He stood at the edge and looked down into the valley. Burning remains of the cars were spread over the mountainside down six or seven hundred feet, no possibility of survivors, and no chance to get down there without serious climbing gear. When he came back to the car he shook his head unhappily.
“Insha’Allah, my darling,” Azadeh said calmly. “It was the Will of God.”
“No, it wasn’t, it was blatant stupidity.”
“Of course you’re right, Beloved, it certainly was blatant stupidity,” she said at once in her most calming voice, seeing his anger though not understanding it as she did not understand much that went on in the head of this strange man who was her husband. “You’re perfectly right, Erikki. It was blatant stupidity but the Will of God that those drivers’ stupidity caused their deaths and the deaths of those who traveled with them. It was the Will of God or the road would have been clear. You were quite right.”
“Was I?” he said wearily.
“Oh, yes, of course, Erikki. You were perfectly right.”
They went on. The villages that lay beside the road or straddled it were poor or very poor with narrow dirt streets, crude huts and houses, high walls, a few drab mosques, street stores, goats and sheep and chickens, and flies not yet the plague they would become in summer. Always refuse in the streets and in the joub—the ditches—and the inevitable scavenging packs of scabrous despised dogs that frequently were rabid. But snow made the landscape and the mountains picturesque, and the day continued to be good though cold with blue skies and cumulus building.
Inside the Range Rover it was warm and comfortable. Azadeh wore padded, modern ski gear and a cashmere sweater underneath, matching blue, and short boots. Now she took off her jacket and her neat woolen ski cap, and her full-flowing, naturally wavy dark hair fell to her shoulders. Near noon they stopped for a picnic lunch beside a mountain stream. In the early afternoon they drove through orchards of apple, pear, and cherry trees, now bleak and leafless and naked in the landscape, then came to the outskirts of Qazvin, a town of perhaps 150,000 inhabitants and many mosques.
“How many mosques are there in all Iran, Azadeh?” he asked.
“Once I was told twenty thousand,” she answered sleepily, opening her eyes and peering ahead. “Ah, Qazvin! You’ve made good time, Erikki.” A yawn swamped her and she settled more comfortably and went back into half sleep. “There’re twenty thousand mosques and fifty thousand mullahs, so they say. At this rate we’ll be in Tehran in a couple of hours…”
He smiled as her words petered out. He was feeling more secure now, glad that the back of the journey had been broken. The other side of Qazvin the road was good all the way to Tehran. In Tehran, Abdollah Khan owned many houses and apartments, most of them rented to foreigners. A few he kept for himself and his family, and he had said to Erikki that, this time, because of the troubles, they could stay in an apartment not far from McIver.
“Thanks, thanks very much,” Erikki had said and later Azadeh had said, “I wonder why he was so kind. It’s…it’s not like him. He hates you and hates me whatever I try to do to please him.”
“He doesn’t hate you, Azadeh.”
“I apologize for disagreeing with you, but he does. I tell you again, my darling, it was my eldest sister, Najoud, who really poisoned him against me, and against my brother. She and her rotten husband. Don’t forget my mother was Father’s second wife and almost half Najoud’s mother’s age and twice as pretty and though my mother died when I was seven, Najoud still keeps up the poison—of course not to our face, she’s much more clever than that. Erikki, you can never know how subtle and secretive and powerful Iranian ladies can be, or how vengeful behind their oh so sweet exterior. Najoud’s worse than the snake in the Garden of Eden! She’s the cause of all the enmity.” Her lovely blue-green eyes filled with tears. “When I was little, my father truly loved us, my brother Hakim and me, and we were his favorites. He spent more time with us in our house than in the palace. Then, when Mother died, we went to live in the palace but none of my half brothers and sisters really liked us. When we went into the palace, everything changed, Erikki. It was Najoud.”
“Azadeh, you tear yourself apart with this hatred—you suffer, not her. Forget her. She’s got no power over you now and I tell you again: you’ve no proof.”
“I don’t need proof. I know. And I’ll never forget.”
