“Of course.” Bakravan tugged at his beard to prevent himself guffawing. Poor Ali, he thought, just as pompous as ever! “It’s certainly not my place to mention it, old friend, but some of the bazaaris have asked me what about the millions in bullion already advanced to support the revolution? Advanced to the fund for Ayatollah Khomeini - may God protect him,” he added politely, in his heart thinking: May God remove him from us quickly now that we’ve won, before he and his rapacious, blinkered, parasitical mullahs do too much damage. As for you, Ali, old friend, bender of the truth, exaggerater of your own importance, you may be my oldest friend, but if you think I’d trust you further than a camel can cast dung … As if any one of us would trust any Iranian outside of immediate family - and then only with caution.
“Of course I know the Ayatollah never saw, needed, or touched a single rial,” he said, meaning it, “but even so, we bazaaris advanced huge amounts of cash, bullion, and foreign exchange on his behalf, financing his campaign - of course for the Glory of God and our beloved Iran.”
“Yes, we know. And God will bless you for it. So does the Ayatollah. Of course these loans will be repaid immediately we have the money - the very second! The Tehran bazaari loans are the first in line to be repaid of all internal debts - we, in government, realize how important your help has been. But, Jared, Excellency, old friend, before we can do anything we must get oil production going and to do this we must have some cash. The immediate 5 million U.S. we need will be like a grain of rice in a barrel now that all foreign banks will be curbed, controlled, and most cast out. The Pr - ”
“Iran does not need any foreign banks. We bazaaris could do everything necessary - if we were asked. Everything. If we search diligently for the glory of Iran, perhaps, perhaps we might discover we have all the skills and connections in our midst.” Bakravan sipped his tea with studied elegance. “My son Meshang has a degree from the Harvard Business School.” The lie bothered none of them. “With the help of brilliant students like him…” He left the thought hanging.
Ali Kia picked it up immediately. “Surely you wouldn’t consider lending his services to my Ministry of Finance and Banking? Surely he’s far too important to you and your colleagues? Of course, he must be!” “Yes, yes, he is. But our beloved country’s needs should take precedence over our personal wishes - if of course the government wanted to use his unique talents.”
“I will mention it to Mehdi in the morning. Yes, at my daily morning meeting with my old friend and colleague,” Ali Kia said, wondering briefly when he would be allowed to have his first audience - long overdue - since he had been appointed deputy minister of finance. “I may tell him also you agree to the loan?”
“I will consult my colleagues at once. It would, of course, be their decision, not mine,” Bakravan added with open sadness that fooled neither of them. “But I will press your case, old friend.”
“Thank you.” Again Kia smiled. “We in government, and the Ayatollah, will appreciate the help of the bazaaris.”
“We’re always ready to help. As you know, we always have,” the older man said smoothly, remembering the massive financial support given by the bazaar to the mullahs, to Khomeini over the years - or to any political figure of integrity, like Ali Kia, who had opposed either of the Shahs. God curse the Pahlavis, Bakravan thought, they’re the cause of all our trouble. Curse them for all the trouble they’ve caused with their insistent, too hasty demand for modernization, for their insane disregard of our advice and influence, for inviting foreigners in, as many as fifty thousand Americans alone just a year ago, letting them take all the best jobs and all the banking business. The Shah spurned our help, broke our monopoly, strangled us, and tore away our historic heritage. Everywhere, all over Iran.
But we had our revenge. We gambled our remaining influence and treasure on Khomeini’s implacable hatred and his hold over the unwashed and illiterate masses. And we won. And now, with foreign banks gone, foreigners gone, we’ll be richer and with more influence than ever before. This loan will be easy to arrange but Ali Kia and his government can sweat a little. We’re the only ones who can raise the money. The payment offered is not high enough yet, not nearly enough to compensate for the closing of the bazaar all those months. Now what should it be? he asked himself, highly satisfied with their negotiations. Perhaps the percentage shou - The door burst open and Emir Paknouri rushed into the room. “Jared, they’re going to arrest me!” he cried out, tears now running down his face. “Who? Who’s going to arrest you and for what?” Bakravan spluttered, the customary calm of his house obliterated, the faces of frightened assistants, clerks, teaboy, and managers now crowding the doorway.
“For… for crimes against Islam!” Paknouri wept openly. “There must be some mistake! It’s impossible!” “Yes, it’s impossible but they … they came to my house with my name… half an hour ago we - ”
“Who? Give me their names and I’ll destroy their fathers! Who came?” “I told you! Guards, Revolutionary Guards, Green Bands, yes, them of course,” Paknouri said and rushed on, oblivious of the sudden hush. Ali Kia blanched and someone muttered, God protect us! “Half an hour or so ago, with my name on a piece of paper… my name, Emir Paknouri, chief of the league of goldsmiths who gave millions of rials… they came to my house accusing me, but the servants… and my wife was there and I… by God and the Prophet, Jared,” he cried out as he fell to his knees, “I’ve committed no crimes - I’m an Elder of the Bazaar, I’ve given millions and - ” Suddenly he stopped, seeing Ali Kia. “Kia, Ali Kia, Excellency, you know only too well what I did to help the revolution!”
“Of course.” Kia was white-faced, his heart thumping. “There has to be a mistake.” He knew Paknouri as a highly influential bazaari. Well respected, Sharazad’s first husband, and one of his longtime sponsors. “There must be a mistake!”
“Of course there’s a mistake!” Bakravan put his arm around the poor man and tried to calm him. “Fresh tea at once!” he ordered.
“A whisky. Please, do you have a whisky?” Paknouri mumbled. “I’ll have tea afterward, do you have whisky?”
“Not here, my poor friend, but of course there’s vodka.” It came at once. Paknouri downed it and choked a little. He refused another. In a minute or two he became a little calmer and began again to tell what had happened. The first he had known that something was wrong were loud voices in the hallway of his palatial house just outside the bazaar - he had been upstairs with his wife, preparing for dinner. “The leader of the Guards - there were five of them - the leader was waving this piece of paper and demanding to see me. Of course the servants wouldn’t dare disturb me or let such an ape in, so my chief servant said he’d see if I was in and came upstairs. He told us the paper was signed by someone called Uwari, on behalf of the Revolutionary Komiteh - in the Name of God, who’re they? Who’s this man Uwari? Have you ever heard of such a man, Jared?”
“It’s a common enough name,” Bakravan said, following the
Iranian custom of always having a ready answer to something you don’t know. “Have you, Excellency Ali?”