The Unpredictable Page 4

  They left behind the last of the suburbs south of Tehran, the sun was still low and its rays cut through the morning air, becoming warmer and more vivid by the minute. As they drove away from the capital, following the main arterial road, the landscape gradually changed, the few hills sloping and flattening. The scarce green spots of vegetation disappeared in favor of the typical strong ochre hue of pre-desertic dry areas. The black tar road disappeared in an endless straight line, as if waiting to be devoured by the immense expanse of sand and rocks that surrounded it. The road’s surface was in good conditions and it allowed the off-road to travel south at a high speed.

  It took them ten hours to reach Khorramabad; it was a tiresome day, ever since they had left the motorway and started climbing up the turns and bends on the Zagros mountains his back had been put to the test. Now that they had at last stopped and he had been able to set foot on the dusty dirt road, he felt as if he had suddenly aged twenty years older, unable to stand straight and stretch his aching back. He realized, in spite of everything, that this was his true nature, he was a free animal. He felt restless in the cage of a metropolis and its sterile daily routine, efficient and fulfilled when he was in touch with raw, real nature. Over the three years he had spent in Milan he’d felt himself drowning in a reality, a world that did not belong to him. He had lived those years as if he were waiting for a crucial event, for a turning point that could put his existence on the right track. He had just been standing by, his life had been parked in a dead-end road, waiting to take off in the right direction again. He’d taken for granted the fact that sooner or later a radical change would arrive and, like a beacon shining in the night, it would shed light on the path to take or the destination to reach. Everything would make more sense and become clearer, and he would tirelessly commit to fulfilling his lifelong destiny. But when would that moment come? He often thought about it and felt himself burning with the desire to feel like the protagonist in his ideal life.

  The next morning they took off again, gradually descending from the mountain range, moving west. When the landscape started to become flat again and the road became wider and smoother, he noticed the street sign that read: Andimeshk. Bagheli kept to the right instead, heading towards Dokhtar, the vehicle skidding slightly on the sand-covered tar.

  “Why are we moving away from Andimeshk?” Nino asked the two Iranians.

  “Our refinery is north-west of the city, approximately 30 km away, Dr. Avito. It’s a modern and safe plant, it implements cutting-edge technologies for the refinement and the processing of crude oil and petroleum products,” Bagheli answered.

  “I can’t believe it, the Minotaur managed to string some twenty words in a row,” Nino thought in disbelief, while Khatibi listened to the reply and remained silent, looking past the windshield.

  “Thank you, Bagheli. Do you know this place well?” Nino added.

  “Yes, I work in the security field. The refinery is one of the plants I’ve been looking after for some years now.”

  The number of vehicles they crossed kept increasing. He was most impressed by the massive presence of trucks loaded with soldiers, travelling intensively in both directions.

  “Why so many army people?” Nino asked, curious.

  No answer came for several seconds, then at last Bagheli, after exchanging a brief nod with Khatibi, answered:

  “Nothing particular, don’t worry about it. This plant is of strategic significance and, as such, it is constantly monitored by military forces. Standard routine.”

  NOTE II

  I’ll always remember how my grandfather Dante would sing to me “The legend of the Piave”, how he’d push me to always do what I felt was right, with no qualms nor fears, how he’d tell me of his imprisonment or his time in the trenches at the warfront. He was a man who had always believed in his ideals all the way, a man I loved and admired, even though I’d caused him a lot of trouble as a child. Regardless of his political views that had brought him to confinement during the years of Fascism, he had been a hero, machine-gunned in the legs on the banks of the Piave river and awarded a gold medal of military valor. He was my hero, part of his blood ran in my veins, he’d fought to defend his country, his family, his dignity and that of all Italians, with no distinction of origin, North, South, East, West. Italy belonged to Italians, he’d been ready to put his own life at stake for the sake of his homeland. He was my role model, never holding back, always standing up, ever sticking with his principles at any cost, living his life to the fullest, giving it the best he could.

