Rooftops of Tehran

by Mahbod Seraji

I let the boy next to me copy my answers.

  Mr. Kermani doesn’t look me in the eye when he’s handing my exam back to me, after it’s been graded a couple of days later. I don’t think he looks in my direction even once during the entire day.

  I’m already on the roof when Zari comes up and asks about my exam. I tell her that I got the highest grade in the class, and she laughs and looks toward the sky, as if she is thanking God.

  “Why’re you thanking God?” I tease. “I did all the hard work.”

  “You sure did. Good boy,” she says as we sit next to each other with our backs to the wall. It’s a cold night, and I put my arm around her without the slightest hesitation. She makes herself comfortable, fitting herself better into my embrace. “I’m so happy about your grade,” she says.

  “I feel like I could do anything if you demanded it,” I tell her, and for once my words are confident.

  She smiles.

  We sit there for a long time without saying anything else. She falls asleep in my arms again. Her head is on my shoulder and her left hand on my chest, right on my heart; I hope my heartbeat doesn’t keep her awake. Both my arms are around her. It’s quiet and peaceful in the alley. A fall chill is in the air, making our cuddling that much more pleasant. I’m the happiest man in the universe.

  I kiss her on the cheek. Her face is flushed, and I feel her breath on my neck. She opens her eyes. Our faces are a few centimeters away. Her eyes don’t seem heavy and sagging. They must just have been closed, like she was relaxing in my arms, not sleeping. I can’t stop myself. I kiss her on the lips, and she kisses me back. I feel her fingers caress my face, neck, and hair. Her lips are soft, warm, and full of love, a perfect match for mine. Her body moves against mine as she breathes and as our fingers lock. Could time freeze in this moment forever?

  Then she suddenly stops, pushes me back, and runs to her house, crying, “It’s not right, this is not right.”

  She doesn’t come to the roof the next night. I stay up all night, pacing the roof. I look inside her yard but there is no sign of her. I climb onto her balcony and look inside her dark room.

  It is cold out but I don’t care. I will wait until she comes out. And when she does I’ll tell her I’m sorry for that damn kiss, even though nothing has ever felt as good to me. I’ll promise her that I will never take advantage of her friendship, unless she asks me to do it. I’ll apologize and swear that I’ll never kiss her again, not even after we get married. I’ll tell her that I was out of line to move so fast so soon after Doctor’s death.

  Ahmed comes up on the roof and I tell him the story. For some reason seeing him makes me more frantic than when I was alone.

  “I hope I’m not forever doomed to be without her,” I say.

  Ahmed laughs and shakes his head.

  “Why are you laughing at me when I’m upset? You call yourself my friend?”

  “Your best friend, asshole,” he corrects me.

  “Fuck you,” I sulk.

  “Listen,” Ahmed says, still laughing, “you know what Faheemeh told me today?”

  I don’t answer.

  “She said she’s sure now that Zari is in love with you.”

  “What?” I shout. “What do you mean? Did Zari say that, or is Faheemeh speculating?”

  “Faheemeh is a woman. Women don’t speculate, they know.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t ask me. There’re many things we know about women but can’t explain, and this happens to be one of them.”

  I feel calmer. “But why doesn’t she come to the roof?”

  “Something’s on her mind. Maybe Doctor, or she feels it’s too soon, or that she’s too old for you. Or maybe she doesn’t know what to do with your cute ass.”

  “Shut up,” I say, beginning to laugh. “Do you really think she’s fallen in love with me?”

  “Why not? You have That. Remember, lover boy?”

  I throw my arms around Ahmed and hug him harder that I ever have before.

  The next night I find an envelope on the roof in the spot where we used to sit. It’s from Zari. The note inside reads, “My Dearest and Nearest: I adore you, but you should not be emotionally invested in me. I don’t want you to get hurt. With all my love, Zari.”

