73

An hour later, David arrived at Alireza Birjandi’s house.

It was a modest, single-story, two-bedroom home that might be called a bungalow back in the States. Built of concrete and wood on the outskirts of the city, it appeared to David as if it dated back to the 1940s or 50s and hadn’t seen many updates since.

Carrying a bag of bread and cheese, a sack of potatoes, and a case of bottled water that Esfahani had given him from the Iran Telecom regional substation’s supplies, David went up to the front door and knocked several times. It took a few minutes, but the elderly cleric finally came to the door carrying a white cane and wearing dark glasses.

Esfahani had failed to mention that the man was blind.

“Is that you, Mr. Tabrizi?” the old man said, his voice sad, his body frail and gaunt. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“It is, but please, call me Reza.”

“Is that what they’re calling you these days? Very well; please come in.”

David was a bit startled by that response and was glad Birjandi couldn’t see his reaction. What did the man mean by that? What else would people be calling him?

“Forgive me for being late,” David said. “I got a bit lost.”

“That is quite all right,” Birjandi said. “I can’t imagine driving out there at all right now. Of course, I’ve never driven, but still . . .”

His voice trailed off, and David felt sorry for the old man. “Mr. Esfahani speaks very highly of you,” he said. “It is a great honor to meet you. Thank you for making time to see me on such short notice.”

“It is nothing,” Birjandi sighed. “Daryush and Abdol speak very highly of you, as well. You seem to have made quite an impression.”

“Well, they have been very kind to me. Oh, and Mr. Esfahani asked me to bring you these groceries and said he would send more supplies over soon.”

“He’s a good boy,” Birjandi said. “I’ve known him since he was eight years old. He and Daryush were the best of friends growing up. Did he tell you that?”

“No, sir,” David said, noting this new clue. “He never mentioned it.”

“Well, they were very competitive boys,” Birjandi said with a touch more animation in his voice. “I’m sure Abdol can’t stand the fact that Daryush is the boss. It was always the reverse when they were kids. Abdol was smarter, faster, stronger—learned the entire Qur’an by the time he was ten. Not Daryush. I don’t think he ever memorized it. But Daryush . . . Well, let’s just say he was more diplomatic, had more savvy than Abdol. It’s made all the difference. Now come, let’s put the food away; then we’ll go into my study and talk.”

As they entered Birjandi’s home, David was immediately struck by the sheer number of books that were in the living room alone. Every wall was lined with bookshelves, and every shelf was stacked with so many tomes the shelves themselves were sagging and looked like they might collapse at any moment. Books were piled on the floors and on chairs, together with boxes of scholarly journals and other publications, and David couldn’t help but wonder what a blind man living alone did with them all. Nothing looked dusty or filthy, so he wondered if someone came and cleaned on a regular basis. He certainly couldn’t imagine this poor old man taking care of this home himself. Fortunately, aside from a cracked front window and some noticeable cracks in his walls and ceiling, the house had sustained remarkably little damage from the earthquake.

David took the supplies into the kitchen, which was cramped but clean. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. No garbage in the trash bin. Nor was there any food in the pantry or much of any in the refrigerator. It was no wonder the old man was so thin.

After instructing David where to put the groceries, Birjandi padded down the hall, and David followed. They ended up in the old man’s study—actually a retrofitted dining room. It, too, had bookshelves lining the walls, sagging with the weight of books, many of which looked fifty or a hundred years old or more. In one corner was a desk stacked with books on tape, along with a large tape player from the 1980s, a set of giant headphones, and an assortment of unopened mail. In another corner stood a television that was on but whose screen was full of snow and static that hissed so loudly it actually hurt David’s ears. Seemingly not bothered by the noise, Birjandi found a well-worn armchair that was clearly his favorite and plopped down in it. Then, much to David’s relief, the old man found the remote on an end table and turned off the TV.

“Please have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir,” David said, carefully removing a stack of yellowed newspapers from the 1990s from another armchair. “I have many questions, and Mr. Esfahani said you would be the best man to ask.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, so long that David wasn’t sure the old man had heard him.

“We are living in extraordinary times, wouldn’t you say?” David finally offered, searching for a way to begin the conversation.

“I see days of great mourning,” Birjandi said with a heavy sigh.

“But at least Imam al-Mahdi has come, right?” David said, his voice upbeat and hopeful. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the reports.”

“I have no joy in my heart,” Birjandi said.

“None?”

“Young man, a very dark day has dawned upon the earth.”

David was taken aback. Wasn’t this man’s life’s work studying and teaching about the coming of the Twelfth Imam? Why wouldn’t he allow himself a bit of joy? Yes, the day had come with death and destruction. But hadn’t all that been prophesied anyway? Didn’t the old man believe all this suffering was Allah’s will?

“He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool; shun him,” Birjandi said, seemingly out of the blue. “He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is a child; teach him. He who knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep; wake him. He who knows, and knows that he knows, is wise; follow him.”

“Is that from the Qur’an?” David asked.

Birjandi smiled a little and shook his head.

“From the hadiths?”

Again the old man shook his head.

“Something Zoroaster said?”

“No, it is an ancient Persian proverb.”

“Well, it sounds very wise.”

“Which one are you?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think.”

David pondered that for a moment, silently reciting the proverb several times to understand its meaning.

“I suppose I am the child,” he said finally.

“Why?”

“Because I know not, and I know that I know not. That’s why I am here, because I believe you know.”

“Very good,” Birjandi said. “Then start with this. What Hamadan just experienced was not a natural earthquake.”

“What do you mean?” David asked.

“The size. The scope. The timing. Think, Mr. Tabrizi. What triggered all this? Do you really think it was the arrival of Imam al-Mahdi?”

What was the man talking about? David’s confusion grew still more when Birjandi suddenly rose, excused himself, and said it was time for him to pray.

“We can talk some more in six hours,” Birjandi explained simply, without apology.

Six hours? David looked at his watch. It was only three in the afternoon. What was he going to do for the next six hours?

“Thank you for the groceries,” Birjandi said before he left for his room. “Feel free to have anything you would like. I am not hungry. I don’t have a guest room, but I hope you are comfortable on the couch. There are more blankets in the closet. Take a nap, Mr. Tabrizi. You need the rest. You seem tired. And, I suspect, you could use some prayer time as well.”

Then he turned and walked away. His bedroom door closed softly behind him. David was startled and a little annoyed. He didn’t want to nap. He didn’t want to pray. He had questions. He had come for answers. But he wasn’t getting any. At least not for the next six hours.