A Door between Us

by Ehsaneh Sadr

  Sadegh took his leave and rushed down the five flights of stairs. Two flights down, he saw Leila’s neighbor.

  “Darin mirin? You’re leaving already?” she asked.

  The plump little lady filled the narrow stairway, so Sadegh was forced to stop a few steps above her. As he did, he heard his cellphone ring.

  “Yes, kar daram, I have things to do,” Sadegh said and rifled through his bag for his phone.

  The woman didn’t move, so Sadegh asked, “Ejaze midin? ”

  The woman looked at him steadily and then asked in her shrill voice, “Did you find your mother?”

  Sadegh ignored the woman and answered his phone.

  It was Sumayeh.

  “Sumayeh, I’m on my way.”

  “Did you find the fire truck?” Sumayeh sounded annoyed.

  “No. Sorry. I forgot to look.”

  “Can you check quick right now? He won’t stop begging for it.”

  “Okay. Hold on.”

  Sadegh took the phone away from his ear and set his briefcase on the steps to rifle through it, taking out a few files to do so.

  The woman asked again, “Did you find your mother?”

  Sadegh was irritated by the woman’s persistence. “No, unfortunately, but I’m sure she’s fine and she’ll be home soon . . . Ah!”

  Sadegh found the tiny red fire truck and put the phone to his ear again. “Sumayeh, I’ve got it. I’ll be home in thirty minutes, depending on traffic.”

  “Okay. Please come quickly.”

  Sadegh hung up. He put his phone and the files back in his briefcase.

  The woman was still in his way.

  “Leila’s welcome to stay with us again tonight,” she said. “That way she won’t have to be all alone in that apartment.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it,” Sadegh said. “Now I really need to go.”

  “It’s no trouble. She can stay as long as she wants. I just hope she won’t be disappointed by our meager meals. Meat is simply so expensive these days I can hardly afford to cook for Mr. Noori and myself.”

  Sadegh checked a sardonic reply as he realized what it was the woman was after. Silently he rifled through his briefcase again, moving files aside to find his wallet. He handed the woman a 50,000-toman bill.

  “I hope this helps. Thank you again for your trouble.”

  The woman flattened herself against the railing, and Sadegh grabbed his stuff and squeezed by.

  “Oh, like I said, it’s no trouble. She can stay as long as she likes. I hope we’ll get to see you again soon. You should come for dinner one of these evenings. I’m a wonderful cook, if I do say so myself. Mr. Noori especially loves my ghorme sabzi . . .”

  The woman continued prattling as he raced down the steps and pushed through the doors at the bottom of the stairwell.

  On the street, Sadegh raised his hand for a taxi and was lucky when one stopped almost immediately. He hopped in and set down his soft leather briefcase, which was a jumbled mess after his search for Mahdi’s fire truck. He put his wallet in one of the briefcase’s front pockets and then started going through the stuff in the big middle opening.

  Sadegh had always been rather meticulous about categorizing his files, so the thin label-less one on top caught his attention. He rummaged through the briefcase pockets to find a small box of labels, then opened the file to examine its contents for guidance as to which color ought to be used.

  The papers it contained were totally unfamiliar. Sadegh looked closer. They were some sort of medical record. The patient’s name, Arman Tamimi, was vaguely familiar, but Sadegh couldn’t immediately place it. He flipped through the pages.

  Arman was twenty-one years old and had been admitted with severe bruising, swelling, and a skull fracture that indicated he had been beaten. Cause of death was listed as blunt trauma to the head.

  Oh God! Sadegh remembered why he recognized the name and slammed the file shut. Several months earlier, Mehdi Tamimi, a reformist parliamentarian from Karaj had publicly accused the government of covering up the cause of his nephew’s death—a nephew whose name, Sadegh was pretty sure, was Arman. At the time, Sadegh had been outraged by MP Tamimi’s misuse of live parliamentary proceedings to publicly accuse the government of wrongdoing. Was it possible that these were medical records for that very case? Or, more likely, false records designed to make the government look bad.

