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Interruptions, Massud Alemi's debut novel (IBEX Publishers, 2008), examines the various paths we choose when our day-to-day life is interrupted. Farzin, a gay man living in Tehran, finds himself accused of a crime he did not commit. He, however, realizes that if he tells the truth to the authorities, he will be more severely punished for his sexual orientation, than for the crime which he is thought of having
committed. See interview with Massud Alemi and his features' index in iranian.com.

First Chapter
Farzin Rouhani would remember the last day of spring 1981 as the first time reality warped. He would recall that Tehran’s air was so hot and immobile a dropped feather fell like a rock. By then he had developed the habit of going over to see Bijan in his apartment halfway across town. Farzin had the route memorized by then. Turn the corner from Vali-e Asr onto Shaheed Beheshti Avenue, and he would be but five blocks away from wicked bliss. Only on June 20, 1981, the baking street indulged more people than usual, and the sun staked sharp streaks of pain into his skull. The heat was treacherous, dry, and scorching. Shaheed Beheshti lay barren and treeless, while buildings shimmered in the heat rising off the softening asphalt, stamped by tire tracks every which way.

Just before Farzin decided to leap over the open curbside gutter, a youthful swarm of men and women, numbering in the thousands, came into his full view. They had sprung up from nowhere, like mushrooms after warm summer rains. Holding placards and banners, women chanted slogans while around them patrols of stone-faced youths with armbands formed a human chain. Farzin shielded his eyes with his hand in an army salutation, frozen in time. At the outer edges they held hands, determined as organized workers at a May Day parade. It was a juvenile crowd, restive and militant. The Counterrevolution?

Backing off, Farzin waited for a gap in the long procession, but there was no end to it. With every fresh surge there was a man or a woman leading the chant, “Censorship, oppression, freedom ….” Then, out of the blue, a mob of bearded motorcyclists, dressed in black, appeared from the opposite end of the street, their engines at full throttle. They bore green banners, a sure sign of the Hezbollah, the uncompromising arm of the Revolutionary Forces, wailing a chant over and over again, “Only one party—of Allah; only one leader—Ruhollah.” The bearded men were intent and purposeful as they moved, in unison, like a black mass, swinging chains and clubs. No sooner had they arrived than the harrowing screams began. As Farzin watched, the black mass dealt with the unarmed demonstrators, now to the right, now to the left, like a giant bulldozer, never looking back.

An edge of terror in the air made Farzin’s scalp crawl. Vanguards of the cyclists chased the crowd, which at this point pushed toward the pavement, thrusting Farzin backward until he felt the coarseness of the wall behind him. At the center of the roaring mob was a middle-aged man, who sat on the back of a Yamaha with one hand around the driver’s waist and one hand holding a powerful megaphone. In the middle of gas fumes and the whacking of clubs against softer heads he loudly and unapologetically urged the cyclists on, saying, “Hypocrites are doomed; Islam is victorious.” His followers repeated after him, “Hypocrites are doomed … Islam is victorious.”

Avoiding the cyclists, Farzin lingered on the perimeter of the swarm, attempting to wade through. He had left home early to drown himself in Bijan’s understanding embrace. And he was now only five blocks away—just five blocks, and if he could bypass this drama, he could be there in no time at all. He felt the dampness of his palms and rubbed them on the sides of his pants.

The circle closed in. A fully bearded cyclist in army fatigues dismounted. Though he was clad in army green, his wispy bangs hinted this was no soldier. Farzin watched him lock up his bike and stand with his feet apart, a hand in his pocket. Directly across from him, a man was standing just as confidently on the other side of the street. They could almost have been twins: same boots, same bangs, and the same focused look in their eyes. Both appeared to be searching for someone.

Farzin turned around, debating the wisdom of even attempting to cross the street at this point. Perhaps he could find a different way, or chart a different route, to Bijan’s house. The trouble he had to go through. Of course Bijan was worth it. This mess would give them something to discuss later. He looked back but the man was no longer there, although his bike was. Farzin was anxious and suspicious as he stepped into the street. At that same moment, he felt hands touching his waist and upper torso from behind. It was the kind of touching that people might do when passing each other in a crowd—only more intimately. Rough but trained, the hands vanished just as quickly as they had appeared. Farzin wondered if someone was checking him for weapons—but why? The cyclists were still chanting, “Get lost, bastard hypocrites. Enough …. Enough whoring for the West!” They threatened, “Go home, or we’ll do to you what will make the birds weep!”

Momentarily, Farzin caught sight of a cyclist who disembarked from his vehicle to pick up a brick from the gutter. His intention was all too obvious. Within seconds the brick was airborne. Soon, others followed. Flying bricks slowly twisted and turned as though self propelled. Occasionally they were accompanied by rocks that flew high and far into the march. Farzin pulled back, not knowing which way to turn. But even at the perimeter, there was no safety. Fists and feet danced in a hysterical flurry and, in response to them, clubs rose and plunged with merciless whacks. The human chain finally broke. There was a pattern to the Hezbollahi club-wielders’ attack like the dance of bees—an unmediated, impulsive animal reaction to an irritant. The march coiled upon itself like a cobra; the rhymed chants merged into a timorous bellow, as the floating anxiety peaked; thumping footsteps joined the cries and shouts.

