Screaming Eagles

by Michael Lawrence Kahn

  Mohmem paused and poured himself another cup of tea. This time, Kameran didn’t decline.

  * * *

  Why had I not listened to Mohmen? The TV is still on, and I think to myself, The clever ones ran; naive ones like me have stayed. The clever ones will survive, even if they are in a self-imposed exile. I do not know if I will or can survive.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At 6 o’clock sharp, I start my car, as do most other Teheranis. I listen to the car radio to be sure of the exact time. Don’t want to give a trigger-happy soldier an excuse to start shooting a minute before the curfew ends. I have left the Mercedes in the small garage near my apartment, and decided to drive this morning as the vehicle might offer some protection from crowds if need be.

  After so many years of driving in Iran, I am used to being on roads where absolute stupidity and a to-hell-with you attitude are the norm. It takes me an hour and a half to drive two miles. I park in a no-parking zone, deciding to let them ticket me rather than waste time looking for parking space.

  Managed to doze for a few hours last night, I feel like hell. My head aches relentlessly. I am mad at everyone and everything, but mainly mad at me. As I approach the bank, I

  see more than a hundred people milling around the large, cathedral-type front doors.

  Standing in lines is a national pastime in Russia, whose border is a few hundred miles north, one of five countries that borders Iran. But in Iran, standing in line is a joke. Nobody stands in line, even at urinals. The game is, if you come across a crowd of people and it is necessary to get from point A, where you are standing, to point B, where the doors are, the Iranian way is not to wait for others to go in first. Everyone has the same objective, getting through the doors first. Loosely translated in Farsi, it is called a game of toes. You place the toe of your shoe on the inside or outside of a shoe of the person standing directly in front of you and by moving your body ever so slightly, your eyes looking everywhere but the final objective, you begin to maneuver around that person.

  Everyone speaks, shoves, excuses himself, always politely, always gently, always trying to edge closer to the doors, but never looking directly at the final destination.

  Above the crowd, pigeons roost in the ornate overhanging archway. As they fly to and from their nests, they shed feathers and white ooze.

  I walk away from the doors, tightly gripping my briefcase, and enter an alley alongside the bank building to an unmarked door, the employee’s entrance. Anti-Shah graffiti is brazenly chalked or painted on walls in bright colors along the narrow lane, which I have always used previously when visiting my clients, who are bank employees.

  In the old days, the walkway had always been clean and well kept, but now it is filthy. A damp urine smell is pungent and fresh, and I wonder how many terrorists hid here last night from the soldiers, relieving themselves here as they waited. There are no bloodstains on the pathway, so the soldiers had obviously not surprised or encountered the people hiding. Although it is daylight, a single bulb above the employee’s door is still lit. Weeds have broken through paving stones, most which are now uneven, cracked, and angled.

  Standing there, I check my pocket again, feel for the $100 bills. Two Bank Melli employees are current clients of mine and my plan is to ask the first one who appears to get me through the employee’s door so I can talk to the bank manager.

  One by one, bank employees approach the door. They knock, show their IDs to the peephole and are admitted. All look at me, wondering what I am doing standing here. Most purposely avoid any eye contact, looking uneasy, harassed, and worried. Fearfully, they look at me as if I will contaminate them with some sort of disease. They dislike the fact that a foreigner is standing in a lane that is meant only for employees of the bank.

  Two employees, both men, ostentatiously spit in my direction, daring me to retaliate, yet confident that I won’t.

  Lack of sleep has me thinking crazy thoughts. I am now sure that the keeper of the peephole must be a god of peepholes. He is the lone decision-maker of who shall live and who shall die, who can enter and who cannot. Is this deity male or female, young, old, married, single, a grandfather or grandmother? What sort of person and what sort of qualities are needed to be chosen by a board of directors of the bank at their special board meeting, to be appointed to this most important of bank positions? Is this faceless person, chosen by promotion, demotion, nepotism or favoritism? Who the hell is this moron who sits on the other side of the door of this stinking alley?