  I was born in Tripoli because grandpa Dante had migrated to Libya to seek his fortune, as my paternal grandfather had also done. The Avitos had belonged in that land for almost two generations, though Italian blood ran in my veins. Oftentimes the world is influenced by borders that are political rather than idealistic, and this makes up a big limit.

  I’d ended up in Milan, in my Italy, in a comfortable office job that many people might have envied, but that life wasn’t for me. Grandpa Dante would have told me: “Take Sara and go find your own road, pursue what you’re looking for.”

  I needed to follow that belief, to live my own life and not someone else’s. The trip to Iran was only a temporary escape, a breath of fresh air between the many breaths of soporific gas in the Milanese routine. I couldn’t imagine a future in that city, just as I couldn’t imagine a life without Sara. It would be an unbearable condemn, a formal execution.

  I accepted the position offered by Helson, unaware of what fate really had in store for my future. He evidently knew me well, he knew I’d dive into his project without overthinking it. That’s how it always goes, you are blind, but fate sees perfectly, and it awaits you.

  Although the holidays were coming up and I had to leave Sara alone, I was excited at the thought of taking off, finding new roads, new possible realities. But I was disappointed.

  The only things that never disappointed me were Sara and my old friendships.

  I’d been waiting for Amir’s call for a long time. I was seriously worried, the current events in Algeria were disturbing, ISIS was slaughtering hundreds of innocent souls whose only fault was that of belonging to a different religion. Oftentimes, Shiites themselves paid the expenses, only because they belonged to a different current. They boasted about inflicted tortures or summary executions, publishing them on the various social networks and on any other medium that made it possible.

  Amir was like a brother to me. I met him in Algiers. I’d recently turned twenty, I was in the soccer field next to the La Salle brotherhood convent, playing in one of the usual challenges. In the most intense moment of the game, in the scorching summer afternoon, I remember trying to take the ball from that boy, nimble and fast as a gazelle, who had breached our defense for the umpteenth time. I was certain I’d catch the ball, but he swiftly preceded me and my foot hit his ankle, making him tumble roughly to the dusty floor. I walked up to him to apologize, but just as in the previous tackle, he surprised me at the speed of light and punched me in the jaw. It was an awful blow, he was slim but agile and tough like a whip.

  We wrangled for a while, I think I came out on top in the end, I somehow pinned him to the ground and threw a few punches at him. At last, at the center of the circle formed by our teammates who had rushed over, we stood up, our eyes locked for a few seconds then we shook hands and, like that, we became friends for life.

  I hadn’t heard from him since leaving Algiers, I had never tried to track him down just because I knew I’d risk putting him in grave danger. Receiving his phone call and knowing that he was alive had come as a great relief.

  CHAPTER 5

  Andimeshk (Iran) ,11/29/2011 07:30 P.M.

  -“Inspection” –

  The metal giant stood tall in its majesty, its chrome coating reflecting the blinding light, almost forcing him to look away. The distillation tower was surrounded by a multitude of insulated pipes that exhaled white exhaust vapors and metal stairs that linked the connecting g
angways. The refinery was spread over an enormous stretch of land, it probably covered an area larger than the nearby town of Andimeshk, it looked like a sort of futuristic city on a dry, lunar ground. The myriad of tanks and the miles of pipes of every size were sporadically interrupted by low buildings, that held the offices for the staff of the large refinery plant.

  Two soldiers left the booth where they manned one of several access points, and approached the white Tata that had just arrived to verify the identity of its passengers. One of them walked up to the driver’s side, as soon as he caught a glimpse of Bagheli’s unmistakable face through the open window he stood to attention and saluted. With hectic gestures he signalled the soldier that had remained by the booth to go in and lift the bar so that the vehicle could drive through. The military presence unexpectedly continued past the entrance too, and this puzzled Nino. Although he knew that the control of strategic locations and the repression of any uprisings was an obvious and predictable behavior in a country like Iran, where the current regime needed to defend itself both from the growing desires for change within the country and from international tensions. After equipping the vehicle with the mandatory flame arrester, they drove, at walking pace, through that maze of streets, between pipelines and containment walls, until they reached an open space that suddenly appeared ahead of them. At the opposite end, the skyline was made up by a low building with grey cement walls.

