Mr. Kasravi shakes my hand and embraces me as if he has known me for years. He asks me if I remember him, and I politely say no. He says that I used to call him “Uncle Kasravi” when I was very little. My father smiles, and adds that I used to call Goli Jaan “Aunt Goli.” Mr. Kasravi shakes hands with Ahmed and welcomes him to his humble dwellings.
“You’ve grown so much,” Goli Jaan says to me. “Look at you! You’re a man now.”
We are taken to a room designed for guests. Goli Jaan brings in a crystal bowl full of big red and green apples, oranges, and grapes. “Everything is from our own garden,” she says proudly. “Please help yourselves. This is much better than the stuff you get in Tehran—fresh off the trees. I picked them myself just a few minutes ago. Go ahead, please eat.”
Mr. Kasravi is tall, dark, and around fifty. He has an animated voice, and tends to repeat himself at the end of each sentence. It is almost impossible to listen to him with a straight face, especially with Ahmed around to pass amused looks to.
“So how are you, my friend? Really, how are you?” Mr. Kasravi asks my father. He and Goli Jaan have a son, Mustafa, who is around my age, as well as a four-year-old daughter named Shabnam. Both children are sitting on the floor on opposite sides of their father’s chair. Goli Jaan finally sits down and asks about my mother: how she’s doing, what she looks like now, if she still looks young for her age, why she didn’t come along. Then she tells me how wonderful my mother is, and that she loves her and misses her a lot.
“Yes, she does,” Mr. Kasravi confirms. “She always tells me that she misses your mom a lot.”
Ahmed looks at me and covers his upper lip with his lower one to hide his smile. An elderly maid brings in tea. Goli Jaan insists that we drink our tea before it gets too cold. “This is Lahijan tea, the best in the world,” she urges.
“What makes Lahijan tea the best in the world?” Ahmed asks in a whisper. “I always wondered about that.”
“The taste, the aroma, and the Persian pride,” I whisper back.
Ahmed smiles.
“I’m extremely excited to have you in my humble dwelling, and can’t wait to show you around, really, I can’t wait,” Mr. Kasravi says. “Things have changed a lot around here,” he tells my father. “Things aren’t like they used to be, not at all like they used to be.” Then he turns to Ahmed and me. “Do you know how to ride a horse?”
We both shake our heads no.
“Mustafa will be happy to teach you, very happy to teach you,” he says as he looks at his son. Mustafa smiles and nods to let us know that he agrees.
“They’re great athletes,” my father says. “They will learn in no time.”
Predictably, the adults begin to talk about the past. Mr. Kasravi turns to me and says, “Your father was a rebel, definitely a rebel. I always thought he would end up in prison and I would have to pull strings to get him out.”
Dad shrugs his shoulders and mumbles, “Everything changes when you marry and have a child.”
Then he talks about Mr. Mehrbaan. “He was our hotheaded radical,” Mr. Kasravi remembers soberly. “We used to call him Karl because he reminded us of a young Karl Marx. It’s tragic that he has spent most of his life behind bars. . . . Very tragic.” Then Mr. Kasravi looks at Ahmed and me. “I also heard about your friend Doctor. I’m so sorry. I really am very sorry.”
After tea we go to Mr. Kasravi’s stable, where he has already picked a horse for each of us. Mustafa helps Ahmed and me get on our horses. I thank Mustafa, but he doesn’t respond. He just smiles and walks to his own horse.
Riding a live animal, controlling it with the reins and seeing the world from that high up, feels weird to me. I glance at Ahmed. He’s holding the reins tightly, his body seems tense, and his face looks anxious. “Don’t they have bikes?” he whispers.
We ride our horses through the village square. The path we travel is uneven, obviously beaten out by hooves and the wheels of droshkies—horse-drawn carriages, cars, trucks, and tractors traveling in and out of the village through the rainy season. Here and there we hear a rooster crowing, a dog barking, or a cow mooing.
We ride out of the village and head toward the hills. Mustafa rides ahead of everyone else. Every once in a while, he stops, turns around, then looks at us and moves his right hand to indicate a march forward.
