by Ramita Navai
In Iran, sheesheh has become the most popular drug after opium, heroin coming in a close third, not least because sheesheh is cheap – a gram costs about five US dollars. Bijan’s dealers in Tehran sold sheesheh to all types, including rich girls who used it to keep their weight down and trainers who bought it for their athletes. A champion wrestler had been banned for life after having tested positive for D-methamphetamine.
Bijan was now sending some of his guys to sell in Malaysia and Thailand. The average price of meth pills in Malaysia was at least fives times more than in Iran, and Iranian meth labs and dealers were setting up shop all over Asia – a move Bijan was considering.
When Bijan started to make good money, he realized he needed a legitimate business, a front. He opened a car wash that had a surprisingly high turnover. If any of his friends hit hard times, he sent them to work at the car wash. It was the perfect cover. Bijan knew he had to be careful. The government was fighting its crystal meth problem with vigour. The previous year, Tehran’s governor had announced that 145 crystal meth labs in Tehran had been busted; by the first three months of this year, the number was already at seventy-seven. The authorities also claimed to be arresting thirty drug dealers and addicts every hour.
Now he had been tipped off by the Chief, Bijan would shut everything down for a few weeks and start up again somewhere else. He needed to see the Kurd in Gomrok, but first he would stop off to see his best friend Kambiz.
Early-morning rush hour had smeared the air with thick smog; it hung low, obscuring the city that rose up behind Bijan and stretched out in front of him. The pollution was so bad this morning that schools had been closed.
He walked along a litter-strewn road, past a homeless junkie in a red coat rifling through an overflowing bin. Kambiz was sitting in his glass-fronted office, full of old furniture, bags of rice and knocked-off silverware. He was leaning back in his chair behind his paper-scattered desk, feet up, watching a small television attached to the wall opposite him; Jumong was playing, a South Korean drama series about one of the ancient kingdoms of Korea that had been a nationwide sensation.
‘You lazy bastard, when you going to actually do some work?’
Kambiz jumped up, laughing, ‘At least I haven’t turned into a fat old bastard.’ He pinched Bijan’s stomach. The best friends could not have looked more different: Kambiz was muscular with slicked-back hair and always wore a suit. Bijan had a big belly, a balding head and always wore T-shirt, jeans and trainers.
After Japan, Kambiz worked for the Kurd before getting in with some human-traffickers, arranging Iranians to be transported all over the world. He found the work depressing, and, crucially, the profit margins were getting smaller. He then got involved in the kidnap and ransom game, targeting rich businessmen. Nobody knew exactly how many people were getting kidnapped, because more often than not the victim’s family were too scared to call the police and only too willing to hand over mounds of cash for the speedy release of their loved one (another plus point). One group had made a million US dollars on one businessman alone.
Bijan had never been tempted by the kidnapping business, and he was not averse to lecturing Kambiz on the immorality of taking someone’s freedom. When Kambiz argued with him, reminding him that the guns and the drugs Bijan sold were robbing people of their lives, Bijan would start shouting in self-righteous rage, defending his work. Kambiz would laugh hysterically; he enjoyed winding Bijan up. ‘You’re a tart with a heart but no goddam brain!’ he would say to him.
‘You sorted out the mess?’ asked Bijan.
‘No, and it ain’t looking good.’ Kambiz was shaking his head.
For the last few weeks, Kambiz’s group had been holding a middle-aged carpet merchant hostage, chained to a radiator in the basement of a building that belonged to Kambiz’s uncle. The carpet seller’s family were not paying up; instead they kept trying to negotiate the price down. Kambiz was scared it was a police ploy, that they were biding their time.
Bijan gave Kambiz the news about the impending raid in Chahar Dongeh as Kambiz’s nephew had started working in the meth lab.
‘I’ll tell him to stay away. Send my love to the Kurd.’ The men hugged and Bijan stepped back onto the road. He bought a newspaper from a kiosk to check the pollution levels, which were reported daily. Today there were no figures. The previous evening, the Supreme National Security Council had sent a fax to every newspaper in Tehran banning them from disclosing the pollution levels for the next two months of Azar, December, and Dey, January, when the toxins in the air were at their most concentrated, winter’s cloud cover not allowing the pollution to escape. Journalists had been warned: Siah-namaaee nakoneed. Do not blacken the Islamic Republic.
