James Clavell - Whirlwind

by Whirlwind(Lit)

  the side street was narrow, refuse strewn everywhere, no stalls or shops open now and no streetlights, a few weary pedestrians trudging homeward with multitudes of doorways and archways leading to hovels and staircases of more hovels the whole area smelling of urine and waste and offal and rotting vegetables.

  rakoczy was a little more than forty yards ahead. he turned into a smaller alley, crashing through the street stalls where families were sleeping howls of rage in his wake changed direction and fled into a passageway and into

  another, cut across it into an alley, quite lost now, into another, down this and into another. aghast, he stopped, seeing that this was a cul- de-sac. his hand went for his automatic, then he noticed a passageway just ahead and rushed for it.

  the walls were so close he could touch both of them as he charged down it, his chest heaving, going ever deeper into the curling, twisting warren. ahead an old woman was emptying night soil into the festering joub and he sent her sprawling as others cowered against the walls to get out of his way. now erikki was only twenty yards behind, his rage feeding his strength, and he jumped over the old woman who was still sprawled, half in and half out of the joub, and redoubled his efforts, closing the gap. just around the corner his adversary stopped, pulled an ancient street stall into the way, and, before erikki could avoid it, he crashed into it and went down half stunned. with a bellow of rage he groped to his feet, swayed dizzily for a moment, climbed over the wreckage, then rushed onward again, the knife now openly in his hand, and turned the corner.

  but the passageway ahead was empty. erikki skidded to a stop. his breath was coming in great, aching gasps and he was bathed in sweat. it was hard to see though his night vision was very good. then he noticed the small archway. carefully he went through it, knife ready. the passage led to an open courtyard strewn with rubble and the rusty skeleton of a ravaged car. many doorways and openings led off this dingy space, some with doors, some leading to rickety stairways and upper stories. it was silent the silence ominous. he could feel eyes watching him. rats scuttled out of some refuse and vanished under a pile of rubble.

  to one side was another archway. above it was an ancient inscription in farsi that he could not read. through the archway the darkness seemed deeper. the pitted vaulted entrance stopped at an open doorway. the door was wooden and girl with bands of ancient iron and half off its hinges. beyond, there seemed to be a room. as he went closer he saw a candle "uttering.

  "what do you want?"

  the man's voice came out of the darkness at him, the hair on erikki's neck twisted. the voice was in english not rakoczy's the accent foreign, a gruff eeriness to it.

  "who whotre you?" he asked uneasily, his senses searching the darkness, wondering if it was rakoczy pretending to be someone else.

  "what do you want?"

  "i i want i'm following a man," he said, not knowing where to talk to, his voice echoing eerily from the unseen, high-vaulted roof above.

  "the man you seek is not here. go away."

  "whotre you?"

  "it doesn't matter. go away."

  the candle flame was just a tiny speck of light in the darkness, making the darkness seem more strong. "did you see anyone come this way come running this way?"

  the man laughed softly and said something in farsi. at once rustling and some muted laughter surrounded erikki and he whirled, his knife protectively weaving in front of him. "who are you?"

  the rustling continued. all around him. somewhere water dripped into a cistern. the air smelled dank and rancid. sound of distant firing. another rustle. again he whirled, feeling someone close by but seeing no one, only the archway and the dim night beyond. the sweat was running down his face. cautiously he went to the doorway and put his back against a wall, sure now that rakoczy was here. the silence grew heavier.

  "why don't you answer?" he said. "did you see anyone?"

  again a soft chuckle. "go away." then silence.

  "why're you afraid? who are you?"

  "who i am is nothing to you, and there's no fear here, except yours." the voice was as gentle as before. then the man added something in farsi and another ripple of amusement surrounded him.

  "why do you speak english to me?"

  "i speak english to you because no iranian or reader of the language of the book would come here by day or by night. only a fool would come here."

  erikki's peripheral vision saw something or someone go between him and the candle. at once his knife came on guard. "rakoczy?"

  "is that the name of the man you seek?"

  "yes yes that's him. he's here, isn't he?"

  "no."

  "i don't believe you, whoever you are!"

  silence, then a deep sigh. "as god wants," and a soft order in farsi that erikki did not understand.

  matches flickered all around him. candles caught, and small oil lamps. erikki gasped. there were ragged bundles against the walls and columns of the high-domed cavern. hundreds of them. men and women. the diseased, festering remains of men and women lying on straw or beds of rags. eyes in ravaged faces staring at him. stumps of limbs. one old crone was almost beside his feet and he leaped away in panic to the center of the doorway.

  "we are all lepers here," the man said. he was propped against a nearby column, a helpless mound of rags. another rag half covered the sockets of his eyes. almost nothing was left of his face except his lips. feebly he waved the stump of an arm. "we're all lepers here unclean. this is a house of lepers. do you see this man among us?"

  "no no. i'm i'm sorry," erikki said shakily.