  Finally, I see Hashemi walking towards the door and move to intercept him. “Hashemi, salaam. How are you, my friend?”

  “Please, Mr. Reilly, I cannot speak to you. Sorry, I

  am late.”

  “Hashemi, I need to speak with the bank manager. I will gladly pay generously for you to assist me to get into the bank.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Reilly, I cannot assist you. It is strongly forbidden. Excuse me, I am late.”

  I pull out a $100 bill. Hashemi visibly freezes, shying away from my outstretched hand. He tries to push me away, swatting at the money as if it is a snake. He knocks on the door and shows his ID.

  “Hashemi, Hashemi, we are friends. Please.” I take another $100 bill from my pocket.

  His face, white and teeth bared, Hashemi angrily hisses, “We will kill you, kill all of you Satans. Get away from me, get away, you American pig, you, heretic. Our time is near. Leave my country, raper of my people, son of the Devil himself. Leave me alone, you swine who hate us and are trying to destroy our country. Leave my country now, go before we destroy you.”

  Hashemi walks through the door.

  I stare at the closed door. It just can’t be possible that this is the same Hashemi who pleaded with me to accompany him to Florida so he could invest in a small, income-producing strip of stores. Hashemi’s family members had each contributed money so they jointly would have enough to make a down payment. They designated Hashemi to buy the properties on their behalf. Hashemi’s wife came to see him off at the airport.

  For me, the sale and my commission were hardly worth the trip, but after a plea from Hashemi’s mother, I’d flown to Miami with Hashemi. Hashemi had no interest in the negotiations. I concluded the sale on behalf of the family, as Hashemi’s only interest when we arrived in Miami was to visit as many topless and bottomless bars as possible. He was a paralytic drunk every night we were in Miami, always bringing a woman to his hotel room.

  Now, four months later, this man who drooled when he searched the Yellow Pages for a bar that advertised the raunchiest evening entertainment had just accused me of being Satan. Obviously, the transformation of Hashemi had to be the result of pending changes with which Khomeini had threatened the population once he came into power. I am in a total state of shock and disbelief.

  Ali Khoyi arrives a few minutes later. Walking rapidly, he recognizes me waves. He is a short, quiet, well-dressed man. He smiles, “Mr. Reilly, good morning. Do you wish to avoid the crowd at the front and come in through our door?”

  I can’t believe what I am hearing. I take the six $100 bills from my coat pocket and hand it to him. Ali Khoyi waves the money away and shakes my hand, holding it by the wrist.

  “I don’t need your money, Mr. Reilly. You were good to me when you helped me select my properties. You advised me well when I needed a friend. Let me be your friend. Please follow me into our bank. Whom do you wish to see? You must need to see the manager. Come, I will arrange it”

  Together, we walk through the door.

  * * *

  I look at my watch. It is already three o’clock. I’ve been sitting in a small waiting room alongside the manager’s office for six hours. The manager’s secretary is either talking on her phone or reading a book. She is obviously in total sync with her boss, sensing and anticipating his every wish. She pointedly ignores me. I have tried to strike up a conversation with her, but she just continues to read her book.

  Ali Khoya has brought me tea twice. We both see he
r disapproval, but she says nothing. I drink my tea the same way Iranians do: placing a sugar cube between my teeth and sipping tea through it until it melts. The manner in which I drink tea doesn’t impress her.

  I’ve read and reread the only magazine that is on the coffee table next to my chair. The magazine is open and on one of its pages is an advertisement offering flights at discount prices to Ethiopia. My mind starts wandering again, and I feel disoriented, so get up and walk around the lobby whenever I feel that I’m going to fall asleep.

  All day long, men have been escorted into the manager’s office. Most came out ashen faced, some completely dumbstruck, murmuring to themselves, holding their prayer beads and counting the prayers as they move the beads. Those the secretary quickly dispatches, hurrying them out like a jailer moving a prisoner as rapidly as possible toward the electric chair, the prisoner not wanting to go and the jailer in a hurry to get it over with, go home, and climb into bed.

