Elfi was speaking as he stared at the ceiling. Adna watched Elfi’s mouth move slowly and endlessly.
Adna said, “That’s enough, Elfi! That’s enough, stop talking!”
Elfi said, “I won’t forget the world as long as the rabbi hasn’t closed my eyes. I will remember the ringdove on the violin strings. I will strike the strings three times, then wait five seconds in silence to hear it ring in the ears of the world. Then two more times; I will drink a glass of water to soothe the lump in my throat. And I will add that, yes, indeed, I was only ten years old when I realized that I would die one day. Amazing, isn’t it? . . . Is someone knocking, Adna?”
“The rabbi! He is here.”
Adna loosened Elfi’s fingers from around her wrist, and freed herself. Elfi’s hand remained clenched as though he were trying to grasp the air. Adna stood up and dashed out. She rushed down the stairs, sobbing.
Elfi grabbed the hand of the man that now approached. He held it tightly. Adna’s sobs could be heard from downstairs in the storage room.
“Talk to me about the sky! I have always believed the sky wasn’t empty. Now I have the right to ask where my place will be. I sold thousands of copies of the New York Times and I read thousands of obituaries. I expect them to write two lines about me. Couldn’t you intervene? Do you find me ridiculous?”
Adna returned to the room. She stood by the door. She was crying, looking at the red candle on the bedside table: it remained still and undiminished by even a millimeter. It burned without a drip. Its flame was still.
“The tide was low. The land of this peninsula was born out of sediments from the sea. Pieces of coral, of fish scales, of shark teeth turned into powder. But there will be a high tide . . . Where does this noise come from? Why is this noise in my veins?”
Adna was crying silently, staring at the candle. She moved closer to the bed, waved her hand in front of Elfi’s eyes. Elfi continued to speak without even blinking. She signaled Idris to close his eyelids. Idris did. Elfi became silent.
Idris couldn’t free himself from Elfi’s fingers. He leaned over, put his ear to his heart, and nodded his head.
“He is released. Mister is dead, Madam.”
Adna said, “Carry him downstairs, Idris.”
Idris tried to open Elfi’s grip from his wrist but couldn’t. He leaned over him and invoked Imam Ali. With his right arm he picked Elfi up and placed him on his shoulder. With his foot, he pushed wider the half-opened door. He turned to look at Adna, then began to descend the stairs.
Adna bent down. She blew out the candle. It didn’t go out. She blew again. The little yellow flame continued to burn. Adna took a few steps back, stopped by the door, and looked at the candle. Her eyes were shining. She closed the door behind her and descended the stairs in darkness.
Because of the wind, it began to rain in the room . . .
— Translated by Leyla Ebtehadj
Footnotes
1 A series of cannons or missiles discharged simultaneously; called “Stalin’s organ” because they were used by the Soviet Army during World War II. Saddam Hussein’s army used these in attacking Iran during the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988).
2 Bassiji are a revolutionary volunteer militia.
3 Another name for Satan (Shaytan).
Ghazaleh Alizadeh
Ghazaleh Alizadeh was born in 1948 in Mashad. She began publishing her stories in literary magazines in 1967 and published a collection of stories and a novel in the 1970s. Her most acclaimed work, however, appeared after the 1979 revolution in the form of two novels and one collection of stories: Two Views (1984), House of the Idrissis (1992), and The Intersection (1994).
This excerpt consists of the third and fourth chapters of Alizadeh’s novella The Trial, published in the collection The Intersection. It is set in the autumn and winter following the U.S. and British-backed coup in August 1953 that overthrew Dr. Mohammad Mossadeghs government and restored the Shah to power. The main character, Colonel Mo’ezz, lives with his wife, Farideh, and their daughter, Sussan, in a house in Tehran where he also tends a small poultry coop. In this excerpt, Colonel Mo’ezz, not the brightest of men, is summoned to act as a judge in the military trials of nationalists and communists following the coup. Alizadeh portrays the atmosphere of the time and the characters of the military officers with great perception and wit.
Excerpt from
THE TRIAL
CHAPTER 3
In the afternoon, the colonel was taking a nap. The telephone rang. He opened his eyes and rolled over to his side. He got up grumbling. He thought that it was probably one of Farideh’s relatives, someone from the tribes of maternal and paternal aunts and their offspring, or one of her carefree sisters, or the “palace-dwelling” cousins. Wearily, he picked up the receiver. A masculine voice said, “Colonel Mo’ezz?”
