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By Root 431 0

we spoke, I came to understand that among the VIP prisoners, Safaei and I had suffered more physical abuse than the others. Some of my new cellmates had heard Rosewater’s screams and insults while he was interrogating me, and had wondered what was going on. Safaei’s physical torture was an anomaly among my cellmates; none of them had been beaten. They were all religious people, and their “religious” torturers had known how to put psychological pressure on them. They had threatened to harm the prisoners’ loved ones and friends and had even fabricated lies about the private lives of reformist leaders. Some interrogators had gone further and forced a number of women into making false confessions, swearing that they’d had illicit sexual relations with the prisoners, a crime punishable by death.

· · ·

One of the real luxuries of the communal cell was the small television which showed the six main state channels. On the second day in the new cell, I was watching football when Rosewater summoned me to the interrogation room. I wished I could ask him to wait. It was the first time in months—since even before my arrest—that I had had a chance to watch a game. This one was a repeat showing of my favorite team, Liverpool, playing against Chelsea, but I didn’t know the final score, so it felt as if I were watching it live.

Unfortunately, I had no choice in the matter. In the interrogation room, Rosewater sat me in the chair, opened the window, and asked, “Digestive or orange flavor?” Without waiting for my answer, he placed a cup of tea, a few sugar cubes, and a saucer holding some biscuits on the writing arm of my chair.

“To start with,” he said in his most baritone voice, “I’d like to apologize for everything that’s happened so far.”

Apologize? I didn’t know what to say. I nodded politely.

“You know interrogation is a difficult process. This is the beginning of a new phase.” From beneath my blindfold I saw Rosewater take a biscuit from my plate. “May I?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, my voice revealing the anticipation I felt that this nightmare might finally be coming to an end.

“Our think tanks and several of our colleagues have been investigating your case, and I’m glad to say that we now know you’re not a spy. And the holy Islamic system is going to treat you with kindness.”

I had thought that I’d feel elated when I finally heard these words; instead, all I felt was furious. So, it’s all water under the bridge? I thought. You bloody bastard. All the beatings? All the insults? I remained quiet.

“I hope you aren’t resentful, Mazi,” Rosewater said in a pseudoconcerned tone, as if he were talking to a child whose candies had been taken away from him. “In the past few months I’ve had the privilege of sharing your company. I learned a lot from you.”

I hope you rot in hell, I thought. “You’re very kind, sir.”

“It was me who recommended a quick investigation into your case. As you know, this could have taken several more months, even years, otherwise. You know that, don’t you, Mazi?”

“Yes, sir, thank you very much,” I mumbled, knowing that he’d had nothing to do with it. This had to be because of Paola’s work, and the efforts of others.

“No problem. What I wanted to talk to you about today can determine whether you will be released or not.” He pulled a chair close to me and sat down. He took another biscuit from my plate. “Even though we know that you’re not a spy in the classical sense of the word, you’re a media spy.”

“What is a media spy?” I asked faintly.

“Well, Mazi, we haven’t found a clear definition for it,” Rosewater said as he moved his head closer to me. “That’s the beauty of it. We’re giving you a chance to work with us to find a definition for it, and help us defeat media espionage.”

I was utterly confused. “Sorry, sir—am I being charged with something that you don’t have a definition for?”

“Well, ‘charged’ may be too strong a word for it.” Rosewater had obviously been briefed about media espionage but hadn’t had time to familiarize himself with the idea. I heard him going through some notes.

“Maziar, what