The Septembers of Shiraz Read Online Free Page B

rehashed at funerals. “Yes, of course I remember,” she says.
    â€œIt breaks my heart to think of such a good man behind bars.” Habibeh shakes her head, taps one hand against the other. In a lowered voice she says, “I’ve never been the religious type, khanoum, but I will ask Kobra, my half-sister who prays five times a day, to say a few words on agha’s behalf. I’d do it myself but I don’t think my plea would carrymuch weight. That’s my way of wishing his safe return. Har Haji yek jour Makeh miravad—Every pilgrim goes to Mecca his own way.”
    â€œThank you, Habibeh. You are so good to us.”
    â€œNow get up, khanoum. Get up. Go do what you have to do.” She stands for several seconds, then reaches out to the night table and takes the empty glass of cognac. “This, Farnaz-khanoum, will have to stop.”
    â€œI take only one glass, Habibeh, you know that. It calms me down.”
    â€œOne glass or ten, makes no difference. Not only is it bad for you, it’s illegal now.” She puts the glass back down and leaves.
    Illegal? Yes, drinking alcohol was now on the long list of illicit activities, along with singing, listening to music, going out with uncovered hair. But when did Habibeh become so law-abiding?
    Farnaz showers quickly and wears navy slacks, a white turtleneck, and her long black coat—the new government enforced uniform. Her shapeless reflection in the full-length mirror strips her of the one lure she had possessed before the days of the revolution, when a hip-hugging skirt, a fitted cashmere sweater, and a red smile were enough to get an entire room of a house painted for free, or the most tender meat saved by the butcher. She leans into the mirror and applies powder to conceal the dark crescents under her brown eyes. She twists her long black hair into a bun and covers it with a scarf.
    Out in the garden the air is crisp, diffusing the sweet,clean scent of jasmine. The dog is sprawled by Isaac’s old Renault, sniffing a tire. She will take Shirin to school then start looking for Isaac. Last night she told Shirin that her father had gone on an unexpected business trip. “Yes? Just like that?” Shirin said. “Yes, just like that.” And when the questions would not stop, Farnaz told her to keep quiet and go to bed. The questions stopped, leaving in their place a muddy silence.
    She stands by the iron gate, tea in hand, watching the day unfold—pedestrians walking hurriedly past, cars honking to salvage lost minutes, children bearing the anxious look of the first weeks of school, their backs hunched under massive book bags. A neighbor emerges from her house and hurries down the street. “They brought eggs today!” she yells to Farnaz, and whizzes by. The war with Iraq, already a year old, has made the most mundane items—eggs, cheese, soap—worthy of celebration. Farnaz cannot reconcile the normalcy of the world around her with the collapse of her own. That the city is short by one man this morning makes so little difference—stores still open their doors, schools ring their bells, banks exchange currency, grass-green double-decker buses—men on the bottom, women on top—follow their daily routes.
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    T HE PRISON SQUATS under the afternoon sky—sterile, unsparing, and gray.
    â€œYes, Sister?” A young man at the gate walks toward her.He is barely eighteen, with that seriousness of expression peculiar to young people given a grave task for the first time. A cigarette hangs loosely from the side of his mouth.
    â€œI’m looking for my husband, Brother. Can you help me?”
    The boy removes the cigarette, exhaling with exaggeration. “Who is your husband?”
    â€œHis name is Isaac Amin.”
    â€œYes? Who says he’s in this prison?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m trying to find out, Brother.”
    The boy takes another drag, looks out in the