Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  Tears stung Wara’s eyes, and Mirza continued, loudly. “To him who overcomes, I will give the crown of life!”

  She was being quickly marched away down the hallway, and the voice of Neelam’s brother was fading. But as Wara heard a heavy door creak open, one last Scripture bolted down the tunnel: “Be faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life.”

  “Watch your head. Get in.” Someone was lowering her head, and then her shoulder pressed into the plush seat of a car. “Sit down and don’t move. We’re closing the door.”

  Wara did her best to scoot into position in what she assumed was the back seat of the car. Had Neelam already gotten in?

  “Neelam?” she hissed, blind and powerless, hands still secured behind her back. The front door of the car slammed, and then the engine rumbled and the vehicle began to move down the street.

  “Neelam?” Wara called, louder this time. Only the purr of the car engine and low Iranian music answered her. Neelam was not here. They were taking Wara alone.

  “Be faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life,” Mirza had said. Wara felt herself shrink into the staleness of the police car, cuffed hands shaking in terror against her thighs

  30

  Bob and a Really Ugly Veil

  HOURS SCRAPED BY IN DARKNESS BEFORE WARA was finally given back her sight. She heard the police car grinding through gate after gate, then her own stumbling footfalls on grimy tile and dimensionless voices echoing down the hall in Farsi. She was told to sit, then rise; walk a few steps this way, ma’am. Then sit again, and don’t move ‘til we call you.

  When the call finally came, Wara almost missed it. She had given her name in the car, to the policeman who smelled of aftershave and asked what she was called in a voice kinder than the others. But the female voice that eventually barked its way into her consciousness was absolutely mangling it. The call that bore nearly zero resemblance to the name “Petra Santiago” finally snapped Wara to attention, just as sharp fingers grabbed her elbow and dug in.

  “You must come when we call your name!” the female voice reprimanded her with annoyance.

  “I’m sorry,” Wara stammered, then stumbled down the hallway next to the woman. The female gripping her elbow suddenly released her and a door wafted shut from behind. Wara was instructed to take something off, but her mind faltered, unsure of the translation. The phrase was repeated, and then the woman heaved a disgusted sigh and yanked off Wara’s blindfold.

  Oh. Of course. Wara blinked, the reflection of white tiles and paint startling her eyes. An oak-paneled wardrobe sat in one corner, next to an ancient, cube-shaped TV tuned in to a staticy soap opera. Wara’s eyes darted to the rotund woman at her side, who wore a navy manteau and matching pants. The veil was of cheap fabric and stretched tightly under a boxy chin. The guard’s coal-colored eyes flickered under puffy lids, and she offered Wara the hint of a smile.

  “Find something that will fit you in there,” she instructed, then crossed the floor and opened the door to the wardrobe to display a myriad of unappealing brown clothing. Just in case the struck-dumb foreigner didn’t understand, the female guard extracted a piece of fabric from the cabinet and held it in front of her chest, pretending to measure the industrial-strength manteau to her stocky frame. Wara nodded shortly to show she understood. A dark, greasy stain emanated from the elbow of the visible manteau’s brown fabric, and Wara stared, hoping that that one wouldn’t end up being her size.

  With a satisfied nod, the woman in navy headed towards the door, cheap black flip-flops squishing across the tiles. She paused, then tried another toothy smile on Wara. “This is your first time in prison?” Wara’s eyes widened and she nodded again, mutely. Was there more than one time? Because from what she had heard about prison in Iran, many people didn’t seem to make it out to earn yet another stay here.

  The female guard sighed, as if disappointed she would have to explain the entire prison routine further to this petrified foreigner. She pointed to a tattered cardboard box near the door. “All your clothing and personal items in the box,” she recited helpfully, then slipped out the door, leaving Wara to her fate of fashion choices.

  After she shrugged into something from the wardrobe, the door to the hall creaked open, revealing the swarthy female guard. The woman gave Wara the once over, apparently approving of the soiled brown clothing she had hurriedly slipped on. Wara had tossed all her clothing into the box, and she eyed her own jeans longingly from where they peeped over the cardboard edge. She thought of who had worn this manteau and pants before her and for how long; the urge to scratch was becoming unmanageable.

