Unsettled, Lochart stared at the fire, trying to marshal his arguments, not wanting to order her. But I will if I have to. My God, so many troubles: Charlie vanished, Kowiss in a mess, Kyabi murdered, and Sharazad in the middle of a riot! She’s crazy! Mad to take such a risk! If I lost her I’d die. God, whoever you are, wherever you are, protect her… This living room was large. At the far end was a dining-room table and chairs that could seat twelve. Most times, they would use the room in Iranian style, sitting on the floor, a tablecloth spread for the dishes, lounging against cushions. Rarely did they wear shoes and never high heels that could damage the deep carpets. There were five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms - this one they used generally or with company, the other, much smaller at the far end of the apartment was, as customary, for her to go to when he had business to discuss, or when her sister or girlfriends or relations were visiting so their chatter would not disturb him. Around Sharazad was always movement, always family nearby, children, nannies - except after sunset, though frequently relations or close friends were staying in the guest bedrooms.
He never minded, for they were a happy, gregarious family, in front of him. It was also part of his bargain with her father that he would patiently learn Iranian ways> patiently live Iranian ways for 197 three years and a day. Then he could choose to live outside Iran temporarily with Sharazad if he needed to: “Because by then,” her father, Jared Bakravan, had said kindly, “with the Help of the One God and the Prophet of God, may His words live forever, by then you will have enough knowledge to make the correct choice, for surely by then you will have sons and daughters, for though my daughter is thin, divorced, and still childless, I do not think she is barren.”
“But she’s still so young, we may decide it is too soon to have children.” “It is never too soon,” Bakravan had said sharply. “The Holy Books are quite clear. A woman needs children. A home needs children. Without children a woman will get into idle ways. That’s the most of my beloved Sharazad’s problem, no children. Some modern ways I approve of. Some I do not.” “But if we agree, she and I, that it is too soo - ” “Such a decision would not be her business!” Jared Bakravan had been shocked. He was a small, paunchy man with white hair and beard and hard eyes. “It would be monstrous, an insult, even to discuss it with her. You must think like an Iranian or this possible marriage will never last. Or even begin. Never. Ah, is it that you don’t want children?”
“Oh, no, of course I want children, but per - ” “Good, then it’s settled thus.”
“Then can it be settled thus: for three years and a day may I decide if it is too soon?”
“Such an idea is foolish. If you don’t want chil - ” “Oh, but of course I do, Excellency.”
At length the old man had said, reluctantly, “One year and a day only - but only if you swear by the One God that you truly want children, that this astonishing request is completely temporary! Your head is truly filled with nonsense, my son. With the Help of God, such nonsense will vanish like the snow on desert sand. Of course women need children…”
Absently Lochart smiled to himself. That wonderful old man would bargain with God in the Garden of Paradise. And why not? Isn’t that the national pastime of Iranians? But what do I say to him in a few days now - the year and a day almost over? Do I want the burden of children? No, not yet. But Sharazad does. Oh, she went along with my decision, and she’s never mentioned it but I don’t think she ever approved it.
He could hear the muted sounds of her voice and the maid’s voice from the kitchen and the quiet it enhanced was, as always, wonderful - such a contrast to the cockpit that was his other life. His cushions were very comfortable and he watched the fire. There was some gunfire in the night but by now it was so commonplace that they hardly heard it.
I’ve got to get her out of Tehran, he thought. But how? She’ll never leave while her family’re here. Maybe she’s safer here than anywhere, but not if she joins the riots. Doshan Tappeh! She’s crazy, but then they all are at the moment. I wish to God I knew if the army’s really been ordered to crush the revolt. Bakhtiar has to move soon or he’s finished. But if he does there’ll be a bloodbath because Iranians are a violent people, death seekers - providing it’s in the service of Islam.
Ah, Islam! And God. Where’s the One God now? In all the hearts and heads of Believers. Shi’ites are Believers. So’s Sharazad. And all her family. And you? No, not yet but I’m working on it. I promised him I’d work on it, promised I’d read the Koran and keep an open mind. And?
Now’s not the time to think of that. Be practical, think practically. She’s in danger. Chador or not she’s not going to get involved, but then, why shouldn’t she? It’s her country.
Yes, but she’s my wife and I’ll order her to stay out of it. What about her father’s place on the Caspian Sea near Bandar-e Pahlavi? Maybe they’d take her there or send her there - the weather’s good now, not as rotten cold as it is here, though our home’s warm, the oil tank always full, wood for the fire, food in the icebox, thanks to her old man and the family. My God, I owe him so much, so very much. A slight noise distracted him. Sharazad was standing in the doorway wearing the chador and a light veil that he had never seen before. Her eyes were never more alluring. The chador was sibilant as she moved closer. Then she let it fall open. She wore nothing underneath. The sight of her made him gasp.
“So.” Her voice as always soft and throbbing, the Farsi sweet-sounding. “So, Excellency, my husband, so now my chador pleases you?”
He reached out for her but she darted back a step, laughing. “In the summer the public women of the night wear their chadors thus, so it is said.” “Sharazad…” “No.”
This time he caught her easily. The taste of her, the sheen of her, her softness. “Perhaps, Master,” she said between kisses, gently taunting him, “perhaps your slave will always wear her chador thus, in the streets, in the bazaar, many women do, so they say.” “No. The thought would drive me mad.” He began to pick her up but she whispered, “No, Beloved, let us stay here,” and he replied, “But the servants…” and again she whispered, “Forget them, they’ll not disturb us, forget them, forget everything, I beg you, Beloved, and only remember that this is your house, this is your hearth, and I am your eternal slave.” They stayed. As always her passion equaled his though he could not understand how or why, only that with her he went to Paradise, truly, stayed in the Garden of the Paradise with this nymph of Paradise and then returned with her safe to earth again.
Later, during dinner, the front doorbell disturbed their peace. Her servant Hassan answered it, then came back into the room, closing the door. “Master, it’s Excellency General Valik,” he said softly. “He apologizes that he arrives so late but it’s important and asks if Your Excellency would grant him a few minutes.”
Lochart’s irritation soared but Sharazad reached over and touched him gently and it went away. “See him, Beloved. I will wait for you in bed. Hassan, bring a fresh plate and heat up the horisht, His Excellency’s bound to be hungry.”
Valik apologized profusely for arriving so late, refused food twice but of course allowed himself to be persuaded and ate ravenously. Lochart waited patiently, fulfilling his promise to her father to remember Iranian ways - that family came first, that it was good manners to skirt an issue, never to be blunt, never to be direct. In Farsi it was much easier than in English. As soon as he could, he switched to English. “I’m very pleased to see you, General. What can I do for you?”
“I only heard half an hour ago that you were back in Tehran. This horisht is easily the best I’ve had in years. I’m so sorry to disturb you so late.” “No trouble.” Lochart left the silence to prosper. The older man ate without embarrassment that he ate alone. A piece of lamb attached itself to his mustache and Lochart watched it, fascinated, wondering how long it would remain there, then Valik wiped his mouth. “My compliments to Sharazad - her cook is well trained. I will tell my favorite cousin, Excellency Jared.” “Thank you.” Lochart waited.