Then disaster struck again when Teymoor Lang, a devout Sunni Muslim, entered Iran, bent on destroying the Shiite heretics. Though a learned and cultured scholar of the Qur’an, Teymoor Lang appeared incapable of showing mercy to the followers of the prophet’s son-in-law, Ali.
After the fall of Teymoor Lang, the times of sorrow passed, and with the dawn of the seventeenth century, Iran entered the golden age, a time when Rassa’s ancestor, Shah Abbas, united the various kingdoms under one glorious rule. The Iranian civilization soon reached unprecedented heights of social and military power and was once again recognized as one of the world’s superpowers. Peter the Great traveled with his armies through Rassa’s village, selecting a beautiful Iranian princess to take with him back to Russia. Napoleon fought side by side with the Shahs to help oust the British armies. And though the Russians were a constant threat (being jealous of Iran’s rich oil fields and warm water ports), the royal family held onto their power, sometimes reigning as monarchs, sometimes reigning through proxies, but always managing to retain their unrelenting control on their country. In the early part of the twentieth century, the Pahlavi dynasty was established, flourishing until the Islamic revolution in 1979 finally drove the royal family from power.
* * *
So it was that Rassa found himself on that morning, looking down from a crumbling tower that watched over his village, not a king, not a prince, but a young farmer looking on a land that would never be his.
As he stood alone that day, considering the cycles of life, he thought of the birth and death of nations, the birth and death of peoples, the birth and death of his ancestors who had lived there before.
The cycle always repeated. It was repeated with nations, and it had already been repeated in his life. There were two people he loved. One he had laid in a grave; one he laid in a little bed every night. There was birth, there was rising, and then there was death. Rassa shrugged. Who was he to understand the cycle of life? Who was he to question what it was all for? He could ponder, he could ask, but he could not comprehend.
Might he know it one day? Insha’allah. If God wills.
Chapter Eight
Rassa glanced at his watch and was just standing to leave when he heard heavy footsteps echoing up from the base of the tower. He listened, relaxed, as the footsteps drew near. Omar Pasni Zehedan emerged at the top of the stairs.
“Rassa,” he offered simply as he moved to Rassa’s side. From where Rassa had been sitting, it would have been impossible for Omar to have seen him from the ground; the low wall around the embattlement would have hidden him from view. But it wasn’t uncommon for the two to meet there, and neither of them was surprised to see the other man.
Omar sat next to Rassa on the embattlement and leaned against the cold stone. Rassa was quiet as he settled in.
“You see the aircraft carrier?” Omar asked after a while.
Rassa nodded and hunched his shoulders toward the sea in reply.
“There were also a couple of our fighters up north.”
Again, Rassa nodded.
Omar Pasni Zehedan pulled out a crumpled pack of unfiltered cigarettes and stuck one between his fat lips. He was a huge man, with legs like a tree trunk and a thick, hairy neck. His hands were round as grapefruits and he had a steel vice for a grip. Father of fifteen children, husband of six wives (the Qur’an allowed for only four wives, but he didn’t count the two who had failed to produce offspring for him), Omar was wealthy and cynical and wise. As a young man, he had grown rich through adventures and daring, but he was far more conservative now, for he had much to lose. For going on twenty years, Omar had been the dehestan leader, equivalent to a county mayor in the West, and he wielded his influence with the deftness of an Olympic gymnast while holding onto his power with the same iron-fisted grip that he used to seal
his secret deals. Over the years, the man had grown rich through illicit trade: selling black-market supplies to the army, smuggling dollars and euros (without which little business ever got done), bribing the port tariff managers to export rare Persian rugs, running dope, alcohol, and guns—there was little Omar hadn’t bought, sold, or traded at one time or another. He even owned a silkworm farm, using the silk to buy passports and visas from Tehran, which he then sold to business leaders who wanted to travel abroad. He had many friends, and his enemies weren’t a few, but all in all he was as well connected and well financed as anyone Rassa knew.
