. Mardan Khan picked up the phone, and Hasti said hello.

“My darling . . . ,” Mardan Khan said. “Come on, get a taxi and come over. Do you want me to send Bijan to pick you up?”

“I have a patient in bad condition.”

“Who is it?”

“Morad Pakdel.”

“The same guy who was having lunch with you in the Plan Organization cafeteria?”

“Yes.”

“Cross him off. If you give me permission, I’ll find you a good suitor. If Salim Farrokhi doesn’t work out, to hell with him. He’s so arrogant. I can trap Bijan for you.”

“For God’s sake,” Hasti said, “stop it. For now, I just want Dr. Bahari.”

“Dr. Bahari hasn’t come today. He had a patient. But I have several telephone numbers for him. A paper and pencil . . . No, wait, I will find him for you myself.”

“I don’t want to ruin your weekend.”

“There are many other weekends,” Mardan Khan said. “You seem to be desperate.” He wrote down Hasti’s address. He already knew her telephone number.

Teimur Khan was pouring soup into Morad’s mouth. Touran Jan put the tablecloth beside the sofa in the living room and started to have dinner with Hasti and Teimur Khan. She put a drumstick on the plate in front of Hasti. How hungry she was! But she couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Bahari. Mardan Khan would certainly find Dr. Bahari. In her purse she had the gold coin that was Grandmother’s New Year’s gift to her—a lucky charm.

Hasti was sitting by the sofa rubbing Morad’s feet. Morad was saying, “Hasti, don’t let me die. I want to make peace between the Persian speakers and the Turkish speakers of the slum. The Turkish speakers are from Tabriz, Miandoab, Meshkin Shahr, Ardabil . . . I will take you to Sare‘in so that you can draw . . . The Persian speakers are from Khorasan, Sabzevar, Nishapur, Gonabad, Qaen, Birjand, Torbat . . . Hasti, if you still have some opium, give me a bit.”

Hasti made a small ball of opium just like Haji Ma‘sum had done and gave it to Morad to eat.

As Teimur Khan was taking leave, he said, “Call me when you need me.”

“Water, water.”

Why did Morad lose track of time and space after he drank the water?

“The Turkish speakers call them gypsies and exiles . . . From the water pump at the corner, I want . . . to draw water secretly through pipes . . . during the night . . . That day of the electricity cabling . . . how much we laughed . . . Smuggled electricity . . . smuggled water . . . smuggled life . . . Who took Hasti away? Where? Hasti, take me to your house and sing me a lullaby . . . Caress my head. I wonder what happened to the soup Fatemeh made. Did she wash the herbs? The water pump is so far away. Hasti, let’s swim, let’s cool down . . . ‘The sea of love is a vast sea . . . ’ One must go bring water over and over again. There’s an argument over washing dishes. There’s an argument over washing clothes. One water pump for six hundred people . . . Hasti, hold my hands and tell me the tale of The Patient Stone . . . until I break. I was dreaming of you. Where is my youth?”

Hasti was crying while taking the cloth from Morad’s forehead, washing it with cold water, twisting it, and putting it back on his forehead. She moistened a towel and rubbed his face with it. Morad kept hallucinating.

“. . . Besides, they are saying, ‘Get the hell out of here . . . We’ll bring a bulldozer and knock the place down over your heads . . . ’ Even the cleric says, ‘This is illegally occupied land, so your prayers will not be accepted.’ What benefit has city-dwelling brought them? Only disgrace. Fazlollah’s mother, go see if they have brought the child. They pinch the children so that the children will cry and make people feel sorry for them . . . The rent for a child is three tomans a day . . . Diarrhea, jaundice, ulcer . . . they don’t even consider these conditions diseases until they can no longer function. Then they go to Haji for opium . . .”

Morad’s voice became a whisper. “We have sent several letters to the prime minister’s office . . . to the queen’s office . . . Several times they came and took our picture . . . We have had enough . . .”

Hasti was falling asleep when the doorbell rang. Morad opened his eyes. “I knew they would come . . . They’ve tracked us here.”

Dr. Bahari, with his small eyes and wide, smiling mouth, entered.

“You came at last,” Morad said. “I knew it. But I’m just a beginner . . . I’m unable . . . And for now, I’m so sleepy . . .”

Dr. Bahari took Morad’s pulse. He raised Shahin’s shirt that Morad was wearing and put the stethoscope over Morad’s heart and then over his lungs. “Take a deep breath . . . ,” he said. “Now exhale. Breathe again. Sit up.”