  "sorry?" the man's voice was heavy with irony. "yes. we are all sorry. insha'allah! insha'allah."

  erikki wanted desperately to turn and flee but his legs would not move. someone coughed, a hacking, frightful cough. then his mouth said, "who who are you?"

  "once i was a teacher of english now i am unclean, one of the living dead. as god wants. go away. bless god for his mercy."

  numbed, erikki saw the man motion with the remains of his arms. obediently, around the cavern the lights began to go out, eyes still watching him.

  outside in the night air, he had to make a grim effort to stop himself from running away in terror, feeling filthy, wanting to cast off his clothes at once and bathe and soap and bathe and soap and bathe again.

  "stop it," he muttered, his skin crawling, "there's nothing to be afraid of."

  wednesday february 14

  at evin jail: 6:29 a.m. the jail was like any other modern jail in good days or bad gray, brooding, high-walled, and hideous.

  today the false dawn was strange, the glow below the horizon curiously red. no overcast or even clouds in the sky the first time for weeks and though it was still cold it promised to be a rare day. no smog. the air crisp and clean for a change. a kind wind took away the smoke from the still-burning wrecks of cars and barricades from last night's clashes between the now legal green bands and the now illegal loyalists, leftists, combined with suspect police and armed forces, as well as the smoke from countless cooking and heating fires of the tehrani millions.

  the few pedestrians who passed the prison walls and the huge door that was wrecked and broken off its hinges, and the green band guards who lolled there, averted their eyes and quickened their pace. traffic was light. another truck filled with guards and prisoners ground its gears, stopped briefly at the main gate to be inspected. the temporary barricade opened and closed again. inside the walls was a sudden volley of rifle fire. outside the green bands yawned and stretched.

  with the arrival of the sun the call of the muezzins from the minarets began their voices mostly carried by loudspeakers, the voices on cassette. and wherever the call was heard, the faithful stopped what they were doing, faced mecca, knelt for first prayer.

  jared bakravan had stopped the car just up the road. now, with his chauffeur and the others, he knelt and prayed. he had spent much of the night trying to reach his most important friends and allies. the news of paknouri's unlawful arrest an
d his own unlawful summons had swept through the bazaar. everyone was instantly enraged, but no one came forward to marshal the thousands to stage a protest or strike or to close the bazaar. he had had plenty of advice: to protest to khomeini personally, to prime minister bazargan personally, not to appear at the court, to appear but to refuse to answer any questions, to appear and to answer some questions, to appear and answer all questions. "as god wants," but no one had volunteered to go with him, not even his great friend and one of the most important lawyers in tehran who swore it was more important for him to be seeing the high court judges on his behalf. no one volunteered, except his wife and son and three daughters who prayed on their own prayer mats behind him.

  he finished praying and got up shakily. at once the chauffeur began to collect the prayer mats. jared shivered. this morning he had dressed carefully and wore a heavy coat and suit and astrakhan hat but no jewelry. "i... i will walk from here," he said.

  "no, jared," his tearful wife began, hardly noticing the distant gunfire. "surely it is better to arrive as a leader should arrive. aren't you the most important bazaar) in tehran? it wouldn't fit your position to walk."

  "yes, yes, you're right." he sat in the back of the car. it was a big blue mercedes, new and well kept. his wife, a plump matron, her expensive coiffure hidden under a chador that also covered her long brown mink, got in beside him and held on to his arm, her makeup streaked by her tears. his son, meshang, was equally tearful. and his daughters, sharazad among them, all had chadors. "yes... yes, you're right. god curse these revolutionaries!"

  "don't worry, father," sharazad said. "god will protect you the revolutionary guards are only following the imam's orders and the imam only follows god's orders." she sounded so confident but looked so dejected that bakravan forgot to tell her not to refer to khomeini as

  "imam."

  "yes," he told her, "of course it's all a mistake."

  "all kia swore on the koran prime minister bazargan would stop all this nonsense," his wife said. "he swore he would see him last night. orders are probably already at the... already there."

  last night he had told ali kia that without paknouri there could be no loan, that if he himself was troubled the bazaar would revolt and all funds stopped

  to the government, to khomeini, to the mosques, and to ali kia personally. "all won't fail," he said grimly. "he daren't. i know too much about them all."

  the car stopped outside the main gate. idly the green bands stared at it. jared bakravan summoned his courage. "i won't be long."

  "god protect you. we'll wait here for you we'll wait here." his wife kissed him and so did the others and there were more tears and then he was standing in front of the green bands. "salaam," he said. "i'm i'm a witness at the court of mullah alitallah uwari."

  the leader of the guards took the paper, glanced at it upside down, gave it to one of the others who could read. "he's from the bazaar," the other youth said. "jared bakravan."

  the leader shrugged. "show him where to go." the other man led the way through the broken doorway. bakravan followed, and as the barricade closed behind him, much of his confidence vanished. it was somber and dank in this small open dirt area between the walls and the main building complex. the air stank. eastward, hundreds of men were crammed together, sitting or lying down, huddled miserably against the cold. many wore uniforms officers. westward, the space was empty. ahead was a tall iron-barred gate and it swung open to admit him. in the waiting room were dozens of other men, weary frightened men, sitting in rows on benches or standing or just sitting on the floor, some uniformed officers, and he noticed one full colonel. some of the others he recognized, important businessmen, court favorites, administrators, deputies but none he knew intimately. a few recognized him. there was a sudden hush.

