Free The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer

for ammunition and gathered outside the prison, about the fighting that erupted, and about the governor of Paris, a certain Marquis de Launey, who, finding himself impotent in the face of such fury, had opened the gates, and consequently led the way to his own death: only hours later his decapitated head was paraded down the streets on a pike. This last bit had so fascinated Parviz that he would repeat it to everyone—his father, Javad, Shahla, Keyvan, Habibeh—asking them, over and over, if they knew how the Marquis de Launey had ended up like a kebab on a skewer. His listeners would laugh and say, “Yes, yes! Thanks to you, how can we forget?” He tormented his little sister, too, reminding her, from time to time, of the ill-fated governor, and asking her, when she annoyed him, how she would like it if she were to end up like the marquis. “You think that story scares me?” Shirin would say, cupping her tiny hand around her neck.
    Driving now to a prison outside Tehran, she thinks of this story, coming to life all around her. For hadn’t she witnessed, only months ago, the charred body of a prostitute placed on a stretcher and paraded down the street, surrounded by a chanting, euphoric mob? Having set the woman’s body on fire, the mob seemed oblivious to the fact that her limbs, reduced to ashes, were falling off her. And had she not seen photographs of the shah’s ministers in a morgue, naked, like mice in a testing laboratory—an experiment gone bad? And here she is, Farnaz Amin, on her way to the country’s most renowned prison, looking for her husband. Her visit to the previous prison had not terrified her as much, perhaps because its location in the city center made it seem less remote, making the events taking place inside it less forbidding.
    â€œYou’re sure you’re going the right way, khanoum-Amin?” Habibeh says. She adjusts the black fabric of her chador to better cover her head.
    â€œI’m following the map. Do you feel it’s the wrong way?”
    â€œWhat do I know, khanoum?” She rolls down the window, sticks out her head, and takes a deep breath. “I don’t feel so good.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Habibeh? Shall I stop the car?”
    â€œNo, no. Don’t stop on my account.”
    â€œMaybe I should have come by myself.”
    â€œNo, khanoum, no! I wanted to come. I drank too many teas this morning, that’s all. Five cups, I think. My heart is racing.”
    The sprawling gray buildings emerge as the car makes its way to the top of the mountain. Gravel shifts under the wheels, stones hitting the sides of the car from time to time. She parks outside the metal gates. Her hands quiver as she pulls the hand break and adjusts her scarf. “You’re sure you want to come in with me?”
    â€œI’m sure, khanoum.”
    â€œAll right. Just remember, if they ask you questions, say the minimum necessary. Don’t elaborate.”
    â€œYes, khanoum. You told me already.”
    She wonders if bringing Habibeh was a wise decision. This morning, as she got dressed, her stomach churned as she pictured herself walking inside the prison, the gates slamming shut behind her. Bending over to tie her shoelaces, her undigested breakfast moved up from her stomach to her throat, and before she could get herself to the bathroom, she was vomiting on the carpet. Habibeh had rushed in, helped her to the bathroom, and cleaned her face swiftly and with urgency—as if this were a sight she could not tolerate. Farnaz had surrendered to Habibeh’s towel, and to the brisk hand that poured water over her face—the palms, callused from decades spent washing linen and holding whisk brooms—rough and unpleasant against her skin. Habibehthen kneeled on the carpet and wiped away the yellow-brown stain. “Shall I come with you today, khanoum?” she had said, without looking up, and Farnaz, still bent over