Rooftops of Tehran

by Mahbod Seraji

  I look into her eyes. If I open my mouth I will cry, I know it.

  “They destroyed our lives by killing him: his dad, his mom, and us,” Zari says. “Nothing will ever be the same again, nothing will ever be the same.” Then she slowly puts her arms around the grave as her face touches the sodden earth.

  I stand up and take my place next to Ahmed. He and I look at each other. I can tell that both of us want to cry, but a promise must be kept, especially when it’s made with your best friend. I failed to keep my promise to Doctor when he asked me to keep an eye on his girl; I’m not failing another friend.

  I squint my eyes and hold my breath as my heart pounds. I look to our right and see a number of buildings. These are the private tombs of the rich, who can afford to build a structure around their final resting place. Great, tall columns, sandy stone steps, and large gates make these expensive crypts look imposing. I remember the words of the mullah by the gate. In life there may be inequalities, but in death everyone is treated the same.

  What a joke. I look at Doctor’s humble grave, and I can’t believe that his body is buried only a few meters from the private tombs of the rich.

  One of Doctor’s favorite books was Mother by Maxim Gorky. He must be wondering why his mother has not come to see him. Does he know that his father is in the hospital? Does he wish I wasn’t here?

  I begin talking to him in my head. I tell him that I’m sorry for falling in love with his girl. It was my destiny. I know he doesn’t believe in it, but I need to. I tell him that I will take care of Zari, and will love her for as long as I live. I tell him that I love him and that if this hadn’t happened I would have quietly gone away, because I had no intention of stealing his girl. Show me a sign, I beg. Let me know you understand, and that you forgive me.

  I feel someone standing behind me. I turn around and there is Iraj. He is pale, out of breath, and sweaty. He says he didn’t have enough money to take a cab, so he took the bus and that’s why he’s late.

  Ahmed and I are standing shoulder to shoulder. I take a step to my right, and Iraj steps between us. The three of us are now standing side by side. I look at Ahmed, no tears, just as he promised. I hear Faheemeh and Zari crying. Out of the corner of my eye I see a mullah approaching us. He asks if it would be okay for him to read a prayer out of the Koran. Ahmed reaches into his pocket for a few coins, and the mullah begins his sermon.

  Ahmed, Iraj, and I sit down by the grave and say a final prayer for Doctor. It’s October. A rush of cold wind coming from the north sends a shiver through me. The dark gray skies augment the heartrending emotions brought on by the worst day of our lives, so far.

  I’m crying quietly in my room later that night when I hear a knock on my window. I look up and see Ahmed and Iraj standing outside on the terrace. I open the door and let them in. I can tell from their red eyes that I’m not the only one who’s been crying. Ahmed lights up a couple of cigarettes and gives me one of them. Iraj says he wants one, too. Ahmed hesitates for a moment. I gesture for him to get on with it, and he does. Iraj smokes his cigarette like he’s been a smoker all his life.

  I tell them to wait there, then run downstairs and take my father’s bottle of Smirnoff vodka out of the fridge. I also grab three shot glasses and a bottle of Coca-Cola. I’m glad my parents are out of town. They would have objected to everything we’ve done today. In my room, I open the bottle and tell Iraj and Ahmed that we need to replace it before my father comes back.

  “Have you ever had this?” I ask.

  “No.” They shake their heads.

  The first time I ever had vodka was with my dad, when I was sixteen. He poured me a shot and told me that he wanted me to have my first drink with him. He encouraged me not to ever hide anything from him. Perhaps it’d be better if I tell him what we did today instead of subtly replacing the bottle.

  “One of my uncles says you can’t call yourself a man until you’ve had your first shot of vodka,” I say. “There are rituals you need to respect,” I add, remembering my father talking about it. “The saghi, the one who pours the drinks, must be fair. He must serve everyone equally.” I fill the shot glasses carefully, making sure that they all contain exactly the same amount of vodka. “You know how to drink this?” I ask them.

  They shake their heads again.

  “Pick up your shot glasses.”

  They do.

