Tehran Noir

by Salar Abdoh

  Scene 5

  The man was in the middle of his evening prayer when his cell phone rang. He kept an eye on the screen even as he continued. As the sound became louder, his wife came and stood over him. He kept praying but signaled with his hand for her to not worry about it and get on with her own work. She complied.

  After that he only went through the motions of the prayer and finished up as fast as he could.

  He checked the phone while his wife asked from the kitchen if she should start serving dinner.

  “I’m going to Kamali’s house tonight,” he answered.

  She walked back out into the living room. “But . . . I put on a whole lot of rice for us. Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

  The man didn’t bother answering. He seemed annoyed about something and asked, “Where’s that daughter of yours? Is she upstairs in her room? Tell her if she steals my car keys and goes out like that again I’ll break both her legs. I’m not joking.”

  The woman nervously played with the button on her skirt. “Haji, please! She’s a big girl. She didn’t mean anything by it. She’s sorry.”

  The man’s voice grew louder. “She didn’t mean anything by it? Where was she Friday night? Why did she come home so late?”

  “She was at her friend’s house. They were studying together.”

  “Studying, was she? Mark my words, if I catch her one more time . . .”

  His phone began to beep again. He paused for a second before answering in an even tone, “Salam alaykum, haj agha.” He laughed. “No, certainly, yes. I’ll be there. I just have to stop on the way at the office and get some documents. You honor us, haj agha. We’d be happy if you came here and we could host you for a change.” As he spoke into the phone, he slowly folded his prayer rug and put it away in front of the hall mirror. “Certainly. But tomorrow the mayor’s office is closed. Yes, because of Commander Jafari’s fortieth day of mourning. I know, it’s hard to believe. Forty days since his passing already. May he rest in peace. Yes, yes, absolutely.”

  Call over, he went to the coatrack next to the entrance and put on his overcoat.

  His wife stood at the threshold of the kitchen watching his every move. She said, “I have the help coming in the morning to clean the house. Can I give him that other black coat you don’t want anymore?”

  “Give him the sneakers too. The ones Yasir sent from London. I don’t wear those things.”

  She nodded.

  He kept his eyes on her for a few seconds. “What’s this thing you’re wearing? Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately? You look like a maid.”

  The woman immediately became anxious and withdrew a little into the kitchen. “I . . . I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve put on a bit of weight. This skirt is just a lot more comfortable.”

  “I brought a whole suitcase full of new clothes for you from Turkey. They’re all too tight already?”

  A text message distracted him and she stood watching his back while he fiddled awkwardly with his phone. He put on his shoes and without turning to her again or saying goodbye, he muttered a Bismillah and exited the house.

  The woman did not move for another minute. Then she went to the kitchen cabinet and took out a bottle of prescription medicine. Valium. Her hands were shaking. She filled a glass of water and took two pills out.

  “Is his majesty finally gone?”

  The woman jumped. “Zahra! You scared me. I guess you already heard how angry your father was with you.”

  “Don’t worry about that man.”

  “One doesn’t talk about one’s father like that.” She examined her daughter. “Why are you dressed up?”

  Zahra was holding up a small mirror and putting on some gloss. “He thinks he has the right to tell you anything he wants. And you never say anything back. What are you scared of?”

  “I asked why you’re dressed for outside.”

  “Because that’s what I’m doing—going out.”

  “Zahra, please! Don’t you have an exam? You should learn a little bit from your brother Yasir.”

  Zahra sneered, “Yasir? That guy could barely get his high school diploma here. Now all of a sudden we hear he’s getting a PhD in London. Who did my father pay off this time? And how much?”

  “Your father spent thirty-one months at war in the front lines.” She stormed past the girl into the living room and started searching frantically for the TV remote. Zahra followed her. “Thirty-one months,” she repeated. “Don’t you ever forget that!”

  “Well, your haj agha is certainly getting mileage out of those thirty-one months now. And all he has to do in return is sport a stupid prayer bead and let his beard grow a little. Everyone knows he’s turned the city’s Twelfth District into a thieves’ den.”

  “Bite your tongue, girl!”

  “Why do you let him push you around like that?”

  “He’s my husband. He’s the man of the house.”

  “Don’t play dumb. You know he’s been having an affair with a married woman. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  “Zahra!”

  “You were crying on the phone when you were talking to Aziz about it.”

  “I was talking to Aziz about someone else.”

