The Septembers of Shiraz Read Online Free PDF Page A

distance. “Why should I help you?”
    â€œBecause my husband is innocent. And because you’re a kind, decent person.”
    â€œYou say he’s innocent. Why should I believe you?” He drops the cigarette and crushes it with his foot.
    â€œBrother, I’m just asking you to tell me if he’s here. I’m not asking you to release him.”
    He bites his lower lip, considering her request, then flings his arm in the air. “Ah, to hell with you,” he says. “I don’t want to help you. And you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do, not anymore. Now get lost…Sister.”
    She walks for a long time through the city. Above her, windows and balconies close, shutting out the cool September breeze. Summer is leaving, and with it the buzz of ceiling fans, the smell of wet dust rising through air-conditioning vents, the clink of noontime dishes heard through open windows, the chatter of families passing long, muggy afternoons in courtyards, eating pumpkin seeds and watermelon.

FOUR
    T he chant of the muezzin fills the cloudless sky above the prison courtyard. Bismi Allahi alrrahmani alrraheem. Alhamdu illahi rabbi al alameen —“In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds.”
    Isaac walks along with a few others toward the prison mosque. He has pursued this path already once today. Now, the sun directly above, he knows it must be noon, time for the second round of prayers. Alrrahmani alrraheem. Maliki yawmi alddeen —“The Beneficent, the Merciful. Owner of the Day of Judgment.” He stops at a corner shaded by a single poplar. There, clusters of men stand in front of concrete basins, pouring water over their faces, hands, and bare feet in preparation for prayer. He walks to a vacant spot by a basin and removes his shoes and socks. For years he has watched friends, employees, housekeepers perform this ritual of washing for prayer, but somehow he has not retainedall of it, does not know which hand pours water over which, which foot must be wiped clean first. “Thee we worship; Thee we ask for help. Show us the straight path.”
    During the morning prayer Mehdi, who occasionally prays at the mosque to ingratiate himself to his captors, had shown him all the movements, but afterward he had been taken for interrogation and has not returned. Isaac tries to remember his cellmate’s lesson; the whole thing is like the memory of a dream trying to surface. “The path of those upon whom Thou hast bestowed favors. Not of those upon whom Thy wrath is brought down, nor of those who go astray.” He watches the man next to him gargling water in his mouth and spitting it out, three times. The man turns to Isaac. “What are you waiting for?”
    â€œI’ve forgotten how it goes,” Isaac says, as though he had once known it, as though the procedures have simply evaporated from his mind, like lyrics of a song.
    The man cleanses his nose and nostrils three times, then washes his face from ear to ear and forehead to chin. “How does anyone manage to forget this?” he says as he dips his right arm, up to the elbow, into the running water.
    â€œWhat’s all this talk?” a guard yells from behind. Then, noticing Isaac, he says, “Aren’t you Brother Amin?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNice gesture, Brother, pretending to be Muslim. But it won’t change anything.”
    â€œNo, sir…Brother. I’m not pretending to be anything. I thought everyone has to attend prayers, that’s all.” This is not entirely true, Isaac knows. Like Mehdi, he had hopedthat attending would improve his situation, regardless of his religion. The sun beams directly into his head, dilating the veins on his temples.
    â€œUnless, Brother, you wish to convert.”
    â€œWell, I…It isn’t that simple.”
    â€œThen go back to your cell! This incident will