Do that concert. Jeesh, it sounds like I’m a star like them and going to do a jig. Just another day of fame.
Despite herself, Wara grinned and caught Alejo looking at here strangely.
“I’m not your boss,” he said evenly. “Sandal is. She says it’s fine. As long as we don’t go with you.”
Sandal had explained that it would be better for Alejo and her to stay out of Tehran. They had both lived there and knew a lot of people. Wara got the hint that Sandal had fled trouble in Tehran and that the last thing she wanted was to be recognized back in her city.
“Yeah, Sandal said you guys have to stay away from Tehran.”’
Alejo eyed her again with that weird look, then set his jaw. “Tehran is where I lived when I went to university here,” he explained. “I know a lot of people. It wouldn’t be good if they recognize me.” Wara nodded in easy agreement, but there seemed to be something else.
“I really don’t want to go back to Tehran, either,” Alejo finally said. “Bad memories.” Wara raised an eyebrow and lowered her teacup to the saucer on the dirty boards. Should she say, Oh?
“I lived with a family my first couple years of university. The Neesis.” Surprisingly, Alejo was continuing. His hand quivered once, reluctant and vulnerable, shushing Wara into absolute silence. “The Neesis were upper-middle class,” he told her, “and they had this nice house with pillars next to this overgrown, shaggy park on a quiet street. I don’t even know where Mr. Neesi worked. He never talked about it. But they treated me like family.” Alejo swallowed, and Wara saw his Adam’s apple press against the tanned skin of his neck. Telling this was hard for him, and that caught her off guard.
“Their son was a year younger than me, and we got to be like brothers,” Alejo kept up his tale. “He was studying graphic design. I guess Mr. Neesi got in trouble with the government, and their son, my friend, disappeared. They wanted his father to confess on TV that he had acted against the government and stolen money from his business. It took a few months to take care of everything, but Mr. Neesi did everything they said. We were having breakfast one morning.”
Wara frowned, confused by the sudden turn of events. Alejo didn’t seem to notice. “Mr. Neesi was at work and the other kids were upstairs, watching TV. Mrs. Neesi was washing up the dishes, so I ran to answer the door. They left him there, lying across the doorstep. I didn’t have to wonder if my friend was dead.”
Wara started, horrified, and shoved her hands inside the sleeves of her manteau. Why was Alejo telling her this? “What did they do to him?” she asked hoarsely.
Alejo’s shoulders slowly hunched until his face was in his hands. He raised shimmering eyes to her, reddened even in the dark of the night. “It wouldn’t be respectful to tell you,” he said.
Heavy footsteps thumped across the boards, and Wara turned to see Tarsa’s mother, carrying a green plastic bucket. The frown she expected to receive for sitting outside in the dark with a man never came, and then Wara remembered that she and Alejo were cousins, thanks to Rupert’s passports. Paulo and Petra Sandiego.
“Please,” Jannai smiled at them. “It’s late, and the roosters always wake us up early in the morning. It’s not like you’re used to in the city.” She winked, then motioned towards the house. “I’ve left a lot of warm blankets and everything you will need to sleep. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“We will. Thank you so much for your wonderful hospitality,” Alejo told her. “May Allah bless you and your family.”
She pitched the contents of the bucket into the chicken coop at the side of the house and headed inside. A soft chorus of clucks rose from the darkness as the chickens shifted position and tried to resettle for the night. Alejo ran a hand across his eyes and took a deep breath, facing Wara. “Let’s get some sleep,” he said. “I can’t believe I told you that. You don’t need to hear all my baggage. Helpful old me, making you feel better about your trip to Tehran.”
He jumped to his feet, and Wara felt the porch sag under his weight. “No, it’s ok,” she insisted. She wasn’t ok, but was, in fact, pretty seriously disturbed. “I’m sorry.” What else could she say?
“What did they do to him?” she had asked.
“It wouldn’t be respectful to tell you.”
“Get some sleep,” Alejo cleared his throat. “Instead of the past, dream of those stars.” Before Wara could react, he tilted her chin upward towards the velvet sky studded with light. She took it all in as his rough fingers left her skin and he went inside.
