The Colonel by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

Qorbani and his cronies. After a while, so many people had piled in on top of each other in the courtyard, and even in the alley outside, that there was no more room for them. He noticed that Amir had been dragged out of the living room onto the verandah to give a speech of thanks. But the crowd wanted more. The place was not large enough for such a huge gathering, nor was there a loudspeaker, but it did not matter. That was the sort of thing that Qorbani was used to dealing with, and before Amir had had time to think, he was being swept along by the crowd to the town square. Amir, whom Qorbani claimed had ‘risked his life, all his worldly goods and his reputation to further the cause of the revolution’ – more weasel words – was hoisted up onto a dais, fully equipped with a lectern and microphone. Helpers were even hauled in to hold umbrellas over his son in the rain, which was still drumming down mercilessly through the barrage of slogans and clichés
that bellowed out in broken fragments from the loudspeakers: ‘Oppression… inflation… oil… fatherland… workers… proletariat… dictatorship… ism… more isms… and freedom, oh yes, we mustn’t forget freedom.’ And the people suddenly found they had a talent for listening, for harmony and conformity. Raised fists and slogans, a scuffle or two at the edge of the square, a couple of random shots, shouts of ‘make way,’ and then Qorbani and his boys forced a passage through the crowd for Amir to a big car that was waiting there with its doors open. It had been borrowed from a showroom belonging to one of Qorbani’s new best friends.
    Back in the house, the colonel opened his cigarette case, lit one and stared silently at his son… Amir hoped for at least a brief look of approval from his father, albeit mixed with the customary measure of mistrust. He wanted to know that he had impressed the colonel and had finally persuaded him to believe in his son. Perhaps it was this burning, yet unspoken, urge that prompted him to ask: “What did you think, colonel?” But the colonel did not give him the answer he wanted. He just closed his cigarette case and tried to suppress the faint smile that played across his lips, a smile that made Amir blurt out, “It’s the revolution – we’ve got a revolution!”
    It was the revolution, yes it was. And now I’m not sorry that I didn’t say anything about Parvaneh’s execution to her sister. If I’d told her, I’d then have had to ask her to come and wash the body and lay her out. It was just as well I didn’t have to tell her and ask her to do such a thing. I’m not just not sorry, I’m quite glad about it now. I’m bloody sure that if I’d said anything, Qorbani would not have let her go. It would have been a bloody disaster… So now…
    So now he had to find a quick way of putting Farzaneh’s mind at rest.

    â€œWith all this rain coming down, you could get flooded out if you didn’t have a pick and shovel to hand,” he said to her, as casually as he could, while laying the pick and shovel together to hoist them over his shoulder. Without waiting for an answer he turned round and set off.
    But he had only gone a few steps when a terrible, keening wail of sorrow and grief broke from his daughter and made him shake at the knees. He knew that, if he did not keep a tight grip on it, the cat would be out of the bag. He stopped and waited in the rain. Farzaneh did not say anything in particular, didn’t ask any questions. She did not even beg him to stay. In a voice that shook from the searing dryness of her throat she uttered just one word: “Papa!” Her voice froze his whole body and, for a moment, he stood nailed to the spot. But then, like someone fighting desperately for his life, he tried to pull himself together. Knowing he was invisible in the darkness of the