two men jumped on him from behind and pinned him to the floor. A hand pressed over his mouth. When his hands and feet were tied and his lower jaw was on the brink of detaching from his face, they turned him around.
Three men in coats stood above him. He was sure they were SAVAK agents who had finally tracked him down. He wanted to shout, swear to God that he had written only three or four prayers in all those years, but they had stuffed his mouth with cloth. One of the men, who seemed to be the boss, knelt down and looked him in the red face. His eyes were calm and determined. At his gesture, the other two got to work. They brought two small stacks of books from around the apartment and put them down close together on the floor. They untied Haji’s hands and stretched his right arm across the two stacks, his elbow resting on one, his wrist on the other. Haji thrashed and yelled against the rag in his mouth, but one man sat on his chest and held his free arm. Haji threw his legs back and forth. His shrill cries did not pass through the rag and spit that stuck to his tongue. The boss knelt down by Haji’s extended arm and placed his closed fist in the middle of the forearm that bridged the gap between the two stacks of books. Haji’s wrist and elbow were held in place by the other man. The fist came down like a sledgehammer. The sound of snapping bones was audible, louder than any of them expected. Before he got to his feet, the man pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and gently put it in Haji’s hand, lying limp on the stack of books. They left the apartment without saying a word. If it were not for the prayer they left in his hand, Haji could never have known what had brought the punishment. And he had to move on again.
* * *
—
TWO WEEKS PASSED AND AHMAD had not spoken. Homa asked if he was saying the prayer every morning as it had been prescribed. Ahmad looked her straight in the eye and wrote that he could not change himself beyond recognition. He had to remain who he was. He wrote with such determination that something crumbled in Homa’s heart.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked. Ahmad nodded then held her hand in his and mouthed, Thank you my dear. The next day, Homa went to Haji’s apartment and rang the bell, but no one answered. She slipped in a note under the door. I want another prayer. Call me. I’ll pay for it. There had to be something she could say without Ahmad realizing it, just like the prayer that had worked on Leyla. Her searches for Haji began again.
It was during this time that Ahmad had to begin writing his poetry on trays. Midway through a particularly bright poem, the paper turned yellow and then brown; it could not stand the heat. Ahmad got up and tore a cardboard box into pieces, but cardboard, too, turned too brown and brittle. He paced his room, worried he might lose his inspiration. From the dish rack he took the tea tray and hastily rummaged in his toolbox for a long nail. Back at his desk, he etched his poem in the tray, scratching each letter with repeating back and forth movements. Once finished, Ahmad could barely hold the hot tray in his hands. In the evening, when all the family was home, Ahmad showed them the new poem. Lalah turned the lights off and, holding the edges of the tray with two folded rags, shone the beam of light that came out of the tray around on the walls and ceiling and into her sister’s face. In turn, Leyla placed the tray on the rags on the floor and showed Lalah how to make shapes on the ceiling with the shadows of her hands.
Homa liked the poem so much that she became certain she would continue looking for Haji until she found him. She searched for months with no success. She despaired. She told herself that success comes to those who persevere, and persevere she did until the morning she got dressed, but did not know anymore why she was doing it. Let’s just put on my shoes, she told herself, but she stood at the door