  “You bang your glasses together, like this.” The rim of my shot glass touches the middle of theirs. “You see, you’re not supposed to let me do that. Banging glasses and making sure that your glass is not higher than your partner’s at the moment of contact is a sign of respect.”

  Lecture dispensed, I chug my shot. Iraj and Ahmed drink theirs. I can tell that they feel as bad as I do as the vodka goes down, burning everything from our tongues all the way down to our belly buttons. We each take a sip out of the Coke bottle, and I fill our shot glasses again with the precision and accuracy of a longtime saghi.

  “You have to have a couple in a row to make sure you get a good buzz,” I say.

  We drink our second and third shots, and I already feel the buzz. We sit there quietly for a while before Ahmed slurs, “Drinking today was the best idea you’ve ever had.”

  I acknowledge his praise with a nod.

  “This is the best thing for killing pain.” Then his eyes fill. “I know what you’re thinking. But we’re not in the cemetery anymore.”

  A lump grows larger and larger in my throat. “That was a courageous thing you did today,” I say to Iraj, trying to hold back the tears.

  Ahmed nods in agreement. I put my arm around Iraj’s shoulders. “I really love you. I’m going to love you like my own little brother, okay? You’ll be my little brother from now on.”

  Iraj, overwhelmed with emotions and inebriated with alcohol, begins to sob.

  “Me, too,” Ahmed cries out. “I will never give you a hard time again.”

  “You showing up today was a sure sign that despite what happens on a day-to-day basis, the human spirit is indestructible,” I say. “No one can destroy it. Not the Shah, not the motherfucking SAVAK, not the CIA, nobody, I mean nobody can touch it.” I burst into tears.

  “I loved Doctor,” Iraj slurs. “And I love you guys. I do, I do. I couldn’t stand by and watch you put yourselves in harm’s way. No way. And fuck those SAVAK bastards, and their Western masters, and the grand servant of the West. Fuck anyone who wants to put me in jail because I stood by my friends to mourn the death of a hero, screw them all. I don’t care if I have to spend the rest of my life behind bars, I don’t, I really don’t. I learned today that friendship is worth making sacrifices for. Doctor proved that life is a small price to pay for your beliefs.”

  Iraj wipes the tears off his face with his shirtsleeves. He goes on. “I’m not sure what’s going on in my heart right now, but I know that something big is happening in there, something that’s trying to pull me inside; you know what I mean? Not sure what it is, but it’s something. It’s really something. That’s how it happens, isn’t it? I think so. Something happens inside you, and then that’s it.”

  Ahmed and I watch him as he talks. “I love him like my little brother,” I cry again like a little kid, completely drunk on vodka.

  “Me, too,” Ahmed whispers, and hugs Iraj sloppily.

  A strange feeling is taking me over, one that’s hard to describe. It must be what Iraj is calling “something.”

  15

  The Rosebush

  No one will ever know the price of the bullet that killed Doctor. His parents are forbidden to speak of it. The stone on his grave must be left blank except for his name. The family can visit the grave as often as they wish, but others should not be encouraged. Doctor will not be issued a death certificate, and all documents pertaining to his birth will be destroyed. As far as the world is concerned, Doctor never existed. His books and the rest of his belongings were taken away during his incarceration, and they will not be returned. I remember my grandm
a saying after the death of a distant family member that the earth grows cold. I guess what she meant is that burying a loved one prepares the family to move on to the next stage in the grieving process. This is why Islam encourages immediate burial of the deceased.

  In Iran, it takes us a long time to move on. We mourn the death of a loved one for a whole year. We get together on the third, the seventh, and the fortieth day after someone has died. Tea, sherbet, and sweets are served. Friends, acquaintances, and family members show up with flowers to offer their condolences. The same type of gathering is repeated on the one-year anniversary of the death. Throughout the first year, the family members wear black and refrain from attending parties or celebrating the New Year or any other national holiday.

  In the case of Doctor, Zari’s family was told by the SAVAK that no one would be allowed to wear black and that there would be no gatherings permitted, especially on the fortieth day after his death, which happens to coincide with the birthday of the Shah.