  “Don’t move,” the guard instructed her briskly, then moved towards Wara with two reams of fabric draped over one stout arm. One of the cloths turned out to be a brown veil, which the woman flapped over Wara’s hair and fastened firmly under her chin with large bobby pins. It was a far cry from the fashionable, gauzy veils Wara had been wearing since arriving in Iran, and she nearly gagged as the tight knot pushed against her throat. The other piece of fabric was something Wara had hoped she wouldn’t encounter again: a blindfold. Without a word, the female guard stepped behind Wara and blanketed her eyes with the black cloth, knotting it in back. She hollered something loudly in Farsi, which Wara didn’t catch, concentrated as she was on not hyperventilating again under the blindfold.

  The door cracked, and quick, heavy footsteps sounded on the tile. “Her manteau is too tight,” said a flat male voice, startling Wara by its sudden intrusion into her dressing room. “And you’ll have to fix her veil, Sohrab.”

  The shoes whirled and the door slammed, apparently leaving Wara alone with the older woman. “Yes,” the guard clucked, pulling off Wara’s blindfold and frowning at her critically. “I think that one is much too small for you. This is the Islamic Republic of Iran; you must dress properly here.” She marched to the wardrobe and handed a larger manteau to Wara. “Try this one. And then I’ll fix your veil. Your hair is very wild, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wara croaked, feeling on the verge of tears. “I’m not from here. I’m not used to wearing a veil. Who’s that man?” Surely in Iran she would be put in some women’s only part of whatever prison this was, right? Why would a man be over here in the women’s section?

  “Your bazju,” the woman responded casually. When Wara only stared at her blankly, she gave a small sigh and said, “The one who asks the questions. Who writes down your case.”

  Ah. The interrogator. Icy fingers ran down Wara’s back to her to toes at the idea of having a male interrogator in a country where gender segregation was such a trademark. She hadn’t spoken with any unknown males since she’d been here, and she couldn’t think of much worse a fate than being left alone with one who would press her for information.

  “They left him lying across the doorstep.” Alejo’s strained voice danced across the pathways of her mind. “I didn’t have to wonder if he was dead.”

  “Please,” she begged, throat puffy like cotton. “Shouldn’t I have a female bazju?”

  The guard shrugged and set about adjusting Wara’s veil with firm tugs. “This man is one of the best bazjus here. I supposed they have assigned you to him since you are a foreigner.”

  “But…no! I don’t feel comfortable talking with a man. Please!”

  Seeming perplexed at Wara’s meltdown, the older woman stared at the foreign prisoner with a half-smile. “But there’s nothing to worry about,” she insisted, cinching the rough blindfold again over Wara’s eyes. “This man will only ask you questions, nothing more. It’s his job.”

  Wara was feeling far from reassured when the door squeaked open again and the same clipped footsteps entered the room. “Thank you, Sohrab,” the male voice said, with a flat, sarcastic twist. Wara shifted nervously under the blindfold. “I trust you haven’t been keeping too busy tonight?”

  “Always ready to serve, sir,” the female guard, Sohrab, replied, a slight twinkle in her voice. “In the
name of Allah, we work for his cause.” Sohrab’s calloused fingers tightened on Wara’s arm.

  “There’s another one waiting for you down the hall,” the man said, crossing the room towards Wara. The opening at the bottom of her blindfold revealed classy brown leather shoes, scuffed and in need of polish. The voice was young, and world-weary. She did not want to go with this man.

  “Walk her down to the room for me,” he instructed breezily. “I don’t want to touch her.” As a devout Muslim, the man wouldn’t want to defile his religion putting his hands on a strange, blindfolded woman to lead her down the hall. This was actually a very, very good thing. Sohrab’s fingers continued biting into her arm as she led Wara down the hall, then guided her to sit on a hard, cool surface.

  “Thanks, Sohrab,” Wara’s bazju snickered, then a door slammed and locked. The leather shoes clicked slower across the floor. Unable to resist any longer, Wara tilted her head back and tried to scan her surroundings over a close-up of her own nose.