28
Foxy and the Fall
IT WAS TIME TO FACE THE FOX MAN.
Rolling his eyes, Rostam swatted a lock of bangs out of his eye and strode through the hotel lobby, throwing a cheerful wave at the veiled receptionist with shiny brown lips that were much too large. Only a day back from the countryside with Tarsa’s mom, and Foxy had already summoned him again, this time to their lovely hotel meeting-place. It wasn’t time for their usual weekly update, but it wasn’t that unusual for the man to call Rostam in for some idiotic reason or another.
“How many tourists last week mentioned Iranian politics?” Foxy would ask, flat-faced and droll as if this question held the answer to the secrets of the universe.
Sighing dejectedly, Rostam punched the elevator button and slid his cell out of the pocket of his jeans. Ava was home, probably watching TV, and he really needed to hear her voice just now. He would remember it while facing Foxy, and the memory of her sweet smile would help him get through the monotony.
“Hello, love,” he grinned into the phone. The hum of the elevator surrounded him, but he could still hear her musical voice across the cell phone waves, laughing at the British accent with which he greeted her in English. “I hope you’re not cooking.” It was a good sign that after only a few weeks of married life they had reached the point where he could tease her about her lack of culinary skills. Ava snorted and Rostam could just bet she wished he were there so she could whack him.
“My mother’s maid is sending over a stew, Rostam,” she told him with the hint of a pout. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”
“I’m sure it will be, dear,” he told her seriously as the elevator dinged. “Pray for me. I’m going in to meet him now. I’ll be home soon, unless he’s been up all night inventing questions just to torture me.”
Ava blew him a loud kiss and giggled, and Rostam told her goodbye. He cheerfully closed his tiny cell phone, then slid across the black tile of the hotel hallway in his high top tennis. Three quick raps in succession on the door of room 204, and then he let himself in, barely refraining from humming. Tacky blue carpet spread before him, ending in a cluster of pale pink armchairs and a cheap glass table. Foxy was seated in the largest of the upholstered chairs, also speaking on a cell phone in muted tones. As Rostam entered, he quickly hung up and slid the cell in the pocket of his gray suit coat.
“Good evening,” Rostam greeted the most annoying man he knew. Or at least he started to. The words began to roll quickly off Rostam’s tongue, until he saw the grave light in the eye of the government watcher. And then the thick manila envelope that Foxy clutched in front of his chest.
Rostam felt his lips turn into rubber and the greeting died away into the blue carpet. He was in trouble, wasn’t he? Foxy knew something, Rostam could see it in his eye. Rostam was going to have to explain away his late-night meetings with Mirza and the other Christians, or the “tour” he had been involved in the past few weeks with the Argentineans. Who were Christians.
Oh no, Rostam mentally groaned. He was still rooted to the carpet in front of a cheap, oak-framed mirror, watching as Foxy slowly cleared his throat. This is probably all about Moneta Z. Don’t tell me they finally figured that out!
Three deep breaths, carefully disguised from the fox-like government man. Hands into pockets of his red hoodie, to hide any possible shaking from the man holding the manila envelope. Rostam turned the corners of his mouth up into his trademark grin and met Foxy’s eye.
C’mon, man. Let’s make this quick. I promised my wife I’d be home soon.
“Good evening, Rostam.” With sinking heart, Rostam noticed that even the smooth, half-teasing tenor of Foxy’s voice had lowered into something slick with grave foreboding. “Please, come have a seat. There is something we need to discuss.”
Rostam forced himself to keep the smile plastered on his face. For Ava. “I’m not sure if I want to,” he tried to joke. “Is something wrong?”
“Rostam.” Foxy shook his bushy head slowly, then lifted one pale, hairy hand to motion towards a scalloped armchair across from where he sat. “Sit. Please. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Bad news? Rostam cringed and made his way towards the chair, realizing that his life the past few years had, indeed, been rather sneaky. The fact that he could imagine quite a few options of whatever serious business he might be in trouble for actually brought courage to Rostam’s heart.
C’mon, how bad can it. You just deny it all.