Morad lacked the strength to stay upright and was flopping over repeatedly, even though Hasti was holding him. She was surprised by how thin he was, his ribs sticking out, and by his white body and sunburnt face, hands, and feet.

“I didn’t know that SAVAK’s torture is like this,” Morad said. “They said that bright light . . . They would pull out the fingernails with pliers . . . They would hang people upside down . . . Please don’t take Hasti away . . . Hasti has been wasted on me. Hasti has stress, but she doesn’t have hatred. One who has hatred, Mr. Interrogator, cannot connect with people . . . I have hatred, not toward people, but toward those bastards . . .”

Dr. Bahari was not smiling anymore. He went with Hasti to Shahin’s room. Hasti had the gold coin in her fist. “It’s surprising,” Dr. Bahari said, “that he is suffering from pneumonia this season. In his condition, we cannot hospitalize him. And as for you, girl, why would you bring someone like this to your house?”

“We were classmates in the university. We’ve been friends for many years . . .”

“Your mother was telling me that the son of the well-known bazaar merchant, Farrokhi, has proposed to you. What is this mess that you have created?”

Hasti gathered her courage. “I have created an even bigger mess.”

Dr. Bahari took Hasti’s hand in his, the same hand in which there was the gold coin, and the gold coin moved from one hand to the other. “You really do make a mess,” Dr. Bahari said. “How can I take money from you, the daughter of Eshrat . . . ?” He put the coin on Shahin’s blanket-less bed.

“No,” Hasti said, “an even bigger mess . . . For God’s sake, on the lives of your children, don’t shame me.” Because Dr. Bahari didn’t say anything, she continued, “My bigger mess is that, using the magic of your name, I registered a patient by the name of Hossein Ali, who has a broken leg, in the National Iranian Oil Company Hospital.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Which room?”

“Room 520. But that one is experienced. He will not give himself up like this one. As soon as they put a cast on his thigh, he will . . .”

“I see . . . ,” Dr. Bahari said. “Eshrat Ganjur’s daughter is involved in political activities.”

“No. I swear on my honor, I’m not. I am absolutely not involved in any political activities. I became involved in this due to friendship.”

Dr. Bahari wrote a prescription and instructed, “Antibiotics, once every six hours, and other medications . . . Food: chicken soup, fruit compote, broth, and a lot of juice. Take his temperature every morning and every evening. If his temperature rises, call me. My telephone number . . .” He wrote several telephone numbers on top of the prescription. But then he didn’t give the prescription to Hasti.

Hasti saw Dr. Bahari to his car. “You didn’t give me the prescription,” she said.

“I’ll buy it and bring it myself. The closest pharmacy to you that is open on the weekend is the one on the corner of Dowlat Street in Qolhak.”

“So, you won’t shame me?

He shook hands with Hasti and said, “If you ask me, get married as soon as possible. What’s wrong with Farrokhi’s son?”

Grandmother stood beside Morad saying long prayers. Prayers of several different kinds. Dr. Bahari had not only brought the medication, he had also put several boxes of fruit juice on the table. There were two Lion brand pain-relief patches among the medications. The doctor took the patches to the kitchen and warmed them on the stove. Then he made Morad lie on his stomach as he stuck the warm patches on his back. He took Morad’s temperature and gave Morad the antibiotic mixed with fruit juice to drink. Morad couldn’t swallow. The doctor waited and tried again. Grandmother was now repeating short prayers while counting on her prayer beads.

“Do you have an electric humidifier?” the doctor asked.

“No.”

“Boil water in a kettle and bring it along with a basin.”

“My father told me,” Morad said, “‘If you wish to go, go; get lost.’ My mother cried. Farzaneh took off all her clothes and said, ‘Down with America!’ ‘Girl, shame on you,’ I said. ‘In my father’s rooftop room?’”

Grandmother prostrated herself, cried loudly, and asked God to have mercy on the youthful Morad. She lifted her head from prostration and said hello to the doctor. “Doctor,” she continued, “once my martyred son caught a cold in the harshness of winter, and I cupped his back in a few places.”

The three of them bathed Morad’s feet for a second time. They made him inhale the steam. They wrapped the towel around his neck and head and made him lie down. The doctor prepared a syringe and gave him a shot.

“Is the torture over?” Morad asked.

Morad’s subconscious seemed to be aware of the seriousness of his condition, as he kept talking about death. “Where is death?” he asked. “Why doesn’t it come to wrestle with me? There was a prophet who wrestled God . . . Jehovah . . . If I die, perhaps I’ll see God. I’ll ask God, ‘O God . . . ’ They were saying, ‘O Great Lord, why did you create us . . . ?’ Alas! Alas!”