  "hurry up," the guard said irritably. he was a pockmarked youth and he shoved through to the desk, to the harassed clerk who sat there. "here's another for excellency mullah uwari."

  the clerk accepted the paper and waved at bakravan. "take a seat you'll be called when you're needed."

  "salaam, excellency," bakravan said, shocked at the man's rudeness. "when will that be? i was to be here just after fir "

  "as god wants. you'll be called when you're needed," the man said waving him away.

  "but i'm jared bakravan of the baz "

  "i can read, agha!" the man said more rudely. "when you're wanted you'll be called! iran's an islamic state now, one law for all, not one for the rich another for the people."

  bakravan was jostled by others being shoved toward the clerk. weak with rage, he made his way toward a wall. to one side a man was using a latrine bucket that was already overfull, urine spilling onto the floor. eyes watched

  bakravan. a few muttered, "god's peace on you." the room smelled vile. his heart was pounding. someone made a space for him on a bench and, thankfully, he sat down. "the blessings of god upon thee, excellencies."

  "and on thee, agha," one of them said. "you're accused?"

  "no, now i'm called as a witness," he said shocked.

  "the excellency is a witness in front of mullah uwari?"

  "yes, yes, i am, excellency. who is he?"

  "a judge, a revolutionary judge," the man muttered. he was in his fifties, small, his face more lined than bakravan's, his hair tufted. he twitched nervously. "no one here seems to know what's happening, or why they're called, or who this uwari is, only that he's appointed by the ayatollah and judges in his name."

  bakravan looked into the man's eyes and saw the terror and felt even more unnerved. "the excellency is also a witness?"

  "yes, yes, i am, though why they should call me who was just a manager in the post office i don't know."

  "the post office is very important they probably need your advice. do you think we'll be kept waiting long?"

  "insha'allah. i was called yesterday after fourth prayer and i've been waiting ever since. they kept me here all night. we have to wait until we're called. that's the only toilet," the man said, pointing at the bucket. "the worst night i've ever had, terrible. during the night they... there was a great deal of firing; the rumor is three more generals and a dozen savak officials were executed."

  "fifty or sixty," the man on the other side of him said, coming out of his stupor. "the number must be nearer sixty. the whole prison's crammed like bedbugs in a village mattress. all the cells're packed. two days ago the green bands broke down the gates, overpowered the guards, and stuffed them in the dungeons, let most prisoners out and then started filling up the cells with locals" he dropped his voice more "all the cells are crammed, much more than in the shah's time, god curse him for not... every hour the green bandstre bringing in more people, fedayeen and mujhadin and tudeh all mixed up with us innocents, the faithful..." he dropped his voice further, the whites of his eyes showing, "and good people who should never be touched and... when the mob broke the prison open they found electric probes and whips and... and torture beds and..." foam collected at the corner of his mouth. "... they say the... the new jailers are using them and... and once you're here, excellency, they keep you here." tears began to well in his little eyes set in a pudgy face. "the food's terrible, the prison terrible, and... and i've got stomach ulcers and that son of a dog of a clerk, he... he won't understand i have to have special foods..."

  there was a commotion on the far side and the door crashed open. half a

  dozen green bands came into the room and began shoving a passage clear with their rifles. behind them, other guards surrounded an air force officer who walked proudly, his head high, his arms tied behind him, his uniform disheveled, epaulets half torn off. bakravan gasped. it was colonel peshadi, commander of kowiss air base also a cousin.

  others recognized the colonel, for much had been made of the victorious iranian expedition a few years ago to dhofar in southern oman, the successful smashing of the almost lethal marxist attack by south yemenis against oman, and also of peshadi's personal bravery leading iranian tanks
in a key battle. "isn't that the hero of dhofar?" someone said incredulously.

  "yes that's him..."

  "god protect us! if they arrest him..."

  impatiently one of the guards pushed peshadi in the back, trying to force him to hurry up. at once the colonel lashed out at him, though badly hampered by his manacles. "son of a dog," he shouted, his rage bursting, "i'm going as fast as i can. may your father burn!" the green band cursed him back, then shoved the butt of his rifle in the colonel's stomach. the colonel lost his balance and fell at his mercy. but he still cursed his captors. and he cursed them as they pulled him to his feet, two on each arm, and frog-marched him outside into the western space between the walls. and there he cursed them, and khomeini, and false mullahs, in all the names of god, then shouted, "long live the shah, there is no other god but g " bullets silenced him.