Erikki had left it there. There was no point in arguing, no point in rehashing what had been the source of much violence and many tears. Better it’s in the open than buried, better to let her rave from time to time.
Ahead now the road left the fields and entered Qazvin, a city like most every other Iranian city, noisy, cramped, dirty, polluted, and traffic-jammed. Beside the road were the joub that skirted most roads in Iran. Here the ditches were three feet deep, in parts concreted, with slush and ice and a little water trickling down them. Trees grew out of them, townsfolk washed their clothes in them, sometimes used them as a source of drinking water, or as a sewer. Beyond the ditches the walls began. Walls that hid houses or gardens, big or small, rich or eyesores. Usually the town and city houses were two floors, drab and boxlike, some brick, adobe, some plastered, and almost all of them hidden. Most had dirt floors, a few had running water, electricity, and some sanitation.
Traffic built up with startling suddenness. Bicycles, motorcycles, buses, trucks, cars of all sizes and makes and ages from ancient to very old, almost all dented and patched, some highly decorated with different-colored paints and small lights to suit the owners’ fancy. Erikki had driven this way many times over the last few years and he knew the bottlenecks that could happen. But there was no other way, no detour around the city though one had been planned for years. He smiled scornfully, trying to shut his ears to the noise, and thought, There’ll never be a detour, the Qazvinis couldn’t stand the quiet. Qazvinis and Rashtians—people from Rasht on the Caspian—were the butts of many Iranian jokes.
He skirted a burned-out wreck, then put in a cassette of Beethoven and turned the volume up to soothe the noise away. But it didn’t help much.
“This traffic’s worse than usual! Where are the police?” Azadeh said, wide awake now. “Are you thirsty?”
“No, no thanks.” He glanced across at her, the sweater and tumbling hair enhancing her. He grinned. “But I’m hungry—hungry for you!”
She laughed and took his arm. “I’m not hungry—just ravenous!”
“Good.” They were content together.
As usual the road surface was bad. Here and there it was torn up—partially because of wear, partially because of never-ending repairs and road works though these rarely were signposted or had safety barriers. He skirted a deep hole then eased past another wreck that had been shoved carelessly into the side. As he did so a crumpled truck came from the other direction, its horn blaring angrily. It was brightly decorated, the fenders tied up with wire, the cab open and glassless, a piece of cloth the tank cap. On the flatbed was brushwood, piled high, with three passengers hanging on precariously. The driver was huddled up and wrapped in a ragged sheepskin coat. Two other men were beside him. As Erikki passed he was surprised to see them glaring at him. A few yards farther on a battered, overladen bus lumbered toward him. With great care he went closer to the joub, hugging the side to give the bus room, his wheels on the rim, and stopped. Again he saw the driver and all the passengers stare at him as they passed, women in their chadors, young men, bearded and clothed heavily against the cold. One of them shook his fist at him. Another shouted a curse.
We’ve never had any trouble before, Erikki thought uneasily. Everywhere he looked were the same angry glances. From the street and from the vehicles. He had to go very slowly because of the swarms of rogue motorcycles, bicycles, among the cars, buses, and trucks, in single lanes that fought for space—obedient to no traffic laws other than those which pleased the individual—and now a flock of sheep poured out of a side street to clutter the road, the motorists screamin
g abuse at the herdsmen, the herdsmen screaming abuse back and everyone angry and impatient, horns blaring.
“Damned traffic! Stupid sheep!” Azadeh said impatiently, wide awake now. “Sound your horn, Erikki!”
“Be patient, go back to sleep. There’s no way I can overtake anyone,” he shouted over the tumult, conscious of the unfriendliness that surrounded them. “Be patient!”
