Free The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons

records, the overhead—all were as described.
    Nijat glanced down at the day-old newspaper on his desk. Prominently featured on the front page was a large photograph of Ayatollah Khomeini, awash in an adoring throng of supporters. This was the future of the country. Even the children knew it.
    So then, whispered Nijat’s intuition in his ear, why does this successful Jewish businessman choose this particular moment in history to liquidate his enterprise and reunite himself with his son in America? Could it be because he is anxious not to live in an Islamic state? Could it be that he senses, as does anyone with an ear to the ground, that Iran will not be a pleasant place while the mullahs, repressed for so long under the rule of the Shah, avenge themselves on their real and imagined enemies?
    Eventually the fury of the mullahs would blow itself out for lack of a target, and by then Nijat’s son would be firmly established as a proprietor of a well-known pharmacy. With his son’s education and his own business sense, Nijat failed to see how this could be a losing proposition. Unfortunate that Solaiman did not have what Nijat possessed—the ability to lie low, to remain inconspicuous. Unfortunate, indeed, for Aga Solaiman. Nijat shrugged. Business was business. He picked up the phone and dialed Solaiman’s number.

    Moosa placed the rial notes on the table beside his empty plate and left the café. He walked slowly up Pahlavi Avenue, his eyes scanning the newspaper as he strolled along the sidewalk. In these days, it grew more and more difficult to learn what really went on. The Islamic majority, egged on by the constant propaganda of Khomeini’s swelling retinue, gradually tightened its grip. About the best one could do was read the paper and adjust the facts for the blatantly Shiite slant given to every event.
    As he walked, he read the story about a woman who had acid thrown in her face by one of the recently appointed pasdars . In the article, the armed guard was quoted as saying, “The infidel woman refused to wear the chador , according to the Imam’s latest order. She had to be punished for disobedience to the laws of decency.” The story pointed out that the Imam had decreed that all women, even non-Islamic residents, were obliged to obey the order. If they were seen in public without their heads covered, they were subject to arrest and trial for adultery, since they were presumed to be harlots.
    A commotion erupted from one of the shops ahead. Moosa stared at the angry knot of men that boiled out onto the sidewalk. Three pasdars shoved and kicked a man Moosa recognized as the son of Abraham Moosovi. One of the guards gave the fellow a final shove, which sent him slamming into the door frame of his shop. The three armed peasants turned and swaggered away, laughing among themselves. Moosa rushed up to the beaten man.
    “Nathan! What have they done to you?” He bent down and grabbed the slumping man around the waist, pulling one of Nathan’s arms across his own shoulders. “Let me help you back inside.” Slack-jawed, Nathan nodded as Moosa half carried him into his shop.
    When he had slumped into a chair, Nathan looked up at Moosa. “You … you are Moosa Solaiman?”
    Moosa nodded, then turned to rummage among the cabinets behind the counter for a rag or cloth.
    “I thought you were in America,” puzzled Nathan, as he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
    “I was, until last week. I came back to help my father leave this crazy country. Why were those pasdars beating you?” Moosa asked, handing a damp cloth to Nathan.
    The other man winced as he dabbed gently at his cut face. “Last night looters broke into the shop….” Tiredly Nathan gestured toward the center of the store. Moosa turned to look.
    Broken glass littered the floor. Nathan Moosovi sold jewelry and curios—vases, chinaware, and the like—but all the shelves were thrown about, the wares shattered on the floor or