While drinking some tea, the doctor asked Morad, “Which part of your body hurts?”

“A pain comes and passes through the middle of my chest, and it wants to take my life. A horsefly had come into Fatemeh’s shack. It kept buzzing and buzzing. The Angel of Death must have sent it. The Angel of Death wouldn’t give himself a bad name. He’s all alone. One person for hundreds of thousands . . . She had collected cucumber skins from the garbage. She had found a clay pot with a bit of yogurt in the bottom of it. ‘What did you eat for lunch?’ I asked her. ‘Yogurt and cucumber,’ she said.”

The doctor took the stethoscope from his pocket and put it over Morad’s heart.

“What have you done to your body?”

“Mr. Interrogator, I am a new sympathizer. No, I don’t have a gun . . . nor cyanide . . . I’m a trial member. A guerilla fighter is a legendary man. The maximum number of years he will live is four.”

Whenever Dr. Bahari came, he would call Morad “Mr. Sympathizer.” He would laugh loudly and say that he knew that Morad was hallucinating.

A man named Morteza had come and taken Mister Hossein Ali from the hospital. That was Farhad Dorafshan, Hasti thought. But who was the Farzaneh that Morad had talked about one night when his fever was so high?

That night, Dr. Bahari had come late. He connected an intravenous tube to Morad’s arm. He broke different syringes and poured them into the bag. “Farzaneh,” Morad said, “marriage would be an insult to you. Feelings of ownership . . . I oppose . . .” Only once did he call out, “Hasti, my whole being, where are you?”

But that night, his fever wasn’t high.

At first, Morteza would call and ask how Baktash was. Then he started coming over. He would come late at night. He would ring twice and then one single ring, and Hasti would open the door. Although he was fat, he was agile. He would look around and then thrust himself in . . . His eyes were dark blue. One night, he even stayed for dinner. And he made the best cutlets! Later, Hasti heard from Salim that Morteza was Pan-Iranist at first. Then he supported the National Front; then he was Marxist without Lenin, an independent leftist in the People’s Fada’i Guerrillas . . . But Salim immediately cut off his words because he didn’t have a fever.

“Did he break from the People’s Fada’i Guerrillas?” Hasti asked.

“Miss Nourian,” Salim replied, “it’s better that you not know anything. I acted irrationally when I said who is what! When one acts irrationally, everything will be ruined.”

Morteza said that he had found a place—on the third floor of a house. A couple lived on the first floor. On the second floor, a Zoroastrian retired teacher whose husband had gone to the United States to see their children. But he wouldn’t say where the house was. Hasti, who had been eavesdropping, as usual, had heard that their team consisted of Baktash, Morteza, and Farzaneh, and that the fake birth certificates for all three of them were done. Again, Hasti felt jealous.

“As soon as we have settled into the house and you feel a bit better, we’ll come and get you.”

“I have burdened Hasti enough. Farzaneh can take care of me.” Once again Farzaneh, and once again Hasti’s jealousy.

Hasti was organizing the agenda for the last meeting of the Council on Artistic Creation, and her secretary, with her Aleppo boil fixed on her cheek, was typing loudly. There were many requests from all over the world. Artists from many countries wanted to come to Iran, stay at the Ministry of Art and Culture’s Foreign Artists’ House, and study Persian artworks. Some of them had promised that they would write articles about Persian art and publish them in serious journals. Several had written that they had no money and they would be grateful if the Ministry of Art and Culture would take them to Isfahan and Shiraz for free. It was a land of opportunity, and one could guess who had informed international spongers of this.

Hasti heard a man’s voice from the adjacent room saying to Fakhri, “I found its trail. No need to write a letter.”

Silence and the sound of the typewriter . . .

The man’s voice: “All my efforts and all the efforts of Professor Mani ended up in India.”

Fakhri’s voice: “How can one take such a painting out of a museum?”

“Well, someone apparently has. The new ambassador from Iran to India took it as a gift.”

Hasti thought, The poor man made the inlaid frame with twisted wires of ivory and silver. Professor Mani drew the half-naked image of Gandhi and said, “I depicted him in the clothes of the Jains . . . the light of India . . . the father of India . . . But they killed their father themselves.”

Hasti was sitting at the council table, and the acceptable requests, with pictures and details, were in a folder in front of her. Professor Isa came before anyone else. He sat in his place and started making calls.

“I’m retired, but I haven’t cut ties with the faculty nor with the Ministry of Art and Culture. There’s a table; there’s a telephone . . . I teach four hours a week.”