  “Here we are Mr Avito, this is the heart of the whole refinery,” Khatibi declared.

  “Yes, it’s an impressive plant,” Nino answered.

  “From these offices, we control and constantly monitor all processes and the tank levels in the complex. As I told you, it’s a technologically advanced refinery that we are particularly proud of,” the Iranian continued, walking inside the building.

  “Which tanks hold the crude oil from Naft Shahr?” Nino asked.

  “Here, basin number 4 is our focus, at least until the new pipeline is completed. You see, from this room, with these computers, we can display the levels of the seven tanks in real time.”

  Khatibi explained the software’s features in detail and went on to show Nino the exact location of basin 4 on a scanned map of the refinery. Rather than the secretary to the ministry of petroleum, he appeared like a corporate engineer, fully at ease among computers and tank monitoring softwares.

  Nino carefully listened to Khatibi’s explanations. He was standing, two hands on the desk behind which the Iranian sat.

  He distinctly heard an aggravated voice, unmistakably Teutonic, protesting and swearing at someone. It came from the square below. Instinctively, he walked up to the large glass wall that looked onto the northern part of the plant. For a few moments he was able to see two soldiers dragging a brown-haired European man inside a building adjacent to the one they were in. The scene he witnessed fleetingly, the three men heading inside the building, upset him. The man being dragged away by the soldiers made a small “alarm” go off in the control panel of his conscience.

  As Bagheli quickly exited the office, Khatibi, as usual, promptly found the right words to justify what had happened:

  “Westerners are often charmed by the illusory gratification of alcohol, Mr. Avito. Although the commerce of such beverages is illegal here, foreigners sometimes manage to purchase a few bottles from some deplorable sinner, and when we find out, it’s our duty to confiscate them. You know, if this had happened outside this place, the police would have intervened much more forcefully. That man can consider himself lucky, believe me! I can’t understand why you Europeans insist on maintaining your questionable habits even when you are in someone else’s house. I find it a total lack of respect, for our culture and our religion both. A very disgraceful behavior!”

  How he wished he were somewhere else in that moment, in another context, where he certainly wouldn’t spare that four-eyed mouse a headshot in the teeth.

  “Look who’s talking!” Nino thought, trying to control himself and let that ludicrous provocation slide.

  “Using religion as a stupid pretext to condemn someone’s actions? Too easy, dear Khatibi, you’re talking with someone who knows many real muslims, and many of them are close friends!” He chewed on his cheek, withholding the instinct to shout out this thought.

  After that accident, once Khatibi was done describing and giving instructions on the procedures for unloading the tankers with the Naft Shahr crude oil, they went down to the square below and headed inside the structure that the two soldiers and the escorted man had entered a few minutes earlier. It was the dining area reserved for the plant’s managerial staff. The inside looked like a high-class Persian restaurant in the heart of Tehran. Enormous painting on the walls, luxurious tapestries and an obsessive cleanliness that made the floors shine. An unexpected place in a peculiar context like that.

  Bagheli was at the far side of the hall, having a heated discussion with an army officer. Nino couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but the soldier looked sorrowful and seemed to be subduedly listening to the Minotaur’s lecture. The unexpected beauty of the dining hall was proportional to the quality of the food, he had a divine meal. During lunch, Nino asked for the chance to visit basin 4 in person.

  He was granted his request. After a brief inspection of both the enormous tanks and the tankers’ unloading points, which gave rise to some suggestions and necessary improvements that he pointed out right away, it was time to end the visit and go relax.

