Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer

Author:Dalia Sofer [Sofer, Dalia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

t w e n t y - t h r e e

Ramin’s mother and old man Muhammad’s eldest

daughter were killed on the same night. Their names appear in the paper’s list of executed, and by the time Isaac and the other prisoners are taken outside for their weekly dose of air, in the early afternoon, the news has spread among the men like the warning of cholera in a damp city.

The old man sits on the ground hugging his bony knees, the boy leans against a wall, arms crossed against his chest, glassy-eyed. And so it is, Isaac thinks, that three generations have bonded through death.

“This country has fallen into the hands of savages,”

Hamid says.

Isaac braces himself for a long tirade from Reza, something about how the country was always in the hands of savages. But it doesn’t come. Here, as with any funeral, the men are civil and appropriately somber.

d a l i a s o f e r

“If they were innocent, then they are martyrs,” Reza says. “There is no reason to mourn.”

Hamid looks at Reza with his black eyes, but restrains himself.

“My mother is no martyr, she was a communist,” Ramin says. “Besides, there is no such thing as a martyr.” Then turning to the old man he says, “Muhammad-agha, don’t worry. We’ll get out of here and show these people what we’re made of.”

The old man doesn’t look up. For a long time he remains quiet. Then in his wrinkled voice, he says, “If the rug of your luck has been woven in black, even the water of Zamzam cannot whiten it.”

In the cell, Mehdi is asleep on his mattress, his right foot a swollen mass, the toe now completely black. The unfinished wooden clog is on the floor, upside down. There is a fetid odor in the room. Isaac struggles to sit on the floor beside him. He watches his sunken face, all dry skin and bones, with two yellow lids marooned inside their deep, gray sockets. He puts his palm on Mehdi’s forehead.

“Mehdi-jan, have you asked them again about your foot?”

“Yes, just this morning. They won’t let me go to the hospital.”

The door of the cell opens and a guard shoves Ramin with such force that he lands facedown on his mattress. “You want to end up like your mother, you mule?”

172

t h e s e p t e m b e r s o f s h i r a z

“Brother, is the other guard, Hossein-agha, on duty today?” Isaac asks.

“Yes, later. Why?”

“He had suggested a verse from the Koran for me to contemplate, and I wanted to discuss it with him.”

“He’ll have the night shift,” the guard says, eyeing Isaac suspiciously. “If you learn something, why don’t you pass it on to this dimwit?” He points to Ramin and leaves.

Ramin tests the soreness of his face with his fingers. “A verse from the Koran, Amin-agha?”

“No, not really. I want to speak to Hossein about Mehdi’s foot. He’s the only one who may do something about it.

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