I look down at my feet as Ahmed laughs.
“You know one other thing you always do?” he asks. “You’ve named the biggest and the brightest stars after her, night after night.”
“Really?”
“And didn’t you ever notice how I always name the star next to her after you?”
I shake my head.
So, it’s my turn to tell Ahmed everything, and his turn to listen all night. I tell him about her walk, her chin and her cheekbones. I tell him about her eyes and about my dreams, my guilt and my constant efforts not to imagine her in inappropriate ways. But I don’t tell him about Doctor’s plans to marry her when he returns. After all, a promise to a friend must always be kept.
Ahmed smokes a cigarette as he listens, offering me one. I could smoke the whole pack, but I decide not to risk my father’s dirty look.
“When did you first know that you love Zari?” Ahmed asks.
“For as long as I can remember,” I say, my head down. “I think maybe your situation with Faheemeh forced me into accepting it.”
We’re quiet for a while. The look on Ahmed’s face is serious as he thinks. Being insecure about the appropriateness of my decision to confess my feelings for Zari, I ask nervously if he thinks I’m evil.
“What in the name of God—” Ahmed laughs.
“Well, you know, because of Doctor and all,” I stutter. “He’s . . . he’s our friend and . . . and we’re sitting here talking about his fiancée. I mean, not you but me. It’s horrible.”
Ahmed laughs some more and shakes his head.
The next day, Ahmed tells me that Zari’s six-year-old brother, Keivan, is building a little doghouse.
“Why? Is he getting a puppy?” I ask.
“Nah. It’s just a summer school project.” His stare makes me self-conscious.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?” I ask.
“How’s your carpentry?”
I laugh since I’m not handy at all. Ahmed rings the bell of Zari’s house anyway, and before I know it we’re in the yard helping Keivan. Zari’s parents are at work, as they are every day, jointly managing a small restaurant they have owned for over twenty years in a nearby neighborhood.
Every time Zari comes out to the yard, she steals all my attention. I burn with shame and tell Ahmed that this is getting too complicated for me. Not only am I betraying Doctor, I’m pretending to be the friend of a six-year-old in order to be around his sister. Ahmed tells me to relax.
Zari is dressed in a tight blue T-shirt and a long black skirt covered in a flower pattern. Her damp hair is neatly combed back and she has a touch of makeup on. I’m too nervous and shy to look her in the eye, so every time she comes out to talk to us I clumsily busy myself with unfamiliar wood scraps and tools. When her back is to me, I look at the curve of her bicep and her delicate wrist. I notice the tiny blond hairs on her arm that shine under the sun, and I get so excited I want to jump out of my skin. There’s a soothing tranquility in her gaze, in the smiling eyes of a woman I would love to love. Her tiny waist makes me wish I could wrap my arms around her. I have to look the other way and squint a couple of times to wipe the image from my mind.
She brings us cool drinks and thanks us for helping her little brother. I’m so unsettled in her presence that I pour most of the drink on myself as I nervously attempt to sip.
“Your chest’s thirsty, too?” Ahmed asks in a smart-ass tone.
I give him a dirty look, which he ignores. Zari laughs at Ahmed’s comment and says, “Leave him alone, the poor guy is hot and thirsty.”
When Zari goes back inside the house, Ahmed says, “She can’t keep her eyes off you.”
“She hasn’t even looked at me!”
“You don’t know women. You think they’re not looking at you, but they watch your every move. Their brains work like radar. They see you, but you have no idea you’re on their screen. Don’t be so bashful! Talk to her when she comes back out.”
A few minutes later Zari comes back into the yard. She sits at the edge of the hose. She dips her pretty white feet in the cold water and begins to read a book.
“Go talk to her,” Ahmed whispers.
“No,” I say abruptly.
“Go.”
“No.”
“You’re hopeless,” he says to me. “What’re you reading?” he calls to Zari.
“Suvashun by Simin Daneshvar.”
Ahmed turns to me in mock amazement. “Your favorite book, wow!” He tells Zari, “He loves that book.”
