The afternoon air was gray and heavy, as if the sky itself was weary from the weight of thoughts pressing down on Seyed Mahdi. The meeting, with all its tangents and current issues—from families involved in the recent unrest to livelihood problems—had dragged on longer than ever. Shirin Mortezaei, Mohsen’s wife, had presented a report that very morning on the rising familial tensions among visitors to the mosque’s counseling center, adding to Seyed Mahdi’s burden of worry. An escape from that space saturated with concerns seemed necessary, if only for a few moments.
The café “Arch Without a Column” on the street corner was his usual refuge for such moments. The smell of stale coffee and the soft sound of instrumental music eased his fatigue a little. He had just ordered when a group of his students, who collaborated with him on an urban sociology project, spotted him and eagerly invited him to their table.
“Professor, we’re glad you’re here!” Bijhan said. “We’re working on exactly the statistical data you mentioned last week. The dispersal pattern of industrial grievances over the past three months is really strange.”
Seyed Mahdi tried to focus. “Yes, it doesn’t seem to be a single concentrated point, but rather… several simultaneous epicenters. As if someone had a map in front of them and divided the areas with a ruler.”
The discussion was heating up when the café door opened, and a cold autumn breeze swept in with a lone man. It was Mohsen Karimi. His face was pale, with dark circles under his eyes from sleeplessness or anxiety. Seyed Mahdi knew him well, from the depth of worry he always saw in Mohsen’s eyes when speaking about the country’s and society’s situation. Shirin, Mohsen’s wife, had often indirectly spoken of his mental pressures, especially since their daughter Yasna’s illness. With hurried steps and glances constantly darting towards the door, he headed straight for a table at the back of the room, tucked behind a pillar and relatively out of sight. He sat down as if waiting for someone.
Seyed Mahdi tried again to listen to his students. Morteza was explaining: “…And here, in District Five, although the number of industrial protests is lower, the intensity of clashes has disproportionately spiked. As if a deliberate spark…”
But Seyed Mahdi’s mind was no longer fully with the students. He kept a peripheral eye on Mohsen. The man who usually spoke in the mosque—worried yet logical and calm—now seemed to have a trigger in his hand. His fingers drummed on the table, and he checked his watch every few seconds.
About ten minutes later, the door opened again. A man entered who didn’t fit the simple ambiance of the café. A neatly pressed navy suit and a tidy leather briefcase. His face was neutral, unreadable. He cast a quick glance around the room, saw Mohsen, and without delay walked towards him. No warm greetings were exchanged. The man sat in the chair opposite Mohsen and placed his briefcase beside his feet.
Seyed Mahdi, now completely distracted, pretended to be staring at Bijhan’s laptop screen. From his angle, he could see their interaction, though he couldn’t hear their voices. Their conversation was very brief. Mohsen, with a quick and slightly fumbling motion, pulled a thin brown envelope from inside his jacket and slid it across the table under his hand. The man, without any change in expression, took the envelope and placed it inside his briefcase. Then he leaned over, opened the briefcase, took out a small, square, white package—resembling a medicine box—and cautiously pushed it towards Mohsen. Mohsen grabbed it hastily and hid it in the inner pocket of his coat. The entire exchange took no more than two minutes. Then the man stood up and left the café with the same order and composure he had entered with.
Mohsen sat there for a few more minutes. He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders were hunched. Then he suddenly stood up, turned his face towards the wall, and quickly headed for the restroom.
Seyed Mahdi took a deep breath. His heart was racing. What he had witnessed wasn’t a friendly visit or even a normal business meeting. This was an exchange. A swift, controlled exchange, saturated with an anxiety that radiated from Mohsen’s body. What could the envelope be? A report? Information? And that white package? Money? Something else?
“Professor, do you think this analysis is correct?” Ehsan’s voice snapped him back.
Seyed Mahdi turned. “Sorry… what did you say?”
“I said, in your opinion, could this pattern of escalating conflict be a sign of foreign planning?” Ehsan repeated.