  I suddenly feel as if I have been hit by a heavy fist, a blow infinitely more powerful than that of Mr. Kermani’s ruler. A bottomless abyss has opened up in my heart, making the world feel like a very lonely place. I want to cry, but fight back the tears with all my determination, just as I did years ago, holding on to my broken shin. Except this time I am holding on to my heart. I look toward the door to the roof of her house. I know she’s behind the glass window, sitting in the dark. I know she’s watching me, just as Ahmed knew Faheemeh was behind the wall on the night they were auctioning her off.

  The temperature has dropped quickly, mirroring the way my life feels to me. A cold wind howls through the alley as if to warn of more freezing days ahead, more miserable days to come. The skin on my face feels tight and my fingers are almost numb, even though I’ve been keeping them clenched in my pants pockets. I jump onto Zari’s roof and walk to the large glass door that leads to her house. The windows are frost-covered, and I can’t see in, but still I know she’s on the other side. I use my fingers to scratch the frost off the glass. Backward, so she can read it on her side, my inscription reads, “I love you.” I see her face through the letters. She’s crying. She touches the glass with her hand and I press my palm to mirror hers, then she disappears from my sight.

  I go back to the wall that separates our houses. I know she’s watching me, and I’m determined to freeze to death if I have to, but I will not leave until she comes out. Ahmed joins me on the roof and wraps a blanket around me.

  “It’s cold. Why don’t you go in for a few minutes? I’ll sit here until she comes out,” he says.

  “No.”

  “Okay. Have it your way.” He sits next to me.

  “Go inside. You’ll catch a cold,” I tell him.

  “You want a cigarette?” he asks, ignoring me.

  “No,” I snarl back.

  “Remember the night I thought I had lost Faheemeh?” he asks.

  I nod my head.

  “I thought my life was over because I was losing her forever. You have the same look in your eyes, and I don’t understand it. You guys have the rest of your lives together. All you need to do is be patient. Zari knows you love her, and I know she loves you, but you need to give her time. She’ll do the right thing. Women always do.”

  “I don’t want to wait,” I say like a stubborn, spoiled kid. So much for being a man!

  “Look, right now she needs to stay away from you. It’s hard for her to accept that she’s in love with you. She won’t jump in your arms and pretend Doctor never existed less than forty days after his execution. So just tighten your belt, straighten your hat, and let’s go about this the right way. Time, that’s what she needs right now.”

  “Tomorrow is Doctor’s fortieth day,” I say in tears. “We were supposed to be together. I hate to see the Shah, but I don’t want her to go alone.”

  Ahmed acts like he hasn’t heard what I just said. “Be patient,” he scolds. “Please, be patient.”

  “Don’t yell at me,” I say bitterly.

  “Why not?” he yells, pointing his finger at me. “You, my dear friend, are supposed to have That. I ask you, is this the way a man with That behaves? You’re not being a good role model for the rest of us.”

  “To hell with That,” I say. “I’m tired of being told that I have That.”

  To my annoyance, my eyes fill again. “I’m tired of it. Tired of pretending.” I know that if I don’t stop myself I’ll go on a rant, as I always do when I’m emotional.

  Ahmed lights another cigarette, lets out a stream of smoke and says, “Well, let’s catch a cold together then. If you want to sit here all night long, I’ll sit with you.”

  “Go inside,” I say, wiping my eyes.
r />   “No.” He shakes his head.

  A long time goes by and neither of us says anything. The night is cold and quiet, the skies are clear. I haven’t slept for more than thirty-six hours. I am tired and my eyelids are heavy, my mind is numb. I think I fall asleep for just a few moments because images of the man with the radio clutter my mind. Again I see his eyes. I see his hair pulled back tight. At one point, I’m standing next to him. I’m trying to punch him but my arms feel heavy, too heavy to be raised. I wake up with a racing heart.

  Zari is standing in front of me, and Ahmed is sitting next to me.

  “Go inside,” Zari pleads with me. “Please, go inside.”

  “No,” I croak.

  Ahmed stands up.

  “Ahmed, please, take him inside.”