  “Sure you were. You haven’t slept together in over a year.”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “It is my business. You have to stop being such a weakling in front of him. I know what it is: you’re afraid he’ll divorce you and you’ll have to go back to the provinces. Who’d want to give up all this luxury, right? The money and the fancy car and the country house and the fashionable address in the most expensive part of Tehran. You’re afraid you’ll be average again. So you take those stupid pills and keep putting on weight. Instead of taking all those meds, you should take a shot of whiskey every night. Works a lot better.”

  “Stop this talk, Zahra. Sacrilege! I don’t know what kind of people you’ve been hanging around with. Your father is right: when a girl doesn’t marry young, this is the result.” TV remote in hand, she sighed and sat down on the sofa and began surfing the channels.

  Zahra scoffed, “And tell him to stop bringing me suitors. If he still insists, tell him to at least let them know beforehand I lost my virginity a long time ago.”

  Her mother put a hand over her face. “God forgive us for her profanities.”

  “Don’t worry. Our times are different than yours. Nowadays you won’t find any girl my age in Tehran who hasn’t known love and then some. Virginity is for fools.” She went toward the door.

  Her mother jumped from the sofa. “I swear I’ll call him right now if you go out.”

  “So call. You think I’m scared? When you call him, tell him his daughter went to buy cigarettes. I’ll be right back.”

  Scene 6

  He tapped the motorcycle cabbie’s shoulder and said, “This is a one-way lane for buses. What are you doing?” He was holding on for dear life and was glad that the guy had at least lent him his helmet.

  The rider half turned to him in the wind. “No worries, I know the cop handling the lane today. He won’t bother us.”

  A bus came straight at them. The rider angled his bike sharply onto the sidewalk where several cursing pedestrians had to jump out of the way.

  On Manuchehri Street he gratefully got off the bike and breathed a sigh of relief. The area was filled with currency exchange shops and antique and black-market dealers. He handed the biker his fare and headed into the crowd of people.

  “You selling dollars?” someone shouted.

  “No.”

  “You buying them?”

  No again. A little farther into the street there were less people. Several secondhand traders had laid out their goods on the sidewalk—watches, prayer beads, rings, old coins.

  He stopped in front of one of them. The guy was selling nineteenth-century teapots, ancient-looking locks and bolts, an old Zenith camera, a pair of brass trays, and a boxful of LPs from the 1970s.
/>
  Someone passed by whispering that he had “king-killers,” shah-kosh, for sale.

  What if the guy was undercover? He had to be careful before he asked around. He walked a bit farther on and squatted by another street dealer. Picking up a steel knuckle buster, he asked how much it was.

  The seller didn’t even bother looking at him.

  He tried again, “How much is that knife?”

  “Eighty,” the man said, still not turning to him.

  He took the knife and tried opening it but couldn’t. The man grabbed the knife from him and flicked it open. “Switchblade.”

  He laughed nervously. “All right, how much for the knuckle buster?”

  The man gave him a dead expression. “Don’t beat around the bush. Tell me what it is you’re after.”

  “A gun.”

  The guy kept a steady eye on him, measuring him. Now he slowly turned and gestured at a heavyset man with a thick mustache who slowly ambled over to them.

  “He’s looking for a king-killer.”

  The big guy ran a hand over his mustache and stared hard at the potential customer. “Come!”

  He fell behind the big man.

  On a smaller street they stopped in front of a ruin of a house and the man spoke: “You want American Colt or a Russian automatic?” He had a Kurdish accent.

  “A king-killer. That’s what I came for, a shah-kosh.”

  “Can be arranged. It’s secondhand, though. Forty-five caliber.”

  He wasn’t sure what to do. He kept his hands in his pockets, feeling naked there.

  The man said, “I have a secondhand Beretta too.”

  “The king-killer. How much?”

  “Three-fifty. Fifty rounds thrown in.”

  “It works fine?”

  “Fit for a king.” The man rubbed his fingers together to indicate it was time to show him the money. There was no choice. He had to trust the guy. He brought a bundle of bills from his jacket pocket and counted before handing it to the Kurd. The guy counted again and then touched the bills to his forehead in a gesture of appreciation. “Wait right here.”

  After a while he began to feel stupid. Why had he trusted the guy like that? He lit a cigarette and smoked nervously, not sure what to do. The air felt dirty. He threw the half-finished cigarette away and slammed a fist against the wall in frustration.

  Another five minutes and the man finally showed up.

  First thing he did was give him the ammunition. Then the king-killer itself, wrapped in an old red rag.