Rostam sat in the chair. The fat manila envelope slapped down onto the glass table between them, causing Rostam to start. “I hate to say it, Rostam, but the truth is, in all these years of our working together, I’ve actually begun to like you. As a colleague.”
As if. Rostam hid a grimace. You do all the ordering about, and I have to jump and dance when you say. Some colleague. What do you want?
“And so,” Foxy continued rambling, “you must believe me when I say that it gives me no pleasure to be the one to bring this news. Open the envelope, Rostam.”
Fine, Rostam sighed. The sooner I can deny whatever they think they can prove I’m involved in, the better. Get home, have coffee with Ava. Tomorrow: sleep till late.
Rostam pulled the envelope towards him across the cold glass and lifted the flap. Out came a glossy print on cardstock, a photo blown up to 8 by 10. Full color. Rostam drew back, slightly startled to see two lovers locked in each others’ embrace. The man: half-dressed in a blue and black plaid flannel that had been unbuttoned to reveal his bare chest. The woman in his arms: beautiful and wearing a sequined spaghetti strap top.
The jolt began small, somewhere in the middle of Rostam’s spine, then raced without mercy to nearly stop his beating heart.
It was Ava. His wife, Ava, was kissing another man. She was with another man! The electricity surged from Rostam’s heart to his eyes, and they burned, then pooled with liquid fire. Because his wife was not in the arms of some other man. She was kissing Mirza Samadi, the man who was her husband Rostam’s best friend.
Rostam could not take his eyes away from the photograph. He remained frozen, breathing deep to fight the nausea spinning out of control within his gut. It was impossible for him to tell how long he had been staring at the photo in horror while Foxy was trying to call him to attention. Finally, the hated voice seeped into his consciousness.
“Rostam! Man up! You know I hate to do this to you, but you really must know what’s been going on here. Yes, it’s disgusting. But for goodness sake, there’s no need to snivel like a woman.”
The photograph of Ava’s betrayal fluttered from Rostam’s loose fingers to the blue carpet, and he finally lifted scarlet eyes Foxy’s way, devastated. “Why did she even marry me?” he heard himself say. In the space of three minutes, Rostam’s world had come to an end. For the first time in his entire life he understood why men stood on the edge of bridges and jumped into the roaring rapids below.
Foxy sighed deeply, floppy eyebrows lowered. “Well, Rostam, again I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this, er, ‘situation’ has been going on for quite some time. There are a lot more photos where that came from, but I hope you won’t insist on seeing them. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know that we used to tap Sami of Ashavan’s phone from time to time, the man who was such a good friend to this Mirza Samadi. Listen to this conversation between Sami and Mirza, before Sami was arrested.”
Foxy produced a tiny recording device and clicked a button, filling the hotel room with Mirza’s voice and Rostam with nausea. Mirza, his friend, his brother in Christ! Who all this time had been stealing Rostam’s wife.
Mirza, his enemy, the man he wished were dead.
But now, Sami was speaking, as if back from the grave. And he was telling Mirza how, if something would happen to him, he wanted to make sure that Ava was well taken care of by a good husband.
“Any day now they could come and get me,” Sami casually explained. “So I’d feel better knowing you were going to be there for her. C’mon. She’s gorgeous, inside and out.”
“Man, you’re so right,” Mirza’s laughing voice came. “But you aren’t listening to me. I’m not ready for marriage. Why don’t you talk to Rostam?”
Click. The silence that reigned after Foxy shut off the recording rang too loudly in Rostam’s ears. Trembling in pain, Rostam hunched over onto his knees in the armchair. He knew Mirza’s voice and that of Sami as if they were his own. They had actually had that conversation; Sami had asked Mirza to marry Ava first. Rostam had been second choice.
Angst crushed at Rostam’s heart as the thought battered him: And Mirza said no to marrying Ava, because he knew he could have her to himself, without having to marry her!
Famous rock stars can just take what they want. Regardless of who it hurts.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Rostam wasn’t sure if he was asking Foxy or God, but the question seemed totally appropriate. Foxy narrowed his beady eyes at Rostam, then leaned down to lift the horrible photo from the carpet.
