breakfast at rafsanjani's

Morning in Iran.
A weak wintery sun blesses the tangled thoroughfares, the new fangled office blocks and the ancient minarets of downtown Teheran.
In a small family apartment on Akbad Street, the Rafsanjani family are having breakfast.
The apartment is well furnished by Iranian standards. There is a small television, a carpet, and some potted plants. The windows are open to the morning air.
A table and chairs dominate the centre of the room.
Abdul, the breadwinner, is a midranking civil servant who has prospered by remaining on the right side of the revolution.
The mother of the house is dark eyed, raven haired, gentle voiced Farina. She is without doubt a beautiful woman. But she is not weak. Her beauty conceals an improbable strength and resourcefulness.
A steaming pot of tea has been served.
Husband and wife are sitting opposite each other.
Farina butters a slice of nyahhahageeforce and munches it thoughtfully.
The man of the house reads a newspaper between sips of tea.
Abruptly Abdul feels a wave of shock sweep through him.
Over the pages of his newspaper he has spotted the family's three year old son Mahmud in the process of flushing a Koran down the toilet which adjoins the eating area.
"Mahmud," he rumbles threateningly, "don't do that."
"Why?" gurgles the little boy cheekily.
"Because if you do, I'll have to kill you," his father tells him.
The toddler wisely desists.
Meanwhile the Rafsanjanis' four year old daughter Rema runs into the room with a picture to show Daddy.
"Look, look," she cries, "I drew you a picture."
Abdul looks.
The picture shows a stick man standing amid a white background. The child has attempted to draw a beard on her stick man.
"It's very good," says her father wearily. "What is it meant to be?"
"It's the prophet Mohammed," smiles back Rema.
Abdul reaches for his axe.
Mother Farina jumps to her feet and snatches the drawing.
"It's a picture of our beloved President Ahmed Ahmadinejad," she proclaims desperately. "Tell your father it's President Ahmadinejad, darling. I couldn't stand another ritual killing at the breakfast table. It's only been a week since the last one."
Rema takes the soft option and obeys her mother's advice.
The atmosphere in the apartment lightens considerably.
Later, when the children have been led off by a maid for their morning lessons, husband and wife savour a few moments alone.
A thought strikes Farina.
"My husband," she says softly, "what do you really think of our beloved President Ahmed Ahmadinejad?"
Abdul throws her a shocked glance.
He looks around furtively.
"Woman," he says, "hold your tongue. You risk everything."
Then he softens.
He puts a finger to his lips and leads his wife into the hall.
He looks about him.
The hall is quiet.
Abdul is about to speak but thinks better of it.
He leads Farina into the street and sits with her in the family car, an Allahuakhbar Gti.
He leans close to whisper in her ear.
Again he thinks better of it.
He starts the engine and drives out of town.
He drives for hours.
Now they are alone on a country road. Abdul parks on a green verge overhung by trees.
Farina looks at him quizzically.
"Well husband," she says. "We are safe at last. What do you think of President Ahmadinejad?"
Abdul shakes his head.
"Not here," he mumbles hoarsly.
He leads his wife by the hand into the heart of the forest.
It seems they walk for ages. Farina cannot keep track of the time.
Deep into the undergrowth.
Until at last they find a clearing.
There Farina puts a hand on Abdul's shoulder.
"Tell me husband," she murmurs. "Truly. What do you think of President Ahmadinejad?"
Abdul snatches one more furtive glance over his shoulder.
Trembling with terror he leans towards Farina and with his voice close to breaking whispers in her ear.
"I like him."