I want to kill him. I haven’t even read Suvashun.
“What do you think of it?” Zari asks.
“Well, Daneshvar is one of the best writers,” I mumble nervously, as I try not to look her directly in the eyes for fear I might stop breathing altogether. “She’s so good. Actually much better than good, she’s very good.”
From the corner of my eye I see Ahmed shaking his head. Zari listens attentively.
“And her husband,” I continue. “Jalal Al-Ahmed is just as good or even gooder.”
“Oh, much, much gooder,” Ahmed confirms.
“I . . . I mean, maybe a better writer. I’d read anything by the two of them.” I realize that I’m babbling, and I shut up.
“Yes,” Zari says. “I would read a story by Daneshvar and Al-Ahmed, too.” Her eyes wander back to the book. I let Ahmed know with my eyes that I’m going to kick his ass as soon as we’re alone, and he winks at me.
By that afternoon, the doghouse is finished. We are about to leave when I hear Zari tell Ahmed, “Of course, anything for you. I’d love to.”
“What was that about?” I ask him angrily when we are in the alley.
“I asked her if she wanted to kiss you, and she said she would love to.”
“You son of a bitch,” I say, and attack him. He starts running toward his house.
“Well, is it my fault you’re so cute that she wants to kiss you?”
“Shut up!” I shout as I’m chasing him. “You made me look like a fool.”
“How was I supposed to know you haven’t read Suvashun? You’ve read every other fucking book in the world,” he says, looking back to make sure I’m not closing in on him.
“You son of a bitch,” I curse again, kicking my feet out at him. “I’ll kick your ass for what you did to me.”
“What happened to your pledge to the sacred brotherhood of the boxing fraternity?” Ahmed teases as he disappears into his house, shutting the door behind him. I stand there for a few minutes, breathing hard, sweating and angry. Then I hear him from the other side of the wall. “Is Al-Ahmed really a gooder writer than his wife?”
Furious though I am, I collapse with hysterical laughter.
Winter of 1974
Roozbeh Psychiatric Hospital, Tehran
I know I am dreaming, even though I’m not sure where my body sleeps. In my mind, I’m in a pasture with Zari, Faheemeh, and Ahmed. We are running aimlessly, sometimes toward, sometimes away from one another. Zari stops and tilts her head to one side, smiling at me. The wind blows her long hair and it bends in the same direction as the tall green grass brushing our knees. I walk up to her and pull her body to mine. She fills my arms. I lift her in the air and we spin for what seems like an eternity. I can see Ahmed doing the same to Faheemeh. Lines from a poem by Rumi unfurl in the air around us, spoken in Doctor’s voice on the wind.
Happy the moment, when together, you and I.
In two forms, but one spirit, you and I.
Parrots of love in heaven they sing
And we’ll laugh cheerfully, you and I.
I see Doctor walking away from us in the distance. Zari looks at me, leans in slowly, and kisses me on the lips. Then she and Ahmed stand up and follow Doctor. Faheemeh and I begin to weep inconsolably. Humming through the white noise of my dream, the verses of the Rumi poem are replaced by a blank, rhythmic chanting.
If I had a gun, I would aim it.
If I had a mask, I would wear it.
If I had a pain, I would hide it.
If I had a heart, I would share it.
I concentrate on opening my eyes, and find myself in the wheelchair again. Apple Face is sitting next to me, her face turned toward the old man on the other side of the room. I know I was just dreaming, but my mind can’t hold on to the details; trying is like gripping silk.
“Water?” I whisper.
She turns toward me calmly, but the brightness in her eyes betrays her excitement. “What did you say?” she asks.
“I’m thirsty,” I croak.
Her eyes scan my face from left to right, then right to left. She whispers that she’ll be right back, and disappears behind me. She comes back a few seconds later with a pitcher of water and a glass.
“How thirsty are you?” she asks.
“Very thirsty.”
She fills the glass with water, and looks at my body slumped in the wheelchair.
“Take it,” she says, bringing the glass close to me.
