Free The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer Page B

on a poem by Verlaine. She was familiar with this song, as it was among those she had practiced as a young girl and which she had hummed, outside of her voice class, while preparing her father’s breakfast in the morning or brushing her hair at night, wondering what was the point of having a beautiful voice if one was not allowed to share it. “Il pleure dans mon coeur,” she began as Vartan played. “Comme il pleut sur la ville; Quelle est cette langueur Qui pénètre mon coeur?” Their performance was such a success that it soon became a ritual, and each time, upon seeing her, Vartan would hold her hand in his and say, “So how is my cantatrice?” With his long,agile fingers enveloping her own, she would feel an excitement she had not felt since she had first met Isaac in Shiraz, when he would recite poetry to her and enchant her with his growing knowledge of gemstones, making her believe that theirs would be a sparkling life of ghazals and jewels. But as the years had passed the poetry had left their lives, and the stones themselves had been ground into oval cuts or marquise cuts, stars or cabochons, turning her husband into the kind of man who could offer her the rarest luxuries, but little else, and herself into the kind of woman who had come to accept these terms.
    A guard wearing a black mask arrives, a file tucked under his arm. As he removes the pianist’s blindfold, Farnaz notices that a finger on the guard’s right hand is missing. “Brother Sofoyan?” he says. “Follow me.” Vartan rubs his eyes and blinks repeatedly. Seeing Farnaz, he nearly says something, but doesn’t.
    Another man in a black mask drags Farnaz through a dark, narrow corridor, and shoves her inside a windowless room, not much larger than a closet.
    â€œDo you know that man? Vartan Sofoyan?”
    â€œNo. I’m here to find my husband.”
    â€œSofoyan was a friend of the royal family. He played for them on many occasions.”
    â€œBrother, I really would like to find out where my husband is.”
    â€œYou know what will happen to him, to this dandy of a pianist? He’ll hear his own recordings at his funeral!”
    The locked room is lit only by a bulb dangling fromthe ceiling. Anything could happen here, anything at all—and who would know about it? How many rooms, like this one, exist inside this prison, this city, this country? Is Isaac in a room like this, maybe just a few steps away from her? She thinks of Vartan, of the years he had spent training in Vienna, of the compositions he hoped to write. What had been the point of it all, if his days are to end here? Is this where it would be written, his magnum opus— Requiem for Vartan Sofoyan ?
    The man opens a file. “You were once a journalist, isn’t that correct, Sister?”
    If they have a file on her, then most likely Isaac is here. Realizing that he is in this prison is like receiving news of a terminal illness: the waiting is over. “Oh, I wouldn’t call myself that,” she says. “I wrote once in a while.”
    â€œA dabbler, then?”
    â€œI suppose.”
    â€œOnly those who can afford to be dabblers dabble. Those who have to work, work.”
    â€œI could afford it thanks to my husband, who worked very hard.”
    â€œYes,” the guard smiles. “Worked very hard at amassing his fortune.”
    â€œBrother, the money did not fall from the sky. He earned it!”
    â€œDon’t talk to me that way!” He steps closer to her. “I could finish you off right here, do you understand me? Tell me about these articles you wrote.”
    Was coming here a big mistake? If they imprison her,what would happen to Shirin? “Brother, they were light pieces,” she says, trying to control the tremor in her voice. “Nothing worth mentioning.”
    â€œI’m feeling light this morning. Indulge me.”
    She had written travel