  The intercom buzzes and I hear her call my name. I get up and walk through the large ornate door; she closes it behind me as I enter. The room is enormous. The manager sits at the far end of the room behind a large antique desk. Antiques are everywhere. Walking toward him, on lush heavy, Persian carpets, I see a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There are matching wall fittings, heavy drapes, an Iranian flag, large pictures of the Shah, and pictures of the royal family on the wall behind the manager’s chair. The manager doesn’t bother to get up. The room is ominously quiet.

  He holds papers in both hands so that he does not have to shake hands with me. Looking up, the manager says “Mr. Reilly, I can give you five minutes. What can I do for you?” He exhibits none of the customary, polite, inconsequential small talk or courtesy normally dictated when Iranians meet. My heart sinks. On his desk is a large name plate in gold letters Abdullah Brahimi, General Manager.

  Opening my briefcase, I take out bank statements, saying “I have $634,000 in my account. I wish to withdraw it.”

  Twirling one end of his moustache into a point while he speaks, the manager says, “Mr. Reilly, come now. You did not deposit your money in my bank. These are Saderat statements.”

  “Mr. Brahimi, you are well aware that Bank Saderat was blown up and as Bank Melli is the National Reserve Bank owned by the government, you have assumed all of its responsibilities. Here is my latest statement and my passport.”

  “Mr. Reilly, while it is true we have taken over Saderat’s affairs, how do I know that an hour before the bank was blown up, you didn’t withdraw all of your money and take it out of the country or maybe five minutes before it was blown up? Possibly you are trying to take advantage of the temporary, unfortunate situation in our beloved country? How do I know that you are not looking to make another $634,000?”

  “You know that is not true.”

  “How do I know, Mr. Reilly? What proof do you have?”

  “You know I could not have withdrawn my money. It is impossible. Saderat would have had to draw a reserve bank check, as my money was in foreign currency and I would have needed to get a Bank Melli cashier’s check to take it out of the bank. You would have a copy of the reserve bank check. Please check your files.”

  His smile tightens, “How do I know if what you say is true? You surprise me, Mr. Reilly, with your knowledge of our banking system. I think the authorities should be made aware of this situation. We will have to investigate you and your business. Write a letter. It will take us many months, if ever, to prove your claim. In the meantime, I will inform the authorities to investigate your business. Times are difficult. At the moment, no one knows how long this foolishness will continue in our glorious country. We Iranians are suffering. Unfortunately, it is foreigners like yourself who come here to exploit our people and resources. You all are the cause. Write your letter, and when things quiet down, perhaps we will find this phantom money that you claim, perhaps.”

  “This cannot be. Every reserve bank has to honor its depositors’ money. Here are my checkbooks. Check and you will see my balance is correct. I must get my money.”

  “I repeat, Mr. Reilly, write a letter. Now you must excuse me. I have other appointments.”

  He turns away, shifting papers from one end of his desk to another, completely ignoring me.

  I hear the door open behind me, and the secretary calls my name. An armed guard is standing with her. The manager must have pressed a buzzer to summon her. I want to walk around the desk and beat the little shit to a pulp. For seconds, we stare at each other. There is no fear in his eyes. He knows I won’t touch him because I have only once chance in a million to get my money but I can’t jeopardize that one chance, so I have to leave the pompous motherfucker sitting behind his big desk and go home and write a letter.

  * * *

  I find three parking tickets on my car. I tear them into small pieces, spit on them, and kick the pieces away. I plan to check my file of clients and lean on the most influential to get me out of this mess. I’ll fight fire with fire. I’ll get that sleazy piece of shit Abdullah Brahimi, and break his kneecaps if I have to. Kameran, Mohmen, Sadegh—I will contact someone, anyone who will make that manager shit in his pants. Somehow I’ll get back my money. If he wants war, he’ll have war.

  * * *

  I open the door to my apartment. It has taken me three hours to return from the bank. I close the door, pause, and immediately sense that something is not right. I freeze, stop breathing, and don’t move as I listen to see if I can identify any of the committeemen. I hear noises from the kitchen. Reopening the front door quietly I stand ready to take flight into the streets.