“I’m going to talk straight with you, Rostam,” he said smoothly, “and I need you to listen. I know quite a bit about you. More than you might hope that I would know. You, Rostam, are a convert to Christianity.”
Horrible, awful words to hear from a government agent. But honestly, at the moment, Rostam was far beyond feeling fear at the convicting statement.
“Be that as it may. I am not particularly happy, but, in the end, you have not become an apostate. You were born Baha’i, and only traded one stupid religion for another. Your wife, Ava Pourali however: that is another matter entirely. I happen to know that your pretty little wife, Rostam, who has treated you in this disgraceful manner, is a baptized Christian. This makes her an apostate, Rostam. The last time I checked, the Republic of Iran punishes apostasy with death. Not to mention, adultery with stoning.”
Rostam’s head whirled, and he stared at Foxy with a face drained of blood. Now they wanted to kill Ava?
Fine! You should let them, Rostam! You should hate her!
No. Let them kill Mirza. Not Ava.
“Rostam,” Foxy continued, setting the incriminating photograph carefully on the glass, facedown, “the Pouralis are quite an influential family and I would like to spare them the grief and shame that a trial such as this will surely bring.” Foxy leaned back into the chair and knit his fingers together across his paunchy gut. “So let’s talk plain. Another thing I know is that Mirza Samadi, the rock star and your wife’s lover, is quite busy working against our government as part of the soft revolution. Leading many impressionable and rebellious youth astray, as did his predecessor, Sami of Ashavan. We have been trying to compile a case against Mr. Samadi for quite awhile, and we would love to have some plain and simple statements of facts from someone who knows him intimately,” here Foxy’s fat dry lips twisted to one side and Rostam heard a slight sneer enter his voice, “such as yourself.”
Rostam stared at Foxy, then let his eyes drop to the table where the photo that had shattered his life sat, quiet and smooth.
“Who better than you, Rostam?” Foxy asked intensely. “An intimate friend, who has now turned enemy?”
“But…” Rostam tried to find words, tried to focus on anything except the image of Ava in Mirza’s arms.
“Don’t be an idiot, Rostam!” Foxy suddenly began to yell. He snatched up the photograph and held it in front of Rostam’s face. “Look at what the man did to you!” His voice quieted, turned
reasoning. “Don’t be depressed, now. I’m sure it was mostly not your wife’s fault. Mirza Samadi is an extremely beautiful man, used to having whatever and whomever he wants. Cooperate with us, Rostam, and give us a few facts about Mirza. No lies. Just the whole truth. In exchange, you and Ava will escape prosecution for apostasy and treason. We will resettle the two of you in Europe immediately. Someplace nice. Away from the charms of her lover, I am sure that your wife will return her heart to you and the two of you will have a fine chance at living happily once again.”
At these words, Rostam stifled a sob and felt his eyes brim with tears, again. All the oxygen in the hotel room seemed to be sucked into the black hole of sorrow that was his heart.
“This isn’t a game, Rostam,” Foxy’s tone was calm, with an undertone of steel. “I need your answer now. I have the statement ready. You read it for me on camera and sign it. Tomorrow you and Ava will be away from all that is wrong and will start over.”
“Please. Give me five minutes!” Rostam gasped, hiding his eyes behind one shaking hand. “Please.”
“You have five minutes,” Foxy said. “I will be back.” A moment later, Rostam heard the muffled thud of the hotel room door. He dove at the picture of Ava and Mirza and flipped it over on the coffee table, then drew his hand back as if from a viper. The terrible image remained the same: the two of them, together. His eyes widened and spilled molten salt as he flashed back to the day of his own wedding. He and Ava had entered arm in arm the room where Mirza was preparing to sing. Rostam had egged Mirza into showing off the wounds from the lashing. And then Ava had nearly fainted. Because she couldn’t bear to see the one she loved so badly beaten? How had Rostam not seen it until now?
Oh God! Was I really that blind?
Rostam saw the flushed cheeks of his wife, last Wednesday when he had arrived to pick her up early because no one except Mirza had arrived for prayer meeting. Mirza, who supposedly was in one of the back bedrooms, studying. For heaven’s sake, they were there together for nearly two hours!
Reverb (Story of CI #2) Page 18