I reach out, take the glass, and empty it in one continuous gulp. Her face breaks into a warm smile, and I think I see tears in her eyes, but I have no idea why she is crying.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“You’re here,” she says, in a smart but gentle tone.
“Who’re you?”
“Don’t you know me?” she teases. “Everyone knows me, including me.”
“You’re Apple Face,” I say, and laugh weakly. She laughs hard.
“My ribs hurt,” I say.
“I know. Nothing’s broken, don’t worry.”
I look at my arms.
“Why do I have burned spots on my arms and hands?”
Apple Face doesn’t respond.
“And I have nightmares, all the time. I see a man with wicked eyes. Who is he?” And as I talk about my dreams, something snaps inside me, pulling a swell of emotion up from the depths of my stomach, and I begin to cry. Apple Face sits in the chair next to me and puts her arms around me.
“Cry, my darling. Cry.”
“Why am I crying?” I ask, pulling back to search her streaming eyes.
“Don’t you remember anything?” she asks, startled.
“Remember what?”
She leans back, rocking slightly. “Never mind,” she soothes, “just close your eyes. No one needs a reason to cry.”
5
Summer of 1973 Tehran
Under the Cherry Tree
Ahmed and I are in the alley watching Iraj demonstrate one of his newest inventions to a group of semi-interested kids when Faheemeh walks past us. She looks at me with a smile and winks, then rings the bell to Zari’s house. When Zari opens the door they hug and kiss as if they have been friends for a million years, and Zari pulls Faheemeh into the house. I ask Ahmed if they know each other.
“Are you kidding? They’re like sisters.”
“Since when?”
“Since today,” he answers, grinning. He explains that Faheemeh will be coming to Zari’s house every day for the rest of the summer. “We are going to sit around Zari’s hose and chitchat about life. Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Just follow me.”
He runs inside his house and I follow him up the steps toward the roof.
“Where’re we going?” I ask, anxiously.
“We can’t let the neighbors see we’re getting together at Zari’s house. They talk, you know. It wouldn’t be good for the girls.”
“How did you get Zari to agree to this?”
“I promised to bring you along.”
My heart skips as I say, “You’re lying.”
“Yes, I am,” he says, laughing.
We run the rest of the way up to Ahmed’s roof and cross over mine and then to Zari’s, where she is waiting to let us in. I can feel my heart thumping a rhythm in the pit of my stomach from excitement. Zari smiles and says hello to both of us as she lets us in the house.
Down in the yard, the four of us sit on a red blanket in the shadow of the cherry tree by the hose. Ahmed, Faheemeh, and Zari exchange small talk, and I watch them silently. Guilt, shame, and excitement crowd my heart, making it impossible for me to focus on anything that’s being said or think of anything to say myself. Even in my private thoughts, Zari was never anything more than the object of a timid and cautious desire; to explore possibilities with her would have been beyond anything I ever dared to imagine.
On the other hand, I console myself that nothing will ever come of this. So what’s the harm in a little bit of fun, especially since she’s getting married to Doctor in a couple of months anyway? The summer stands open like a doorway between adolescence and adulthood with the four of us on the threshold. After this year I’ll go to the United States, Zari and Doctor will start their life together, and Ahmed will marry Faheemeh. Things will be very different for all of us. So why can’t I enjoy the company of a beautiful girl in a completely harmless way?
Ahmed and Faheemeh sit next to each other and Zari is directly across from me. She brings us iced drinks in the early parts of the afternoon, and then later, as the weather cools, hot, sweet Lahijan tea—the best black tea in the world.
Ahmed and Faheemeh look great together. Faheemeh is a beautiful woman, although I would never compliment her on her looks because it’s not polite to tell a friend’s girlfriend that she is pretty. She has long black hair, which she habitually tosses back over her left shoulder with a graceful movement of her head. She almost always ends her comments with a question and an inquisitive look. The personal way she addresses you makes you feel like an old and trusted friend. Her black bell-bottomed pants and white silk shirt fit her perfectly. I know I’m going to like Faheemeh a lot.
