Rooftops of Tehran

by Mahbod Seraji

  I hear a man complaining in a low voice to his wife, “When is the son of a bitch coming, so we can go back to our warm homes?”

  I look at Zari, and realize she’s carrying something under her chador.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing.

  “My purse,” she says.

  Ahmed looks at me. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No.”

  He gives me the same distrustful look I gave Zari.

  “What’s wrong?” Faheemeh asks.

  Ahmed shakes his head.

  “Why are we here?” I ask Ahmed.

  “To be with our angels,” he says, laughing.

  “We could have been with them someplace else.” He agrees, but it’s too late now. We wait to see how the Shah waves at people.

  A loud cheer ripples down from farther up the street. A group of motorcyclists in uniform can be seen a few hundred meters away. “They’re coming,” I tell Zari. She looks pale, very pale.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask again.

  “Nothing, honey. Nothing’s wrong.” She called me honey! I can’t take my eyes off her white, tired face.

  The motorcade gets closer and closer. Zari grabs my hand. “I love you,” she shouts over the din. I think her words are meant to calm me down, but I know something is wrong. My heart races. I look around and can’t see anything out of the ordinary. The motorcade is only a few meters away.

  That’s when I smell the gasoline. I look at Zari. Her chador has fallen off, and in her hands I see a small container of gasoline, which she is pouring onto her clothes.

  I shout, “What’re you doing?”

  “I’m lighting a candle for Doctor. Today is the fortieth day of his death,” she cries. “I love you.”

  Suddenly, time thickens, and we are all trapped in the horror of the moment. Zari runs out into the street, lights a match, and sets herself on fire. I run after her. “No, no, no!” I scream. The motorcade stops. The security guards take their guns out. Zari is running straight toward the Shah’s car. The motorcycle officers quickly circle Zari’s flaming form. She stops.

  “Zari, Zari!” I scream. “Why? Why?”

  Men in the crowd shout, and women beat themselves and cry, “Ya Ali! Ya Ali! Ya Ali,” a chant used when something devastating happens. I hear Faheemeh’s frantic cries. I try to break through the cyclists to reach Zari, who is screaming and staggering in small, broken circles.

  I hear Ahmed yelling, “Ya Ali, Ya Ali!” Zari turns toward the car carrying the Shah, and a security agent kicks her hard in the stomach, dropping her to the asphalt. She attempts to get up, but the pain keeps her down. She reaches inside one of her pockets and takes out a red rose and throws it toward the Shah’s car. The sight of the flames drives me to the brink of insanity. I throw myself over her. I try to put the fire out with my arms and with my hands, realizing bitterly that the burning sensation I feel is no match for the one in my heart. Zari rocks from side to side, screaming and moaning.

  I yell her name. “Zari, I love you. What have you done? Why? Why?”

  Ahmed takes off his coat and throws it over her body, too. A man runs to us from the sidewalk and lays his jacket on her face. One of the soldiers comes at me with his rifle. Ahmed steps between us, and he hits Ahmed in the head with the butt of his rifle. Ahmed crumples. The motorcade drives past us. I hear the siren of an ambulance.

  “I love you,” Zari whispers, before passing out.

  I’m beside myself. “Goddamn, son of a bitch!” I scream, and jump up and hit the soldier who hit Ahmed. He goes down like a crumbling brick wall. Another soldier attacks me. I punch him, too, and he drops to his knees. I’m screaming my shock and despair when I feel a sharp blow to the back of my head, and that’s the last thing I remember.

  22

  Winter of 1974 Roozbeh Psychiatric Hospital, Tehran

  Bridging the Gaps

  Nights fall with a heaviness that deepens the hole in my heart, and I feel a million years old. There is a large tree outside my room whose barren branches tap against the windowpane like the knuckles of a ghost. I know who I am, and that I’ve been damaged, but it seems I can’t move beyond these facts. I check my body for signs. The skin on my hands and elbows feels raw, but my ribs are no longer sore. My chest and arms feel small, so I know I’ve lost weight, and there’s a deep bruise on the back of my head.