The dehestan leader’s relationship with Rassa’s family went back many years. Omar and Rassa’s father had fought side by side in the Iran-Iraq war, cringing in sandy trenches while chemical warheads flew overhead and, upon Rassa’s father’s death, Omar had taken Rassa under his protective wing. Over the years, they had become loyal friends.
Omar spit a tiny piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. Rassa watched him shift his weight from one hip to the
other, knowing the cold stone hurt his arthritis. Omar cursed
and stretched his legs. “I drove up to Bandar–e Mah Shahr yesterday,” he then said. “It normally takes me two hours. Took almost four. I was stopped at three roadblocks. There used to only be one. I passed an army convoy that must have been three miles long. I made note of the unit, their commander proudly, and stupidly, had his unit flag waving from his staff car.” He spit once again. “They were the Twelfth Special Security Forces,” he announced, as if he were breaking important news.
Rassa stared blankly. It meant little to him.
Omar was silent as he lit up his smoke. “The Twelfth is normally posted to the central headquarters in Tehran,” he continued. “So I did a little reading.” Omar was well traveled, but far more important, he had a computer hooked up to a phone line! Access to the Internet meant access to the entire world’s library of information sources and newspapers, including those in Tehran, and the insights he gleaned were often remarkable. Many nights Rassa had gone to Omar’s house and, until the wee hours of morning, read things he would not have believed just a few years before.
“They are posting the Twelfth to protect the oil fields to our south,” Omar concluded.
Rassa glanced toward him and shrugged, “Protect them from what?”
“The circumstances beg that question, it would seem. I don’t see enemy navies lined up, ready to invade our shores, I don’t see an enemy ready to knock down our doors. It seems the mullahs and bureaucrats are growing both suspicious and bold. They don’t see an enemy; they only see people like us. But it appears they intend to protect their theocracy, even with Muslim blood.”
“You knew they would, Omar. How many times have we said the same thing?”
The older man growled and shifted his weight to his other oversized hip. He adjusted his turban and glared to the south, then reached under his robe and pulled out a sharp, curved knife from a tight leather sheaf he had strapped to his leg. Extracting a large peach from his pocket, he cut it in half and extended a piece toward Rassa, using the end of his knife. Rassa took it and thanked him as he took a small bite.
“Too much is going on,” Omar answered. “Too many rumors. Too many whispers of war. Too many army units on highways, and too many threats from the mullahs who hide in Tehran. But the enemy isn’t that Great Satan, the United States, like we used to think. The enemy comes from within. And there is a darkness, a mist, spreading like a smoke in the air. I don’t like it, Rassa. It is calm now; I know that—but I feel it is the calm before the crashing storm.”
Omar glanced at his friend. Rassa nodded weakly. Yes, he agreed.
The world was changing, even here in Iran. There was too much information, too much travel, too much talk for the ultraconservative imams and mullahs to keep their people in the dark. Rassa had heard all their arguments, all of their bile and fear—having been raised in the swamp of their loathing, how could he have not heard it before? But the truth was, he didn’t buy it. He knew it wasn’t true. The ayatollahs were lying. The men who ran Iran, the mullahs, the local district leaders, the po
licemen, teachers, and bureaucrats, all of them hated the United States; it was a part of their jobs, one of the qualifications they were screened for before they even applied. But not everyone shared in their hatred, and there was a growing sentiment, especially among the educated and the young, that the people of Iran had a decision to make: enter the twenty-first century or step back five hundred years. Build on the hope of the future or the hate of the past. Take a step toward freedom or back to the Dark Ages again.
Omar glanced to Rassa, expecting to see him rousing with anger. The two had conspired many times, and Omar knew how Rassa felt about the government of Iran. But Rassa’s face remained passive as he stared at the calm morning sea.
* * *
Omar crushed his smoke and turned his eyes to the rising sun.
Should he tell him, he wondered? Should he tell his friend? Should he try to explain his dream or keep it to himself? The truth was, he wanted to forget it, to drive it from his mind. But he had had dreams before, and he had always been right. Yet even now, in the daylight, he shuddered as he thought. It had been so violent, so graphic. He wished he could forget.