Tehran’s pollution seems to worsen every year. Not only are there too many cars, but the sloping valley with mountains on each side is a perfect trap for the fumes and smoke. Because the country has limited capacity to refine its own oil and petrol imports have been hit by sanctions, cars in Tehran run on low-quality, poorly refined fuel.
Bijan waded into the filthy air. He walked past a wall daubed with graffiti: FUCK was scrawled in English, and beside it in Persian: IN MEMORY OF JAPAN. Two teenagers in hoodies with long black ‘emo’ haircuts stood in a doorway selling bags of sheesheh. He turned into Gomrok, where his criminal career had begun. During the Shah’s time, the bordellos of the red-light district of Shahr-e No had stood here, next door to one of the city’s most exclusive cabaret clubs, Shoukoufeh-ye-No. The area had brimmed with underworld bosses, pimps, pickpockets and revellers. Like many men of his time, Bijan’s father liked to recall how he lost his virginity to a Shahr-e No prostitute. After the revolution, the brothels were bulldozed and burnt down and some of the working girls were executed. But Gomrok had retained an edge; an undercurrent of illegal activity still surged through the road, even if it had officially gone legit. Now motorbike showrooms have replaced many of the original shops on Gomrok, but a batch still remain, a long parade mostly selling army surplus goods. They are stuffed with gas masks, desert boots, gloves, Russian army uniforms and rucksacks with MADE IN KNOXVILLE, USA labels. Some of them sell second-hand trainers and shoes, freshly stolen from outside mosques while the owners are busy praying.
A dozen shovels were propped up in front of the Kurd’s shop; they had last been used to dig trenches during the war with Iraq. Between white and black hard hats, yellow wellington boots and a stack of traffic cones, the Kurd was sitting on a three-legged stool. He was a short, small man with a silken white beard and pale crinkled skin; he wore a khaki parka and a skullcap on his head. A gas stove was burning in the middle of the shop for heat, in the back a chicken was clucking. The shop smelt of cigarettes and lamb kabab, two of Bijan’s favourite smells.
‘Hello sunshine, how you doing?’ Bijan kissed the Kurd on the cheeks. The Kurd hugged him and gave him a glass of strong black tea.
When Bijan was kicked out of Japan, Kambiz had sent him to see the Kurd. The Kurd had a network of nephews and cousins who smuggled guns over from Iraq, but as they had become increasingly involved in fighting the Turkish government with the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, known as the PKK, the Kurd started hiring new gun-runners. It was dangerous work – the penalty for smuggling illegal firearms is death – but the money was excellent. Bijan’s family had known the Kurd all their lives. Everyone trusted the Kurd and Bijan was known to be trustworthy. He started making monthly visits to Baneh, a town in Iranian Kurdistan, not far from the border with Iraq. Sometimes he travelled on horses or mules across the mountains, other times he was hidden in the back of trucks. He would return to Tehran with all kinds of weapons and bury them in his mother’s garden, where the Kurd would send buyers. Mostly they were drug lords and gangsters, but there was the occasional bent cop and basiji gone wild.
‘I heard what happened to Behrouz last night,’ said Bijan.
‘Bet you haven’t heard about the Farshad boy though,’ the Kurd chuckled. He always knew the news before any
one else did.
‘Don’t tell me they already got him?’
‘Yep. The cops found his body a few hours ago. They’d chopped off his dick and shoved it in his mouth.’ Bijan grimaced. ‘Any of the Radan boys been arrested yet?’
‘No, and they won’t be. Everyone knows Behrouz deserved it.’