  Sadegh’s heart thumped as he opened the file again. Where had it come from? Was this the document Leila had taken from Heydari? Was it a forgery? Clearly, it was a copy and not an original document, as all the signatures were in the same ink as the print. Where were the originals? How had it ended up in Sadegh’s briefcase? Had Leila slipped it in while they were talking? He couldn’t imagine how. In that tiny apartment, she’d been in sight the whole time they’d been together. Could he have mistakenly picked it up somewhere else?

  Sadegh thought a moment. He pulled out his phone and started punching digits but changed his mind before connecting the call. This wasn’t something he would want to talk about on an open line.

  Sadegh looked out the window. The streets were relatively khalvat with few cars on the road, and they were moving fast.

  “Agha,” he spoke to the driver, “Take Niyayesh to the left.”

  “Aren’t you going to Qeytariyeh?”

  “Yes, but I want to make a quick stop in Sa’adat Abad first.”

  * * *

  “Hey! What’re you doing here on a Friday?” Ganjian demanded with mock anger when Sadegh opened the door to his office in Sa’adat Abad mosque, where he was sitting at his desk alone. “Didn’t I tell you not to drop by on weekends anymore? Every time you do, things go to shit. You’re bad luck, man!”

  Despite his worries, Sadegh couldn’t help cracking a smile at his friend and former teacher.

  “Am I interrupting?” Sadegh asked. “I have a quick question.”

  “Yes, you’re interrupting, asshole! Come on in, take a seat.”

  Ganjian stood to shake hands and pointed him to a chair across from his desk. He was dressed surprisingly neatly, all in black, and his generally unruly hair had been combed and gelled back.

  “What’s up?” Ganjian asked.

  Sadegh placed the file on Ganjian’s desk.

  “In dige chiye? What the hell is this?”

  “Take a look,” Sadegh told him.

  Ganjian rifled through the papers in the file. Sadegh watched as his joking demeanor drained away and was replaced by a serious expression. Sadegh could guess he’d gotten to the part about Arman Tamimi’s death by blunt trauma.

  “Where did you get this?” Ganjian asked as he fiddled with the top button of his crisply ironed collarless button-up shirt.

  “I’m honestly not sure,” Sadegh replied. “I just found it in my briefcase today.” Sadegh willed Ganjian to dismiss the document as a forgery.

  “Well, it didn’t come from here. This is a copy,” Ganjian said instead.

  Sadegh swallowed, “You mean . . . you have originals?”

  Ganjian looked at him quizzically but remained silent as one of his men entered the room with a silver tray laden with two cups of steaming black tea and a bowl of sugar cubes. The man set the tea in front of Sadegh and Ganjian and turned to go.

  “Hajji, close the door behind you,” Ganjian called to him. The man silently complied.

  Ganjian looked at Sadegh. “I don’t know if we have that one. But I have . . . others.”

  Sadegh tried to process this information. His mind flashed on Maman-Mehri’s mouth at the moment he realized that her spittle-encrusted lips, so often busy in prayer, were busy preserving an untruth. Was Ganjian to be transformed in the same way?

  Sadegh could hear the whine in his own voice as he asked, “So all these accusations . . . they’re true?”

 
Ganjian’s black eyes flashed. “Which accusations? We’re torturing and raping and murdering people’s children?”

  Sadegh didn’t know what to say. He’d certainly never witnessed anything like that when he was around Ganjian. He’d been sure the rumors were lies and propaganda. But now . . .

  Ganjian ran his fingers through his hair and scratched at the top of his head, mussing his gelled hair. When he spoke, his tone was softer. “Na, Sadegh-jaan, those accusations aren’t true.” Ganjian paused and patted down his hair before going on. “But . . . well, every once in a while, something happens. Look, if we hadn’t brought these people in and they were out walking the street, a certain percentage would die in . . . like, car accidents or something, right? People die when God calls for them. You know the saying . . . ‘Your time of death is written on your forehead.’ So it shouldn’t be a surprise that for some people that time of death happens while they’re under our care.”

  Sadegh thought carefully. What Ganjian was saying would make sense if a person died of heart attack or some other illness or accident that had nothing to do with being taken in.

  Aloud he said, “Aghaye Ganjian, forgive me for being so stupid, but I still don’t understand why you . . . we would have medical records for these cases.”

