Such people couldn’t be trusted to keep the country in the state of motion that was essential if the Revolution was to succeed. They couldn’t be depended on to protect the Revolution’s cardinal principle: the rejection of foreign ideology. Under them, the country could easily slide back into the US’s sphere of influence. Bazargan and his friends might fudge the sacred duty of eliminating Israel. Their introspective, intellectual Islam was even more dangerous than secularism, because it assumed the garb of a friend. Bazargan was Iran’s Kerensky. Like the liberal Kerensky, he would have to be destroyed.
The Imam started to undermine the provisional government. His supporters – clerics, influential traders, revolutionary activists – worked to bring about the clergy’s supremacy. They sent their bullies to break up rallies staged by other groups: liberals, Kurdish nationalists, Marxists. Revolutionary committees were authorized to carry out arrests, executions and property confiscations.
Overseeing all this was the Imam’s kitchen cabinet, the Islamic Revolutionary Council. The council was composed mostly of clerics who carried out or anticipated the Imam’s wishes. They controlled revolutionary courts, which, independent of the justice ministry, handed out death sentences and prison terms to former officials from the Shah’s dictatorship. They promulgated legislation by decree. They turned Bazargan into a knife without a blade.
I’ve seen a picture of Mr Zarif taken at this time: he looks supple, jackal-like, and his eyes are insouciant, and it’s not the nihilistic insouciance of a Western boy, braving ideology – any ideology – to capture him. On the contrary: he has become pure ideology. God and Khomeini have let him into one of the most important secrets unveiled to humanity. Better still, he’s taking part, furthering its interests. Mr Zarif is smiling in the photograph, deliriously happy to be alive.
It’s after lunch. Persian after lunch starts after the nap that comes after the glass of black tea that comes after lunch. Mr Zarif won’t go back to the office after this lunch. He’ll go in tomorrow morning. He’s taking off his socks, slapping them against nothing, against the air.
‘You know, we saw everything from a revolutionary point of view, everything in revolutionary terms. I mean, if I said to someone: “Don’t go home tonight, because we’ve got work to do,” and they said, “Well actually we’ve got family coming round tonight and I really should be at home – perhaps another time …” Well, that would upset and shock me. I mean; what a strange set of priorities! Here we are, changing the world, and you want to go home and suck up to Aunt Maryam!’
He notices the socks in his hands. He goes over to the radiator and lays them on top. He’s rolling up his sleeves. He disappears.
He’s standing in front of the sink in the bathroom. He runs his right hand, soaking wet, down his face. He dribbles a little water over his widow’s peak. He drags his wet right hand down his left forearm (from a point not higher than the elbow). He drags his left hand down his right forearm (from a point not higher than the elbow). He lifts up his legs, one after the other, and rubs the tops of both feet (right foot with right hand, and left foot with left hand).
He comes into the sitting room. He says, ‘If I saw someone doing something suspicious, I’d immediately write a report on him, and if someone didn’t have a beard I’d skip school and follow him. There was one guy in my street and I thought he was a leftist. Three Fridays in a row I followed him. Each time, a man with a beard rode by on a bicycle – the same man, each time. Naturally, I thought he’d been sent by God to help me in my investigation. And later I found out; no, he was a guy who lived in the neighbourhood, who happened to have a beard.’
He kneels.
At Mr Zarif’s all-boys school, some of the female teachers believed that the Revolution had happened in the name of freedom – freedom of speech, thought, behaviour. (They had mistaken liberty – which means liberty from moral corruption and Godlessness – with a morality.) They took part in demonstrations that forced the Imam to back down on a decree that female civil servants cover their heads and wear shapeless clothes. There they were, persisting with their hip-hugging skirts and high-heeled boots.
The art teacher had cropped her hair, taking as an example one of the cops in Cagney and Lacey – Mr Zarif couldn’t remember which. The Cagney and Lacey woman had favourites among the older boys. People whispered about what she got up to with her favourites.
(Mr Zarif stands, head bowed. He whispers: ‘In the name of God the merciful and compassionate. Glory and thanksgiving be only to the God of the universe, who is merciful and compassionate and lord of the day of retribution. We worship none but you, and request help from none but you. Guide us along the right path, the path of those whom you have made secure, not the path of those who have lost their way. In the name of God, the merciful and compassionate, say that God is one. God needs nothing. He was not born, and did not procreate, and no one is like him.’)
The ideologues were saying that the Revolution required several steps; the Shah’s flight had been the first. Now, they said, it was the turn of the Communists and liberals and Westernized fun-lovers. There was a dangerous group, the People’s Mujahedin, which claimed to have reconciled Islam with Communism; the Prophet, they said, had been the first Marxist! (Later on, the Imam was to christen this group the Eclectics and, later still, the Hypocrites.) There were kids at school who daubed hammers and sickles on the playground wall. The head of the revolutionary committees said, ‘We must purify society in order to renew it.’ The question was: how?
One day, in a mosque that was known for its fervent and revolutionary congregation, Mr Zarif came across a group of people who had the answer. They were older than Mr Zarif – most of them were in their early twenties – and they called each other ‘brother’. They wore trimmed beards and kept their shirts untucked. Even on hot days, they never rolled up their sleeves. One or two of them wore silver rings, with a star in the middle. Some of them had the piebald Palestinian scarf, the kaffieh, around their necks, and mentioned the Bekaa Valley in conversation. They grinned when Mr Zarif asked them whether they had spent time in Lebanon. Some of them seemed knowledgeable about automatic weapons and explosive devices.
(Leaning forward, hands on knees: ‘The most elevated God is clean and pure.’)
They were lovers. They loved the truth. They loved God and the Prophet. They loved the Imam and the clerics around him. They loved the Imam Hossein and the Imam Ali. More than anything, they loved their enemies – the liberals and Marxists, the Americans and the British agents. And the Zionists, of course. They would destroy them with their love.
They said they took orders from some clerics in Isfahan. (The clerics seemed to take their orders from people close to the Imam.) They were doing useful work: spreading propaganda, harassing opposition groups, encouraging citizens to denounce apologists for the former regime. Some of them were members of the Revolutionary Guard. Others were linked to the revolutionary committees. Some, Mr Zarif guessed, were members of an unofficial action group, called Hezbollah, though they were coy if asked.
(Kneeling over, forehead on a tablet of baked earth from Karbala: ‘Great God is clean and pure.’)
One by one, they and their allies were getting into the local bureaucracy. There was an increase in trimmed beards in the municipal corridors. There were more chadors. The Imam’s supporters were making life difficult for civil servants who didn’t say their prayers, or failed to turn up for indoctrination classes. The secularists had a choice: change your ways, and your appearance, or get out.
One Thursday evening, they let Mr Zarif join them in a small room next to the mosque. One of the younger lads picked up a microphone