The Radans were a band of ten brothers who had all followed the family tradition of selling opium, which now costs 3,600,000 to five million tomans a kilo, depending on quality (about 1,200 US dollars to just over 1,600 dollars). As well as having close ties to several high-ranking policemen, the Radan brothers had links with influential Baluchi tribal elders in Sistan and Baluchestan, the wild-east province that borders Afghanistan and Pakistan. Twice a year the Radans would drive through the desert, load up a truck with giant slabs of opium and bring it back to the city. They had begun selling to a small-time dealer called Farshad who had grown up in the neighbourhood. Bijan remembered playing football with him as a kid. Farshad was a good goalie but a sloppy dealer, leaving a litter of evidence behind him. But his real downfall was greed. He had evaded paying off the necessary officials on whose radar he had flashed up. What made it worse was that he was not arrested on his own patch, but in the suburbs of Tehran Pars, in the east of the city. Farshad only had a small amount of drugs on him, so the police agreed to cut him a deal if he gave them some big names; he promptly grassed on the Radan brothers. Based on the information Farshad gave, two of the Radan brothers were given death sentences. Farshad had chosen to forget their rule. When dealing with the police, the boys had one rule: the No Rule. In Iran, the ‘no’ gesture is a backward tilt of the head. With the No Rule, you had to imagine the tip of a sword was touching your chin as you were being questioned. If you said yes, your head would fall on the sword.
‘The Chief told me they’re going to raid Chahar Dongeh. He says we’ve got a week. He doesn’t know any more than that, but the boys have to go underground. I’ve been to see Kambiz, he says hello.’
‘Love that kid. I’ll send word to the others.’ Neither the Kurd nor Bijan ever used their mobile phones or emails for serious business.
‘I’m going to go there today. Make sure everything’s out and clear.’
‘They may be watching it already. I worry about you.’
‘Don’t worry amoo, you know how careful I am. Let them watch. There’ll be nothing to see and everyone’s sweet.’
Bijan’s father had died when he was thirteen; the Kurd treated him like a son. Now that Bijan was making good money, he made sure the Kurd and his family were looked after.
‘In case the heat is on, we should hide the next consignment, it’s due tonight,’ said the Kurd.
‘What you got?’
‘A dozen Colts.’ The Kurd had been shifting military stock and industrial equipment for thirty years; but the real money he made was from illegal arms sales. He could sell a Colt for anything from one and a half to two million tomans. A hitman along with a Colt cost ten million tomans, but the Kurd had never been involved in that part of it. If customers ever asked him, he shrugged his shoulders. But, like everyone else involved in this business, he knew who did it; a few of them hung out at the tea house.
‘No problem amoo, tell them to take it to maman’s house.’
Bijan’s mobile rang. It was Asal.
‘The women still got you by the balls.’ The Kurd winked.
‘Just the way I like it!’
The Kurd tried to shove some notes into Bijan’s hand, but he refused, kissing him on the head.
Bijan was late for Asal and she would not be happy. He did not have time to go home and pick up his car, so he stepped out onto the road to flag down a taxi. The pollution was getting worse as the day wore on. The acrid smell of old petrol and regurgitated car fumes burnt his lungs. Everyone’s organs were struggling to digest the poisonous particles that stuck to the city; they were praying for a breeze to nudge the dangerous fog out of the valley.
Bijan had been seeing Asal for over a year, after she had brought her car to be cleaned at the car wash. She had a small waist, enormous breasts and was wearing crimson lipstick. He had asked her out on the spot, in the only way he knew how: ‘Listen gorgeous, I’m not good at smooth talking, but I love the way you look. I want to take you out. Everyone in the neighbourhood knows me, you’ll be totally safe. Give me a chance.’ He cracked a few jokes and then stood smiling at her – a huge, warm smile with a lustful look in his eyes. Asal was flattered and disarmed by his openness. Over dinner at the Azari Café, a traditional restaurant in the tented garden of an old building on the southernmost end of Vali Asr, where the brick walls were covered in black and white photos of wrestling champions, he rubbed her thigh under the table as a group of musicians played classical Persian music. After their meal they reclined on a cushioned bed, smoking from a hookah pipe and staring at each other. ‘Sweetheart, I’ll cut to the chase. I’m a horny guy. I’d love to have you in my life. I just need to be looked after a few times a week and in return I’ll look after you for as long as you want me.’ Asal agreed straight away. She had been widowed in her early twenties when her husband had died in a car crash, leaving her with a small son and no money. Her family were poor. Her job as a dentist’s receptionist did not pay the bills. Her marriage prospects were dire. They had sex that night and Bijan knew he had made the right choice. She was desperate to please him; it was the best sex he had ever had. Soon after, he housed her and her child in a small apartment he bought just off Imam Khomeini Street. Asal fell in love with Bijan quickly. She spent much of the money he gave her on lingerie and expensive foods to cook for him. After enduring six months of marriage hints, Bijan finally told Asal the truth: he was married with three children. Asal was devastated. But not angry enough to end the relationship. Bijan was finally honest with her. ‘I’ll never leave my wife; but as long as I have blood running through these veins, I will look after you.’