And then he called Daryakenar Town . . .

Professor Mani came. Dr. Zandi came, too, and right from the beginning, Hasti saw that Dr. Zandi’s gaze was different. With his question, her lips started to tremble and her mouth became dry. “Miss Nourian, any news from Mr. Morad Pakdel?”

Professor Mani intervened. “He has settled down. On behalf of some foundation or other, he’s gone to Kerman to build inexpensive houses for workers.” Then he smiled. “A perfect job for Morad Pakdel.”

Hasti was shocked, and she saw even more shock reflected in Dr. Zandi’s face. Did they both know and Professor Mani was trying to cover it up?

In order to forestall any new questions, Hasti turned to Professor Mani and told him, “They have removed your painting of Gandhi from the museum, and Iran’s new ambassador has taken it as a gift to the government of India.”

“So much the better, dear girl. They will care for it better in India. Don’t worry. Worry causes a poisonous substance to be secreted into your blood.”

Everyone laughed, even Hasti.

They studied the files and accepted eighteen requests. Hasti urged that instead of a French musician, they should choose an Indian or Turkish artist. Dr. Zandi explained that the French musician was a friend of the queen. Hasti asked that instead of the artist residing in Greenwich Village, they choose an Asian artist, and Dr. Zandi intervened, saying that the shah himself had recommended the Greenwich Village artist.

“How about we make it nineteen?” Hasti said. No one voted in favor, not even Professor Mani. The friends of Persian art had to come from Europe or the United States and spend their summer vacation in Iran, and even go to Shiraz and Isfahan for free. This way two birds will be killed with one stone.

When Hasti came home, she saw Mohsen Run’s minivan in front of the house. “Hasti Khanom, did I tell you that Farideh is not afraid of cheese anymore?” He had told her—on the same awful night that Hasti had argued with Salim.

There was a tray on the table in the living room, and on the tray, Touran Jan’s Quran was blessing a plate of flour and some green leaves in a bowl of water. Touran Jan’s lips were moving in prayer. Hasti was surprised to see Morteza in the bright light of day. Morad had put on jeans and a new blue-and-white checkered shirt. Teimur Khan was caressing his thick mustache with his fingers.

Hasti turned to Morad. “I think you have been exposed,” she said. Morteza bit his lip.

Morad said, “No one is a stranger here, Morteza Jan.”

Hasti recounted the story of the questioning by Dr. Zandi and Professor Mani’s trying to cover it up. Yes, the Day Zero operation had been exposed, and now tomorrow, early morning, someone must go to the shantytown and . . . Grandmother was reciting her prayers.

“I can go,” Teimur Khan said.

“They don’t know you,” Morteza said. “If Hasti Khanom goes . . .”

Grandmother said loudly, “For God’s sake!”

Despite Touran Jan’s warning, Hasti agreed. Since Morad had come to their house, the number of her absences from the office had gone sky high. One more day on top of that. She would call Bijan, her colleague at the Ministry of Art and Culture, and he and Fakhri would do something so that there would be no waves.

Teimur Khan, Morteza, and Morad put their fingers in the plate of flour and passed beneath the Quran, and Touran Jan threw the water with the floating leaves on the ground behind them.

The minivan turned around, moved forward, and stopped at Brigadier General’s house. Asadollah Khan, Brigadier General’s orderly, took Brigadier General’s pillow-like legs off the stool. Teimur Khan, who had gotten out of the car, accompanied Brigadier General with his claw-footed canes toward the minivan. His orderly had put the stool in a good spot. With the help of Asadollah and Teimur, Brigadier General adjusted his legs on the stool and slid his bottom onto the front seat of the minivan. Teimur Khan held his legs and put them inside. Asadollah took the stool to the house and closed the door. Then, with a hop and a chant, “Ya Ali!,” he and Teimur Khan joined Morteza and Morad in the van.

Hasti went home and asked Touran Jan, “Who planned all that?”

“The two of them, consulting Teimur Khan—and with my meddling. But we didn’t know that they had been exposed.” She held the Quran in front of Hasti and said, “Face Mecca and swear. Go tomorrow, but from tomorrow on, forget about Morad.”

Hasti hadn’t gotten in touch with Bijan yet when someone knocked at the door. It was Teimur Khan. “Those entrusted to Grandmother’s care got out at Ferdowsi Square,” he said. He added that Brigadier General had again requested that they take him out for a drive . . . He had said that before his legs had become swollen, Ferdowsi’s statue was sitting . . . Now it’s standing!