The Minders

The
Minders

______

M. Max Boroumand

Sale of this book without a cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the published may have received payment for it.

The Minders
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A 2015
boroumand – A MediArt Company
edition

Copyright © 2015 by M. Max Boroumand

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by

boroumand – A MediArt Company

Cover Design: M. Max Boroumand

ISBN:
978-0-9969496-1-3

eBook ISBN:
978-0-9969496-0-6

For my wife, boys, mom and sisters:

I love you and thank you.

The Minders
is book one of the
Jason Caius Series
. 
Book two of the series,
Autarky
,
will be published in 2016.

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Autarky,
go to
http://mediart.boroumand.com/books

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Bobby Shams woke up with an odd metallic taste in the back of his mouth. He felt woozy, his vision was blurred, and he still felt a little sleepy. He blinked in rapid succession to clear his vision. Eyeing his surroundings, thinking he was still in the cab, he began speaking to the driver. Several seconds into the conversation, he realized he was nowhere near a car. He was indoors. Maybe he was now at his uncle’s house, unaware of how he got inside. He quietly sat up in his bed, looking around for clues. The room was clean, all white walls, no windows, and a white door with a small window. The room had a bunk bed and a metal desk with two metal chairs. Against the wall, there was a one-piece metallic sink and toilet and, on the wall above it, a reflective metal square.

Is this a hospital? Was there an accident?
He thought.

He began inspecting himself, looking for bandages and wounds. There were no signs of an accident. He got up, wobbling towards the sink, inspecting his face in the metal square. He saw no bandages, cuts or bruises. He walked to the door, only to find it locked.

His heart began to pound uncontrollably.

Is this a jail?

He looked through the thick window staring at a similar door on the other side of the well-lit hallway. The other door had the Arabic number six on it. Looking left and right, he estimated at least five rooms across the hall, and probably another five on his side. The small circular portal had an embedded metal wire crosshatch design that seemed to be shatterproof. The door too felt dense and solid. 

There was no movement, no sound, no one around. He eventually got his strength back, and started pounding on the door, watching through the window. He saw no one and heard even less. He checked his pockets for his cell phone and wallet. His pockets were empty. He went back to pounding the door. A minute into it, he heard a voice coming from the speaker in the ceiling.

“
Please stop that noise. Be patient. We will be with you soon.
” The speaker boomed, in English.

His mind was mulling over all sorts of questions, filling his whole body with despair.

He sat in one of two chairs. He was scared and numb. 

*  *  *

Down the hall was a middle-aged man. He was beaten and bandaged. He was lying in his bed, with tears in his eyes, crying quietly.

Across from him, in another room, was the man’s daughter. She was playing with several dolls. On her table was a half-finished puzzle.

All other rooms were empty.

This was level B2, of
The Center
.

Frankfurt, Germany
|
18 Hours Earlier

Bobby began his trip to Iran, with a flight out of Germany. He was on his summer break, having just graduated from MIT. His final semester and grueling internship had taken their toll. His planned vacation, six weeks in Europe, would end with four weeks in Iran, his parent’s country of origin. Born in the U.S., he had never been to the old country. He had heard all the family stories and gossip. Loved the food, the art, the music, and wanted to explore the sights and sounds. He thought it a well-deserved break before starting his new job as a software engineer. He arranged through his mother and father, to visit a host of relatives in several cities. The plans were all in place, for a four-week feast of food, sights and sounds.

Iranians from all over the world occupied nearly every seat on Lufthansa flight #1120. Intermixed with Farsi, you could hear several other languages. Yet, the closer you got to Iran the more Farsi you heard. As if, people were practicing for a foreign language exam.

“
Dad, how do you say such and such?
”

“
Son, do you know what to say when someone says such and such?
”

In short, some combination of asking for something, replying to someone, or starting a conversation. Bobby too, was quietly practicing. Although a household language for him, dormancy had dwindled his skills. He had to practice pronouncing some of the harder words, the guttural sounds. Sounds you don’t hear in English. Sounds that made you wonder if they had a sore throat. He started practicing the greetings, return greetings, and basic chitchat, followed by recalling names and places. The first ten minutes of any conversation were going to be easy. The difficulties would come in conversations about career aspirations and related technical terms. It was hard enough to explain in English.

How does one translate, assembly code, embedded in microchips, supporting BUS speed optimization?
Bobby thought, smiling.

Adding to the dilemma were decades of linguistic changes. The Iranian government decided, early in the revolution, to change all Arab and Western words to Farsi. Bobby’s vocabulary, learned from his parents, came from the old dictionaries. He only knew a few of the changes. Soon enough, someone would correct him on many words, making him an old school Iranian. Most Iranians were born after the revolution, knowing little of the old language, causing a void between those born before and after the revolution. Each had their own language and cultural nuances. Outside Iran, they were an enigmatic blend of both.