Bijan was as cunning and sly at evading detection by his wife as he was by the police. He had two mobiles, one for his wife and one for Asal. He made sure Asal never found out his home address, and did not let her mix with his friends. Bijan’s wife was his childhood sweetheart. It was a marriage of love, but sex with her had always been dull. The older she got, the fatter she got, and the less attractive Bijan found her. He had never been faithful to her. It was as simple as that. But he adored her. He was respectful enough to carefully guard his indiscretions. Three times a week he would see Asal in the afternoon. Bijan loved films and sometimes he would take her to the Mellat Cinema multiplex. Bijan prided himself on appreciating the subtleties and artistic vision of Iranian cinema. He watched everything by Abbas Kiarostami, although he preferred comedies, like Kamal Tabrizi’s Marmoulak, ‘The Lizard’, about a convict who escapes from prison by dressing up as a mullah. But Hollywood films were his favourite. He had seen Titanic a dozen times. Bijan had even once found out about auditions that were held in his area, and had got a small talking part as a local gangster. He had taken all the boys to see it on the big screen; they teased him for years afterwards, nicknaming him Mr Hollywood.
Bijan and Asal usually headed straight for the bedroom when he visited; afterwards they would eat in front of an episode of Miss Marple on television. But today Asal opened the door with swollen red eyes and smudged make-up.
Just before Asal met Bijan, she had been having sex with a married dentist at the practice where she worked. She abhorred the man, but he had forced her, threatening to have her sacked unless she slept with him. Asal had barely enough money to survive as it was, and jobs for women like her were scarce. He took advantage of her for a year, in between his appointments. He had left the practice just before Asal had met Bijan, but last night he had called her to say he was returning to his old job, and that he was looking forward to seeing her.
Bijan was raging. Asal tried to calm him. She knew what Bijan did for a living and the kind of people he associated with; she did not want to get Bijan
in trouble or the dentist killed. Bijan extracted all the information he needed, as he always did, and gave Kambiz a call. Kambiz said he would put two of his boys on the case straight away.
*
There was still Chahar Dongeh to sort out. Bijan was relieved to be driving out of Tehran and away from the bad air that had left him with burning eyes and a stinging throat. He put a DVD of Persian music into the car stereo for the journey, and he started shouting out the words to an anti-regime rap song that was pounding out of the speakers. A group called Anonymous Sinners had used a sample of a haunting chant from one of Iran’s most famous war songs, an ode to a brave volunteer fighter of the Iran–Iraq war, Mohammad Jahan-Ara. He had commanded the defence and recapture of the south-western city of Khorramshahr in an epic battle. Jahan-Ara had pushed back Saddam Hussein’s army with a ragtag of untrained boys and men, and had been one of the last soldiers to leave the city before it fell to the Iraqis. But Jahan-Ara did not live to see the city’s liberation, and the song was in his honour, lamenting his death, sung in the Ashura sinezani, rhythmic chest-beating style: Mammad, if only you had lived to see the city is free! Now Anonymous Sinners told Mammad how proud he would have been had he lived: there’s no prostitution, no drugs, press freedom, food and jobs, oil money for everyone, people are so happy they never complain…and so the list went sarcastically on, making sure Mammad knew he was better off dead.