The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons

as soon as it appeared.
    Finally, he located the booth of the moneychanger. At the front of the stall was a vitrine display case, with a few samples of each of Swiss francs, Deutsche marks, Italian lira, and a disappointingly small number of American dollars. The merchant squatted behind the case on an Isfahan carpet that looked deceptively old and worn.
    “You want to buy dollars,” the merchant said. To Moosa, it didn’t sound like a question.
    “Maybe,” he replied in a carefully neutral tone, “but I don’t see how you can help me. You have less than $1,000 here.”
    “Young friend, I am not so stupid as to display my entire stock,” the merchant chucked, as his eyes slid quickly over Moosa’s Western attire and recently shaved face. “Come inside. A man who wants to make a substantial purchase should at least be offered a glass of tea.” He rose, smiling as Moosa allowed himself to be led toward the gauze curtain at the rear of the booth.
    “Ali, mind the front,” said the merchant over his shoulder as he turned to follow Moosa behind the drape. A teenage boy shuffled from the corner he had occupied to the carpet behind the display case, sitting with a loose-jointed motion.
    The moneychanger seated himself on a cushion, motioning for Moosa to take the place across from him. He swiveled about, filling two small, clear glasses from a samovar. Placing a bowl of sugar cubes between them, he began the negotiation.
    “Now, my young friend, how many dollars do you want to buy?”
    Moosa wasn’t sure he was ready for a tug-of-war with the moneychanger, but there was no alternative. He took a deep breath as he reached for a sugar cube. He placed it between his teeth, sipping a swallow of tea. Slowly placing his tea in front of him, he looked over the merchant’s left shoulder. “I’m not sure. I suppose it depends on your price. How much are you asking for dollars?”
    The man shrugged. “The going rate—nine.”
    “Nine tomans!” hissed Moosa. “Only a week ago the official rate was seven tomans, five rials! You are a thief, my friend!”
    The moneychanger affected a pained look. “Young man, I am an honest businessman. Feel free to go anywhere in the bazaar. You won’t find a better rate on dollars, I promise you.” Grumbling under his breath, the fellow took another sip of tea and drew a string of worry beads out of a pocket.
    Moosa thought a moment. The old scoundrel was probably telling the truth. Since the Khomeini regime had halted the banks from selling hard currencies, the only sources for foreign exchange were the independent operators in the bazaars. The government did nothing to interfere with the informal, yet quite brisk trade of men such as this. Given the tight supply, and the increasing demand by those who wanted to get out of the country, nine tomans to the dollar was quite possible, as badly as he hated to admit it. He decided to try a different tact.
    Moosa took another sip of his tea. His eyes studiously fixed on his tea glass, he asked. “How much would I have to buy before you would give me a better price?”
    The merchant shrugged, his eyes downcast. “You will have to give me a moment to think,” he mumbled. “I am not accustomed to having my ethics impugned by young striplings.”
    Moosa grimaced inwardly, but said nothing.
    In a couple of minutes, the old man looked up, his eyes sliding past Moosa’s face to gaze at the dark corner of the room, just under the roof. “Perhaps I can give you some discount for volume. How much currency do you want?”
    Moosa avoided answering directly, “I only have about 300,000 to exchange today. But, if I get a favorable rate …” He allowed the end of the sentence to dangle tantalizingly between them.
    The moneychanger snorted, “Ah! A big shot! Do you think I can afford to discount my wares for every fledging financier who swaggers into my booth? Just because you’ve been across the ocean, boy, don’t think I’m a stupid