“Colonel Mo’ezz speaking. Can I help you?”
“This is General Qarib, Deputy of the Logistics Division.”
The colonel stood up at attention. The hairs sticking out of his nasal cavities began to move up and down along with his quickened breath. “General, Your Excellency, you grace me! I am your devoted servant!” To reduce the shaking in his voice he threw in a cliche: “From which side did the sun rise today?”1 He laughed and began to cough. He had learned these cliches from Farideh, and for this reason his manner of speaking sometimes had a feminine quality.
The general answered, “Colonel Mo’ezz, come to the Military Tribunal Headquarters tomorrow. Today, on a holiday, I am struggling under the weight of files instead of going to the Gardens of Abeali. These traitors had managed to penetrate everywhere. They send them to us after the interrogation process. The files are as thick as the mas-navi with seventy tons of paper.2 We’re stuck in it up to our eyeballs. Come to our aid, O compassionate friend, in times of trouble!”3 In a Turkish accent, he added, “Long Live the Dead! Death to the Living!”
They both roared with laughter. In the same accent, Colonel Mo’ezz answered, “Long live clocks!”
Qarib began to cough. “Son of a gun! You seem to be in top form. Wait until you work with us for a month — we’ll squeeze you dry. Tomorrow at seven o’clock sharp “At your service, General.”
The colonel was in a daze when he hung up. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to rock the stool with his toes. He rubbed his chin, and muttered repeatedly, “So finally, it’s my turn.” General Qarib is a benevolent man, he thought. Last year, Mo’ezz had argued with him over a few sacks of rice in the logistics division. He truly regretted it now, and slapped the back of his hand in remorse. But as he wasn’t one to occupy his mind with anything for long, he consoled himself that such incidents are forgotten easily. He took The Spirit of the Laws from the half-empty bookshelf that Farideh had decorated with a doll. It was a present from his wife’s uncle. He lay down on the bed, and flipped through it. He wasn’t the reading type. He always fell asleep after the first or second page. His lids became heavy; he saw himself at the agricultural fair. Hundreds of chickens and roosters were walking in a long line. It was snowing.
An unknown voice said, “Come this way... a rare breed!” The crowd thickened. A man with a beret, his nose red and dripping, was bumping into people. In a huge cage, chickens the size of horses strutted about, puffing out their chests, each chest adorned with a row of medals and stars. A door creaked. The colonel woke up with a start. Then he smiled.
CHAPTER 4
On Saturday morning, Colonel Mo’ezz was awakened by the call of the rooster. He washed his face and shaved in the dim early morning light. He took his military uniform from the wardrobe, brushed it, and put it on, checking himself in the mirror on the dressing table. Boxes of Coty makeup powder, Crêpe de Chîne perfume, and cold cream were reflected in the mirror. Farideh turned over and pulled the checkered blanket up to her chin. It was getting cold.
The colonel tiptoed out of the house and shut the door gently. He got into a taxi and got off in front of the Military Tribunal Head
quarters. A crowd had gathered behind the railings. Near the gate, some people were talking among themselves, their eyes sunken from lack of sleep. They had spread newspapers on the sidewalk. Old women sat quietly, looking like migrating birds left behind the flock.
The crowd made way for him. Hatred sparkled in their eyes. The colonel shrugged. He did not think of this wretched bunch as human beings. He walked through the garden, entered the huge building, and asked for the direction to Brigadier General Qarib’s office. Along the semi-dark corridor, he anxiously opened the fifth door on his left. He went in, stretched his neck, kicked his heels together, and presented the military salute.
Brigadier General Qarib half stood up. He had a thin, hooked nose, a pointed chin, and protruding cheekbones. His tiny eyes were shining underneath thick eyebrows. He slapped the colonel on his broad shoulders. “Punctual as ever,” he said, turning to the officers in the room, with a smile on his bluish lips, flashing his loose yellow teeth. “We served together in the logistics division. Throughout the six years, I don’t recall the colonel having been even five minutes late.” He flicked his nose on both sides, as if he were putting it back into place. “A soldier’s discipline is his religion.” He offered the colonel a chair near his own desk. The colonel sat down. The brigadier general stretched his neck toward him and whispered, “We’re short of judges.”
