Escape From Paradise. Majid MD Amini

      

      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

       http://www.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, I’m ready as I’ll ever be. Let's get this thing over with,” she replied, sounding subdued and withdrawn.

      “Then, let’s get your things together and go. There are other people waiting in the lobby,” he said in a soft voice that could be mistaken for timidity.

      Still noticeably under the influence of taryak, opium, smoked plentifully two nights earlier, along with countless shots of imported Russian aragh, vodka, drunk the night before, she staggered and could hardly maintain her balance as she rose and walked around aimlessly. Her body motions didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to those of someone getting ready to leave.

      Finding her disoriented, he rushed to help her in gathering her few belongings, jamming them into a brown suitcase and a black leather handbag. Packing done, holding her arm with one hand and carrying her suitcase with the other, he patiently helped her leave the room. With necessary pauses in their steps, they approached the stairs to the lobby, where more than half a dozen people were eagerly waiting on that fine early April morning.

      Except for two couples, the rest were totally strangers to one another. They were gathered to start a clandestine journey – an escape