It was such a horrible dream, he had wakened in sweat.
Now should he warn Rassa? Or would it just worry him?
He glanced uneasily at his young friend. “It has been tough, losing Sashajan,” he said in his gravelly voice.
Rassa only nodded. It was only three days short of fifteen years since he had placed her in the grave.
“The little one, Azadeh, how is she now?” Omar asked quietly. He shot a quick look toward Rassa, then turned away. It was considered inappropriate, even rude, to ask of one’s daughters or wife, and only the closest friends could make such an inquiry.
Rassa didn’t see the flash of concern in Omar’s eyes. “She is growing,” he answered, a look of pride on his face.
Omar pushed himself up to his feet, anxious to get off the cold stone. “You know, Rassa, I have nine daughters,” he said. “Some of them are goat ugly. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I am an honest man, and I know what I see. There aren’t enough blind men in the valley for my daughters to marry. But thankfully some of my daughters look like their mothers and not me. Some of them are beautiful, Rassa, I am proud to say. But I tell you now, there is something in Azadeh. She has a beauty that goes far beyond the eye.”
Rassa smiled proudly. “Thank you, Omar,” he said.
“No, I’m not just being pleasant, Rassa. She is a vision, an angel who fell from the sky. Sometimes angels fall among us. Where angels fall, why they fall, Allah does not reveal. But Azadeh is an angel and she has fallen here.”
Rassa nodded slowly. “Our children are great gifts. We all have angels in our homes.”
“Yes, Rassa, that is true. But this generation, these children, I don’t know . . . there is something about them, something I don’t understand. They are better than we were. They are better than we are now. And we are all the time speaking of how our children need us, but I have come to believe that before this time is over it will be just the opposite. We will be needing them.” Omar glanced down at the village and rubbed his hand over his face. He felt himself tremble, and he was embarrassed for himself. He was a hard man, a businessman, a man of great wealth and means. But this dream, this cold warning—it had cut him to the core. And he loved this child Azadeh as much as he loved his own. He turned to the younger man. “You need take care,” he instructed as he stared at his friend. “I’m worried for her, Rassa . . .” His voice trailed off.
Rassa rose to his feet, his eyes hurt and intense. “What are you talking about, Omar?” he demanded.
Omar started to answer, but the words didn’t come. He remained silent for a moment, his mouth open, then turned away and shrugged, wishing he hadn’t said anything. What would he tell him? How could he ever make it clear? Your child is in danger, Rassa, for I had a dream! He would sound like a fool if he tried to explain.
“I just worry for her, Rassa,” he finally said. “She is young; she is special; and you are left here to care for her yourself. She needs a mother, like we all do, and you need a wife. I worry for you both. That’s all I meant to say.”
* * *
Rassa watched his friend’s face, knowing there had to be more, but Omar waved his hand and moved toward the steep steps. “It is nothing, Rassa. Nothing. Really. I just worry for you. Now I must go. It is getting late and we both have work to do.”
Omar stopped short of the stairs, then turned and lowered his voice. “There is a meeting tonight. Are you coming?” he asked.
Instinctively, Rassa looked around cautiously, then shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “Tomorrow is Azadeh’s birthday.”
Omar grunted, “Yes, yes, of course. Give her my love. Tell her happy birthday for me.”
Chapter Nine
Her father was silent during that evening’s meal. Azadeh cleared the table and finished the dishes, then sat down beside him as he smoked by the fire. It was cold out. A biting wind blew down off the mountain to claw at the thatched and clay shingles that lined their low roof, and Azadeh could feel the cold draft as she passed by the window.
She sat by her father and stared at the fire. He turned to her, looked away, then turned to her again.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he offered in a low voice.
Azadeh looked at him, her eyes dark and alive. It wasn’t like her father to offer such a thing. More, it was cold and blowing, a hard storm was coming, and the weather on the mountain could be violent and unpredictable. Still, he stood and pulled his coat on. “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll go to the market and walk around for a while.”