The flight encapsulated a full load of colorful and happy people, many drinking their cocktails, reading their glossy European magazines. Magazines filled with fashionably dressed, sexy, men and women. Magazines with partial nudity spread all around, advertising colognes, perfumes, or jewelry, all violating rules of modesty according to
Sharia
law. It was a last chance to see beauty before entering enforced modesty. They were enjoying a treat in allowable sins, before the inevitable final-call one hears on all flights into Islamic countries.

Bobby finished his second Bloody Mary. Feeling a bit drowsy, he pressed his seat button to lean back and was off for a nap. He was dreaming about experiencing a sampling of his heritage, his lineage, his parent’s homeland. What adventures lay ahead, he pondered.

*  *  *

An hour later, the sobering PA call woke the sleeping Bobby straight in his seat.

“
Ladies and gentlemen, we are now crossing into the Islamic Republic of Iran airspace and as per regulations we have to collect all alcoholic beverages, foreign magazines, and head-sets.
” The same in French and German followed the call. Over the next few minutes, the crew collected all alcoholic drinks, magazines and headsets.

Once the aisles cleared, pandemonium erupted, triggering a complete transformation. One that Bobby had never seen in any of his travels. Women lined up to use the restrooms, which had become makeshift changing rooms. They would go in with western attire and come out as
babushkas,
looking as wholesome and modest as required by their final destination or household religious levels.

Once back in their seats, some practiced tying headscarves, while others bobbed their head to test adhesion, as others removed fingernail polish and wiped the lipstick off their lips. Crowds eventually calmed down. They were now ready. Colors had all but disappeared. You were drowning in a sea of black and brown. A sea of black and brown one only sees in Middle Eastern countries, or in New York subways.

The plane landed half past noon, fifteen miles outside of Tehran, at the Imam Khomeini International Airport. Taxiing took quite a while, adding to the apprehension. Planes were landing and taking off by the minute. Finally, the plane arrived at the gate, coming to a final stop. The air inside was teeming with uncertainty. Everyone took one last deep breath, thick with wavering degrees of indecision.

Was this the right thing to do? Was this the right time to go?
Those were thoughts on everyone’s mind.

They all eventually got up, checked each other out, making sure they were presentable, safe, modest. They collected their belongings and began the walk. Bobby grabbed his backpack, checked his seat pockets, and followed the line of people disembarking.

*  *  *

Lines in the customs area were long. For Bobby, it was a race between getting through customs and a cousin arriving to pick him up. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, carrying a backpack with more clothes, a fleece jacket, and his software-developer’s laptop, he knew customs would be a breeze. He had nothing to declare and nothing about which to worry. It seemed like forever, but eventually it was his turn.

“Good day sir. What brings you to the Islamic Republic of Iran?” a large and chiseled customs agent dressed in a dark blue uniform, glaring at Bobby, asked first in Farsi, then in German and English.

Having waited forty minutes to taxi and thirty minutes in line, Bobby happily began handing the man his Iranian passport and all other paperwork, including his approved military exemption form.

“
Salam
. I’m here on vacation and to visit relatives,” Bobby replied in near perfect Farsi, as he finished handing the man the remainder of his paperwork.

He had practiced for hours.

The military service exemption form and fees were a function of one’s education level while in Iran. The more educated you were when you left Iran, the more you had to pay in fines for not having fought in the Iran-Iraq war. Bobby’s fines were minimal and he was happy to have the exemption. The penalty for draft dodgers was severe. Of course, their version of the draft was to drive around neighborhoods picking up boys twelve and up. They forcefully took them while promising their distraught parents a martyred child living happily in a world filled with heavenly goods. Most of the youngest became human minesweepers, running across open fields, clearing a path for the tanks and soldiers. Each wave of children, running across a field, netted a dozen dead and many dozens maimed and mangled. It was cheaper than having a tank destroyed.

The customs agent opened Bobby’s passport, noticing the line indicating U.S. citizenship.

“Very good sir, and do you have your American passport and
Cart-eh-Meli
?” the agent continued in English. Apparently, he wanted to practice his English, as Bobby was practicing his Farsi.

Bobby handed the agent his U.S. passport and his Persian ID card, surprised at how well the man spoke English, no accent at all. The customs agent began typing into his computer, clicking the mouse, moving between tabs on the screen, staring at each page for a bit. He suddenly frowned and walked away to a supervisor several cubicles away. They chatted, facing away from Bobby. Minutes later and after a phone call made by the supervisor, the customs agent returned to his podium. Scanning the American passport and stamping the Iranian passport, he handed both to Bobby, along with all other documents.

“Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Iran,” the agent firmly said in Farsi.

Bobby grabbed his documents, placed them in his backpack, smiled at the agent and walked by the podium into a much larger hall. Planes landing and taking off packed the cavernous halls with an endless supply of people. The people departing were a much happier bunch and were moving a great deal faster. He slowly worked his way through the crowds, walking through the double automatic exit doors, stepping on to the hot concrete sidewalk. The heat and smog were dreadful. The air hit him like a sucker punch. He adapted to the heat quickly. But, the smog was another story. Every breath was a hot mix of fumes and gasses floating in the air, replenished by the millions of exhaust pipes. He felt as though he was swallowing acid.

There were people getting in and out of cars, taxis, and buses all around him. As hot as it was, not a soul was wearing shorts, t-shirts, flip-flops, or any kind of heat abating material as cover. Colors consisted primarily of dark earth tones and a lot of black. Children were the only ones with colorful garments, as though color was also against
Sharia
law. Bobby’s first impression was one of a perpetual funeral, both in mood and in imagery.

*  *  *

He found a shaded spot, under a sign and against a wall, and waited for his cousin. He lingered for an hour. No one came for him. He chalked it up to traffic delays. After several unsuccessful calls, he decided to catch a taxi. Furnished with directions, distances, city maps, and educated on fares and tips, he hailed the next taxi in line. A taxi from across the street squealed its tires and pulled in front of all the other waiting taxis, right next to Bobby. Waiting cabbies jumped out to protest, yelling, hurling insults and curse words, waving their arms and hands like windmills. The rude cabbie calmly pulled out and waved his ID, a badge of sorts. Within seconds, all the other cabbies scurried away like mice back into their holes.

As odd as that looked to Bobby, he took the cab. Plus, none of the other cabbies even looked at him or in his direction after the incident, and he was sick of standing in the heat, breathing the air.

His cab driver was very polite. The cab, a Mercedes Benz, was ultra clean, chillingly air conditioned, with a thick glass partition between Bobby and the front seat. On the partition, there was a speaker, a microphone, a drawer for exchanging money, the driver’s laminated and framed license documents, and a clear view of the meter. The meter read 5000 before the cab even moved. The inflationary numbers reminded Bobby of his travels in Italy where vendors would regularly add the year, 2014, printed at the top of the bill to the total, and no one would be the wiser.

“Do you speak English?” Bobby asked.

“Yes. I also speak German, French, and some Chinese!” The speaker echoed as the cab pulled away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” the cabbie requested, in English.

Bobby leaned towards the glass partition, reading fluently in Farsi from a piece of paper. He gave the driver directions as though he had been there many times.

“We can practice my Farsi or speak English,” he finished as he leaned back in his seat.

“Or, we can practice Chinese,” the cabbie replied, smiling.

The highways were perfectly built, smooth, great signage, and expansive. All signage followed American standards, large green signs with white reflective lettering, in English and Farsi. Clearly, foreign educated engineers, with proven standards of safety and efficiency, had built the highways. Yet, people drove like maniacs. Lanes were merely decorations. A four-lane highway could easily have six to seven lanes of cars and motorcycles moving on it. Traffic lights were an invitation to stop, not the law. If you could beat one or dart across, you would, you should.

Fender benders were everywhere, with almost every car having some scarring. Cars consisted of Japanese, German, and many of the local builds. The cabbie pointed to all the locally made cars, mentioning their brands, and using the new Farsi word to describe them. The
Khod-Ro
, loosely translated, “goes-by-itself.” He pointed to the
IKO Samand
, the first national car, and
Saipa
, the second national car, the two most popular brands in the country. Those, along with half a dozen other brands, accounted for the vast majority of cars in the country, and their manufacturing employed nearly three percent of the population.

The cabbie was quite proud as he went on about the country’s accomplishments since the revolution. He went a little beyond pride, becoming slightly preachy. Bobby took it all in, as any good tourist would.

Construction and infrastructure were the biggest changes Bobby noticed as he compared what he saw to what his parents had described. There were modern high rises everywhere, mostly apartment buildings, with the bottom several floors being retail stores or commercial businesses. Sidewalks were rivers of people moving in every direction. People would run across streets or highways, they would pour onto the streets to get around logjams on the sidewalk. It was chaos in human form. Harried was the best word to describe everything.

“It’s a long and slow drive, why don’t you rest a bit.” The cabbie suggested.

Bobby nodded at the cabbie, and turned to rest his head while looking at the views. Shortly into it, he dozed off.