Another three hundred yards took half an hour, other traffic coming from both sides to join the stream that got slower and slower. Street vendors and pedestrians and refuse. Now he was inching along behind a bus that took up most of the roadway, almost scraping cars on the other side, most times with one wheel half over the lip of the joub. Motorcyclists shoved past carelessly, banging the sides of the Range Rover and other vehicles, cursing each other and everyone else, pushing and kicking the sheep out of the way, stampeding them. From behind, a small car nudged him, then the driver jammed his hand on his horn in a paroxysm of rage that sent a sudden shaft of anger into Erikki’s head. Close your ears, he ordered himself. Be calm! There’s nothing you can do! Be calm!
But he found it increasingly difficult. After half an hour the sheep turned off into an alley, and traffic picked up a little. Then around the next corner the whole roadway was dug up and an unmarked ten-foot ditch—some six feet deep and half-filled with water—barred the way. A group of insolent workmen squatted nearby, hurling back abuse. And obscene gestures.
It was impossible to go forward or back, so all traffic had to detour into a narrow side street, the bus ahead not making the turn, having to stop and reverse to more screams of rage and more tumult and when Erikki backed to give it room, a battered blue car behind him swerved around him on the opposite side of the road into the small opening ahead and forced the oncoming car to brake suddenly and skid. One of its wheels sank into the joub and the whole car tipped dangerously. Now traffic was totally snarled.
Enraged, Erikki put on his brake, tore his door open, and went over to the car in the ditch and used his great strength to drag it back on the road. No one else helped, just swore and added to the uproar. Then he strode for the blue car. At that moment the bus made the corner and now there was room to move, the driver of the blue car let in his clutch and roared off with an obscene gesture.
With an effort Erikki unclenched his fists. Traffic on both sides of the road was honking at him. He got into the driver’s seat and let in the clutch.
“Here,” Azadeh said uneasily. She gave him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks.” He drank it, driving with one hand, the traffic slowing again. The blue car had vanished. When he could talk calmly, he said, “If I’d got my hands on him or his car I’d have torn it and him to pieces.”
“Yes. Yes, I know. Erikki, have you noticed how hostile everyone is to us? So angry?”
“Yes, yes, I have.”
“But why? We’ve driven though Qazvin twenty tim—” Azadeh ducked involuntarily as refuse suddenly hit her window, then lurched across into his protection, frightened. He cursed and rolled up the windows, then reached across her and locked her door. Dung hit the windshield.
“What the hell’s up with these matyeryebyets?” he muttered. “It’s as though we’ve an American flag flying and we’re waving pictures of the Shah.” A stone came out of nowhere and ricocheted off the metal sides. Then, ahead, the bus broke out of the narrow side-street diversion into the wide square in front of a mosque where there were market stalls and two lanes of traffic on either side. To Erikki’s relief they picked up some speed. The traffic was still heavy but it was moving and he got into second, heading for the Tehran exit the far side of the square. Halfway around the square the two lanes began to tighten as more vehicles joined those heading for the Tehran road.
“It’s never been this bad,” he muttered. “What the hell’s the holdup for?”
“It must be another accident,” Azadeh said, very unsettled. “Or road works. Should we turn back—the traffic’s not so bad that way?”
“We’ve plenty of time,” he said, encouraging her. “We’ll be out of here in a minute. Once through the town we’ll be fine.” Ahead everything was slowing again, the din picking up. The two lanes were clogging, gradually becoming one again with much hooting, swearing, stopping, starting again and grinding along at about ten miles an hour, street stores and pushcarts encroaching the roadway and straddling the joub. They were almost at the exit when some youths ran alongside, began shouting insults, some foul. One of the youths banged on his side window. “American dog…”
“Pig Amer’can…”
These men were joined by others and some women in chador, fists raised. Erikki was bottled in and could not get out of the traffic or speed up or slow down nor could be turn around and he felt rage growing at his helplessness. Some of the men were banging on the hood and sides of the Range Rover and on his window. Now there was a pack of them and those on Azadeh’s side were taunting her, making obscene gestures, trying to open the door. One of the youths jumped on the hood but slipped and fell off and just managed to scramble out of the way before Erikki drove over him.
