Free The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Page B

rubbed his face, then his temples. He sighed, looking up at his wife. “I thought Ameer Nijat was by far the best prospect for the quick sale of the store. Now I’m not sure.”
    “You could make a counteroffer, couldn’t you?”
    Ezra snorted, and shook his head. “We are hardly in any position to bargain, my dear. If we wait too long, we will be trapped in this country, and may well have our property confiscated by the Islamic government. Which is better—to take less for the business, or to stay and perhaps have it stolen from us by force?”
    Esther opened her mouth to reply, then looked away, biting her lip and remaining silent.
    “Nijat is shrewd,” mused Ezra. “He knows how anxious we are to leave Iran, whether he truly understands the cause or not. I’m afraid the cards are all in his favor.”
    “Ezra,” began Esther carefully, “are you absolutely sure such haste is necessary? Are you certain the troubles cannot be deflected simply by minding our own business and avoiding attention?”
    Ezra stared at her in disbelief. “Still you do not see!” he said, standing angrily and turning away from her. “For all our lives we have avoided attention, but camouflage is no longer possible!” He fumed silently for a few seconds.
    He whirled to face her again. “Do you think that simply wearing the chador is enough?” he said in a quieter, razor-sharp voice. “Do you really believe that we can draw a veil over ourselves and be left alone?” Esther’s eyes flared at him, her shoulders rigid with indignation. He bored ahead, too full of the frustration of his predicament to care how she reacted.
    “Isn’t it funny, Esther?” he said bitterly. “All of my life, I have worn an invisible chador —a cloak of meekness, of caution and accommodation. I have ignored the barely hidden smears against my Jewishness, winked at the simmering hatred of the Shiites. I eagerly embraced the principle of the chador , even as you decried and hated it. And now, while the women of this country have the obscuring cloak forced upon them, I have my protecting veil of conformity and anonymity yanked from me. Ezra Solaiman, an Iranian Jew, stands uncovered at last, open to the contempt of all. Despite all my planning, all my wariness, all my attempts to blend into the background, I am exposed by the accident of history to the hostile whims of a regime headed by the sworn enemies of my heritage.”
    He leaned against the kitchen counter, his anger spent by the rushing torrent of words. Slowly he raised his eyes to his wife’s. “We’re not talking about inconvenience, Esther,” he went on in a beseeching tone. “We’re talking about survival. Why do you refuse to admit this? Why do I see it and you can’t?”
    She went into the dining room, her lips pursed tightly in anger. He sat down at the kitchen table, his face in his hands. Thoughts and emotions tangled inside his mind. Once more the invisible wall had risen between them, but what else could he do? Every day he waited to sell the store, the price of hard currency would increase. And with each passing hour, the chances were greater that he would be denounced before one of the ad hoc revolutionary committees being organized by the mullahs. Firouz was acting strangely; how much longer before he discerned what was going on—perhaps tried to derail Ezra’s plans?
    With a soft groan of pained resignation, he reached for the phone and dialed a number. He heard the buzzing, then a click as the phone was picked up. Ezra cleared his throat and managed to say, “ Aga Nijat? This is Ezra Solaiman. I have thought about your offer.” He swallowed several times. “I … I will meet you at the escrow office at eight o’clock in the morning, if that is acceptable.”

    “Aga Ibrahim, your prices are the highest in the covered bazaar!” the old woman was saying. “How can you expect a poor old woman such as myself to pay 100 rials for a rug this size?”
    Reuben assumed a