  Sharply, I shout, “Who’s there? Come out!” If they come with a gun or knife, I’ll run. Maybe they are planting a bomb.

  “Who the hell are you? Come out. I’ve got a gun.”

  “Agha Reilly, please. Agha. It is I, Jalal. Agha, what is wrong?”

  “Jalal. You crazy bastard, why didn’t you answer? I thought it is the crazies that threatened to blow up my apartment. You scared the hell out of me.”

  “I know, Agha. This note was on the door when I came here after school.” Jalal handed me a brown piece of paper torn from a grocery bag, similar to what I found the previous day on the door.

  “Dog, tonight you die, just like Number 17.” This is unusual, a second warning. Involuntarily, I shudder. If they wanted my attention, they had it, totally and completely.

  Six weeks ago, while I was having breakfast and listening to the news, an explosion broke every window in my apartment facing the street. Dust and debris sprayed through windows, clouding the air and then settling all throughout the apartment.

  I rushed to a window to see what had happened. I saw Number 17, the apartment building across the street, totally crushed, blown apart. Cement slabs, twisted steel and concrete pieces falling. Thick dust heavy and dark rose up in great clouds, giving off a wet cement smell that later permeated my rooms for many days. No one came out of the building. It just collapsed inwards.

  Ambulances, fire trucks, and police came, but no one had been rescued. For hours, I stood at my window, watching the frantic activity as they searched. Neighbors, still in pajamas, pulled at rocks and tried lifting wooden beams. If people had been trapped alive, no one ever found them. The explosives used by the terrorists had been expertly detonated.

  The authorities, seeing it was hopeless, left the scene after a few hours. For two days, weeping family members dug with their hands spades, pneumatic drills, and finally a bulldozer, but Number 17 would not give up its bodies. Number 17 concealed and buried the people who had lived there so that only worms would find them. The rescuers couldn’t.

  The rubble that had once been Number 17 still lay in heaped across the street, piles of twisted metal and broken concrete. Weeds would start growing soon. The first few times that I walked out of my door after the explosion, I saw in my mind images of how the building had looked before it had collapsed.

  Until now, I’d always felt I was in
vulnerable. Iranians didn’t kill foreigners. They cursed us, spat on us, ignored us, but didn’t kill us. That was yesterday’s theory. The brown paper note says if I didn’t leave today, I will become a body no one will find tomorrow. My building will become the next Number 17.

  “Jalal, I think I’d better leave now. Lock up everything and finish tidying up while I pack.”

  I keep the bank statements and take all the important papers and cash I can find. I decide not to take a suitcase as I would have trouble carrying it or getting it on the plane. When my briefcase is full, I put on a raincoat and stuff more papers into the pockets, then start calling taxis. As soon as they hear my foreigner’s voice, they slam down the phone. I feel myself growing more and more angry.

  Quietly, Jalal suggests that I sit down. Jalal says he will organize a taxi. I stare at him. He’s always been so quiet. It is two years since Jalal arrived at my door. I’ve paid for his tuition at school and now college. Jalal insisted that one day he would pay me back. Jalal has scrupulously kept an accounting of funds he is given, at the end of each month, he checks with me to see if our totals tally.

  Jalal calls a taxi and tells me to wait by the door. He will get in the taxi and leave the door open, and exit through the other door as soon as I am in and seated behind him. He gives me a Farsi newspaper and asks me for a $50 bill, which he tears in half. Normal fare to the airport is five dollars.

  Ten minutes later, a taxi arrives. Jalal greets the driver, carrying my briefcase and gets in. I jump in after him and slam the car door shut, then open the newspaper as if I am reading it. The taxi driver becomes apoplectic, ordering me out, saying he will be killed, and his car stoned.

  Jalal puts the torn half of the $50 bill in the driver’s hand and gently says no one will ever know who is reading the newspaper. The other half of the $50 will be paid when the passenger arrives safely at the airport. The driver’s bluster, cursing, and rage cease as pure economics and greed take over. Fifty dollars, ten times the going rate, is too good to give up.