from the events altogether. “Want their votes?” Mr. Zia said. “Tell them about sacks of potatoes. You know what I mean.” That’s economy, Ahmad wrote. “Politics and economy sleep in the same bed.” With over half a year until the elections, the rehearsing began. The dinner with Mr. Zia’s uncle and a group of merchants from the Tehran Bazaar was boisterous and interspersed with laughter. Lamb and chicken kebab were served. Haj Mohammad, who had the monopoly of hydrogenated oil, questioned the likelihood of a rookie getting in. “We’ll work on it,” the uncle replied. “You enjoy the thigh.” Not convinced, the merchant turned to Ahmad. “Tell me, why should I spend my money on you?” Ahmad took his pen and wrote on the merchant’s hand: Because you don’t want to regret missing your opportunity to help a future member of the parliament.
Great Zia leaned over, looked at the merchant’s palm, and let out a hearty laugh. “Convincing, ain’t he?”
When the next weekend Ahmad and Mr. Zia stepped out onto the veranda to talk in the garden, a man in threadbare clothes was standing uncomfortably at the beginning of the path into the rose patches. His long face had borne innumerable lashes of sunshine and his worn shoes were caked with mud.
“Look who’s finally here,” Mr. Zia said with a smile. “Say hi to your voice, Ahmad.”
In response to Ahmad’s questioning look, Mr. Zia threw an arm around his shoulders and called out to the man, “Say something, Hushem.”
With nervous uncertainty, the man answered, “What should I say, sir?”
The words came out of his mouth so sonorous and strong that the yellowing leaves trembled and fell from the trees above their heads. A dog started to bark in the distance.
“What do you say to that?” Mr. Zia squeezed Ahmad’s shoulder. “Have we done well or not?”
* * *
—
MAN WITHOUT VOICE
WILL SPEAK FOR THE PEOPLE
Pooran saw Ahmad’s picture in an open newspaper in Khan’s room. A small picture for a small politician. She took the newspaper from the desk and clipped the picture out with scissors. Sitting straight in a suit, the knot of his tie tight and neat, his hair slicked back, and his head turned to look at the reader, her black-and-white Ahmad was now a big man. “Thursday, 6:00 p.m., Danesh Sports Club,” said the text in the newspaper under the empty rectangle.
After lunch on Thursday, Pooran got ready, threw her chador on her head, and took the bus. In a small arena with high, narrow windows and a few rows of concrete platforms for seats, chairs had been arranged to face a low stage. More than half of the seats were taken and a noisy traffic of organizers and guests—men clad in pants and suits and women in dresses and high heels—walked around, their confused chatter echoing down from the high ceiling. She sat herself in the back row as a bout of applause and whistling rose. She looked around and saw Ahmad walking toward the stage. Ahmad stepped up and raised his hand as a sign of greeting and gratitude. After the last isolated clapping subsided, Ahmad started: “My dear brothers and sisters, we are gathered here today because we all love our country.” The voice boomed around and rattled the windows. Pooran saw the man who talked instead of her son and soon lost interest in the voice of the stranger. She did not hear Ahmad’s words, but watched him speak with one hand clasping his lapel like a pin. She could see a few strands of white hair on his temple. Nostalgia enveloped her like a blanket on a snowy night and murmured in her ear reminiscences of her baby Ahmad as he played hide-and-seek in the Orchard with the other kids, as he climbed the short trees and reached for the apples on the higher branches. Nosser was with her then, if distracted and not there in spirit most of the time. Ahmad’s holding of the lapel, his looking directly into the eyes of his listeners, and his speaking with a borrowed voice, was nothing that had come from Nosser. That was Khan.
After the speech, Pooran approached the group that had gathered around Ahmad. Mr. Zia was the first to see her. “Can I help you, madam?” he asked stepping forward. Pooran walked past him. The group of men and women split to make way for the chador-clad woman who stopped right in front of Ahmad.