Rooftops of Tehran

by Mahbod Seraji

  “I looked at him for a while, then asked, ‘Is that important to you? Isn’t an accusation of wrongdoing as compelling as an admission of guilt to you? Aren’t men like you responsible for the corruption of our value systems and for our national suspicion and reservation toward procedures of justice and fairness? Is it not true that men like you perpetuate the ugliness of our political and legal systems? No, I feel no remorse, no pain, no guilt, and no shame—for everything you mention is felt by one guilty of a crime.’

  “ ‘Let me be honest with you,’ I continued. ‘I was about to crush your skull before you stopped the car. And to be perfectly frank, I’m still thinking about it. Not for the unjustified pain you are about to cause me, but for the misery you are about to bestow on the lives of those most dear to me. I do not value your integrity or your unfaltering high standards because I resent your narrow-minded approach to an assumption of guilt. So I advise you to run, beg for mercy, or repent because your time on this earth is coming to an end.’

  “He made no attempt to escape, despite seeing the anger and the anguish in my eyes. He put out his cigarette and lit another one. Suddenly, like a well-mannered man who had momentarily forgotten how to behave properly, he offered me a cigarette. I took one, and he respectfully lit it with his old lighter.

  “ ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

  “I thought for a while, and said, ‘Let’s go back to the village and face my accusers.’

  “He agreed, and walked to the driver’s side of the car.

  “ ‘I drive,’ I whispered. He turned around and looked at me, and I knew he had figured out what I was proposing.

  “ ‘Have they never met you?’ he asked.

  “ ‘No,’ I responded.

  “We drove away without saying another word. I was surprised that he went along with my plan so readily. But I guess he had dealt with a lot of sinister characters in his life. And I guess, at least in his heart, I didn’t fit the mold.

  “I could tell that he was watching me as I drove through the gravel roads of the Alborz Mountains. We traversed narrow roadways made for horses and donkeys, through canyons and along rivers toward a little village known as Kolahdasht. I loved this area. There was peace in the meadows where the cows grazed. There was serenity in the rolling mountains, where you could see pristine streams running down the inclines, where every once in a while you could spot a deer climbing the slopes.

  “The jeep was spotted from a couple of kilometers away. When we reached the outskirts of Kolahdasht, the kad khoda, the mayor, and half of the village were anxiously waiting to welcome us.

  “I got out of the jeep and shook hands with the kad khoda, introducing myself as Engineer Sadeghi. The kad khoda was thrilled to meet a high-ranking official from the capital city. He invited me to follow him to his ‘humble dwellings’ for a cup of Lahijan tea. I looked at my passenger and barked at him to follow us. As Sadeghi was getting out of the car, I heard a man yell, ‘How does it feel to get caught, you thief?’

  “We entered the kad khoda’s house, followed by almost everyone who lived in the village. I was directed to a place in the room reserved for honorable guests, and Sadeghi was told to sit by the door. There were no chairs in the room. An old inexpensive Persian rug covered the floor. Cylindrical pillows were set on smelly sheepskins, which were laid on the carpet along walls that had been darkened by the smoke of Ghalyan and cigarettes.

  “The kad khoda yelled at his daughter to bring his honorable guest a fresh cup of tea. ‘Bring a cup for that man, too,’ he directed, pointing to Engineer Sadeghi, who was playing the role of prisoner with the artistry of an accomplished actor.

  “I know the people of this region well, and I know how important it is to them to come across as hospitable, so I was not surprised when the kad khoda pointed to Sadeghi and said, ‘This man may be a thief, but he is my guest—and a guest will always be treated like a lover of God in my house.’

  “A few of his helpers who were sitting in the room approved by nodding their heads. The kad khoda’s daughter brought us tea, sugar cubes, and sweets. He looked at me and said, ‘Welcome to my humble dwellings, Mr. Engineer Sadeghi. It is seldom that I’m honored by the presence of a guest of your stature. I hope you will forgive my clumsy manners, and grant me the honor of hosting you tonight. As for him’—he gestured, pointing at Sadeghi—‘rest assured that we have the proper facilities to keep him in check.’