Azadeh’s heart flipped. The market? At night? She had already completed their shopping. They had milk and eggs, cooking oil and honey. They did not have to go shopping for another couple of days. In her mind she pictured the market, its shops crowded with people, merchants displaying their wares to the wealthy that had come up from the valley to shop. She thought of the multicolored lanterns that would be hanging to light the dark night.
A walk to the market? At night? When they didn’t need supplies? It could only mean one thing. He had not forgotten her birthday. He was going to buy her a present!
Azadeh quickly pulled on her hijab, slipping the thin scarf over her hair and neck, then draped a dark shawl over her shoulders and flipped the scarf over her long hair, pulling it forward to protect her eyes, and followed her father out the front door. He waited for her, and she ran to catch up with him as he turned toward the town square. He reached for her hand, and she slipped it into his as she glanced down the dark streets toward the lights in the distance, which seemed to burn with an intensity she had not seen before. Her heart leapt with excitement as they walked toward the square.
Of course he had remembered! He would never forget. But the fact that he always remembered her birthday didn’t mean there was always a celebration. Her culture never ran short on reasons to celebrate—birthdays, weddings, Mondays, anniversaries, leap year, government holidays, untold religious celebrations—it seemed they celebrated anything. Still there had been precious few presents or parties in Azadeh’s life. “No money,” her father would explain in a pained voice. It hurt him, and she knew that—but the truth was there was rarely so much as an extra rial to spare. Rassa was nearly penniless, an anonymous and struggling farmer who had to scratch out a living just like everyone else. And it had been a bad year. The cotton had nearly burned in the fields from lack of spring rains, and then a series of cloudbursts and flash floods had washed away some of the best cows in their herd.
Still, as they walked toward the market, Azadeh stepped quickly and with hope. Could it be her father had somehow managed to scrape a few rials together? Might there be some extra money, some unknown fountain she knew not of?
Tomorrow was her birthday, but not just any birthday—she was turning fifteen. She would be considered a woman. Just a few hours more, and her childhood would be left behind. It
was a time of great celebration, a time to acknowledge her transition into adulthood, a time to celebrate the passing of the young ways and the coming of the joys and responsibilities associated with being an adult. Her entire life lay before her, hopeful and promising.
She shivered from excitement as she held her father’s hand.
If Azadeh had been forced to be perfectly truthful, she would have admitted there were times in the past when she felt her birthday had become more a day of mourning the death of her mother than a day to celebrate her birth. Sometimes Azadeh wondered if her father realized that she felt lonely too. And though she wanted a present terribly, what she really needed was some kind of sign that her father loved her as much as he had loved his wife. She needed a symbol of his affection, some indication that he realized that she missed her mother as well.
She lowered her head against the wind. When she looked up again they were almost there.
She knew what she wanted. She had eyed them in the market some three months before. And they were not simply clothing or some playthings; she was almost a woman and far beyond being satisfied by childish toys. She pictured them in her mind, shining and bright, imagining how they would feel if she ever held them in her hand.
Would he have enough money? Almost certainly not.
But they were walking to the market. And it had been his idea. Who knew what he was thinking? Perhaps a miracle was in store.
The market was not crowded; the cold had chased most of the people away. But the wind had died down now, and though it was cool, it was no longer cold. The lights burned, and the lanterns cast multicolored shadows in every direction. Rassa moved toward a small booth that had handmade dresses hanging in display. They were extravagant and beautiful, a clash of lace and bright colors, but Azadeh hardly looked at them. These dresses were for little girls, the little Cinderella she could no longer be. Her father watched her reaction, then asked the price, hunched his shoulders and moved to the next stall. They worked their way around the market. Dresses. Handbags. Shoes. Denim pants from the West. A silver flute. He checked the prices carefully, occasionally lifting some less expensive item as if to suggest it to her before placing it carefully back on the shelf. Azadeh tried to show interest, but her heart seemed to faint. They were moving in the wrong direction! The birthday present she wanted was on the other side of the market, five rows to the south, almost a full block away.
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