When she could make herself heard, Namjeh Lengehi continued: “We supported the Ayatollah with all our hearts…” More cheers interrupted her, a great outpouring of affection. “We bless him for what he did and we fought as best we could, side by side with men, shared their suffering and the prisons and helped win the revolution and threw out the despot and now we are free, Iran is free from his yoke and from foreign yoke. But that does not give anyone, mullahs, even the Ayatollah, the right to turn back the clock…” Huge cries of, “No! No! No! No despots. Votes for women! No to despotism under any cover! Lengehi for the Majlis! Lengehi for minister of education!” “Oh, Zarah, isn’t this wonderful?” Sharazad said. “Have you ever voted?” “No, darling, of course not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want the right to if I wanted to. A hundred times I told Meshang that of course I’d ask him who to vote for, but I still want to go into the booth myself, by myself, if I choose to!”
“You’re right!” Sharazad turned and shouted, “Up the revolution. God is Great! God is Great! Lengehi for the High Court! Women for judges! We insist on our rights …”
Teymour, the PLO-trained Iranian who had taken over Sharazad’s apartment and had been sent to monitor the march and identify the militants, recognized her from photographs he had seen there. His anger increased. “Women to obey God’s law,” he shouted. “No women judges! Women to do God’s work!” But he was drowned by the thousands and no one paid any attention to him. No one knew how the march began. They just seemed to set off and soon they massed the avenues, wall to wall, stopping all traffic, surging happily along, an irresistible force. Those at the stalls and at the windows and balconies of houses adjoining stared at the marchers open-mouthed. Most men were shocked. “Look at that one, the young whore with the green coat that flaps open in the front to show her cleft, look, look there! God curse her for tempting me…”
“Look at that one with the pants like an outer skin.”
“Where! Ah, I see her, the blue pants! God protect us! You can see every ripple of her zinaat! She’s inviting it! Like the one she’s linking arms with - the green coat! Harlot! Hey, harlot down there, you just want a cock - that’s what you all want…”
Men watched and seethed. Lust followed the march. Women watched and wondered. More and more forgot their shopping or their stalls and joined their sisters, aunts, mothers, grandmothers, fearlessly removing their head scarves and veils and chador - wasn’t this the capital, weren’t they Tehranis, the elite of Iran, no longer villagers? It was different here, not like back in the village where they would never have dared to shout slogans and pull away veils and scarves and chadors. “Women unite, God is Great, God is Great! Victory, unity, struggle. Equality for women! The vote! No to despotism, any despotism…”
Ahead of the marchers, behind them, around them, on highways and in the side streets, groups of men began forming. Those for and those against. Arguments became more and more violent - Koranic law demanded that Muslims resist any attempt against Islam. A few scuffles began. One man pulled a knife and died, another man’s knife in his back. A few guns and woundings. Many clashes. Scattered riots between liberals and fundamentalists, between leftists and Green Bands. A few heads broken, another man dead and, here and there, children caught in the crossfire, some dead, others cowering behind parked cars.
Ibrahim Kyabi, the student Tudeh leader who had escaped the ambush the night Rakoczy had been caught, ran into the street and picked up one of the petrified children while his friends gave him covering fire. He made the safety of the comer. Once he was sure the little girl was unhurt, he shouted to his friends, “Follow me,” knowing they were outnumbered here, and took to his heels. There were six of them and they ran into the alleys and side streets. Soon they were safe and heading for Roosevelt Avenue. The Tudeh had been ordered to avoid open clashes with Green Bands, to march with the women, to infiltrate the ranks and to proselytize. He was glad to be active again after being in hiding.
Within half an hour of Rakoczy’s being captured, he had reported the betrayal to his controller at Tudeh HQ. The man had told him not to go home, to shave off his beard and keep out of sight in a safe house near the university: “Do nothing until the Women’s Protest on Tuesday. Join that with your cell as planned, then leave for Kowiss the next day - that should keep you safe for a while.”
“What about Dimitri Yazernov?” - the only name he knew Rakoczy by. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him away from the scum. Tell me again what the men looked like.”