The door was opened and a corporal came in, cheeks flushed, panting, and speaking a mixture of Turkish and Persian. “A prisoner’s wife has thrown herself under the justice minister’s car.”
“Stupid sluts!” snapped the brigadier general, tapping his forehead. “They’re so useless they can’t keep their husbands at home. Now that the slobs have landed in trouble, these cows want to take it out on the government. You have no idea,” he said, turning to the colonel, “what a scene they make first thing in the morning.”
“What can you do?” said the colonel, shaking his head thoughtfully. “That’s the fair sex for you.”
“What fair sex are you talking about?” retorted General Qarib. “They’re the cantankerous sex . . . By the way, how’s your good wife? We’ve recently become related to each other. My cousin has married one of your wife’s relatives.”
“It’s an honor,” said the colonel, bowing his head.
A young captain, red-faced, with a stocky and solid build, brought the general a voluminous file. The general took the file and leafed through it. The captain, smiling, kicked his heels, thrust out his chest, and stood at attention. His whole body was motionless, except for his mustache, which went up and down every now and again. The officer had gone red in the face trying to stop laughing. Colonel Mo’ezz frowned.
“You and five senior officers,” the brigadier told the colonel, having raised his head from the file, “must go to Bench Six.” He then paused, looked at his watch, and brushed his hair with his hand before adding, “You have half an hour before the trial begins.”
An officer with glasses opened the door. They entered a corridor. The group set off. The dust-covered corridor was periodically illuminated by the light shining through narrow skylights. The thick soles of military boots slammed hard on the floor covering, and the noise echoed under the roof. As the group walked along, the administrative staff would make way for them, gazing at them inquisitively.
“How glorious,” the colonel thought. Once again he was glad he had decided to join the army. In his mind, he formed a theory: “People are two types, weak and strong. There’s nothing in between.” Thrusting out his chest, he thought this was something he should tell his wife about. “The powerful are the crème de la crème of nature.”
A waiter was carrying tea, his back bent, his face sallow. The colonel gave him a hateful look and developed his theory further. “People like him have no place in the realm of human beings. They have no brains.” He nearly spat on the floor. “What is such a creature’s life worth?” Turning back, he looked at the tall, shapely officers. They were healthy-looking, handsome, and elegant. “These are the type of men to build this country. Even chickens are different from each other. The Dutch chickens are fat and juicy.” The colonel’s train of thought took him to the sight of chickens grilled on charcoal. A fat officer was walking in front of him, his plump, round buttocks swaying rhythmically behind the slit in his military jacket.
They entered the courtroom. The court recorder, the accused, and the members of the public rose. The colonel stroked his thin moustache. The officers walked toward the rostrum. They sat behind podium-like tables. Colonel Mo’ezz surveyed the crowd. The photographers’ flashing lights bothered him. He thought that now his image was entering the realm of history. He lowered his head and doodled on a piece of notepaper marked with the Imperial Crown. He drew his favorite image: the henna-colored rooster of Sabzevar.4
The prosecutor was a diminutive, thin man, quick-footed and passionate. He went behind the podium. He called the names of the six accused and read out the indictment. The skin under his chin was loose and trembled; his Adam’s apple was sticking out and moving up and down. Colonel Mo’ezz doodled again, this time a turkey. The color of the prosecutor’s face would change. He slammed his fist on the table. He walked along the rostrum and walked back. His cheeks looked as if they were on fire. His earlobes had gone red. He undid his top shirt button. His jacket felt too heavy. Protocol permitting, he would even have taken it off. His body was so powerful and dynamic, even the military trousers were getting in his way. Every time the prosecutor shouted or jumped around, Colonel Mo’ezz worried that the man’s gold-plated buttons would snap off and shoot up toward the ceiling. A novel idea crossed the colonel’s mind: “Prosecutors should wear flowing robes, similar to those worn by Arab men, because they need more space to be able to jump around and dramatize the offense.” He had heard that to heed the call of nature, the Arab man only needed to sit down and lift his robe. He frowned and, imagining a foul smell, pushed his nostrils together.