  “I thanked him for his invitation, and said that we must leave for Tehran immediately, that it was only in the spirit of fairness that I had brought him to this village to face his accusers before taking him to Tehran to suffer the consequences of his illegal acts.

  “The kad khoda looked around the room and insisted that we stay the night. ‘These are dangerous roads, especially at night. You will get lost, and it is cold. Besides, what would the people of this village say if I didn’t show you the hospitality owed to a gentleman of your stature?’ he said pleadingly.

  “He looked around the room again, and everyone started nodding politely, insisting that we spend the night at the kad khoda’s house.

  “I told him that we could discuss his proposal after we got the small business of this man’s fate out of the way. I asked who was accusing him of taking a bribe, and whether or not he might be among us.

  “One of the kad khoda’s helpers stood up and said that he was the accuser, and that he had seen the accused taking a bribe from his father-in-law.

  “I asked if he had been present when the bribe was taken. He said that he had, and that he had seen the transaction with his own two eyes.

  “I told him to look at the accused, Mr. Shahed, carefully, and then tell me with certainty that he saw him accepting the bribe from his father-in-law. The accuser walked over to Engineer Sadeghi and looked at him carefully. A couple of the people who were peering through the windows yelled, ‘It’s him, it’s him! Tell the honorable Mr. Engineer that he was the man—tell him, tell him!’ The man looked at Sadeghi for a few more seconds, then turned to me and said that he was sure the guilty party had been arrested. He and the accused had even smoked a cigarette together by the stream that runs through the village, and it was there that the accused told him he was going to use the money to buy a new car. The accuser then stuck his chest out and boasted that he would recognize this thief even with his eyes closed.

  “ ‘Why are you lying, man?’ Sadeghi pleaded.

  “ ‘I’m not lying,’ the accuser barked back. ‘You are a liar, and a despicable one at that.’

  “ ‘Had you ever seen him before that day?’ I asked.

  “ ‘No,’ said the accuser.

  “The kad khoda looked at me and said in a hushed tone that he had heard the accused had tried to implicate the family of his Imperial Majesty for shaving the forests. He said that the man had no shame, and should be locked up for the rest of his life.

  “A couple of onlookers yelled, ‘Lock him up, lock him up for the rest of his life!’

  “ ‘Where’s your father-in-law?’ I asked the accuser.

  “ ‘The gendarmes have him locked up. He denies having bribed anyone,’ the accuser said.

  “ ‘Is he wealthy?’ I asked.

  “ ‘He owns a house, and lives in it alone. I guess my wife and I have to move in now to protect the property until he pays his debt to society. He is old, your honor, and I doubt he will get out of prison alive. It’s a shame, a shame.’

  “I looked at Sadeghi, who seemed fascinated by the events unfolding. Another innocent man was in jail because of the greed of this detestable human being and the shameless cover-up efforts of the kad khoda. I asked if he had seen enough. He shook his head, completely appalled.”

  My father takes a deep breath, and stops talking. He reaches for another cigarette. I quickly pick up the lighter from the dashboard and light his cigarette. Dad recognizes my gesture of respect by tapping my hand a couple of times and shooting a smile my way. I can tell from the serious look on Ahmed’s
face that he has understood the wisdom in my father’s story.

  “This is an unfair world,” my father whispers, “and unfortunately, in this country, being accused is as good as being guilty. I was lucky to end up with someone who, despite his nokar-like attitude toward the regime, was at least willing to listen. Not everyone is so lucky. Life is not fair all the time. You boys will remember that now, won’t you?”

  “What happened next, Dad?” I ask, wanting to reach over and hug him.

  “I stood up and asked the accuser to come to me. When he did, I punched him as hard as I could.”

  Warm blood rushes through my veins as my eyes sparkle with pride and excitement. I laugh with satisfaction and joy. My dad is the wisest man I know. His indirect way of warning us of the potential dangers of a conflict with the government and its agents, without ever mentioning Doctor, was brilliant. That’s the way of the Persians—we are masters in the art of implication, sometimes at the cost of the point getting lost on an unsophisticated listener. Facts seldom matter. The meaning and the message are always woven into the fabric of our discourse.

