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

yourself comfortable.”
    Nijat sat at ease in Solaiman’s study. As he waited for his host to return, he gazed about appreciatively at the dark paneling, the shelves of richly bound books. Indeed, Solaiman had done well. As Nijat took a deep drag on his Turkish cigarette, Solaiman’s wife entered, carrying a tea service for two on a silver tray. Nijat smiled at her. “Thank you, khanom —lady,” he said.
    She nodded in return and left the room without further gesture or word. Nijat shrugged. Somehow he had expected a warmer greeting from the wife of a prospective seller. The woman—and handsome she was too—had seemed put off, somehow. Oh, well. She no doubt knew why he was here; and if not, no matter. His business was with the husband.
    At that moment, Solaiman came into the room, aiming a worried look back toward the stairs he had just descended. Pulling his eyes away at last, he made a show of briskness as he entered the study. “Good, Aga Nijat! I was about to ask you if you cared to smoke, but I see you have already availed yourself, as you should. And Esther has brought the tea. Is there anything you lack?”
    “ Aga Solaiman, forgive me, but you seem preoccupied. Is there a problem upstairs you should attend to?”
    Solaiman’s eyes widened just before he looked away. “No, Aga , not really. My daughter … some trouble at school today. It is nothing,” he said finally, with a hesitancy that belied his words. “Now,” he continued, “what would you like to ask me about my business?”
    With practiced deliberation, Nijat reached for a glass of the dark steaming tea. He placed a sugar lump between his teeth and with elaborate care sipped a swallow of tea through the lump, inhaling the mellow, dusky aroma of the brew. Slowly he set the glass on the table beside the armchair in which he sat. He studied the bookshelves over Solaiman’s left shoulder and asked his first question.
    “Why do you wish to sell your business?”
    A shade too quickly, to Nijat’s ear, Solaiman answered.
    “ Aga Nijat, as you can see by our surroundings, the business has done well for me through the years. I have built up a loyal clientele through conscientious service and fair prices. I have worked hard for quite some time, and Esther and I are at the time of our lives when we begin to think of spending more time enjoying what our toil has earned. I want to retire. That is the long and short of it. I am relatively young and in good health, and I want to spend more time with my family.” Now Solaiman reached for a tea glass and a sugar lump.
    “How long have you been in the pharmacy business?”
    “Since college days, some thirty-odd years now.” His host took a slow sip of tea. “I opened my first shop in a small storefront on Jabir, just of Shahbaz Avenue. Since then my business has grown steadily.”
    “Indeed. And have you always lived in Tehran?”
    “Oh, yes. My family has always been here.”
    “How many regular customers would you estimate patronize your store?”
    Solaiman’s gaze never wavered from Nijat’s own as he set down his tea glass. “Some 300 regulars, and 20 or 30 more who use my services at least once a year.” Clearly, the man was primed with all the pertinent facts and figures.
    Nijat decided to alter the rhythm of the discussion. After taking a long drag on his cigarette and blowing a leisurely stream of smoke at the ceiling, he leaned comfortably back in his chair and asked, “Do you have children, Aga ?”
    “Oh, yes! We have a daughter, as I mentioned, and a son….” Solaiman’s voice seemed to waver for an instant.
    “Does your son live here?” asked Nijat quickly.
    “No,” said Solaiman, after a longish pause. “He lives in America.”
    Nijat nodded sagely. “It is hard to have one’s flesh and blood so far away, Aga ,” he sympathized. Now we come to it, he thought.

    “I tell you, he is planning something!” insisted Firouz, glaring intently at the man seated across from