  He felt the thing in his hand, the rag still covering it. It was heavier than he’d expected.

  Scene 7

  “May your hearts be of gold and your eyes sparkle and your mouths show laughter and may today’s autumn afternoon be filled with joy for you and your . . .”

  “Turn that stupid bitch off, please,” Puri said.

  Goljaan, her Afghan helper, smiled and turned the radio off. “Shall I iron these ones also, khanum jaan?

  “No. Go on home. I’ll do the rest myself. I left your money next to the radiator. Don’t forget to take it.”

  “May God always protect you. Thank you. A friend is headed for Kabul tonight; I can give them this money to take for my family.”

  “Good.”

  The boy was standing there, his eyes vacant as always and the ever-present drool hanging from his mouth. Puri pulled the sweater over his head. The kid stood motionless while she struggled with the sleeves. Impatiently, she said, “Shahin jaan, help me out here a bit. I can’t wear your clothes for you.”

  The boy stood still and more drool came out of his mouth.

  Goljaan picked up her envelope of cash. “What is this, khanum?” She pointed to a blue dress on the sofa.

  Before Puri could answer, her phone rang. She answered it. “I’ll call you back, Maman jaan. No, I can’t come to your place. I know schools are closed, but the banks aren’t. Yes, I do have to go to work. All right. No.” She threw the mobile on the sofa and turned to Goljaan. “The dress is for you. Almost new. I only wore it one time at a wedding.”

  “You are an angel, khanum jaan.” Goljaan went to the door to put on her shoes.

  Puri was distracted. She began ironing a scarf, half talking to herself and half to Goljaan who was almost out the door. “Two of the employees have gone on vacation and they force me to do all their work. People tell me how lucky I am to work in a bank. Mrs. In-Charge-of-Safe-Deposit-Box. As if the money in there belongs to me. As if I won a prize or something. What do they know! Between last week and this week the price of milk tripled and I have an eleven-year-old child who hasn’t spoken two words his entire life. Sure, I’m really lucky to work in a bank.” She peered over at the boy who stood there gawking at her. “And guess what else? Now everything in the world is suddenly carcinogenic. Those new Chinese lamps: cancer. The plastic spatula I just bought and threw away: cancer.”

  The phone rang again. She stood the iron up and checked the number calling her. Taking a deep breath, she answered, “Salam. I’m home. I’ve just washed him. I’ll give him the phone.” She called the boy over. “Shahin, your father wants to talk to you.”

  The boy’s mouth hung open from joy. He hurried to his mother who lifted the phone to his ear. Some nondescript sounds came out of his mouth and he listened. She sat him down on the sofa, caressed his head, and took the device away after a few moments and began talking into it. “It’s me. Well, it’s nice of you to remember him. No, I’m not being sarcastic. I’m almost out of his medicines. No pharmacy has them in the city. They say it’s the American sanctions. Nothing’s coming into the country. I asked one of the bank’s customers. He has a son studying in London. Deputy mayor. Twelfth District. Travels a lot. I gave him the names of the medicines. He said he’d bring a couple of packages. What? No, I didn’t flirt with him, for God’s sake. Besides, you can tell from his face the guy has something to do with Etelaa’at. I don’t even like him. But what can I do?”

  She listened for a while longer, becoming increasingly agitated. The boy remained on the sofa swinging himself left and right. Finally she shouted into the phone, “What’s it to you if I’m seeing anyone or not? Do I ever ask you these questions?” She hung up and turned the phone off completely and threw it next to the boy. The boy stared at her with wide eyes and she kissed him on the forehead before going over to the window and lighting a cigarette.

  Scene 8

  Arash sat in a corner of Milad’s room, unseen, while Milad stood in the doorway listening to his doddering landlord ramble on in chopped sentences.

  “Young man, I told you from day one . . . families live here . . . That friend you have, he doesn’t look right . . . and girls, too many girls coming and going . . . I mean, I’m not traditional . . . but the other tenants . . . if you ask me, they’re all thieves . . . but still my tenants . . . You should be careful of that Internet . . . I like the satellite TV myself . . . those Turkish soaps are nice . . . not all of them though . . . And you’re telling me you don’t have the rent and it’s five days past the beginning of the month . . . and with my two daughters in college . . . Do you know how much college costs nowadays? . . . And then I have to climb up these stairs with my bad knees and bad back and bad everything . . . not right for an old man like me . . . And here, here is a lightbulb for your hallway . . . Screw it . . . screw it in yourself.”