  She sat at a battered wooden school desk, a flash-back to elementary school. Murky yellow tiles ran around the room, and the man who was her bazju stood in front of her, wearing a worn leather jacket in the strangest shade of burnt orange she had ever seen. He was leaning casually against another ancient desk, studying a yellow legal pad in his hands.

  “Good evening,” he greeted her dryly in Farsi, and Wara ducked her head lower, not willing to get caught peeping from under the blindfold. “For the remainder of your stay here, I will be your bazju. You may call me Bob.”

  She started, the discord between a scary Iranian interrogator and the harmless name “Bob” just too great. The brief image she had stolen from under the blindfold revealed a greasier, squatter version of the Bollywood star Shahrukh Khan. Certainly not someone who she should be calling Bob. She wouldn’t do it.

  Shahrukh, as she immediately began thinking of him, sighed and scribbled loudly on his legal pad that was probably full of all Wara’s basic info she had stammered through during the admission process. “You do understand Farsi?”

  “A little,” Wara squeaked. “This is my first time here, and I’m only on vacation. I’m from Argentina.”

  “So I see,” the bazju sighed again wearily. “We want to make sure we have the information clear, for your case. Do you speak English?”

  Wara hesitated only a moment. Of course it was totally possible she could speak English reasonably well being from Argentina. Many young people there knew English. “Yes, I speak it much better than Farsi,” she admitted.

  “Very well then,” Shahrukh intoned, switching to heavily-accented English. “I will have your statement translated to Farsi when we’re done.” The room echoed with the sound of the bazju blowing his nose loudly. He moved closer, and Wara tried not to draw back at the stale scent of unwashed clothing. The man cleared his throat and continued. “This is the way it works here, Ms. Sandiego. You are going to write a statement for me. I ask you all the questions I want, and you will answer every one of them. When I am satisfied with your statement, I will decide to charge you or not. If you are charged, you will then be taken to court and hear the charge against you. At that time, you may choose if you would like a lawyer.”

  His words hit Wara’s mind like a gong, and it was then she realized why this whole scene just didn’t seem right to her. Well, one of the many reasons. “I want to get a lawyer right now,” she said, trying to sound firm. “I definitely want a lawyer.”

  Shahrukh chuckled dryly, as if flipping her words aside. “That’s lovely, but as I just explained, you may have a lawyer after your court date when you are read the charge against you. That’s the way it works here.”

  Wara felt her mouth fall open, and she imagined herself looking ridiculous under the blindfold. Her eyes stung with tears of frustration. “But that’s…what do you mean I don’t find out the charge against me until court? You aren’t going to tell me now what I’m here for?” The idea seemed preposterous.

  “Of course I’m not going to tell you what you’re here for, Ms. Sandiego,” the bazju smirked. “You already know that. And now you’re going to tell me. Everything.”

  Wara pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling, cringing at the rank odor of mold from the tiles and Shahrukh’s lack of deodorant. A long sheet of paper slapped down onto the desk under Wara’s nose, and the bazju’s hand grabbed hers and shoved a pen into her fingers.

  “You will write now. Everything,” he demanded. “All the crimes you have committed against the Islamic Republic.” The other desk creaked across the room as Shahrukh sank down on it. His voice darkened and Wara imagined the shade of his face darkening as well. “Especially,” he added, “the crimes that have to do with Mirza Samadi.”

  Wara’s heart fluttered and the pen nearly spun out of her fingers. Of course. The government must watch Mirza, not only for singing rock and roll but for his relations with Sami. And possibly for being an apostate Muslim. No surprise there. But the fact that the police had happened to choose the moment Wara was on the stage with Mirza to raid was the reason she was here in prison today. It had to be.

  They don’t know anything about you really being from the United States, here on a fake passport, Wara reminded herself, breathing deeply through her nose. You are here because they found you with Mirza and Neelam. You were a surprise. And if you tell them the right story, they have nothing on you.

  Not that it made much difference to Evin prison, if that’s really where she was. Alejo’s story rose to her memory again unbeckoned and her head began to buzz.