The motorcycles’ parade ended in a full-throttle fury of fumes. Abandoning their vehicles, bikers gathered double file on the skin of the march, and cut across the crowd, still shouting belligerent slogans. “When my leader commands,” they roared, “blood I will shed.”

Bijan still on his mind, Farzin cursed his entanglement in this mess. Meanwhile, war clubs clattered on the roofs and sides of parked cars and slammed against soft flesh. It was beginning to seem impossible to cross through the mayhem. The bearded man in army fatigues had managed to cut through to the other side, though. Farzin watched him playing with a toothpick in his mouth, leaning sideways against a yellow phone booth. How had he crossed the street? As the bedlam neared a crescendo, Farzin found himself in the middle of the demonstration, at the heart of the action. Air and the sky, all became one angry song. Now the marchers began to form demands, broken and rhythmic, “Oppression, tyranny … People, you must rise … Rise.” This was Tehran at daggers drawn. Even in the days of the revolution, Farzin had not been this fearful; there had been some order to it, then. You could part with the demonstration and go home anytime you fancied.

A single gunshot rang out, then another, reverberating against the buildings. The demonstrators held on steadfastly as a barrage of shooting began in a wild cacophony. Farzin found himself being hustled along by the throng as it swayed this way and that. It became impossible to differentiate the Hezbollah members from the marchers, motorcycles from knives and chains, smoke from dust, clubs from kicks, and blood from sweat.

It was at this precise moment when, for the first time, Farzin had the odd and inexplicable sensation of the world turning syrupy and slow flowing. To be sure it was to repeat itself twice more, but June 20 was the first time reality had warped in no uncertain terms, time slowed to a crawl, and nothing happening made any sense. As he looked about, people were still marching but took their steps gingerly, their dancelike effort now an exercise in vanity. Even the cyclists, their bloodshot eyes radiating hatred, raised their fists as if under water. Silent fury oozed from them.

Pamphlets blanketed the asphalt. A swish of a shining blade slashed the heat. Farzin caught only a glimpse of steel before it buried itself in a woman’s chest, slowly, ever so slowly, slitting her body open right before his eyes. He looked at himself to inspect his own reaction and noticed his body exhibiting the same languor as its surroundings. He returned his attention to the young woman. The vertical wound administered with the skill of a butcher was on display in vivid detail, but caught as he was in the slowness, he could not escape the imposing dynamics of the world around him. He followed the hand holding the switchblade; it belonged to a boy with the silky beginnings of sideburns, looking horrified and nearly as baffled as his victim. Blood soaked the woman’s clothes and stained the pamphlets strewn about her. Farzin stood less than eight feet away and could see beyond the fat of her bosom, the red of muscles, and the white of her ribs. He was so close he could smell the blood gushing to the beat of her pulse. Two steps and he could touch her. Instead, he stared at her trembling figure, which seemed at first glance resisting the temptation to fall. Marchers noticed but kept their distance, carrying on the struggle. The young woman certainly understood that—she would have done the same. Wavering, she raised her hands and held her fingers outward to display her chest spewing, as if her lodged spirit were struggling furiously to be set free. “Look at me! Be warned that only blood will nourish the struggle.” And they understood.

There was a sudden and reverent silence in the street now. It was as if people were watching an asteroid or a car crash—an incredible event over which they had no control. The only reaction worthy of the incident seemed to be to clear away, leaving her standing in the middle of a circle. She closed her eyes on her stunned peers, as if to focus on an internal tug of war. An irrepressible fright released itself into the noon swelter, percolating to the edges of the march. Farzin’s eyes were fixed on the deep cut in her chest. She took one step his way, half-stumbling, half-resisting, and he saw her chalk-white face twitching with pain and her right hand, stained crimson, trembling as she tried to cover her wound. Then, just as she slumped to the ground like a bundle of newspapers, Farzin, quite inadvertently, reached out and grabbed her sweat-drenched head, preventing it from crashing onto the bone-dry asphalt.

The young woman’s fall marked the end of the dreamy sequence of events. The world sped up to its normal velocity and the noises were heard again at the chaotic levels of moments ago. Farzin noticed all the eyes staring at him, holding in his hands the drenched head of the assaulted woman. He slowly laid it down and backed away a step as he rose to his feet. He felt as though he had awakened from a deep slumber. The woman’s body jerked once, but her eyes were closed. The cyclists had started again behind the gathered crowd.

Out of the ensuing devastation a skinny youth with a long neck, a bulging Adam’s apple, and an armband came forth and examined the young woman like a doctor. He produced a checkered cloth from his backpack. Hastily he wrapped her in the sheet, first the legs, then the chest and head. Her eyes moved under half-closed lids. Gathering her in his arms, like a groom carrying his bride on their nuptial evening, the skinny fellow disappeared as Farzin watched—a fait accompli; she had played her part, now was offstage.

In a fleeting second, as he gained his full composure, strong grips tightened around Farzin’s arms and wrists. He felt the poking of a hard object in his back and a sinking in his heart. An imperious voice warned him against the very thought of fighting back. Not that he would have, otherwise.

* See interview with Massud Alemi
* www.massudalemi.com