street. “In Addis, the main drag was Churchill Road.”
“We have a Churchill Road here, too,” said Ali. “And another called Eisenhower. But I don’t know for how long.”
“The Shah must be a great admirer of America,” said Gus.
“Our pilots fly your F-4s,” said Ali. “Our soldiers shoot at students with your M-14s.”
Ali drove so rapidly and his turns were so abrupt that Frank soon became confused.
“Where are we?”
“Not far from your embassy. But burning tires block so many streets…”
For no reason Frank could see, Ali swung the car around in the narrow street, tilted two wheels up on the sidewalk, and sped back in the opposite direction.
They passed a vacant, muddy expanse littered with the prefabricated ruins of an abandoned construction site. A giant building crane, pitched at a precarious angle, slipped even further on its muddy base as he watched. Through the fogged windows, the image reminded him of the crane he’d seen through clouds and smoke as their plane descended into Tehran.
As Frank watched, the tottering crane seemed to bounce, then caught itself and held, like a skeletal version of the leaning tower of Pisa.
“What was happening there?” asked Frank.
“That one? Military barracks. And fancy apartments for officers with families. Stopped now. Like everything. All over Tehran, cranes like that stand useless. The Shah wanted to lift up the whole country. No more.”
Frank made mental notes but had trouble following Ali’s route. “I need a map,” he said to Ali.
“More than a map,” said Ali. “To know Tehran you need a hundred years. Only the martyrs know Tehran, and for them it’s too late.” Ali made a sudden turn to his right. “And you need a nose,” he continued. “To tell you what trouble or traffic comes soon and which way to change. And three eyes. Right, left, and rear view to see where you’ve been and who’s behind you.”
Gus turned and peered through the steamy rear window. With an index finger, he wiped a tiny patch clear. “Like the big black job behind us?”
Ali nodded. “Paykan. Persian copy of Russian car. Savak always use those when they want you to know they’re with you. Otherwise, they use blue Mercedes.”
“It’s nice to know we’re worth so much attention.”
“Oh, Americans always get attention here. It must be a very big country. So rich.”
Frank listened as Gus carried the conversation, impressed by the casual questions that began to develop a portrait and, beyond the portrait, the outlines of a landscape.
“You’re an army man?”
“Seventeen years, sir. I used to drive a tank, a Sherman tank. But now I have trouble with my kidney. So now for you I drive this American tank.” He patted the dashboard. “A good car.”
“I noticed you’re not in uniform,” said Gus.
“Commander Simpson?” said Ali, glancing at Gus in the rearview mirror.
“Yes.”
Ali turned to Frank. “And Major Sullivan?”
“That’s me,” said Frank.
“Uniforms are not very popular here these days.”
“We can appreciate that,” said Gus.
“Thank you, sir. I try to be careful. I have too many children otherwise.”
“How many?” asked Gus.
“Six, sir.”
“That’s not so many.”
“May I ask how many, sir, you have?”
“Oh, six less than you,” said Gus. “But we’ve learned to live with that.”
“It is God’s will.”
“Inshallah,” said Gus. He fell silent, staring at the steamed-up window beside him. Frank sensed that Gus and his wife might not quite have learned to live with that.
“Are your children with you?” he asked Ali.
“My oldest, seventeen, is in the army. Stationed in Isfahan. I worry about him. It is a very religious city there.”
“Troubles?” said Gus.
“Not so much as here. But I worry about my son, about soldiers in a holy city like Isfahan. Many there support Khomeini and hate the Shah.”
“How ’bout your other children?”
“Well, they are in the north. I
“We have a Churchill Road here, too,” said Ali. “And another called Eisenhower. But I don’t know for how long.”
“The Shah must be a great admirer of America,” said Gus.
“Our pilots fly your F-4s,” said Ali. “Our soldiers shoot at students with your M-14s.”
Ali drove so rapidly and his turns were so abrupt that Frank soon became confused.
“Where are we?”
“Not far from your embassy. But burning tires block so many streets…”
For no reason Frank could see, Ali swung the car around in the narrow street, tilted two wheels up on the sidewalk, and sped back in the opposite direction.
They passed a vacant, muddy expanse littered with the prefabricated ruins of an abandoned construction site. A giant building crane, pitched at a precarious angle, slipped even further on its muddy base as he watched. Through the fogged windows, the image reminded him of the crane he’d seen through clouds and smoke as their plane descended into Tehran.
As Frank watched, the tottering crane seemed to bounce, then caught itself and held, like a skeletal version of the leaning tower of Pisa.
“What was happening there?” asked Frank.
“That one? Military barracks. And fancy apartments for officers with families. Stopped now. Like everything. All over Tehran, cranes like that stand useless. The Shah wanted to lift up the whole country. No more.”
Frank made mental notes but had trouble following Ali’s route. “I need a map,” he said to Ali.
“More than a map,” said Ali. “To know Tehran you need a hundred years. Only the martyrs know Tehran, and for them it’s too late.” Ali made a sudden turn to his right. “And you need a nose,” he continued. “To tell you what trouble or traffic comes soon and which way to change. And three eyes. Right, left, and rear view to see where you’ve been and who’s behind you.”
Gus turned and peered through the steamy rear window. With an index finger, he wiped a tiny patch clear. “Like the big black job behind us?”
Ali nodded. “Paykan. Persian copy of Russian car. Savak always use those when they want you to know they’re with you. Otherwise, they use blue Mercedes.”
“It’s nice to know we’re worth so much attention.”
“Oh, Americans always get attention here. It must be a very big country. So rich.”
Frank listened as Gus carried the conversation, impressed by the casual questions that began to develop a portrait and, beyond the portrait, the outlines of a landscape.
“You’re an army man?”
“Seventeen years, sir. I used to drive a tank, a Sherman tank. But now I have trouble with my kidney. So now for you I drive this American tank.” He patted the dashboard. “A good car.”
“I noticed you’re not in uniform,” said Gus.
“Commander Simpson?” said Ali, glancing at Gus in the rearview mirror.
“Yes.”
Ali turned to Frank. “And Major Sullivan?”
“That’s me,” said Frank.
“Uniforms are not very popular here these days.”
“We can appreciate that,” said Gus.
“Thank you, sir. I try to be careful. I have too many children otherwise.”
“How many?” asked Gus.
“Six, sir.”
“That’s not so many.”
“May I ask how many, sir, you have?”
“Oh, six less than you,” said Gus. “But we’ve learned to live with that.”
“It is God’s will.”
“Inshallah,” said Gus. He fell silent, staring at the steamed-up window beside him. Frank sensed that Gus and his wife might not quite have learned to live with that.
“Are your children with you?” he asked Ali.
“My oldest, seventeen, is in the army. Stationed in Isfahan. I worry about him. It is a very religious city there.”
“Troubles?” said Gus.
“Not so much as here. But I worry about my son, about soldiers in a holy city like Isfahan. Many there support Khomeini and hate the Shah.”
“How ’bout your other children?”
“Well, they are in the north. I
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