The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons

pained, sympathizing expression. “Ah, Farnaz khanom,” he sighed, “how I wish I could help you! To say, I would gladly give this pitiful little piece for, oh, say …” His hands circled in the air as he calculated. “… a mere 92 rials . But, alas! The villains in Isfahan who shipped this pathetic rag to me charged me murderously! If I don’t get the 100 rials for it, I’ll barely make my money back, much less afford the extortion which passes as rent for this unworthy hovel they call a shop.” He shrugged helplessly and pulled a string of worry beads out of his pocket.
    A few moments later, as Reuben knew she would, the woman gave an exasperated little grunt. “Well,” she huffed, “if my husband were alive, I’d certainly never stand for this. And that lazy oldest son of mine doesn’t give me the help he should.”
    “Children are a blessing from God,” Reuben agreed, “but they can also be a trial from the Devil.”
    “I should say!” she stated with a firm nod. “That, and with all the trouble in the streets these days—”
    “Difficult times for all the faithful, to be sure,” Reuben murmured.
    “Well, at any rate. I just can’t pay 100 rials for this rug. The most I could pay would be …”
    Reuben waited patiently, eyes downcast, unmoving.
    “Eighty-five.”
    “Ninety,” he countered, quietly.
    “Eighty-seven.”
    “Done.” He rolled up the carpet and handed it to the woman, while she fished about in her tattered handbag for the currency.
    “There. Eighty-seven. But I still think it’s too much.”
    “Farnaz khanom , your keen perception is matched only by your deep generosity to a poor merchant,” he said in a voice that oozed gratitude. “May this small rug bring you much comfort and happiness.”
    “Yes, well … good day to you, Aga Ibrahim.”
    “And to you.” He bowed deeply as she left.
    He counted the notes again as she walked away down the covered bazaar. Eight-seven. Not wonderful, but not bad. And Farnaz khanom was, after all, a regular customer. At least ten times, over the last few years, they had reenacted the little pantomime just concluded. Reuben allowed her to work him down a few rials each time, listening patiently to all her complaints about her sons, their wives, and difficulties faced by a widow during these days, and whatever else happened to be on her mind at the moment. Reuben had noticed that all political or economic circumstances seemed to weigh especially heavily on widows, at least according to Farnaz khanom . He noted with some amusement that Khomeini was already the object of many of the same complaints she used to lay at the door of the Shah.
    He had just placed the money in his strongbox when he heard footsteps entering his stall. “Greetings, friends! And how may I help you—”
    Turning around, he was shocked to see three armed pasdars standing in his doorway. He forced a smile back onto his face and finished his sentence. “How may I help you today?”
    “You are Reuben Ibrahim, Jewish rug dealer?” one of them grunted.
    He cocked his head quizzically, “Is that one question, or two, friend?” he chuckled. “Do you wish to know whether I am Jewish, or whether I am a rug dealer? As to the first; yes, I am Jewish by birth. As to the second, well …” He gestured about the market stall.
    “We didn’t come here to pass the time of day, Jew,” another pasdar grated. “Come with us quietly, or you’ll have worse trouble than you already have.”
    Reuben felt his face going stiff. “Trouble?” he quavered, striving to keep the confused smile on his lips. “Surely there is some mistake? My selling permit is in order, and I can show receipts for every rug in the—”
    “Shut up!” shouted the first pasdar . “You are accused of being an enemy of the Imam Khomeini and the holy revolution! You’re coming with us immediately!” He laid a hand menacingly on the holstered pistol he wore on his hip.
    “Very well, very well,”