  “Deep in each knot of a Persian rug is a statement of the hands that patiently drove the needle and the thread,” I once heard my father say.

  Winter of 1974

  Roozbeh Psychiatric Hospital, Tehran

  I wake up early in the morning, and the cocoon of comfort that the pill had woven around me is gone, replaced by anxiety and confusion.

  “Apple Face, Apple Face!” I start to shout. A young nurse walks in. “Where is Apple Face?”

  “She’s at home, sleeping. Take it easy, will you? You’re waking everyone up.” She has a glass of water in one hand and a pill in the other. She tucks the pill in my mouth and brings the glass toward me. I spit the pill out and scream that I want Apple Face. The commotion brings two other nurses into the room. I am agitated, plagued by a pain that has no identifiable source. The nurses try to hold me down as a man in a white uniform enters the room. A few seconds later, I feel a pinch in my arm.

  Apple Face is sitting next to me when I open my eyes.

  “Did you miss me?” she asks.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I say.

  “Nothing that can’t be cured. It takes time, though.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  She hurries out of the room and comes back with a tray of food. I take a couple of bites, and then can’t eat any more. She assists me into a wheelchair and takes me to a big room on the first floor. I realize for the first time that I am in a psychiatric ward. I see people walking aimlessly up and down the hallways. Some look at me, and others pass by as if they are floating in a different universe. Two male nurses try to help a young man into a wheelchair like mine. He shows me his teeth, and smiles. What am I doing in a mental institution? All my life I’ve been told to avoid crazy people, and now I am living among them. Apple Face rolls my wheelchair to a window, and sits next to me in a chair.

  “Did you miss me last night?” she asks again.

  “Where were you?”

  “I was home. I have a small child, you know? She needs her mommy, too.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Four and a half. She’s really cute. Do you want to see a picture of her?”

  I nod yes, and she shows me a picture of her daughter, Roshan, meaning “glowing” or “vibrant.”

  “She’s pretty,” I tell the proud mother.

  “Thank you.” She puts the picture back in her pocket and sits back in her chair.

  “Why am I in a psychiatric ward?” I ask, hesitantly.

  “You’re here to be treated.”

  “For what?”

  “You have some things to remember.”

  “Like what?”

  “Be patient.”

  I look at my legs and at my wheelchair and wonder if I am paralyzed.

  “Why am I in a wheelchair?” I ask.

  Apple Face thinks for a few seconds. “You were weak, and you had tuned out. So it was easier and safer to put you in a wheelchair.”

  The old man on the other side of the room begins his chant again.

  “What’s wrong with him? Why’s he here?” I ask, quietly.

  “It’s a sad story,” she whispers.

  “I want to know,” I press.

  “Maybe later.”

  “What does he mean by his chants?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I feel sorry for the old man, who is still looking at me.

  “Will you get in trouble for spending so much time with me?” I ask Apple Face on the way back to my room.

  “Doctors don’t get in trouble for spending time with their favorite patients,” she responds.

  I assumed she was a nurse because she was a woman; I feel ashamed.

  “I miss the old days, when doctors made house calls,” she adds. “You got to know your patients, their family, their kids, where they lived and how. It’s all about business now.”

  Back in my room, she helps me into bed and gives me a pill. She tells me that I can call her at home if I wake up in the middle of the night, and leaves her phone number by my bed. Feeling better knowing that a doctor is taking care of me, I fall promptly asleep.

  I wake up in the middle of the night, and wish that Apple Face were with me. I think of her daughter, and suppress my need. The room is dark and I can’t tell what time it is. I know that my parents were in the room while I was asleep because I see a new rose next to my bed. My mother brings me a single red rose every day. There is something significant about the red rose, which I can’t think of right now. My mind is so tired. I close my eyes and try to think of why I am in the hospital. Suddenly, a sound from across the room startles me. I open my eyes and look toward the source of the sound. The silhouette of a man stands by the door. My heart beats fast, and I am gripped with such a strong fear that I can’t utter a word to summon assistance. My body trembles.

