Mr. Zia. She watched Ahmad listen carefully to the man before knocking on the receiver with his fingernail: one knock for yes, two for no. The more complex codes, the combinations of knocks and silences, she had not been able to decipher. Nor had she made a great effort to do so. After the phone call, like always, Ahmad went to his room and wrote a note to Mr. Zia.
As the elections drew closer, Ahmad worked on his speeches until well after the girls were asleep in their beds. He held up the first draft and read it with proper gesticulation and facial expressions. He scrapped the draft and wrote anew until he had a satisfying version. In a matter of a few weeks, Ahmad had reached such a harmony with Hushem that even his presence right beside the podium or stage or stool attracted little attention. Some would notice the scrawny man with the sun-baked skin who opened and closed his mouth in concert with Ahmad’s like a fish out of water. They would point him out to one another, but after a few moments, eyes would drift back to the candidate. No one directed their cheerful applause to Hushem and no one shook hands with him after the speech.
Two months before the elections, the New Iran Party proposed a coalition. They were not as right-wing as most of the parliament, but kept themselves somewhere near the center. “Conservative sycophants!” Ahmad’s voice thundered in the rose garden through Hushem. The two had attained such unity of thought and movement that Hushem could anticipate Ahmad’s words by looking at the back of his head. “And Great Zia said no, right?”
Mr. Zia patted his white roses on the side. “They’ll have more seats than us anyhow, if we get any that is.”
“So you’re in this for the seats,” Hushem’s voice said.
Mr. Zia looked at Ahmad and smiled. “There’s nothing in there but seats,” he said. “What are you in this for?”
“A strong parliament is a must if anything’s to change. And strong means at least a few who are not just puppets.”
Mr. Zia turned around and dismissed Hushem. After he heard the metal gates of the garden bang closed behind the villager, he turned to Ahmad. “New Iran is a party. You may not like them, but this is as far away from yes-man as you can get without getting your ass kicked out of the seat. Great Zia is going to give them only one name: it’s down to you and the other two. I need an answer now: Are you in or out? You’re young, you’re a poet, and you have your alluring silence; people like you. Great Zia knows that. And he’s willing to throw all his weight behind you, but you’re going to have to work both with him and the New Iran. If this is not acceptable, we’ll shake hands right now and part ways. But if you still want to do this, the party is next Thursday.”
As Mr. Zia said those words, Ahmad looked into his brown eyes behind his round glasses and thought he was a good, honest man. But Ahmad doubted his uncle. That day, he decided that while he could not count on Great Zia, he would use the old fox’s power to get to where he wanted to be.
* * *
—
THE ANNOUNCEMENT CAME THE FOLLOWING Thursday in the rose garden. Seventy men from the New Iran Party sat around large tables as maids came out of the kitchen carrying heavy trays laden with cups of hot tea and glasses of sweet rose water drinks with ice. The Great Zia greeted the notable guests and then the food came out. Plates of stews and platters of rice were arranged like petals around broiled lamb at the center of tables. Bowls of yogurt, pickled garlic, and herbs were set within everyone’s reach. Big chunks of ice floated in jars of water. A layer of crushed dried mint had formed on top of the yogurt drinks. Hushem had changed into a blue suit and a pistachio tie. Sitting beside Ahmad, he was careful to speak when, and only when, Ahmad opened his mouth. He took small bites and devoured hastily in anticipation.
In response to the few questions he was asked at the table, Hushem shook or nodded his head or shrugged his shoulders. Night had set in and the smell from the roses wafted through the windows into the laughter and clinks of spoons