  Everything about this place exudes a sense of sorrow, except for Apple Face, who is happy and jolly—although not when she is talking to my parents about me. I’m restless and in need of company, but I know that if I call the nurse, she will just give me another injection. It will make me feel warm for a few minutes, and then send me into a deep sleep, but I will awaken later consumed by fear and distress.

  I hear a loud bang, and the power goes out. A moment of unnatural quiet is followed by a hushed chaos as the nurses scramble to put things right outside my room. I can’t help but feel nocturnal, now that the world is as pitch black as the inside of my mind. I hear footsteps approach my door, then move away. I can’t make out what the nurses are telling one another in the hallway, but the commotion intensifies as the seconds pass. The footsteps return, and the fear of the unknown coils around me like a snake as I sit up in bed. The door to my room opens with a soft squeak, and the old man walks in with a candle in his hand.

  The flame jumps, licking up the oxygen in the room, and I see her, my little Zari, her face erupting in scarlet blisters as she gasps for air. The world inside me collapses, and my soul is ripped out at the roots.

  I begin to scream, and it feels as if I will never be able to stop. I can’t avoid the cascade of horrific memories that parade behind my closed eyes. Despite the pain that must have consumed her, Zari still struggled to reach the motorcade. Then the soldier kicked her, and the rifle butt crashed down on Ahmed’s back, and she used her last breath to tell me she loved me. Apple Face has arrived by my bedside by the time this last realization strikes.

  “Is she dead?” I ask, and Apple Face closes her eyes. I scream as loud as I can, trying to force the life out of my body. Apple Face tries to hug me, but I feel as if my skin has turned inside out and is now covered with sharp little needles. The nurses rush forward to hold me down, but Apple Face waves them back. I cry in her arms. I feel the warmth of my tears, and the ache in my chin and jaw from sobbing.

  “How? How?” I scream.

  “I don’t know,” Apple Face whispers.

  “Damn you, God,” I scream over and over, as I pull at my hospital gown. “Why?” I cry out. “Why? I want to know why.”

  Apple Face wipes her face with a handkerchief.

  I yell, I bawl, I weep, but nothing lessens my pain. It hurts all over. I get out of bed and walk around aimlessly, trying to catch my breath. My skin feels too tight. There doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room. Apple Face opens the window and fresh air rushes in. Then I sit down on the floor and weep, holding my head in my hands, rocking back and forth. Suddenly blood begins dripping from my lip onto the front of my gown. Apple Face sits down beside me. “You bit your lip, sweetheart,” she whispers. “Please, be careful, please.” She holds me in her arms, and asks a nurse for a tissue.

  “Where is Ahmed?” I ask, as I cry on her shoulder.

  “In jail,” Apple Face whispers back, and I breathe a momentary sigh of relief before plummeting back into despair.

  Hours later I still can’t control my emotions. My parents come, and Apple Face tells them to step back into the hallway.

  Then I slip into a haze, staring straight ahead for long periods of time. I can’t cry anymore, there are no more tears, and I feel worn down inside. I think of the Shah’s family and wonder if they talked about Zari at dinner that night. Did his son ask him who that woman was and why she set herself on fire and ran toward their car? I wonder if, two thousand years from now, a couple like Zari and me will sit in an ice cream parlor and talk about Zari’s choice. Will they see me as a coward who should have embraced his love
r as she caught on fire, and burned with her? I can’t stop my mind as it races from thought to thought, from face to suffering face.

  At some point Apple Face gives me an injection and I fall asleep.

  When I wake, my parents are in the room having a quiet conversation with Apple Face. I remember Zari, and the world collapses anew on top of me. Tears rush to my eyes and something inside me twists, then snaps, discoloring the world so that it is an ugly place. I wonder how I’m going to get through the day, through the next five minutes. My mother must know what’s going on in my head because as soon as I open my eyes, she begins to cry.

  I think I reach for my sleeve, this time with my teeth. I don’t feel the pain in my arm but recognize the blood that reddens my sheet. Apple Face rushes toward me. Then I see nurses, and the weeping faces of my parents, but I don’t hear anything except a continuous hum.