“What do you think he’s doing?” I ask Ahmed in a whisper.
“He’s scouting for Indians,” Ahmed responds with a smirk. “I hear Cochise got tired of getting killed by John Wayne in those damn Zionist movies, so he finally said fuck it, and moved to this region.”
I try not to laugh out loud.
Ahmed and I have a hard time keeping ourselves balanced on our horses as they climb the slopes. I hear Ahmed mumbling profanities under his breath, a grin on his face. Mr. Kasravi and my father ride a few steps ahead of us, but far behind Mustafa.
“Get to know your horses and let them get to know you,” Mr. Kasravi advises us over his shoulder.
Ahmed bends over and whispers in his horse’s ears, “Hi, I’m Ahmed. What’s your name?” I tell him to stop fooling around.
When we get to the top of the hill, Mr. Kasravi points to the village and says, “That’s the oldest square in our region. It was built about three hundred years ago. There is something special about that square, don’t you think?”
I look back at the square, trying to figure out what’s special about it.
“You do know why they used to build squares in the centers of most Iranian towns and villages, don’t you?” he continues.
“Yes,” I respond.
Ahmed shoots me a surprised look.
“In the old days, everything happened in the squares, happy occasions as well as dreadful events,” I say. “It was a gathering place.”
My father shakes his head in confirmation. I think I notice a flash of pride in his eyes. Mr. Kasravi smiles, encouraging me to continue.
“The square was also where they punished the criminals so people could watch and learn: entertainment and education. Education because torture was used to deter potential criminals, and entertainment because people came from all over to watch these events.”
Mr. Kasravi seems utterly impressed with my knowledge. He shakes his head and says that I’m right. Then he speaks of the cruel punishments administered to thousands of people during the Qajar regime. “This was the most disgraceful period in our beloved country’s history. It was the Qajars and their backward policies that kept Iran from developing into a modern country. We could have been a superpower in the world, yes, sir, a superpower.” He takes a big puff on his cigarette.
Ahmed leans over and whispers to me, “Where the fuck did you learn all this shit?”
“Books!” I whisper back. He immediately turns his head toward the square. He knows I’m scolding him again for not reading.
“So what do you know about the Qajars?” Mr. Kasravi asks.
“There were seven kings in the dynasty, starting with Agha Mohammed Khan of Qajar and ending with Ahmed Shah, who was overthrown by the father of our current king in the 1920s,” I say. Then in a confident tone that surprises even me, I add, “I agree with you, Mr. Kasravi. The Qajars’ incompetence ruined Iran during their two-hundred-year rule.”
Mr. Kasravi looks at my father and nods. I throw a sideways look at Ahmed, who shakes his head and whispers, “Son of a bitch.”
“My father knew neighbors, relatives, and friends of the family who were beaten, flogged, and hanged in that square,” Mr. Kasravi says, genuinely upset. “I wonder why no one has burned the place down, why no one has driven a bulldozer over it. Maybe I should do that, yes, maybe I should.”
The pensive look on his face makes me wonder if he’s truly contemplating driving a bulldozer through the square.
“People forget how bad it used to be in this country. Did you know we had no prisons until the Shah’s father overthrew the Qajar dynasty? Did you know that?”
I shake my head
no.
“You dumb-ass son of a bitch!” Ahmed murmurs, as if feeling deep disappointment.
“No prisons, no prisons at all. Imprisonment was a totally foreign concept in our culture, a totally foreign concept. They’d cut people’s hands off, amputate their legs, cut off their ears, and then kill them or release them. That’s how criminals were punished.”
“Wow,” Ahmed whispers.
“Over six thousand prisons have been built in Iran since the Shah’s father took over fifty years ago. People think that’s bad, but I think it’s better than having a few million people punished and humiliated in public. Penal torture and the public humiliation of criminals had to stop, it just had to stop. Even criminals have a right to dignity! I would’ve died if I saw Mehrbaan tortured and beaten in public,” Mr. Kasravi says.
I suddenly realize the purpose of our trip. My father had no business to conduct here. Mr. Kasravi is giving us a history lesson, justifying what is happening in our political jails by comparing it to the abhorrent atrocities committed under the Qajars.
