‘No,’ screamed Saleh, ‘these people wish to abolish the tyranny of the individual and establish a communal society. They want to re-establish the Islamic Caliphate and the precepts of the prophets.’
Haidar was absolutely terrified, for he never had any faith in the people. Something in them inspired fear in his heart and made him tremble. He was scared of the mob and tried to keep as far away from them as possible. He had very little confidence in angry popular fervour. Perhaps the Farhoud was the reason, when he’d seen the same ecstasy in the eyes of the mob, the ecstasy of sacrificial offerings, which turned individuals into a herd in a state of exhilaration. The mob’s anger would break out at the slightest provocation and was impossible to control. He feared all impassioned appeals to the emotions.
The passion of the mob spiralled higher without end, as was to happen later with Saddam. Extreme agitation seized people’s minds and hearts and drove them to rush forward. When Saddam climbed the podium, the masses beneath ran like maniacs. The same thing was happening in Iran. Like Saddam, Khomeini depended on manipulating the masses with his personal charisma. The people, the public, the crowd went out in a state of agitation, shouting so hard they became senseless.
Poverty, deprivation and loss were responsible for creating charismatic leaders. Those leaders exercised their authority and hegemony in order to compensate for their own sense of inferiority and their absolute spiritual vacuum.
‘Do you think that Khomeini has declared the revolution against the Shah?’ asked Tahira.
The small sitting room looked out onto the garden. The windows were open and the sunbeams cast their golden rays inside the house while the birds sang outside. Tahira poured more tea into Haidar’s cup as she sat in front of him with her oval face, still sparkling eyes and tender lips. She had a beautifully aristocratic expression.
He realized that the country was in a perpetual state of mass turmoil, especially after announcements in the press that Khomeini had left his exile in Neauphle-le-Château, twenty miles west of Paris. He read the papers almost every day and stayed from morning till evening in a state of constant apprehension. He walked along Al-Rashid Street, thinking of the demonstrations that marched out of Tabriz’s mosques and which the security forces were unable to control. Haidar walked past the statute of Al-Rusafi as if unconscious. One image dominated his mind. It was the image of Bloody Friday, when four thousand people lay dead on the ground. His ears tried to pick up the news, for the Tabriz riots had just broken out, which led pro-Shah Iranian officials try to find a solution to the problem. Then the media embarked on a self-critical evaluation of government institutions and the activities of the ruling Rastakhiz Party, with the aim of appeasing the people whose anger extended to Tehran, Qom and Tabriz.
He went home with a heavy heart. He felt that the crazed scene was pressing on his mind. The Shah was sticking to his guns, refusing to acknowledge opposition, whether moderate or extreme. He even described the opposition groups as outlaws and murderers. His categorical refusal was the green light for the opposition to ignore their basic ideological differences and unite against him.
Haidar read in the morning papers that General Nasser Moghadam, the director of the SAVAK, had gone to see the Shah wearing all his medals on his chest and dressed in his pressed military uniform. But the Shah had looked at him haughtily and rejected his proposal for reform. Haidar had heard at a tea shop at Bab al-Moazzam that the great bazaar merchants, almost a quarter of a million shops, had decided to stop working. The sky was clear with just a few white clouds tinged with crimson streaks. Dust rose high into the sky and pollen filled the air. He felt a childish joy that made his heart dance. He stood at the corner of the street, listening to the news of demonstrations everywhere. A man in a black tie told another that demonstrations in Iran had spread to forty cities. When Haidar came closer to the man who was providing this information, he recoiled in fear. When Haidar went home, Tahira was sitting on the sofa, wearing a striped white shawl. Her dark eyes sparkled magnificently like two jewels outlined by kohl. Her complexion showed that even though she was much older, her body hadn’t lost its physical lustre. Nor had her lovely eyes lost their sparkle. She offered him sahoon, the traditional Iranian sweets that Abadi wrote about in his novels. She offered him fresh water out of mosaic and alabaster vessels. Her Iranian maid slept in the shade as though she had materialized out of the books of Gobineau or Chardin a hundred years earlier. He took out the photo album. Tahira had invited him to discover the mysteries of Tehran and its art through a tour of its old museums. She was the one who lured him into horse-drawn carriages to put him in touch with society. For a change, she accompanied him on a visit to Tajrish Bazaar, whose passageways they walked for hours. Then she took him to the wonderful museums and to Marshad Jaafarpour. They climbed Mount Toshal, played backgammon near Al-Ghareeb cave and sat at the celebration of the birthday of Hazrat Fatima. They went to an open-air pool, where Tahira swam in her swimsuit, and then visited the Shahr Park, south of the city. Haidar Salman remembered the Tehran bazaar where Tahira had taken him for the first time. They sat on a bench in the shade of a large tree near the mosque. A Sufi wanderer passed in front of them. There were cypress and sycamore trees. He heard the sound of water falling from a tap. He heard a swallow singing on a huge tree, and beneath it there was a vendor selling a cold ginger drink in copper cups.
The sun was disappearing behind pink clouds and the evening star was hanging in the sky, while at Tehran Airport more than six million people stood to welcome Khomeini. Crowds surrounded the eighty-year-old man as he took a helicopter to resume his journey and flew over the heads of those who thronged to welcome him. The helicopter was like a black insect flying and hovering above the people’s heads. In the morning, the state and the government dissolved before his personality.
On the following day, as Haidar sat in the leather armchair in the hall, he knew that what was happening in Iraq was loaded with significant historical implications. There was a prevalent satirical tone that was full of anger. Saddam’s statements were indirect but pointed ultimately to war. Revolutionary Iran stood in confrontation with revolutionary Iraq. Border discussions and skirmishes were all trumped-up stories that portended doom ahead. The dogs of war were undoubtedly barking, for when war came, it knocked on each and every door.
One month after Saddam had assumed power and executed his old comrades, and one year after Khomeini had taken power in Tehran, Haidar and Tahira went out of their small house on Al-Karradah Street in their red-and-gold Cadillac to visit the Sofer restaurant in Al-Mansour.
Haidar Salman was keeping a piece of bad news from Tahira. Her uncle Saleh had been arrested and, only two days afterwards, executed.
Tahira was ill and nobody wanted to tell her the news.
Haidar and Tahira sat near the door and ate carp cooked in black pepper, with apple tart for dessert. Then they went back home.