  I dream that Zari and I are sitting on either side of a tumbling brook. She’s telling me that she loves me, and that I shouldn’t mourn her death because death is not that much different from life. She says Doctor is not angry with me for falling in love with his girl, and begs me not to be angry at God, assuring me that God is kind, fair, and generous. She reminds me that there must be death so that there can be life, that there must be lies so that there can be truth, that there must be darkness so that there can be light. She wants me to know that she will always be beside me—but that I should forget her and try to live a long and prosperous life. I get up and try to cross the brook, but my steps take me nowhere.

  I feel as if I’m dying when I wake up. Dr. Sana—my Apple Face—tries to calm me down. I hear every word she says, but don’t understand. Apple Face doesn’t go home that night. Her husband calls and Apple Face puts him on the speaker. He says hello to me. He has a deep but friendly voice. He says he’s sorry, and that he is going to come and see me soon. I should hang in there and take heart, for all will be fine. His wife is a great doctor and she will make sure that I have the best care in the world. I don’t say anything. After a while he says good-bye and hangs up, and I dissolve again. My life will not go on without Zari.

  I like the tranquil feeling that has engulfed me when I open my eyes. My eyelids are so heavy I can hardly blink. My father says something about going to the northern part of Iran, where we have a villa on the foothills of the Alborz Mountains, with a view of the green waters of the Caspian Sea. Most of my parents’ family members live in the northern states. Apple Face says that she will miss me when I leave. I hear their words but my mind is slow to process them.

  They talk about when I get better, and I wonder how someone like me gets better.

  “Time is the cure for all things,” my father says to Apple Face, as he looks in my worn-out eyes. Time is the most precious commodity humans possess, and it no longer has any value for me. Suddenly, I succumb to a wave of anxiety. I am not aware I have moved until Apple Face runs toward me and holds my shoulders, and I feel yet another pinch in my arm.

  Apple Face’s husband comes to the hospital to see me. He’s a young handsome man, tall and athletic with large black eyes, thick black eyebrows, and a mustache that makes him look like a young Mark Twain. Dr. Sana introduces him as Yahya, and he shakes my hand and sits in a chair by my bed. He has a pleasant disposition, and he tells me that he’s been hearing a lot about me, and wanted to meet me in person. I’m not sure what to say in return. He says that he, Azar, and their child are planning to take a vacation in a couple of months, and that I should go with them. I gently shake my head no, realizing that Azar is Dr. Sana’s first name.

  I fall asleep while everyone is still in the room, and when I wake up the next morning I’m crushed that Zari didn’t come to my dreams for another visit. She promised she’d always be beside me. Is she in the room now?

  “I miss you,” I say out loud, my voice thick, my words slurred and slow with tears. “How could you leave me in this miserable life without you? Why didn’t you tell me? I broke my shin in three places when I was four and didn’t cry; now I cry until I run out of tears.”

  I mumble that she owes me an explanation because when two people love each other they don’t do stupid things like that. How would she have liked it if the situation were reversed? I’m sure she wouldn’t have liked it because she begged me in my dream to live a long and happy life, and how can I do that when the sole source of my happiness has flown?

  I sob loudly, and I don’t care if the whole world hears me. I hope she can see me, and I hope she’s sorry for what she did.

  I cry myself to sleep. When I wake, the old man is sitting in a chair next to my bed. We stare into each other’s eyes as he rocks back and forth.

  “What has brought you here, my friend?” I whisper. “Have you lost someone, too?” The old man rocks forward and back, and the creak of the chair is almost soothing. “I cursed God last night,” I tell him, “and he didn’t bring the roof down on my head. I’m going to curse him again tonight, and the next night, and the night after that until he gets tired of hearing my insults. He’s never going to bring her back to me, so I’m going to make him take me to her.” I reach inside myself, looking for something to hang on to, but I feel myself drifting away.

  23

  Ahmed’s Star

  I spend a total of three months in the hospital. During this time, I learn to accept my fate, but lose my faith. I’m now an atheist, just like Doctor. I no longer blame God for anything—after all, how can you blame a being that doesn’t exist?

  Some afternoons I walk in the hallways or in the yard. Seeing the condition of some of the other patients and the degree of their suffering only intensifies my discontent.