Zari and I are not in tune with each other. She talks about Doctor, a sure sign that she misses him dearly. “He’s gone away on a university project,” she tells us.
A university project? I ponder. He told me he was going to work with the peasants.
“Doctor and I have been together since birth,” Zari says. “Our parents vowed that their children would marry each other. This was their way of ensuring that their friendship would be preserved for as long as they lived.”
“Wow, I didn’t know that,” Ahmed says, genuinely surprised.
“I feel lucky that Doctor has turned out to be a great guy, or I would have had a difficult time agreeing to it.”
Arranged marriage? I think cynically. Doctor is one of the most progressive thinkers in our neighborhood. How could he go along with such an absurd and outdated tradition?
Ahmed winks at me, raises his eyebrows, and nods a couple of times as if he’s reading and confirming my thoughts.
As Zari talks, I look at her tiny ears, her rosy lips, her silky, fresh skin, and my face burns with desire. She has a soft, low voice that sounds confident, even a little too mature for her face, but perfect in my ears. When she leans forward I can see some of her chest through the opening of her shirt. Then I remember that she is Doctor’s girl and I am once more seared by guilt. She looks mostly at me when she speaks, but she seems to have a restrained attitude toward me.
“I don’t think she wants me here,” I tell Ahmed and Faheemeh when Zari goes inside to check on Keivan.
Ahmed’s thoughts are preoccupied. “Arranged marriage?” he mumbles, irritated. He looks at Faheemeh. “What is it with you girls? Why’re your parents always trying to ditch you?”
“Oh, be quiet,” Faheemeh says, smiling.
When Zari comes back, she pours tea for us in small teacups she brought from the kitchen. Then she asks Faheemeh and Ahmed how they met.
“I used to follow her home from school every day,” Ahmed explains.
“Did you know he was following you?” Zari asks Faheemeh.
“The whole world knew.” She tells Zari about Ahmed’s public display of affection, after she was set up for an arranged marriage.
Zari laughs. “Good for you.” She taps Ahmed on the back. “I’m proud of you.
” Then she asks Faheemeh, “How do your parents feel about what he did?”
“They aren’t happy. They’re embarrassed. The groom’s parents don’t talk to them anymore.”
Ahmed sits straighter at the comment, puffing his chest out as if proud of his accomplishment, and Faheemeh swats his arm playfully.
“Would your parents ever agree to you two . . . ?” Zari doesn’t finish the sentence, unsure where their relationship is heading.
“Well, they’ve forbidden me to see him,” Faheemeh says with a sad look. Then she suddenly cheers up. “But once they get to know him, they will fall madly in love with him. I’m certain of it.” She reaches over and grabs Ahmed’s chin in her hand. “Look at this face, can you blame them?”
Ahmed turns red as Zari and I laugh.
“When he was following you, did you want him to talk to you?” Zari asks after a few seconds.
Faheemeh thinks for a while, and says no.
“No? Really?” Ahmed asks, surprised. “You didn’t want me to talk to you?”
“I was scared. I didn’t want you to get in trouble,” Faheemeh says quietly. “I felt as if someone was pulling my heart out when my brothers were beating you up.” Tears fill her eyes.
I look at Zari. She bites her lower lip and smiles. Ahmed blushes again. Then he points to me while talking to Zari and says, “They were lucky my buddy here didn’t go after them. Did you know he’s a boxer?”
Zari shakes her head no.
A boxer? Punching a bag makes me a boxer?
“Oh, he’s a marvelous boxer,” Ahmed says. “He’s faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Uncomfortable with Ahmed’s undeserved compliments, I try to change the topic, but Ahmed continues. “Well, he’s the son of an ex-heavyweight boxing champion. He’s got good fighting genes.”
I finally break in. “So, you and Doctor have known each other forever, huh?”
“Yes,” Zari says as she sets the full teacups in front of us. Then she turns to Ahmed and Faheemeh. “I admire people like you. I have always been intrigued by how strangers fall for each other. For as long as I can remember, I was supposed to be in love with Doctor.”
Rooftops of Tehran Page 5