The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Read Free Book Online Page A

sullenly. He felt relieved when she was gone; right now, he didn’t want anyone near him. No one else understands anyway, he thought, grimacing as he shifted the ice pack to a tender place on his cheekbone.

    Reuben Ibrahim had barely finished securing his rugs for the night. He was just replacing the padlock on his storage closet when a shadow fell across the threshold of his market stall.
    “Oh, hello, Hosseini,” he said, looking over his shoulder as the lock clicked into place. “I didn’t hear you coming. I trust your day was profitable?”
    “Not as much so as it might have been,” muttered the other man. “But I noticed your trade was respectable, if not brisk.”
    Reuben tried not to notice the resentment in the other man’s tone. “Well, God be praised, yes, it wasn’t bad. I sold a number of rugs today, mostly of the smaller sizes. Perhaps, with all the difficulties, the faithful are spending more time on their prayer mats, eh?” He smiled and shrugged.
    Hosseini wasn’t smiling. He regarded Reuben with a strange, evaluating expression. “These are days when more prayer would not be amiss,” he said finally. “In these times, the name of Allah would do well to be on every man’s tongue.”
    Reuben felt his smile wilting. “Of course, my friend,” he said, nervously shifting his vision from Hosseini to the briefcase containing the day’s receipts. He closed and latched it with more care than he usually felt necessary. “I had no intention of making light of—”
    “Of course not,” Hosseini remarked in a more normal tone. “You were merely being your usual humorous self. Now, when are you going to sell me this excellent space?”
    Reuben gave a mock grimace and held his head in his hands. “Again, Hosseini! Twice you have put me on the spot!” He picked up the briefcase, walked to the entrance and squeezed Hosseini’s shoulder good-naturedly. “And if I sell it to you, my friend, what excuse would you then have to come and talk? I’m afraid I’d grow lonely during the days without your visits.”
    Hosseini gave him a grudging smile as the two men walked together toward the bus stop.

    Ameer Nijat pressed the electric button in the brick wall by the gate. As he waited, he looked about him in the gathering twilight. Nice area, he thought. The fellow who lives in such a place has obviously done well for himself. Nijat blew into his cold hands as he studied the immaculate grounds of the man with whom he was about to negotiate. He wondered if Solaiman would be difficult to deal with. His son had now learned all he could from the druggist he was apprenticed to, and he would certainly not get wealthy working for the penurious old scoundrel. The boy needed to try his wings, and the sooner the better. Nijat only hoped that all the money he had poured into the boy’s education could someday bear as much fruit as Solaiman’s efforts apparently had.
    The front door opened and a slender, middle-aged man walked down the brick walk toward him. With the practiced eye of an experienced trader, Nijat began sizing him up.
    He was clean-shaven in the Western style, wearing only a neatly trimmed moustache. He had the dapper air of one accustomed to the finer things. As he walked, he studied the ground in front of him, as if to avoid any potholes that had arrived since the last time he trod this way. Careful—that was the main impression Nijat had of the well-manicured man who opened the gate and invited him inside with a genteel bow and spoke in a low, cultured voice, “ Aga Nijat, I am Ezra Solaiman.”
    Nijat returned the bow. “And I am your servant, Ameer Nijat.” The two men straightened and briefly observed each other, while shaking hands.
    Worry. Nijat saw worry unmistakably etched in the creases at the corners of Solaiman’s eyes. Then his host turned away, beckoning Nijat toward the house. “Please, Aga Nijat. My wife has fresh tea brewing, and some dried figs and almonds. Come in and make