It’s not proper to get mad at your father, but I feel a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. I slow my horse to separate myself from the pack while thinking: Is abandoning public torture in favor of torture behind prison walls a great leap toward modernization and democracy? Did Mr. Mehrbaan feel less pain when the SAVAK agents were putting out their cigarettes on his chest, arms, and buttocks? I increase the distance between us even more by pulling back on the horse’s reins.
The sun is out, but I can smell the scent of coming rain as clouds roll in off the sea. We soon reach a pristine mountain stream, where we water our horses and rest for a little while before heading back to Mr. Kasravi’s house.
Night falls fast. Before dinner, Ahmed and I are sitting on the porch and my father and Mr. Kasravi are in the living room playing back-gammon. We can hear them teasing each other and laughing.
Ahmed asks, “You know why your dad brought us on this trip, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you angry?”
“He’s my dad,” I say. “I’m angry at our host.”
“Take it easy, he meant well.”
“I know.”
Mrs. Kasravi has prepared a dinner fit to serve “a thousand kings,” as my grandma used to say. Basmati rice, broiled chicken, lamb cooked in an underground oven, three different kinds of khoreshts, vegetables of all kinds, including radishes, mint, parsley, three different kinds of naan, along with goat cheese and yogurts mixed with dried mint and cucumbers, and four different kinds of torshi, including dilled garlic—which everyone says doesn’t make your breath stink on account of the humidity up north.
Ahmed looks at the dinner and says to me, “I wouldn’t mind getting adopted by this family, really, I wouldn’t mind at all.” I elbow him in the side. My father and Mr. Kasravi are drinking vodka with their dinner. Ahmed, Mustafa, and I are sitting next to one another, and we eat our food with the appetites of a pack of ravenous wolves. Ahmed and I try to start a conversation with Mustafa a couple of times during dinner, but he just looks at us and smiles.
“Do you think he can speak?” I ask Ahmed in a concerned whisper.
“Maybe his dad repeats everything because he speaks for both of them.”
I bite my upper lip to hide my smile.
My father raises his glass and drinks to the hosts. Then he looks at Ahmed and me and raises his second glass to us, sending us a wink. Then, as if he’s reading my mind, he leans close and says in a low voice, “Sorry for this afternoon. It didn’t turn out the way I had planned.”
I love my dad. I want to put my arms around his neck and kiss him on the cheeks, like I used to do when I was four or five years old.
The doorbell rings, and Mr. Kasravi goes to answer it. A few minutes later he comes back followed by a tall man of around fifty. He introduces the man as Mr. Mohtasham. We all stand up and shake hands with him.
“What a wonderful night for you to have come to my home, a wonderful night indeed,” Mr. Kasravi says, pouring vodka for his new guest. “It is fabulous to have you here at the same time as my guests from Tehran.”
I notice that Mr. Mohtasham does not speak.
Goli Jaan, who is also excited by the arrival of this unannounced visitor, brings in plates and silverware and insists that he start eating right away. Mr. Mohtasham keeps bobbing his head to express his gratitude. Mr. Kasravi turns to my father and says, “Mr. Mohtasham has taken the vow of silence. His Holiness is well known for his clairvoyance. He sees the future as you and I remember the past, that clearly, really—I’m not kidding you. All of his predictions have come true over the years, all of them.” My father politely expresses his gratitude to God for granting him the honor of spending an evening in the presence of Mr. Mohtasham, while I wonder why one would vow not to speak if God has blessed him with such a magnificent power.
Pointing to me, Mr. Kasravi tells Mr. Mohtasham that I am a very special person, definitely very special, and that at the age of seventeen I have the maturity and the wisdom of an educated thirty-year-old man. Mr. Mohtasham stares at me as he chews his food. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a small notebook, writing, “He has That.”
My heart sinks as memories of Doctor cloak my mind. Ahmed nudges me gently and discreetly with his elbow. “Trust it, you do,” he says under his breath.
“What can you tell us about the future, Your Holiness?” asks Mr. Kasravi, as he drinks a shot of vodka to his guest’s health.