Ibrahim had told them the little he had remembered about the Green Bands and the ambush. And then he had asked, “How many men will come with me to Kowiss?”
“You and two others should be enough for one rotten mullah.” Yes, he thought again, but I don’t need anyone - soon my father will be avenged. His hands tightened on the M16 that had been stolen a week ago from Doshan Tappeh’s armory. “Freedom!” he shouted, and hurried into Roosevelt to join the front ranks of the protest, his friends spreading out. A hundred yards farther back, an open truck filled with youths trundled along slowly, surrounded by the thousands, waving and shouting encouragement. These were airmen out of uniform. Among them was Karim Peshadi. For hours he had been searching the marchers for Sharazad but had not seen her. He and the others were stationed at Doshan Tappeh where order and discipline were almost nonexistent, komitehs holding sway, issuing orders and counterorders, others coming from the High Command subservient to Prime Minister Bazargan, others from the Revolutionary Komiteh - and others over the radio where, from time to time, Ayatollah Khomeini would speak and set the law.
As all other pilots and officers throughout the land, Karim had been ordered before a komiteh to be cross-examined on his record, his political beliefs, and his pre-revolutionary connections. His record was good, and he could truthfully swear he supported Islam, Khomeini and the revolution. But the specter of his father hung over him and he had carefully buried his desire for revenge in his most secret heart. So far he had been untouched. The night before last he had tried to sneak into the Doshan Tappeh Tower to find the HBC clearance book but had been turned back. Tonight he was going to try again - he had sworn to himself not to fail. I mustn’t fail, he thought, Sharazad depends on me… oh, Sharazad, thou who gives my life meaning even though thou art forbidden.
Anxiously he hunted for her among the marchers, knowing she was somewhere here. Last night he and a group of his friends heard a violently incendiary broadcast by an ayatollah fundamentalist, opposing the Women’s Protest and demanding there be counterprotests by “Believers.” He had become gravely concerned for Sharazad, his sisters, and relations who he knew would also be marching. His friends were equally concerned for theirs. So this morning they had taken the truck and had joined the protest. With guns. “Equality for women,” he shouted. “Democracy forever!
Islam forever! Democracy and law and Islam forev - ” The words died. Ahead of the march men had formed a thick barrier across the road now, barring progress. The women to the forefront saw their anger and raised fists. Instinctively the women in the first half-dozen ranks tried to slow but could not. The swell of the thousands pushed them inexorably forward. “Why’re those men so angry?” Sharazad asked, her happiness evaporating, the crush increasing.
“They’re just misguided, villagers mostly,” Namjeh Lengehi said bravely. “They want us as slaves, slaves, don’t be afraid! God is Great…” “Link arms,” Zarah shouted, “they can’t stop us! Allahhhh-u Akbarrr…” Among the men blocking the road was the man who had, at Evin Jail, led Jared Bakravan to slaughter. He had recognized Sharazad in the vanguard. “God is Great,” he muttered in ecstasy, his words drowned by the shouting, “God made me an instrument to send the evil bazaari to hell and now God has given into my hands the harlot daughter.” His eyes gloated over her, seeing her naked on the couch, spread, breasts proud, eyes filled with lust, mouth moist, lips moist, hearing her begging him, “Take me, take me, quick, for you no money, let me have it, all of it, quick, quick, fill me, stretch me, for you anything, quick quick… oh, Satan, help me suck God out of his organ…” He jerked out his knife, loins throbbing, manhood proud, and hurled himself at her, “God is Greatttt…” His rush was sudden and he went across the space separating him from the women, knocked down half a dozen, reaching for her, but slipped and fell in his excitement, his knife flailing. Those he wounded were screaming and he fought to his feet and groped for her, seeing only her, her eyes wide, terror-stricken, knife in his fist ready to gut her, now only three paces away, two paces, one… his head filled with her perfume, the stench of the Devil Incarnate. The death blow began but never touched her and he knew Satan had sent an evil djinn his way - there was a monstrous burning in his chest, his eyes became sightless, and he died with the Name of God on his lips.