The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Page A

again in the chair across from the other man. Earnestly his eyes sought Ezra’s. “Don’t be so strict with me, eh: For the sake of both our sons—”
    Solaiman stiffened, looked piercingly at him, then away. Patiently, Nijat waited. He knew he had struck a nerve. Finally, from far away, Solaiman’s voice could be heart.
    “Eighteen million tomans. And … preferably paid in cash. I am anxious to begin my retirement.”
    Quickly Nijat calculated in his mind. Eighteen million was no joke. But what he had seen this evening convinced him there was a good living to be made from this business. He could afford the store, but it was not his nature to placidly accept a man’s first offer.
    “Say twelve million, baradar ,” he pleaded, grasping at Solaiman’s hand and squeezing like a bazaar haggler. “Twelve million—I will be a happy man, and you a carefree retiree.”
    Solaiman turned and gave him a look that was at once stern and businesslike. “Friend Nijat, I will not engage in dickering with you this evening. I have given you the indication you asked for. You are free to come and inspect the store and the inventory, as is anyone else who wishes to make an offer. If, after you have seen the business, you believe my price is too high, and you may say so at that time. But for now, I have said all I wish to say.”
    Nijat knew better than to push harder. He released Solaiman’s hand. His host stood. “May I expect you to come soon to the store?”
    Nijat stood, pocketing his worry beads. “I believe you may, Aga Solaiman. As you can see, I am a man who likes to get on with the business at hand. Would tomorrow be convenient?”
    Solaiman gave him a curt nod. “I open at eight o’clock. Now may I get your coat?”

    As he closed the gate behind Nijat, Ezra heard the telephone ring. He walked in the front door just as Esther hung up the receiver. As she turned to face him, her visage was white, drained of blood.
    “Esther! What is the matter?”
    Dully, she spoke as she slid into a chair. “That was Moosa,” she said.
    “Moosa!” said Ezra. “He barely gives us time to read his letter before—”
    “Ezra,” she said, cutting him short, “Moosa was calling from the airport. He is here, in Tehran.”

SEVEN
    The dilapidated cab rattled at high speed—the only speed Iranian cabbies use—along Shahanshahi Expressway. The hour was late and few cars were on the highway. In the backseat, Ezra sat glumly, as his son looked at him in hurt confusion.
    “But Father, I came only because I wanted to help….”
    Wearily, Ezra shook his head. “Moosa, you have done a foolish and dangerous thing. Foolish, not least of all because you have left a good job and an excellent salary to come here. Foolish also because, in the very act of sending your last letter, you may have aroused the authorities’ suspicions.” He turned to look at his son. “Have you been in the USA so long that you assume all countries have the same sacrosanct attitude toward the mails that Americans have?
    Moosa looked down. Ezra continued.
    “Dangerous—need I explain?” He glanced at the cabbie, then went on in a lower voice, barely audible above the groaning, roaring noise of the cab as it rolled down the highway. “Why could you not have simply remained where you were? You were safe there.”
    They arrived in front of Ezra’s gate. Handing Moosa’s leather valise to Ezra, the cabbie closed the trunk lid. Ezra paid the fare, including a generous tip for the lateness of the hour. “Many thinks, Aga ,” oozed the obsequious cabbie as he got back in his vehicle. “May Allah grant you long life.”
    “Indeed,” muttered Ezra under his breath. The cab drove off with a clanking of fenders and a squalling of fan belts. They went in the gate, closing it behind them.

    The morning sun streamed brightly through the windows of the pharmacy as Nijat sat at the desk, calculator in hand, carefully thumbing through stacks of invoices and shipping