  “Any minute now,” Shahrukh prodded dryly, and Wara gripped the pen, then realized she had a problem.

  “Uh, how can I write if I’m blindfolded?”

  Shahrukh snorted and exhaled forcefully. “Just lift up the edge so you can see enough to write. You may look at the paper and only at the paper.” As if to emphasize his point, the man got up and moved behind her. She couldn’t tell exactly how close he was, but the unpleasant odor intensified. She imagined him carefully studying the sheet of paper over her shoulder.

  Wara steeled herself and began to write.

  All sense of time was lost, and she felt herself marking down her story in a fog. What time was it? The concert had begun sometime around ten, and then there had been the raid. Why in the world were they interrogating her in the middle of the night? Didn’t the prison staff have better things to do? Maybe that explained the bazju’s unpolished look and less-than-perfect body odor.

  “I’m done,” she finally announced, high-pitched and queasy. The interrogator was on her paper in a moment, snatching it from her as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Silence reigned in the room for several minutes while he scanned her testimony. A shuddering thud sounded from somewhere down the hall, jiggling the door behind Wara on its hinges. She cringed, but let herself breathe again when no blood-curdling scream accompanied the disturbance.

  “So this is it?” Shahrukh asked, and he almost sounded disappointed. What was he expecting, a confession that she was planning to blow up the Ayatollah’s grave and then dance on it? That she was an internationally-known axe murderer?

  Wara’s bazju began to pace the floor, scuffed brown shoes dragging. It must be late. Wara stifled a yawn.

  “So, you came here on a tourist visa?” Wara nodded. “And this is your first time in Iran?” Another nod. “You heard about the concert when you received a slip of paper from an unknown person at a coffee shop in Tehran?”

  This was where Wara had gotten a little nervous; she knew she would have to make an attempt to honestly say which coffee shop she had learned about the concert at. She had been as vague as she could with location, but described the trendy coffee shop she had passed with Neelam in downtown Tehran the afternoon before the concert. Could the place get in trouble for her saying this? Probably. Yes. But given how many rock concerts were going on at any one time Iran, all underground, Wara had to hope that the trouble she caused for the ca
fé would be minimal.

  After all, she was the one sitting here right now, wearing the black blindfold. If she could only get out of here without her words sending someone else to prison! What would Neelam say? For sure, she would write down her testimony with as little detail as possible, albeit much more coolly than Wara had.

  The thought of what Neelam and Mirza could be going through right now, without the extra immunity Wara probably had from being a foreigner, caused her gut to clench.

  “I just thought it looked like a nice concert,” Wara finally realized Shahrukh was waiting for her answer. “Can you please tell me why I’m here?” This was the key; she, Petra Sandiego, didn’t know rock concerts were illegal in Iran, the beautiful country she had come to tour. Why should she? Who would ever concoct up such an idea as an illegal concert?

  Shahrukh sighed again and pushed the paper and pen back onto Wara’s desk. “Alright then. I want you to write the answers to these questions. Did you or did you not know that these kinds of concerts are illegal in Iran?”

  Wara forced herself to start noticeably. “Illegal?” she bleated weakly. “Really? No, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” Her voice had the beaten tone of the truly penitent, and she hoped it would work.

  “So, you didn’t know,” the bazju said. “Write that down.” Wara wrote.

  “Now write if you had ever before had any contact with Mirza Samadi,” Shahrukh ordered. Wara swallowed hard, knowing that now she would have to lie for real. Wara felt her armpits prick.

  During the past few weeks, she had seen how tough it was for the Samadis to be underground Christians here in Iran, not to mention doing concerts underground. But it wasn’t until this minute, sitting blindfolded with an Iranian interrogator who could at any minute begin to beat her senseless, that Wara realized how dangerous of a man Iran perceived Mirza Samadi to be.

  Wara steadied the sheet of paper with one hand and wrote: “The first time I met Mirza Samadi was at the concert in Tehran. He asked if anyone in the crowd could play keyboard, and I came up front. I have played piano from the time I was a child.”