  I’m searching in my room for something when I accidentally find The Gadfly, the book Doctor gave me—the story of a young passionate revolutionary who is killed for his beliefs. I read it in less than two days. I’m gripped by its powerful nineteenth-century style of writing, and the passion and brilliance of its hero’s struggle and sacrifice. I understand Doctor better as a result. I wish I had read this book when he was still alive! Did he know of the destiny that awaited him, and was that why he asked me to read it?

  All of his books were destroyed except this one, this special gift that is in my possession now. I will never part with it. All the kids in the alley should hear the story of The Gadfly. They should all know Doctor the way I do. If I can do nothing else for him, I can tell everyone that Doctor was a revolutionary who was not afraid of losing his life. All who knew him should be proud of their association with him. They should feel special because it’s not often that our paths cross with those of real heroes. I will tell everyone that the SAVAK has forbidden us to mourn him, out of fear that it may inspire us to live in a way that would make his death worthwhile.

  The SAVAK arrests a few of Doctor’s university pals, claiming that he identified them as participants in anti-regime activities. In spite of these fabricated accusations, stories of Doctor’s bravery flood the neighborhood.

  “He wouldn’t let them blindfold him,” one of the neighbors says.

  “He kept yelling, ‘Death to the Shah!’ until they shot him,” another boasts.

  Everyone knows that the real cause of Doctor’s arrest and execution will stay a mystery forever. The SAVAK will never release the real reason. In the absence of facts, speculation and rumors cover a range of explanations, from his involvement in a plot to overthrow the Shah to simply being a student activist. I tell Ahmed that I think his personal friendship with Golesorkhi—the Red Rose—must have played a role in his execution. “If asked about his friend,” I say, “he would’ve been just as defiant: a red rose himself destroyed by the SAVAK.” Then I tell Ahmed, for the first time, that Doctor was the person posting the posters of red roses all over the neighborhood the night of Golesorkhi’s broadcast trial.

  “Wow!” Ahmed shakes his head in amazement. “How come you never told me this before?” Before I have a chance to respond, he adds, “Never mind. I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

  I would love to do something special for Doctor, but can’t think of a worthwhile way to commemorate his death without violating the SAVAK’s instructions. As I’m thinking of the night I caught Doctor distributing the posters of the Red Rose, a thought flashes through my head, something that Ahmed would mastermind. I pace back and forth in my room all night until I finally make a decision and go out to the spot in the alley where Doctor was first struck, where his blood was first spilled.

  The next morning I count the allowance money I have saved up and realize that I need to borrow money from Ahmed. He agrees to lend it to me without asking the reason for it. I go to a nursery and buy a rosebush and some fertilizer, bring them home in a taxi, and take everything to the basement without anyone seeing. In the basement I find an old rusted shovel and a pair of gardening gloves. I find the hose that my mom uses to water our plants, and connect it to a faucet close to the door. Late that night after I’m sure everyone is asleep, I go to the spot and dig a hole about thirty centimeters deep and forty centimeters wide. I make sure that the soil is dry and spread five centimeters of manure before setting the roots in the hole and covering it back up with the dirt. I water the plant well to make sure that the backfilled soil settles well around the roots, then I collect my tools and disappear into the house.

  I sleep like a baby that night. The next morning I run downstairs and out into the alley. Everyone in the neighborhood has gathered around the plant, and they’re all talking at the same time.

  “Who planted this?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why a red rose?”

  “Why here? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Oh, a red rose! Remember the posters?”

  “The posters? Oh, yes, the posters, I remember the posters.”

  “Red is the color of passion and the color of revolution.”

  “Red is also the color of love.”

  “And the color of blood.”

  Suddenly everyone quiets down as they remember that this is where Doctor’s blood was spilled, and a reverent silence fills the air. Ahmed turns and looks at me. He doesn’t say anything but his mute stare speaks volumes—after all, we Persians are masters of silent communication. I go inside the house and come back with a watering pot.