  “Mr. Avito, I’ve made you a reservation for the night in the Iranian petroleum residence, a few kilometers from here. The apartment will remain at your disposal as long as you need it, since I suppose you will have to come back here to follow up on the logistic matter. I’ll take you there, it has its own restaurant and a spa so that you can comfortably restore yourself in your free time. We’ll stay here for the night and leave tomorrow, driving north towards the Naft Shahr extraction point. Does the plan sound good?”

  “Sure, Khatibi, it sounds good, although frankly I’d have preferred a nice helicopter,” Nino answered, expressing his displeasure.

  “You can’t always get what you want, sometimes we have to adapt to what we are given. Also, this gives you the chance to fully admire the beauty of our landscape, from the desertic area to the Elburz mountains!”

  The residence was modest in size but extremely luxurious. The small apartment was lined with hand-painted tiles, the typical Persian geometric shapes repeated in an infinite hypnotic sequence on a bright blue background. On the floor were two magnificent carpets with patterns that recalled the tiles on the walls. The bathroom was as large as the rest of the apartment, it had a small balcony, as did the bedroom, facing the dunes that were now painted a blazing red by the setting sun.

  He took the phone and connected to the outside line with no difficulties. He dialed his home number, but it rang for a while without an answer, Sara probably hadn’t come home yet. He tried again, but with the same result.

  He gave up and dropped into the hot tub, letting the submerged water jets tickle his legs and lower back. As he relaxed more and more, he tried to draw conclusions on what he’d been able to notice, and was more and more convinced that the changes he had requested in the tank truck unloading system were more than necessary to guarantee the safety of the operations. However, one detail kept coming to mind, despite his vain attempts to focus and remain within the professional sphere: the episode of the man being unwillingly dragged back into the dining hall. His instinct jabbed at him, not allowing him to set that near-violent action aside. This bothered the moment of relaxation created by the water jets pulsing on his lumbar region. Somewhat upset, he stepped out of the tub, not concerned by the water sliding off his body and into writhing rivulets on the tiled floor. He looked in the large, well-lit mirror on the wall, thoughtfully staring at himself for a few seconds. To his reflection he said: “Nino, what are you doing here? Finish your work soon and go home,” but the figure standing still behind the glass wall g
ave no answer. He grabbed the towel, wrapped it around his waist and, still dripping, walked out of the bathroom and dropped onto the bed.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ilam Region (Iran) , 11/30/2011 3:30 P.M.

  -“Naft Shahr” –

  Khatibi had kept his word, after 4 days they had returned to Tehran. The trip had had its moments of tension. They had coasted along the Iraqi border through the Khuzestan region, before reaching the Ilam province, spot in the middle of Kurdistan. As far as he knew, that was a very dangerous area. Littered with landmines ever since the endless conflict between Iran and Iraq, it was a land of lawless traffickers where the Kurds were constantly at war with everyone. The thought of becoming a target for a bunch of armed smugglers, or of taking flight on a Bouncing Betty [2] , had been all but pleasant.

  Once back at the Laleh hotel as planned, he had called Sara, who had sounded quite saddened. He had somehow managed to reassure her saying that two or three more days would be enough to finish up his first Iranian trip and return home.

  At last he had a whole day to himself, that he could dedicate to exploring that unknown city, before the last commitment of his trip: the meeting with deputy minister Al-Fadiri.

  He moved through the chaotic alleys of the historical center, looking for the national archaeological museum. His quick and sure step concealed a certain intolerance, an unease that he couldn’t explain. He didn’t feel comfortable in that millenary metropolis, among its thirteen million inhabitants. He felt cold, shaken by shivers that seemed to rise from inside his bones. He had decided to devote a part of that day to visiting the local archaeological museum that displayed remains of the ancient Iranian civilizations. He knew he was close: the location of the building was marked with an “X” on the map he was carrying in his right hand. He was probably walking circles around it, distracted and unexpectedly uneasy.