The Moving Prison Read Online Free PDF

desperately poor. Still …
    “Brothers,” Hafizi began hesitantly, “should we not give attention to the spiritual struggle, rather than the material? Surely you cannot believe that all the ills of Iran stem from the location of her wealth.”
    “You are too forgiving, Aga Hafizi,” sneered Hassan. “You cannot expect a people to suddenly become magnanimous, when their rulers have for decades set an example of unparalleled greed.”
    “True enough,” agreed Hojat. “For years the Shah and his family have looted the wealth of this country, using their shell companies and the convenient ‘directorates’ they hold, while we, the guardians of Islam, are left to subsist on the scraps of the banquet! When the merchants of the country see such rampant avarice, why should they not assume that bribery and extortion are normal costs of doing business? No, Baradar Hafizi, we must rise up and claim for Islam what is rightfully owed! It is time to redress the wrongs of the past! It is time to make them all pay!”
    In the self-righteous enthusiasm of Hojat’s speech, Hafizi thought he discerned the lurking shadow of covetousness. “ Baradar Hojat,” he began, after a long, thoughtful pause, “surely not all the wealthy in this country have prospered at the expense of their poorer neighbors! Should wealth be considered prima facie evidence of corruption?”
    “Are you trying to protect the Shah and his cronies?” demanded Hassan suspiciously. Hojat’s eyes were glittering slits, waiting for the reply.
    Hafizi thought of Solaiman, the Jew who had given him medicine for his son and wife. He looked carefully at the other two mullahs. “I am no lover of the Shah,” he began firmly, “but, my baradars , is it possible that you have forgotten? The blessed prophet Mohammed began his ministry after a long and successful career as a merchant in Mecca. He was not a poor man.”
    Their answer was hostile silence.

    Still deep in thought, Hafizi turned into Javid Street, the narrow thoroughfare where he lived. As he neared his door, he looked up to see a figure approaching from Naderi Avenue. The tall, well-dressed man, obviously not at home in this neighborhood, was peering at the small cinder-block houses as he passed them, as if to check the numbers. As he drew closer, Hafizi saw who it was. It was Solaiman, the druggist.
    “ Aga Solaiman! What errand brings you to my poor home?”

FOUR
    The taxi driver shuttled to the shoulder of the highway, and the jeep accelerated around them in a blast of engine noise. Ezra watched as it quickly shot ahead along the highway, dodging in and out of traffic as they rushed along on whatever emergency had claimed them.
    He sat back, trying to relax the screaming cords of tension writhing along his shoulders and neck. He looked over at Esther. She gave him a lifeless smile of attempted encouragement. He saw her eyes stray to the bottom of the case, where the secret compartment was located.
    The taxi driver, seeing a small space in the oncoming traffic, jammed the accelerator to the floor. The cab slung gravel and squealed its tires as it reentered the highway….

    Sepideh walked through the front door and slid her schoolbooks onto the table by the staircase. Then she went into the kitchen where her mother was seated, reading a newspaper. With a thoughtful look, the girl drew herself a small glass of hot tea from the samovar and sat down beside her mother.
    Esther glanced up from her reading. “Hello, dear. How was school today?”
    “Fine,” replied Sepi, without much conviction. A small plate in the center of the table contained a few dried apricots and almonds. Idly, Sepi nibbled an almond as she sipped her tea.
    Again Esther looked up at her daughter. “What’s the matter, Sepi? Are you sure nothing happened at school to upset you?”
    The girl shook her head. “No, Mother, nothing happened. I was just thinking about … everything that’s going on.” Her eyes dropped to her