yourself?” she asked.
Darius put down the vodka in a swallow. “Got to go,” he said. “It’s a big case. I just wanted to say hello, see how you were—”
“I was well, thank you.” Farib dropped the brush on the bare cosmetics table. “You look tired,” she said. “There’s time for you to nap. I’ll be out of your way. I have shopping to do.”
Darius took her place at the mirror. Knotting his tie, he watched the chador fall over Farib’s shoulders and swallow her whole.
“A very big case.”
3
W ORKMEN HAD DUG UP Hafez Avenue and gone away leaving it a watery trench, a catchbasin for the djoub. Darius parked in the shallows close to the former British embassy whose brick walls were blackboards of revolutionary rhetoric.
THE SPIRIT OF ALLAH HAS COMMANDED: ANY COMPROMISE IS TREASON TO SLAY AND BE SLAIN FOR ALLAH:
THAT IS THE EDICT OF RUHOLLAH
The sidewalks were empty, the flooded gutter devoid of traffic. Darius walked slowly, playing the rare midtown quiet against his nerves. At Bobby Sands Street he took a running start across the gorge. His shoes squished as he let himself inside a walled garden on the corner.
A cement blockhouse set in a jungle of azalea and jasmine was guarded by a Komitehman with an Uzi. Darius said, “Police,” and waited to be asked to produce identification. The Komitehman lowered his gun. He went to a lawn chair under a tattered Cinzano umbrella, and turned up a sermon on a portable radio.
The mist from a revolving lawn sprinkler broke the sunlight into pocket rainbows. Above a plastic wading pool a swing creaked in the breeze. The door was opened by a boy of no more than eight wearing a felt cap that budded in fuzzy mouse ears.
“Is your father at home?” Darius asked him.
The boy nibbled a white strip around a green apple with big mouse teeth, and ran inside the house. Darius entered and looked around a large room paneled in walnut. Embroidered drapes kept the sun off fine elephant’s feet Bokhara carpets that lay three deep on the hardwood floors. The walls were lined with religious texts dating back to the seventeenth-century Sufi mystics. Darius heard an adult voice, and followed it into a room filled with baby furniture, where the boy squatted in front of a television.
The cap fell off as the boy turned around. Darius saw a bulbous head and narrow eyes, the patrimony of the religious elite. For generations the women most desired as brides in Iran had been the daughters of their future husband’s father’s brothers. Children like this one were a common result.
The boy giggled, and looked back at the screen. Darius poked through the rooms, but saw nothing around which to construct an investigation. In twenty minutes he was ready to leave. The Komitehman had returned to the door, but now faced inside, as though having let him too easily into the house he would rectify the mistake by keeping him prisoner.
Darius said, “This is the Golabi home that was burglarized?”
The guard said nothing, thought about it, nodded.
“The child’s parents will be back soon?”
“I don’t know.”
Darius gave him his card. “Have them contact me at my office.”
The guard stepped aside, and Darius went out to the car furious with himself for wasting time that should have been spent hunting a killer. The only crime he had found was perpetuated in the genes of the misshapen child. He had gone far enough with Zakir’s charade. Sooner than probe the burglary he would accompany Farib on a pilgrimage to Qom.
Dredged from his subconscious the murder case came back to him with several hard theories attached. In no manner were Iranians involved; for the girl to have been ruined as she was pointed unmistakably to Arab hands. As far back as elementary school he had been taught that the Arabs were a cowardly lot of Sunni heretics who prided themselves on their lust for innocent blood. Torture was not unknown in the long history of his country. But the Persians were a
Darius put down the vodka in a swallow. “Got to go,” he said. “It’s a big case. I just wanted to say hello, see how you were—”
“I was well, thank you.” Farib dropped the brush on the bare cosmetics table. “You look tired,” she said. “There’s time for you to nap. I’ll be out of your way. I have shopping to do.”
Darius took her place at the mirror. Knotting his tie, he watched the chador fall over Farib’s shoulders and swallow her whole.
“A very big case.”
3
W ORKMEN HAD DUG UP Hafez Avenue and gone away leaving it a watery trench, a catchbasin for the djoub. Darius parked in the shallows close to the former British embassy whose brick walls were blackboards of revolutionary rhetoric.
THE SPIRIT OF ALLAH HAS COMMANDED: ANY COMPROMISE IS TREASON TO SLAY AND BE SLAIN FOR ALLAH:
THAT IS THE EDICT OF RUHOLLAH
The sidewalks were empty, the flooded gutter devoid of traffic. Darius walked slowly, playing the rare midtown quiet against his nerves. At Bobby Sands Street he took a running start across the gorge. His shoes squished as he let himself inside a walled garden on the corner.
A cement blockhouse set in a jungle of azalea and jasmine was guarded by a Komitehman with an Uzi. Darius said, “Police,” and waited to be asked to produce identification. The Komitehman lowered his gun. He went to a lawn chair under a tattered Cinzano umbrella, and turned up a sermon on a portable radio.
The mist from a revolving lawn sprinkler broke the sunlight into pocket rainbows. Above a plastic wading pool a swing creaked in the breeze. The door was opened by a boy of no more than eight wearing a felt cap that budded in fuzzy mouse ears.
“Is your father at home?” Darius asked him.
The boy nibbled a white strip around a green apple with big mouse teeth, and ran inside the house. Darius entered and looked around a large room paneled in walnut. Embroidered drapes kept the sun off fine elephant’s feet Bokhara carpets that lay three deep on the hardwood floors. The walls were lined with religious texts dating back to the seventeenth-century Sufi mystics. Darius heard an adult voice, and followed it into a room filled with baby furniture, where the boy squatted in front of a television.
The cap fell off as the boy turned around. Darius saw a bulbous head and narrow eyes, the patrimony of the religious elite. For generations the women most desired as brides in Iran had been the daughters of their future husband’s father’s brothers. Children like this one were a common result.
The boy giggled, and looked back at the screen. Darius poked through the rooms, but saw nothing around which to construct an investigation. In twenty minutes he was ready to leave. The Komitehman had returned to the door, but now faced inside, as though having let him too easily into the house he would rectify the mistake by keeping him prisoner.
Darius said, “This is the Golabi home that was burglarized?”
The guard said nothing, thought about it, nodded.
“The child’s parents will be back soon?”
“I don’t know.”
Darius gave him his card. “Have them contact me at my office.”
The guard stepped aside, and Darius went out to the car furious with himself for wasting time that should have been spent hunting a killer. The only crime he had found was perpetuated in the genes of the misshapen child. He had gone far enough with Zakir’s charade. Sooner than probe the burglary he would accompany Farib on a pilgrimage to Qom.
Dredged from his subconscious the murder case came back to him with several hard theories attached. In no manner were Iranians involved; for the girl to have been ruined as she was pointed unmistakably to Arab hands. As far back as elementary school he had been taught that the Arabs were a cowardly lot of Sunni heretics who prided themselves on their lust for innocent blood. Torture was not unknown in the long history of his country. But the Persians were a
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