  “He’s your problem now,” Ahmed says, and heads toward his room.

  “Why are you out here? You’ll freeze to death,” Zari scolds.

  I have a lump in my throat, and I’m worried that I might burst into tears if I open my mouth. But it’s time to say something. “I can’t freeze to death because I’ve been living in hell since you decided not to speak to me.” Then my voice chokes up. “I’m really sorry for that damn kiss.”

  She shakes her head as if she can’t believe I’m apologizing.

  “I will never kiss you again,” I say. “Not even after we get married and have children.”

  She smiles and her eyes shine with tears.

  “I want to be your friend, your comrade. I will mourn the death of Doctor with you for as long as you want me to.”

  She reaches over and touches my face lovingly.

  “If there’s a life after death, I’m living it. If there is a hell, I’m burning in it. I love you, and I always have, even before Doctor left on his trip. I’ve been living with love and guilt for a long time now. I don’t want it to be like that anymore.”

  Zari touches my face again with her beautiful long fingers and wipes the tears off my cheeks. She puts her arms around me and holds me tight, and I swear I can feel her heart beat.

  “This hurts a thousand times worse than breaking my shin,” I whisper.

  “Come with me.”

  I follow her to her room, where there is a bed, a small desk, a metal chair, and a whole bunch of books. A picture of her parents is framed on one wall, and the picture that Ahmed, Faheemeh, Zari, and I took by the hose is next to it.

  “It seems like that picture was taken a thousand years ago,” I whisper.

  “It was,” she says.

  I sit on the chair with Ahmed’s blanket wrapped around me. She slowly moves the blanket, sits on my lap, and wraps it back around us. I tell her that I love her, I can’t live without her, and I will do anything to make sure that she’s happy. She kisses my face, my eyes, and my lips. I taste the salty tears that roll down both our faces.

  We spend the whole night in each other’s arms. I say that someday I want us to be married and have our own home and our own kids. She smiles, but doesn’t say anything. Her eyes look lost every time I talk about the future. Ahmed is right. She needs time. And I will give her time until this lost look disappears from her eyes forever. I say that sometime down the road, way, way down the road, when we have kids, I hope that they have blue eyes just like their mother’s because blue is the color of vastness, purity, and depth. She tightens her hold around my neck, and whispers that I’m sweet to remember that.

  “I remember every word you’ve ever said,” I whisper back.

  We talk all night. Actually, I do most of the talking. I tell her that Faheemeh has been praying for us to become a couple, so that we could all be friends for the rest of our lives. She nods. Her silence makes me want to talk more. I tell her that I was up on the roof the night she and the Masked Angel were talking about me.

  “How do you know we were talking about you?” she asks.

  “Weren’t you?”

  “We were.”

  “I thought so.” I smile.

  “I miss her so much,” she says. “You know, I haven’t seen or talked to her since that night.”

  “How come?”

  “Her parents are ill, and she has been consumed with nursing them.”

  “I think she would like to hear about you and me.”

  Zari doesn’t say anything. The lost look in her eyes returns.

  “After you and the Masked Angel went back inside the house, I sat on the roof and stared at the stars all night long,” I say hurriedly, hoping to banish the look on her face, even if for just a few seconds. “It was a dark night, but your star was clearly visible.”

  “Where was yours in relation to mine?” she asks.

  “I didn’t find mine,” I say. “I never do.”

  “You should’ve been able to find yourself because you have the biggest star up there. I call it Pasha’s star. It’s the biggest and the brightest, and the rest of us orbit around it.”

  I want to land a little kiss on her cheek but I’m afraid. She rests her head on my shoulder and I feel her lips touch my neck. I hold her tighter and my hands caress her back and her neck.

  A few minutes pass. “When are you leaving for America?” she finally asks.

  “I’m not going unless I can take you along.”

  “You can’t plan your life around me. You have to go. I want you to. I want you away from this hellhole. You should stay in America forever. Make movies. Tell everyone our story, Doctor’s story. People should know what happened.”

