she made the drink light, mostly soda, and brought it back. "there's going to be a civil war. there's no way we can continue here."
"we'll be all right, gen. carter won't let..." abruptly the lights died and the electric fire went out.
"bugger," genny said. "thank god we've the butane cooker."
"maybe the power cut'll be a short one." mciver helped her light the candles that were already in place. he glanced at the front door. beside it was a fivegallon can of gasoline their emergency fuel. he hated the idea of having gasoline in the apartment, they all did, particularly when they had to use candles most evenings. but for weeks now it had taken from five to twenty-four hours of lining up at a gas station and even then the iranian attendant would more than likely turn you away because you were a foreigner. many times their car had had its tank drained locks made no difference. they were luckier than most because they had access to airfield supplies, but for the normal person, particularly a foreigner, the lines made life miserable. black-market gasoline cost as much as 160 rials a lifer $2 a lifer, $8 a gallon, when you could get it. "mind the iron rations," he said with a laugh.
"mae, maybe you should stand a candle on it, just for old times' sake," pettikin said.
"don't tempt him, charlie! you were saying about carter?"
"the trouble is if carter panics and puts in even a few troops or planes to support a military coup, it will blow the top off everything. everyone'll scream like a scalded cat, the soviets most of all, and they'll have to react and iran'll become the set piece for world war three."
mciver said, "we've been fighting world war three, charlie, since '45..."
a burst of static cut him off, then the announcer came back again. "... for illicit intelligence work: it is reported from kuwait by the chief of staff of the armed forces that kuwait has received shipments of arms from the soviet union..."
"christ," both men muttered.
"... in beirut, yasir arafat, the plo leader, declared his organisation will continue to actively assist the revolution of ayatollah khomeini: at a press conference in washington, president carter reiterated the u. s. support for iran's bakhtiar government and the 'constitutional process': and finally from iran itself, ayatollah khomeini has threatened to arrest prime minister bakhtiar unless he resigns, and has called on the people to 'destroy the terrible monarchy and its illegal government,' and on the army 'to rise up against their foreigndominated officers and flee their barracks with their weapons." throughout the british isles exceptionally heavy snow, gales, and floods have disrupted much of the country, closing heathrow airport and grounding all aircraft. and that ends the news summary. the next full report will be at 1800, gmt. you're listening to the world service of the bbc. and now a report from our international farm correspondent, 'poultry and pigs.' we begin..."
mciver reached over and snapped it off. "bloody hell, the whole world's falling apart and the bbc gives us pigs."
genny laughed. "what would you do without the bbc, the telly, and the football pools? gales and floods." she picked up the phone on the off chance. it was dead as usual. "hope the kids are all right." they had a son and a daughter, hamish and sarah, both married now and on their own and two grandchildren, one from each. "little karen catches cold so badly and sarah! even at twenty-three she needs reminding to dress properly! will that child never grow up?"
pettikin said, "it's rotten not being able to phone when you want."
"yes. anyway, it's time to eat. the market was almost empty today for the third straight day. so it was a choice of roast ancient mutton again with rice, or a special. i chose the special and used the last two cans. i've corned beef pie, cauliflower all gratin, and treacle tart, and a surprise hors d'oeuvre." she took a candle and went off to the kitchen and shut the door behind her.
"wonder why we always get cauliflower all gratin?" mciver watched the candlelight flickering on the kitchen door. "hate the bloody stuff! i've told
her fifty times..." the nightscape suddenly caught his attention. he walked over to the window. the city was empty of light because of the power cut. but southeastward now a red glow lit up the sky. "jaleh, again," he said simply.
on september 8, five months ago, tens of thousands of people had taken to the streets of tehran to protest the shah's imposition of martial law. there was widespread destruction, particularly in jaleh a poor, densely populated suburb where bonfires were lit and barricades of burning tires set up. when the security forces arrived, the raging, milling crowd shouting
"death to the shah" refused to disperse. the clash was violent. tear gas didn't work. guns did. estimates of the death toll ranged from an official 97 to 250 according to some witnesses, to 2,000 to 3,000 by the militant opposition groups.
in the following crackdown to that
"bloody friday," a vast number of opposition politicians, dissidents, and hostiles were arrested and detained later the government admitted 1,106 along with two ayatollahs, which further inflamed the multitudes.
mclver felt very sad, watching the glow. if it weren't for the ayatollahs, he thought, particularly khomeini, none of it would have happened.
years ago when mclver had first come to iran he had asked a friend in the british embassy what ayatollah meant. "it's an arabic word, ayat'allah, and means 'reflection of god."'
"he's a priest?"
"not at all, there are no priests in islam, the name of their religion that's another arabic word, it means 'submission," submission to the will of god."
"what?"
"well," his friend had said with a laugh, "i'll explain but you've got to be a little patient. first, iranians are not arabs but aryans, and the vast majority are shitite muslims, a volatile sometimes mystical breakaway sect. arabs are mostly orthodox sunni they make up most of the world's billion muslims and the sects are somewhat like our protestants and catholics and they've fought each other just as viciously. but all share the same overarching belief, that there is one god, allah the arabic word for god that mohammed, a man of mecca who lived from a.d. 570 to 632 was his prophet, and the words of the koran proclaimed by him and written down by others over many years after his death came directly from god and contain all instruction that is necessary for an individual or society to live by."
"everything? that's not possible."