  “If I knew your pain, I would bear it.” I recognize the old man’s voice.

  “Come here,” I whisper. The old man slowly approaches my bed and sits in Apple Face’s chair. His gaze is fixed on me.

  “If I knew a way, I would find it.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  He sits there and stares at me with his sad black eyes that seem to be turning gray. His gaze is kind, and I am not afraid of him anymore.

  “If I knew a song, I would sing it,” he murmurs.

  “Maybe someday you can tell me what that means, and why I’m here.”

  The old man says nothing.

  “I can’t figure it out,” I whisper. “Is any of this real?”

  I wait for a reaction from him, but he just stares at me.

  “I don’t feel connected to anything. It’s like I just came into this world from another place, but I can’t remember the place I came from, either. It seems as if I’m neither here nor there, not living but not dead. Is this what people mean when they say someone has lost his mind?”

  The old man still doesn’t say anything. I can’t keep my eyes open, but I want to understand his cryptic chants. I want to know how he feels, what he thinks, why he is in my room, but I am too tired.

  I can’t tell how much later it is when I hear Apple Face talking to my parents in the hallway.

  “What’s going to happen when he remembers?” my father asks.

  “It’ll be devastating,” Apple Face answers. My mother starts to cry, and I wonder about this thing I am supposed to remember that will be so devastating.

  18

  Autumn of 1973 Mazandaran

  The Eyes of the Square

  We continue our trip toward the province of Mazandaran, zigzagging up the dangerous roads of the Kandovan and down toward the north, where you can smell the heady salt of the Caspian Sea from miles away. Fifty kilometers per hour is the maximum speed you can travel through these mountains, even if you are the best driver in the world. My grandfather used to say that the Nazis built the winding Kandovan roa
d to lacerate the much-detested “SS” shape into our psyche. The Russians tried to stop them, but they failed as they always do when faced with the brutality of the Western powers.

  These roads are so treacherous that hundreds of people die every year trying to navigate them. According to one of my uncles, as a future engineer I’m destined to build the four-lane highway that will connect Tehran to Mazandaran, saving thousands of lives in the years to come. Throughout the journey, we see people stopped on the shoulders, cooling off their overheated radiators and snapping a picture or two of the breathtaking scenery—valleys and canyons that engrave the belly of Mother Nature.

  We finally reach the village, our destination, but the gravel road makes it impossible to drive very fast. The people in the village look at us curiously, and some wave as we drive by. I’m reminded of Doctor, who was intrigued by the lives of people in small villages, always talking about building roads, digging wells, and bringing electrical power and other technologies to these remote areas.

  The houses are built on the slopes of the mountains, and most of them look small and worn down, thanks to their rusted tin roofs. The whole village consists of a couple of small grocery stores, a coffeehouse, a cheese-yogurt shop, a bakery, a butcher shop, a public bathhouse, and a mosque—all conveniently built around an unusually large square. It takes us less than three minutes to drive from one side of the village to the other. The smell of burning wood and cow dung sears the inside of my nose. There are horses and cows on the road, and we have to stop frequently to let them cross. Ahmed has never been to this part of the country, so he watches everything with quiet curiosity.

  We stop outside a big house surrounded by tall walls, its main entrance gated by gigantic metal doors. My father gets out with a smile on his face. Soon, a man—Mr. Kasravi, an old friend of my father’s—comes out to greet us. “Don’t let his easy demeanor fool you,” my father whispers. “He is a very important man.”

  I remember Dad and Mr. Mehrbaan talking about him. He is the richest man in the village, a landowner who also raises cattle and sheep. He spends part of his time in Noshahr, a city by the Caspian Sea, where he owns various stores and a large motel. His wife, Goli Jaan, a simple-looking woman, rushes out to greet us. Soon, servants and maids hurry toward us, dragging a sheep behind them. I know what comes next. I try not to look when they slaughter the poor creature under our feet. Out of the corner of my eye I see the animal struggling and wonder if he knows we are responsible for his ill fate.