  Ganjian rolled his eyes and pulled at his hair again. “Come on, Sadegh . . . What would our enemies do if we let these out? They would comb through them looking for any tiny detail or scrap of evidence that they could use to prove we are sadistic torturers and murderers. And the fact is that . . . yes, sometimes mistakes happen.”

  Ganjian leaned forward as he continued. His wiry curls were sticking up at strange angles from the combination of gel and his vigorous pawing. “Sadegh, you’ve known me and volunteered with us for years, right? You see how we treat the kids we take in. I don’t touch a hair on their heads unless they’re resisting or doing something dangerous, and even then I tell all my people to be careful. But even as careful as I am . . . well, sometimes mistakes happen.” Ganjian looked down, and Sadegh remembered the day after Sarah’s wedding, when he had visited his friend in this very office. Hadn’t Ganjian said something about one of his prisoners needing a doctor? Sadegh wondered if he was about to hear what happened to that prisoner. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “Sometimes you give someone a little push, and they trip and hit their head and end up in a hospital looking like they’ve been beaten nearly to death or the like. Or you’re transporting prisoners and don’t realize how hot and stuffy it is in the convoy van, and someone suffocates. Things happen when you’re dealing with this many people.”

  Ganjian paused and then looked right at Sadegh. Sadegh could see the anguish in his eyes as he continued. “These aren’t hypothetical examples, my friend. These things really happened, and I’m sick about it, I really am. But then I remember who’s really responsible for these deaths, and I know my conscience is clear. Goddamn Americans think they can stop the spread of Islam by throwing all of our countries into chaos, and”—Ganjian pounded on the table as he shouted—“they’re using these stupid kids and throwing away their lives to make it happen!”

  Sadegh took an easy breath as he nodded. Ganjian’s explanation made sense, and his anguish was testament to his sincerity. It wasn’t deliberate cruelty that had taken prisoner’s lives but unfortunate accidents. Yes, these types of accidents could happen just about anywhere.

  “Thank you, my dear friend,” Sadegh said, “for your explanation. I’m sorry I doubted for a moment. It’s been a very strange day. You’re right, these deaths are on the heads of our American and Zionist enemies. But” —Sadegh voiced a question that was still bothering him—“why not just release the information and explain what happened? I mean, well, don’t families deserve to know how their kids died?”

  Ganjian shook his head as he patted down his thick hair again. “Come on, Sadegh . . . think! How old is your boy now?”

  Sadegh wished Ganjian wouldn’t change the subject but answered, “Mahdi? He just turned six.”

  “Okay, do you tell him that when you were a teenager, you would hide in the bathroom during the school salat time because you didn’t feel like saying your prayers?”

  Sadegh grimaced and shook his head.

  Ganjian went on. “Do you tell him that you and your friends brought pictures of your female relatives without hejab, head coverings, to school to trade among the boys?”

  “To ro khoda, please, Mr. Ganjian, I was a kid . . . You’re embarrassing me.”

  “See, you don’t tell Mahdi these things. Why?”

  Sadegh was going to say it was because he was too young and wouldn’t understand, but Ganjian answered for him.

  “Because he’s too young. And he wouldn’t understand. And because you’re supposed to be an example for him. If he learns about all of your mistakes, what is he going to do when he is the same age? He’ll think it’s okay to stop praying altogether or, khodaya nakarde, God forbid, he might get involved in some sort of sexual perversion. He’ll think that if his father did this sort of thing, it’s okay for him to go even further. Or, even worse, he might think that his father doesn’t have the moral authority to tell him to do anything since he has made so many mistakes.”

  Sadegh was starting to get Ganjian’s point.

  “The blessed velayat-e faqih, our supreme leader,” Ganjian went on, “is like the father to the whole ummah. And most people are like your Mahdi . . . They don’t understand. Not because they are too young, but because they don’t have the religious understanding necessary. So they can be manipulated and misled into thinking that any mistake we might make can be attributed to the supreme leader. And then they lose respect for the institution of the velayat altogether. Don’t you see? We can’t let this happen!