  I start to respond, but she puts her finger on my lips. “I want you to swear that you’ll go to the States no matter what happens.”

  “No matter what happens? What do you mean? We’ve already had enough happen to us to last a lifetime. You and I will go to America together. Everything in my life will be planned with you in mind from now on.”

  “Don’t say that,” she pleads, the lost look back in her eyes.

  “I will take you with me, and that’s that. And you shouldn’t worry about money because I’ll work to support you. You were a great high school student, so I think you’ll do very well in college. I personally think you’d make a great psychiatrist, or an anthropologist. Although I’d prefer that you be a heart surgeon so you can cure mine.”

  She looks at me, her pretty face frozen in concern. “What’s wrong with your heart?” she asks.

  I smile. “You’ve broken it.” She smiles back and the lost look on her face finally fades, at least for now.

  21

  Lighting a Candle for Doctor

  It’s the day of the Shah’s birthday, Doctor’s fortieth day. Faheemeh, Zari, Ahmed, and I meet a couple of alleys down from ours and together we walk to the bus stop. Zari is wearing the chador we bought when we shopped at Laleh Zar. I tell her I hope she is wearing something warm under the chador because the weather is unusually cold for this time of year. She says she is.

  We sit together on the bus, and Ahmed and Faheemeh sit a couple of rows behind us.

  “Why are you wearing a chador?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer for a few seconds before she looks at me, smiles, and says, “Because I want to look like an angel.”

  “You always do, with or without the chador,” I shoot back without missing a beat. Then, I reach over and take her hand in mine.

  The streets are not as crowded as I thought they might be. The bus skips some of the stops, no passengers to pick up and no one getting off. As we come closer to Amjadieh Stadium, traffic becomes more congested. There are more police cars and army jeeps, more traffic cops, and even more people.

  We get off the bus on a street beyond which the buses are not allowed to go today. A dark cloud hangs over the mountain up north, which is visible from where we start our walk. A chilly wind threatens an imminent storm, as if nature, too, is mourning the fortieth day of Doctor’s death and the birthday of the Shah.

  The streets are filled with people waiting quietly, patiently, for their leader to drive by. Most of these people are government
officials, students, and reluctant shop owners who have been ordered out onto the streets. The news agencies had reported that over five hundred thousand people were expected. This was obviously a lie, a total fabrication; perhaps wishful thinking on their part. I’m sure that the media will report an enthusiastic crowd, impatient and restless for the arrival of their king. I look around and what I see is people who want to go home, people who don’t seem all that enthused about being out on the streets. Around certain corners, kids of different ages wave small flags, as their teachers instruct them to do. Every once in a while they are ordered to shout and to make happy noises as television cameras and photographers focus on them. Cops and soldiers can be seen everywhere.

  There is a hum in the crowd, but it’s certainly not one of excitement and jubilance. The shops are closed but their owners have been ordered, as they are every year, to decorate their doorways and their windows with blinking, colorful lights. Massive arches are built out of flowers on every block. Signs have been placed every few steps congratulating the Shah on his birthday and wishing him eternal life. On one section of the street a large group of men and women stand very close together. It’s clear that they are government officials from the same administration, ordered to stay in a pack. Every few minutes the group chants in unison: “Long live the king, long live the king.” Their chant sounds hollow and some of the people in the crowd giggle as if they’re embarrassed.

  We jostle through the crowd to a spot around a turn where we will have a great view of the motorcade when it appears. Zari looks a little pale. I ask her if she’s okay, and she says there’s nothing wrong. I’m a Persian; we never believe anyone who says nothing is wrong. We’re the people of intuition. We feel, smell, and taste trouble from a hundred kilometers away. We’ve been conditioned to worry because our history is full of atrocities committed against us by ruthless rulers. I reason that the anticipation of seeing the Shah, the man responsible for the death of her fiancé, is causing Zari’s agitation.

  We wait, and wait, and wait. It’s cold outside, and I have a hard time standing still in the same spot.