Escape
From
Paradise
A Novel
By
Majid Amini
ALSO BY MAJID AMINI
The Greatest Meeting
Dreams of a Native Son
The Howling Leopard
The Sunset Drifters
Bibi’s Rainbow
Children of a Lesser Nation
In loving memories of my mother, Molky Jahan
AFSANEH PUBLISHING COMPANY
Camarillo, California
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are
are used fictionally, and any similarity, incidents,
or places are wholly coincidental.
ESCAPE FROM PARADISE
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2011 by Majid Amini
Jacket and Book design by Majid Amini and John Helmuth
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any from or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from
the publisher.
For information address:
Afsaneh Publishing Company
760 Calle Plano
Camarillo, CA 93012
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0381-6
Second Edition
Chapter One
Listen to the sound of reed,
As it blows its complaint:
Reciting the tale of separations!
From the time I was cut,
From my reedy bed in the marshland,
And molded to a reed,
Men and women have wept,
Listening to my lament!
-----------------------------------
Whoever remains apart from his roots,
Enduringly seeks for the day of his reunion!
-----------------------------------
Rumi
The man with his shaggy appearance was in his late twenties. He wore an untidy green army jacket, wrinkled grey trousers and a pair of worn-out sneakers. He walked cautiously as if seeking prey or haunted by someone, through the narrow, freshly painted and carpeted hallway on the third floor of the Jahan Hotel.
The medium-sized three-story hotel was an old building. Although renovated recently, it still maintained its three-hundred-year-old historical charm. It stood proudly on the north side of the ancient city of Tabriz, remote from the hustle and bustle of the city’s center, in northeastern Iran – a country embroiled in the devastating turmoil and aftermath of its February 1979 revolution.
Even though close to two-thirds of his face was well hidden under a few weeks’ worth of dark curly beard, his rectangular face was a mirror of intense expression. The skin on his forehead and cheeks was soft, smooth and chalk-white.
The bloody hurricane of an Islamic revolution with its rigid and narrow fundamentalist nature had passed over the country and was instantaneously changing the political, social, and cultural landscape of the society. It was unexpectedly impacting the way people dressed, looked, and behaved in public. Seemingly, the bearded man was no exception. Like many people who tried to conceal their true identities shortly after the revolution, he grew a beard to remain unrecognized, to hide behind the mask of a crude and rugged revolutionist in an effort to be considered part of the new establishment, a devout Muslim, a fierce soldier of Islam.
Despite his unkempt, dirty long dark hair, nervous shifty brown eyes, and skinny body, there was nothing else noteworthy in his appearance to attract anyone’s attention. Certainly, at least in appearance, he was no different from a lot of other jobless young men roaming the streets of the shock-stricken city, but if they were considered inconsequential in the previous regime, the social atmosphere caused by the revolution was now offering them a golden opportunity. They were impatiently waiting for their turn to jump on the bandwagon that could, at least, offer them the security of conformity.
Noticing a sensation that felt like the wiggling of an insect in his stomach, he nervously knocked on the door of room 312 at precisely five o'clock on the morning of April 15, 1980, and could hardly wait for a response. To occupy his mind, to control his exaltation, while shifting his weight from foot to foot restlessly, he muttered under his breath the incoherent words of an old forgotten song that used to be his favorite. The barely audible exhausted voice of a woman, as if echoing from the bottom of a deep well, came from inside, “Come in.” After a short pause, the man heard her soft voice, “It is open!” He turned his head, looked down the hallway with caution before reaching for the doorknob. He opened the door just slightly, slipped through the door’s crack sideways and inconspicuously entered the room.
It appeared as if the isolation offered by four walls of the room changed his demeanor entirely. He rubbed his palms together in anticipation and could hardly control his excitement, as if he had been looking forward to seeing her all night. Or perhaps the reason he was so delighted was that all the pandemonium and often life-threatening underground work was now behind him, and the rest of the upcoming task appeared to be a piece of cake.
The man found her fully-covered by a raven-black chador with only her drained face showing, wearing no makeup, looking as plain and ordinary as a woman of her age could, sitting on the edge of the bed lethargically waiting. Under the thick shroud of fatigue and anxiety, and with her pale face, she looked as if she had lost her capacity to grieve. She was in her late thirties and had balanced features: big brown eyes, full lips, narrow nose, high cheek bones, and naturally full arched black eyebrows.
“Ready to go?” the man inquired, pleasantly, but with eyes constantly scanning the room.
“Oh,