  “I agree with you,” Ganjian went on. “The death of a young man is a tragedy. I know the name of each and every kid that has died under my care. I know where their homes are. I know what their fathers do. You can’t imagine how often I can’t sleep at night because all I want to do is go to their families and kneel before them to apologize and beg forgiveness. But I don’t, because I know that would be the most selfish thing I could do. I’d be making myself feel better by destroying people’s faith in the only legitimate Islamic authority in the world. You see?”

  Sadegh still wasn’t completely sure. He didn’t doubt Ganjian’s sincerity. And he couldn’t find any flaws in his arguments, but something didn’t quite sit right.

  “I don’t know,” Sadegh said aloud. “I guess I have to think about it. It’s just . . . a bit of a shock. In all the time I’ve been working with you, I’ve never seen this sort of thing.”

  “Akh! This is just a hobby for you Sadegh. You come in every once in a while, hang out with us and do a couple raids, and then you’re out of here.”

  Sadegh was hurt. His work with the Basij wasn’t a hobby. He wanted to make a real contribution to the religion and country that he loved. If he didn’t spend as much time with Ganjian as he would have liked it was only because of his obligations to the family business.

  Sadegh stood to go. “Khaili bebakhshid az mozahemat. I’m sorry to have taken your time with this. I’ll get out of your way now. Shall I leave these papers with you?”

  “Sit down and don’t be so damn sensitive, Sadegh.” Ganjian said as he rolled his eyes. “You’re more valuable to us this way. You think I don’t know how much of the money you collect from your Bazari friends actually comes out of your own pocket? Thank God for your shops. Besides,” Ganjian leaned back in his chair and ran his hands lightly along the edge of his desk, “working this way gives you a certain, well, freedom that someone like me will never have.”

  Ganjian looked pointedly at Sadegh who was still standing. Then he reached up to run two hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp so forcefully his whole forehead was pulled up and down.

&nbs
p; “There are things you can do, Sadegh-jaan, that I . . .” Ganjian’s voice trailed off and he stopped rubbing his scalp.

  Sadegh’s hurt feelings had dissipated at his mentor’s kind words. But now he felt Ganjian was hinting at something that he didn’t understand.

  Ganjian stood up. His hair stood on end like he’d had an electric shock. He shook his finger at Sadegh and barked, “Hey, don’t you go anywhere.”

  Ganjian went to the door, not the one that opened to the hallway, but the one in the corner behind his desk that led to a tiny adjoining room. Sadegh didn’t know what the room was originally intended for when the mosque was built. But ever since he could remember, it had been used as storage for items needing a bit of extra security. Ganjian opened the lock and went inside.

  Sadegh felt impatient. This visit had already taken longer than he’d expected. Sumayeh wasn’t going to be pleased. He noticed an open prayer book on Ganjian’s desk and remembered that today was the first of Muharram. Ganjian was probably going to an event to commemorate the coming anniversary of Imam Hossein’s martyrdom. That’s why he was dressed so neatly.

  Ganjian returned with two files in his arms. He didn’t bother closing the door behind him but came around his desk to hand them over to Sadegh.

  “What are these?” Sadegh asked.

  Ganjian’s eyes darted around the room. “You’ll know what they are when you see them, my friend. Like I say, there are things you can do that I . . . well, you know how things are for my father. I have my family to support, you know that. So I can’t be a hundred percent sure. I stand by everything I said to you. But”—Ganjian’s voice dropped to a whisper—“what if I’m just trying to protect myself ?”

  Sadegh was shocked to see Ganjian blinking back tears.

  “What—” Sadegh started to ask Ganjian what he meant but was cut off before completing his question as Ganjian put his hands to Sadegh’s cheeks and pulled his face close so that their foreheads were touching.

  “I can’t have this weighing on me anymore, Sadegh.” Ganjian breathed into Sadegh’s face as his tears began to overflow. “Despite everything I said, their families have a right to know.” Ganjian released Sadegh’s face and wiped at his eyes. Then he shook his head. “Or at least I think they do. I don’t know. See, my thinking is clouded. But you.” Ganjian clapped Sadegh’s shoulder and shook it lightly. “You can think it through without any worries. You can do whatever you think is right, and I know you’ll do the right thing. Just . . . before you do anything . . .” Ganjian pulled Sadegh close again. “Think and pray carefully about the consequences for the country, for the families of these kids, for me, and . . . for yourself.”