The bus ahead stopped. Immediately there was a frantic melee as would-be passengers fought to get on and others fought to get off. Then Erikki saw an opening, stamped on the accelerator throwing off another man, got around the bus, just missing pedestrians who carelessly flooded through the traffic, and swung into a side street that miraculously was clear, raced up it and cut into another, narrowly avoided a mass of motorcyclists, and continued on again. Soon he was quite lost, for there was no pattern to the city or town except refuse and stray dogs and traffic, but he took his bearings from the sun’s shadows and at length came out onto a wider road, shoved his way into the traffic and around it, and soon came onto a road that he recognized, one that took him into another square in front of another mosque and then back on the Tehran road. “We’re all right now, Azadeh, they were just hooligans.”
“Yes,” she said shakily. “They should be whipped.”
Erikki had been studying the crowds near the mosque and on the streets and in the vehicles, trying to find a clue to the untoward hostility. Something’s different, he thought. What is it? Then his stomach twisted. “I haven’t seen a soldier or an army truck ever since we left Tabriz—none. Have you?”
“No—no, not now that you mention it.”
“Something’s happened, something serious.”
“War? The Soviets have come over the border?” Her face lost even more color.
“I doubt it—there’d be troops going north, or planes.” He looked at her. “Never mind,” he said, more to convince himself, “we’re going to have a fine time in Tehran, Sharazad’s there and lots of your friends. It’s about time you had a change. Maybe I’ll take the leave I’m owed—we could go to Finland for a week or two…”
They were out of the downtown area and into the suburbs now. The suburbs were ramshackled, with the same walls and houses and the same potholes. Here the Tehran road widened to four lanes, two each side, and though traffic was still heavy and slow, barely fifteen miles an hour, he was not concerned. A little way ahead, the Abadan-Kermanshah road branched off southwest, and he knew that this would bleed off a lot of the congestion. Automatically his eyes scanned the gauges as he would his cockpit instruments and, not for the first time, he wished he was airborne, over and out of all this mess. The gas gauge registered under a quarter full. Soon he would have to refuel but that would be no problem with plenty of spare fuel aboard.
They slowed to ease past another truck parked with careless arrogance near some street vendors, the air heavy with the smell of diesel. Then more refuse came out of nowhere to splatter their windshield. “Perhaps we should turn around, Erikki, and go back to Tabriz. Perhaps we could skirt Qazvin.”
“No,” he said, finding it eerie to hear fear in her voice—normally she was fearless. “No,” he repeated even more kindly. “We’ll go to Tehran and find out what the problem is, then we’ll dec
ide.”
She moved closer to him and put a hand on his knee. “Those hooligans frightened me, God curse them,” she muttered, her other fingers toying nervously with the turquoise beads she wore around her neck. Most Iranian women wore turquoise or blue beads, or a single blue stone against the evil eye. “Those sons of dogs! Why should they be like that? Devils. May God curse them forever!” Just outside the city was a big army training camp and an adjoining air base. “Why aren’t soldiers here?”
“I’d like to know too,” he said.
The Abadan-Kermanshah turnoff came up on his right. Much of the traffic headed down it. Barbed-wire fences skirted both roads—as on most of the main roads and highways in Iran. The fences were needed to keep sheep and goats and cattle and dogs—and people—from straying across the roads. Accidents were very frequent and mortality high.
But that’s normal for Iran, Erikki thought. Like those poor fools who went over the side in the mountains—no one to know, no one to report them or even to bury them. Except the buzzards and the wild animals and packs of rotten dogs.
With the city behind them, they felt better. The country opened up again, orchards once more beyond the joub and the barbed wire. The Elburz Mountains north and undulating country south. But instead of speeding up, his two lanes slowed even more and congested, then reluctantly became one again, with more jostling, hooting, and rage. Wearily he cursed the inevitable roadworks that must be causing the bottleneck, shifted down, his hands and feet working smoothly of their own volition, hardly noticing the stopping and starting, stopping and starting, inching along again, engines grinding and overheating, noise and frustration building in every vehicle. Abruptly Azadeh pointed ahead. “Look!”