Words such as “criminal,” “perfidious,” and “congenital traitor” echoed in his ears. He was not into politics. All he knew was that when Iran had won its case against Britain in 1952 at the International Court of Justice in The Hague, he had felt proud for several hours, had waved his fists in the air, and had shouted at the top of his voice in the courtyard of his house, “We really smashed them!” Farideh had shed a few tears of happiness.
Now the tables had been turned, and the former prime minister was in prison. It was a complicated game, defying his intellect. He didn’t give it too much thought, figuring there must be some expedience in that.
He was tired of the noise. He would shift his weight from one buttock to another. Wind had built up in his stomach and was twisting in his intestines. He had a shooting pain in his backbone. The old hernia was raising its head again. It was a legacy of his time in the Russian prison.5 The six accused took turns defending themselves. What they said weighed heavily on the brain, talking of injustice and the deprived classes. “Too much reading drives you mad,” he thought. “Really, what was the use of these men’s knowledge and understanding? Now they have to take all of it to the grave.” He recalled falling asleep as soon as he began reading a book.
He gently tapped the tip of his pen on the table. He was grateful for having a healthy mind. He turned toward the window. A big fly was buzzing behind the glass pane. His eyelids were feeling heavy. The sweet taste of sleep was circling around his head. He rubbed his eyes. In his hands, he firmly pressed the flab around his stomach. “The court is not a reading room,” he reproached himself “The judge should not sleep while the accused are defending themselves.” He half rose, shuffled his feet, and tried to summon up frightening thoughts to fight off the temptation to fall asleep. He imagined himself in the shoes of the accused. Picturing the execution scene in his mind, he felt a shooting pain go up his backbone.
The accused criminals would rise, heads shaven, their faces covered in stubble a few days old; they spoke of victory, emancipation, and the brigh
t future. “What future?” he wondered. “Going to the graveyard?” He filled his cheeks with air. On the right-hand side of the note paper, he drew a lovebird in a cage. “All these atrocities are caused by books,” he mumbled to himself. “They use deceptive phrases to shove evil ideas down people’s throats.”
The court was adjourned for a recess. They all went to have to tea. In the officers’ common room he saw a familiar face: Captain Siavosh, from the Second Bureau.6 He was tall, healthy, with a good complexion, smart and quick, the type that Farideh would call “fully formed.” His jaw was adorned by thick black sideburns. His small mouth was as red as a radish. He walked briskly toward the colonel, held the colonel’s big hand in his long, delicate hands, and smiled. The smell of an expensive aftershave wafted from his face into the colonel’s nostrils.
“Well, well, well! This trial has brought all the old friends together!” the captain said, before letting go of the colonel’s hand. “Can’t you see the dawn of victory?” he said, winking at the sloping shaft of light under which a cobweb was glinting. “All the traitors have been exposed. Wait another six months,” he said, raising his right arm, “and all those involved in this sedition will be eliminated. All the clamor will die down. Security is a great gift. What do you think?”
The colonel sipped some tea, and his empty stomach gurgled. “It’s really interesting,” he said, sheepishly shaking his head. “The general is personally very decisive,” the captain went on, stretching his neck forward. “The people lower down are not. He was here on Thursday. Didn’t you have the pleasure of meeting him?”
The colonel did not answer. He did not want Captain Siavosh to know that he was a newcomer. The young man spoke of everything, until the conversation reached the colonel’s favorite subject. “I don’t know why you don’t raise turkeys instead of chickens,” he said, snapping his fingers and raising his eyebrows. “I said this at a party and everybody agreed. Listen! The age of chickens is over. This is the age of the turkey.” “What about the eggs?” the colonel whispered. “Eggs?” said the captain, smirking. “Nothing will happen to the eggs. They’ll stay where they are. By the way,” he said, suddenly remembering something, “why don’t you come to Behkish’s on Friday? It’s just a cozy get-together. You can bring along your good lady. One doesn’t live a thousand years. You know, I am a hardworking man and don’t sleep more than four hours every night. The great American thinker, Dale Carnegie, says ‘hard work is the secret of one’s success, but a man also needs rest and relaxation.’” He gave the colonel another wink, picked up his cup of tea, and moved on.
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