  I learn during this time that I was taken directly to a hospital from the scene of Zari’s suicide. It took less than a week for the experts to decide that the blow to my head had not caused serious damage and the mild burns on my hands and arms did not require drastic intervention. The doctor who treated me believed that my silence and occasional outbursts were psychological and I was placed under Dr. Sana’s care.

  Apple Face believed that I had unconsciously wiped certain events from my memory, censoring anything that took place after I told Ahmed that I loved Zari. The world before that moment was less complex, so that’s where time had stopped.

  The SAVAK, which had thoroughly investigated Doctor’s activities, knew that none of us was connected to his political group. Their interrogations of Ahmed confirmed their beliefs. The way Ahmed and I responded to Zari’s situation at the scene further convinced the SAVAK that Zari committed the act without consulting any of us.

  During my time at the institution, I also learn that Dr. Sana and her family are of the Baha’i faith. In the past four years, Islamic extremists burned down her home, and her husband was attacked and beaten up several times by strangers late at night. Yahya has bought two Dobermans to guard their home, but the fear remains. Dr. Sana says they will leave for Australia as soon as their immigration papers are in order. She can’t handle the pain and suffering anymore, and she doesn’t want her child to be raised in an atmosphere of constant fear and consternation. Her parents have already left the country, and it won’t be long before her brothers and sisters leave, too.

  During my stay at the hospital, I also learn the old man’s story. He was an affluent, reputable merchant in Bazaar. His first wife died about fifteen years ago and left him with three sons, who lived with their brides in his huge house. The old man’s sons were responsible for managing his business, and he spent most of his time alone and in dire need of a companion. Eventually he married a woman considerably younger than himself. She took care of him, and some even say she loved him very much. He adored her, and gave her anything she wanted. The young wife fit right in with the daughters-in-law, who were about the same age, give or take a couple of years. Then, a year ago, the old man was diagnosed with cancer. It was a devastating blow to the whole family.

  The old man wanted to make sure that his loved ones were well t
aken care of after his death, so he rewrote his will and divided his property equally among his children and his young bride. This infuriated his oldest son.

  One day, when the old man was out of the house, the oldest son went to the young bride’s room and accused her of being a gold digger and a scoundrel. A thunderous fight broke out between the two, and attracted the other two sons into the room. The oldest son attacked her and beat her savagely. His brothers and their wives tried to intervene, but it was too late. She was dead by the time the police and the paramedics arrived. The oldest son is in jail for life, and the old man lost his mind the minute he learned of his wife’s death. He’s been here ever since. His condition is deteriorating fast.

  “He doesn’t have much time left,” Apple Face says sadly.

  While in the hospital, I learn that Ahmed has been released from prison. My father says the SAVAK has cleared all of us.

  “Why didn’t they go after me?” I ask.

  “Well, first because of your condition. And second, they knew you had nothing to do with Doctor’s activities.”

  “Then why did they keep Ahmed?”

  “Only to make sure, and confirm what they already knew. It’s not unusual for the SAVAK to do that.”

  The news of Ahmed’s release fills me with an indescribable joy. This must be the first time I have smiled since hearing about Zari’s death.

  “Where is Zari buried?” I ask Dad, when I finally have the courage to do so.

  “The family hasn’t been notified yet,” Dad says with a pained look in his eyes.

  I don’t sleep well that night. It’s raining outside, and for the first time I think about Zari in a grave, out there in the rain. Shivers run down my spine. I remember her telling me that she will always be beside me, and I try to keep my mind busy with the thought of her nestled warm in my arms.

  I suddenly remember my dream of Doctor walking into the trees with Ahmed and Zari. “He took Zari. He took Ahmed,” I keep repeating to myself. A massive anxiety attack throws me into a state of delirium. I begin to sweat, and my body starts to shiver. Could they be lying to me, my parents and Apple Face? We Persians like to protect each other from bad news for as long as possible. A couple of years ago, a seventy-year-old man died in our alley. His daughter was a student at a London university at the time. Her family kept the death of her father from her for a year. Every time she called she was told that her father was out of town, on a business trip, out shopping, or at a relative’s house. “Why does she need to know now?” they reasoned. “He’s gone, and her grief will not bring him back. She is in the middle of her semester and doesn’t need the distraction.”