"for muslims it is, mac, today, tomorrow, forever. but 'ayatollah' is a title peculiar to shi'ites and granted by consensus and popular acclaim by the congregation of a mosque another arabic word meaning 'meeting place,' which is all it is, a meeting place, absolutely not a church to a mullah who exhibits those characteristics most sought after and admired amongst the shi'ites:
piety, poverty, learning but only the holy books, the koran and the sunna and leadership, with a big emphasis on leadership. in islam there's no separation between religion and politics, there can be none, and the shiite mullahs of iran, since the beginning, have been fanatic guardians of the koran and sunna, fanatic leaders and whenever necessary fighting revolutionaries."
"if an ayatollah or mullah's not a priest, what is he?"
"mullah means 'leader,' he who leads prayers in a mosque. anyone can be a mullah, providing he's a man, and muslim. anyone. there's no clergy in islam, none, no one between you and god, that's one of the beauties of it, but not to shitites. shi'ites believe that, after the prophet, the earth should be ruled by a charismatic, semidivine infallible leader, the imam, who acts as an intermediary between the human and the divine and that's where the great split came about between sunni and shiite, and their wars were just as bloody as the plantagenets. where sunnis believe in consensus, shi'ites would accept the imam's authority if he were to exist."
"then who chooses the man to be imam?"
"that was the whole problem. when mohammed died by the way he never claimed to be anything other than mortal although last of the prophets he left neither sons nor a chosen successor, a caliph. shi'ites believed leadership should remain with the prophet's family and the caliph could only be ali, his cousin and son-in-law who had married fatima, his favorite daughter. but the orthodox sunnis, following historic tribal custom which applies even today, believed a leader should only be chosen by consensus. they proved to be stronger, so the first three caliphs were voted in two were murdered by other sunnis then, at long last for the shitites, ali became caliph, in their fervent belief the first imam."
"they claimed he was semidivine?"
"divinely guided, mac. ali lasted five years, then he was murdered shi'ites say martyred. his eldest son became imam, then was thrust aside by a usurping sunni. his second son, the revered, twenty-five- year-old hussain, raised an army against the usurper but was slaughtered martyred with all his people, including his brother's two young sons, his own five-year-old son, and suckling babe. that happened on the tenth day of muharram, in a.d. 650 by our counting, 61 by theirs, and they still celebrate hussain's martyrdom as their most holy day."
"that's the day they have the processions and whip themselves, stick hooks into themselves, mortify themselves?"
"yes, mad from our point of view. reza shah outlawed the custom but shiism is a passionate religion, needing outward expressions of penitence and mourning. martyrdom is deeply embedded in shitites, and in iran venerated. also rebellion against usurpers."
"so the battle is joined, the faithful against the shah?"
"oh, yes. fanatically on both sides. for the shi'ites, the mullah is the sole interpreting medium which therefore gives him enormous power. he is interpreter, lawgiver, judge, and leader. and the greatest of mullahs are ayatollahs."
and khomeini is the grand ayatollah, mciver was thinking, staring at the bloody nightscape over jaleh. he's it, and like it or not, all the killing, all the bloodshed and suffering and madness, have to be laid at his doorstep, justified or not...
"mac!"
"oh, sorry, charlie," he said, coming back to himself. "i was miles away. what?" he glanced at the kitchen door. it was still closed.
"don't you think you should get genny out of iran?" pettikin asked quietly. "it's getting pretty smelly indeed."
"she won't bloody go. i've told her fifty times, asked her fifty times, but she's as obstinate as a bloody mule like your claire," mciver replied as quietly. "she just bloody smiles and says: 'when you go, i go."' he finished his whisky, glanced at the door, and hastily poured himself another. stronger. "charlie, you talk to her. she'll listen to y "
"the hell she will."
"you're right. bloody women. bloody obstinate. they're all the bloody same." they laughed.
after a pause, pettikin said, "how's sharazad?"
mciver thought a moment. "tom lochart's a lucky man."
"why didn't she go back with him on leave and stay in england until iran settles down?"
"there's no reason for her to go she has no family or friends there. she wanted him to see his kids, christmas and all that. she said she felt she'd stir things up and be in the way if she went along. deirdre lochart's still very pissed off with the divorce, and anyway sharazad's family's here and you know how strong iranians are on family. she won't leave until tom goes and even then i don't know. and as for tom, if i tried to post him i think he'd quit. he'll stay forever. like you." he smiled. "why do you stay?"
"best posting i've ever had, when it was normal. can fly all i want, ski winters, sail summers... but let's face it, mac, claire always hated it here. for years she spent more time in england than here so she could be near jason and beatrice, her own family, and our grandchild. at least the parting of the ways was friendly. chopper pilots shouldn't be married anyway, have to move about too much. i'm born expatriate, i'll die one. don't want to go back to cape town hardly know that place anyway and can't stand those bloody english winters." he sipped his beer in the semidarkness. "insha'allah," he said with finality. in god's hands. the thought pleased him.
unexpectedly the telephone jangled, startling them. for months now the phone system had been unreliable for the last few weeks impossible and almost nonexistent, with perpetually crossed lines, wrong numbers, and no dial tones that miraculously cleared for no apparent reason for a day or an hour, to fall back like a shroud again, equally for no reason.
"five pounds it's a bill collector," pettikin said, smiling at genny who came out of the kitchen, equally startled at hearing the bell.
"that's no bet, charlie!" banks had been on strike and closed for two months in response to khomeini's call for a general strike, so no one individuals, companies, or even the government had been able to get any cash out and most iranians used cash and not checks.
mciver picked up the phone not knowing what to expect. or who. "hello."
"good god, the bloody thing's working," the voice said. "duncan, can you hear me?"