  “We must take turns caring for this bush,” someone says in the crowd, as I water the plant.

  “Yes, we must,” everyone agrees. “For Doctor.”

  16

  The Width of the Alley

  No one knows of Mr. Mehrbaan’s status in prison. Mrs. Mehrbaan comes to our house every other day to spend time with my parents. She looks older than the first time I saw her, when the color of her dress, shoes, and purse matched, when her makeup was thoughtfully applied, and when her hair was clean and nicely groomed. Nowadays, she seems not to care very much about her appearance. She cries constantly, and speculates about her husband’s physical and mental condition in prison. My mother does her best to provide comfort, and gives her a special herb tea designed to battle depression.

  “It tastes bitter,” Mrs. Mehrbaan complains politely.

  “The more bitter the taste, the stronger its healing power,” my mother explains, encouraging her friend to finish the drink.

  Mrs. Mehrbaan says that being away from her husband is more difficult this time because she was getting used to having him around. They used to talk with regret about the lost years; little did they know that he was going to be gone again. How long will it be this time? He is not young anymore, and given his heart condition, God only knows if he can tolerate the mental and physical abuse that prisoners are subjected to on a daily basis.

  What a waste this all is, Mrs. Mehrbaan continues. Everyone knows that the Shah will never be overthrown. What the opposition needs to do is find a way into the government and influence the decisions and the laws that impact those affected by the injustice. A revolution is out of the question, so why bother? She adds that Mr. Mehrbaan used to express serious concerns about the new breed of prisoners in the SAVAK’s jails. He had told her that he was troubled by the strong religious overtones in the thinking and philosophy of the younger revolutionaries. He believed that the rise of religious fundamentalism would create insurmountable new barriers to attaining democracy in Iran. My dad nods and says that Mr. Mehrbaan was always accurate in his analysis of political situations.

  One evening, during the course of conversation, my mother inadvertently mentions Doctor’s situation. I am sitting only a few meters away from Mrs. Mehrbaan, and I see her face wash pale while ridges of concern jump from her forehead, as if a sudden shock has been administered to her body. She hangs her
head, takes a few short, abrupt breaths, then falls over. I catch her right before her face hits the ground. My father scolds my mother for mentioning Doctor as he rushes toward us. “Good catch, son,” he yells out. “Let’s take her to the bedroom.” Her body is limp and droopy, and her arms dangle in the air as I carry her to the bedroom. She’s heavy but I’m determined to carry her without the help of my father, who’s just a step behind us. My mother runs to the kitchen to get one of her natural remedies. My heart is pounding, and I’m sure that Mrs. Mehrbaan is dead from a heart attack.

  The muscles in her face collapse, leaving her skin waxy and creased. Her lips turn blue, as if she is not getting any oxygen. I lay her on the bed and put my arm under her neck, trying to keep her head up. My mother comes back with hot water and sugar, and uses a teaspoon to feed the liquid to Mrs. Mehrbaan. My parents talk over each other, issuing orders while fanning her with a newspaper, spraying cold water in her face, and telling me to hold her head up.

  Mrs. Mehrbaan regains consciousness within a few seconds, and begins to sob bitterly as she curses the Shah, his family, his SAVAK, the Americans and the British who support him and keep him in power.

  When I go to bed, I struggle to fall asleep, worrying about Mr. Mehrbaan and his fate in the Shah’s prison. Are they beating him up right now? Are they burning his skin again like they did the last time? Is he screaming? Crying for mercy? Or is he defiant and resolute in his hatred of the regime, like the Red Rose was, like Doctor probably was? I wish Ahmed would show up with his cigarettes.

  When I finally fall asleep, I dream of the night they took Doctor away. I see the man with the radio. His eyes are staring, locked on me, his lips whispering into the radio, and his fist crashing into Doctor’s cheek. I see his predatory eyes again, and again, and again. His eyebrows are thin. His forehead is wrinkled and his long hair is combed back neatly. I hate him. I want to run downstairs and stop him from kicking Doctor, but I can’t move.