The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons

him. “The old Jew—and probably every other Jew in Iran—has something up his sleeve, and you of the Tudeh sit idly by and do nothing!” Firouz slapped the table in disgust, standing abruptly and striding away to a window.
    “We of the Tudeh Party are, at present, content to await the unfolding of developments,” agreed the other man, choosing his words carefully. “You must realize, Marandi, that events are still far too fluid to make the sort of assumptions you seem too ready to believe.”
    “What are you waiting for?” stormed Firouz. “The Shah is all but gone. Thousands desert the army every day. The mullahs crow openly about their imminent victory—”
    “Don’t lecture me, Marandi!” snapped the party official. “You think because you crouch in alleyways and toss bricks through windows that you mujahideen take all the risks. Well, there are battlegrounds other than the streets, my friend. It is far from certain that Tudeh will be able to build a coalition with the Islamic fundamentalists. As you say, the Shah’s star wanes. But don’t think this means that the Shiites will be any more willing to share the pie with us, simply because the Shah’s piece is handed to them.”
    The politician rose and strode to the window, confronting Firouz. Forcefully he punched the air in front of Firouz’s face with his index finger as he continued.
    “And don’t think I don’t understand what this discussion is about. I’m not fooled so easily that I imagine you are motivated by some noble sense of patriotism to report your suspicions of Solaiman’s activities. I seriously doubt if you are as concerned with his taking money out of Iran as with getting your hands on some of the wealth. You expect me to use my influence to get Solaiman’s property confiscated and handed over to you, Marandi, the loyal pillar of the revolution. Isn’t that so? Deny it if you can.”
    For several moments he glared at Firouz, daring him to contradict the assessment. When Firouz dropped his eyes, the other man snorted as he shook his head. “There are far greater issues at stake in these days, Marandi, than your pocket.” Angrily he whirled and walked out the door.
    His jaw clenched tightly in anger, Firouz muttered, “And there are other ways to see that justice is done.”

    Nijat sneaked a glance at Solaiman. His host’s gaze was directed toward a dark corner of the study. His eyes had an unfocused, inward look. Nijat rose from his chair and paced slowly to the nearest bookshelf, idly running his finger down the spines of several books. Without looking at Solaiman, he said, “I too have a son, Aga Solaiman. It is because of him that I am interested in your business.” He glanced over his shoulder at the other man.
    With difficulty, Solaiman raised his eyes to briefly meet those of Nijat. “Really?” he managed, with little enthusiasm. “Your son is a pharmacist?”
    Nijat nodded. “He’s been out of college five years now. He needs to get out on his own and learn what it’s like to run a business for himself. I think he’s ready, whether he does or not.”
    Solaiman smiled. “How well I remember the first days, when I was getting started. I was petrified! I feared each prescription I filled would be my last!” He shook his head, smiling.
    Casually, Nijat took a string of orange worry beads out of his coat pocket. He began moving two beads at a time along the string. Averting his eyes from his host, he asked, “So, then, Aga Solaiman, how much money are you asking for your business?”
    Solaiman glanced up sharply. “I don’t think it fair to you to quote a price without allowing you a chance to see the store, the inventory, the books—”
    “Come, come, Aga Solaiman,” smiled Nijat, “I’m not asking for an exact figure. All I want is an idea of what you are asking. How else will I know if I can afford to look further?”
    Still, his host was hesitant.
    “Please, Solaiman,” urged Nijat, seating himself