The Leveling

“I’ll make tea,” said Mahmoud.

Mark checked his watch.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” said Daria.

“I insist. It is some of Darjeeling’s finest; I know the man who sells it.”

As Mahmoud turned toward the kitchen, Daria said, “There was a bloodletting in Baku. Eight months ago. Few survived. Part of what happened was my fault—” She glanced at Mark. “I lost my job. I was fired. That’s why you haven’t heard from me in so long.”

Mahmoud turned back to Daria. With what sounded like genuine sadness, he said, “I grieve for you.”

“Don’t.”

“You were hurt.”

Daria touched her face. “Not badly.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear. I could hardly notice. You are still radiant, but it is not your face that worries me, it is your heart.”

Mark’s first reaction was to dismiss the line as nothing more than sugary nonsense, but Mahmoud said it with such genuine empathy that he couldn’t.

Daria turned away. Mark had the impression she was struggling not to cry.

Mahmoud sat down. “Why are you here, Daria?”

She wiped her eye with the back of her hand. “We are searching for a friend.”

“You have found him.” Mahmoud opened both of his arms, gesturing to himself. “Tell me what you need.”

“I speak of a friend who we believe came to Iran.” She explained the nature of Decker’s investigation. “Before he disappeared, he sent me three photos. We were hoping you could look at them. I can’t promise that anything you do to help us will weaken the regime. I can’t promise you anything, Mahmoud. It would just be a favor.”

“Quiet yourself, dear. Show me the pictures.”

Daria handed him a blown-up photo, cut out from one of the fliers they’d posted around Mashhad. “We believe the man in the black turban is the editor of Enqelab.”

Mahmoud studied the photo for a moment. “It is so,” he pronounced. “Amir Bayat. The dog.”

“I thought you might know him,” said Daria.

“Yes, the incident with my…” Mark observed that Mahmoud’s hand trembled. “…my son, happened twelve years ago, around the same time this Bayat started the Enqelab. Bayat pressed the government’s case in his paper, of course. Every day. He is a stooge of the warmongers in this country and a monkey boy for his ayatollah brother. He prints what they tell him to print.” Mahmoud turned to Mark. “There is a cabal of lunatics in this country, you see, that make even Khorasani seem reasonable. Bayat is the mongrel dog of this cabal. A dog his masters use when it suits them to frighten the few reasonable people who are left in this country.”

Mahmoud snapped his fingers a few times, as though to summon a dog. “Bayat’s latest mission is to help destroy the conservatives who are only half-crazy, those who wish to open up limited ties to the West and lift some of the idiocy that is passed off as religion in this country. After devouring everyone decent in this country, they are now turning on their own.” He smacked his knee, and then was silent, as if embarrassed by his outburst.

Mark resisted the urge to check his watch again.

Daria pulled out her phone and brought up the three photos they’d received from Decker. Mahmoud only studied the first for a moment before announcing that he didn’t recognize the Asian man with whom Amir Bayat was exchanging a briefcase. But when Daria clicked on the second picture, the one that showed a mansion, he placed his fingers lightly on her hand.

He took her phone, brought it to within six inches of his long nose, handed the device back to Daria, and then closed his eyes. A short while later, with a flourish of his long skinny hands, he said, “I know this place.” With disdain, he added, “This palace.”

Without offering further explanation, he stood and walked to a set of sliding glass doors that opened out onto a small backyard garden.

“The wild parrots came back two weeks ago.” Mahmoud pointed to a bird feeder in his garden; two green parrots were indeed eating from it.

“You recognize the house?” asked Mark.

Mahmoud turned to Daria. “Have I told you the story about the caged parrot?”

“You have.”

“Ah, of course, of course. I forget you know all these things.” He turned to Mark. “It involves a merchant who had a caged parrot of exceptional beauty. One day the merchant told the parrot he had to go to India and asked whether there was anything the parrot wanted.”

Mark wondered what this had to do with the photograph.

“The parrot said he wanted the merchant to visit wild parrots in India and tell them of how he keeps his own parrot in a cage. So the merchant went to India and did this. Immediately, one of the wild parrots fell lifeless off his branch to the ground.”