Mr. Mohtasham looks around the room and focuses on Mustafa for a few seconds. The room is hushed with a tranquil excitement. I have a hard time believing that the holiest man in Iran, who by now must be giddy with vodka, is about to make predictions about the people in the room. Mr. Mohtasham writes on a piece of paper that Mustafa will follow in the footsteps of his father and will become a successful businessman.
Goli Jaan is overcome with joy. “Enshallah, God willing!” she whispers.
Ahmed looks at Mustafa and says, “Congratulations.” Mustafa smiles back, but still doesn’t say anything. Ahmed turns to me and whispers, “We’ll take turns sleeping tonight. I don’t trust this kid.” I put my hand over my mouth to cover my grin.
Mr. Mohtasham looks at me. He writes that I will go to the United States to study. My father asks, “What will he study?” Mr. Mohtasham holds his hands in the shape of cylinders and looks through them. My heart jumps. He’s saying that I will study something related to cameras! I’ll become a filmmaker after all.
“You Zionist,” I hear Ahmed whisper under his breath.
Before I am overtaken by too much joy, I remind myself that this is perhaps nothing more than a hoax. Drinking vodka isn’t exactly known for enhancing clarity and insight. Mr. Mohtasham drinks another shot and then looks at Ahmed. He writes that Ahmed will get married at a very young age, and will have three beautiful daughters.
Ahmed says, “No sons? Then I’m not getting married.” Everyone laughs.
Mr. Mohtasham tells Goli Jaan that she will live to be a hundred years old, and will enjoy a happy life with her children and husband. “God willing!” she whispers reverently. We are told that my father will live out his old age while searching for the true meaning of life and unity with God almighty. He will someday be regarded as one of the greatest poets in modern Iranian history. I wonder how he knows that my father writes poetry.
Mr. Kasravi will retire in a faraway place, with his family members around him.
“The future is bright as far as this group is concerned, very bright, thank God,” says Mr. Kasravi. At that moment, Shabnam, Mr. and Mrs. Kasravi’s four-year-old daughter, walks into the room. She runs to her mother to complain that she can’t sleep. Mr. Mohtasham looks at Shabnam keenly for a long time.
“What is it, Your Holiness?” Mr. Kasravi pleads, picking up on the intensity of Mr. Mohtasham’s gaze. “What do you see? What do you see? Please, tell us. Is my daughter in danger? Please, tell us, is
she in danger?”
Mr. Mohtasham shakes his head no.
“Thank God. Then what is it? You must tell us. I insist.”
Mr. Mohtasham looks at me as he drinks another shot of vodka. I begin to feel paranoid.
“What is it? What? Please, tell us, I beg you,” pleads Goli Jaan.
Mr. Mohtasham starts to write, pointing at me. “He is not going to like this now because she is too young, but he will like it twenty years from now when he returns to Iran from the U.S.”
“What? What is it that he is going to like, Your Holiness? Tell us, please, tell us!” begs Mr. Kasravi. Now everyone, including me, is curious to find out what I’m going to do to this poor four-year-old child twenty years from now.
“This young man will marry your daughter, and they will live many happy years together abroad,” he writes in his notebook.
Everyone in the room applauds and cheers, and Ahmed and even Mustafa whistle. My father and Mr. Kasravi begin to laugh and drink more vodka to toast the occasion.
This is ludicrous, I think. What nonsense! She is only four years old, and I’m seventeen. What a sick old man. Goli Jaan hugs me and tells me that I’m a dream of a son-in-law. She runs to the kitchen and comes back with espand, a seed Persians burn to ward off evil, and she waves the seed around my head and then Shabnam’s head, and pours the rest on the charcoal inside a grill that the elderly maid brings in behind her. Soon smoke fills the room, and the pleasant scent of espand fills my nostrils.
Mr. Kasravi pats me on the back and says that he will invite the whole village to the house the next night to celebrate my engagement to his daughter, the whole village. I feel I’ve gone pale. Mr. Kasravi starts laughing and tells me that he was only joking, really, only joking. Everyone laughs except my future wife, who keeps complaining to her mother that she is tired, but can’t sleep.
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