Inside the house, Mrs. Mehrbaan tells Faheemeh that she is very happy that Ahmed has been released. “I know how difficult it is to be away from the person you love the most. God knows I have been through that. The first time they took him away, I was young and he was young. We were both full of idealistic plans and the future seemed like a road that had no end. But this time it’s different. We’re getting old, and desperately need each other’s companionship.” I’m surprised that Mrs. Mehrbaan delivers this long speech without shedding any tears. The passage of time has hardened her quite a bit.
My father brings out a bottle of vodka and says that it’s time for a celebration. He pours drinks for all the men and raises his shot glass to say, “To my son’s return,” and then he turns to Ahmed and Faheemeh, “and to my other son’s engagement.” We all drink up. My mother looks anxiously at Ahmed and me. I know she thinks we’re too young to drink, but she would never say anything to embarrass us. The bitter taste of the vodka makes me squirm, and again reminds me of the night of Doctor’s funeral. Everyone laughs at the face I make. Dad immediately tops off the shot glasses again and says, “This one we drink to the return of Mehrbaan.” We all chug our drinks.
The women join my mother in the kitchen to help her serve lunch. My father calls my mother into the hallway and asks nervously if it’s not too soon to be serving lunch. My mother, who has never known my father to interfere in her affairs, gives him an exasperated look and walks away. My father checks his watch, only to realize that he’s not wearing one. He then looks at the broken grandfather clock and whispers something under his breath.
I ask Dad if there is something wrong. He answers there isn’t. And of course my suspicion is only heightened by his denial. But what can it be? His uncharacteristic behavior makes me wonder if he’s on some kind of drug.
My father complains that it’s too early to serve lunch, a domestic decision he would never get involved in under ordinary circumstances. The guests respond that they’re hungry.
“It’s almost two o’clock in the afternoon,” Uncle Majeed objects.
“It is?” My father looks at his empty wrist again. Then he comes back into the room and fills everyone’s glasses, raises his, and says, “Here’s to friendship.”
Everyone downs their drinks.
My father asks me what time it is. This time I look right into his eyes to see if I can detect an ailment. Is he fatigued? Losing his mind? Already drunk? I just hope he’s not sick. As if in response, the doorbell rings. My father tells me to go to the yard to open the door, then runs to the kitchen to ask everyone to come out because we have a new guest.
As I’m walking toward the door, I turn around and look to see if the Masked Angel is still on the balcony of Zari’s house. There’s no one up there.
I open the door, and am shocked to see Mr. Mehrbaan in the alley. He jumps forward and hugs me, almost as hard as Zari’s father did when we visited their house. Pandemonium breaks out inside the house. Everyone starts screaming with excitement and running toward the door.
Mrs. Mehrbaan is the first one to reach us. I get out of the way as husband and wife fall into each other’s arms. Everyone is in the yard now and talking at the same time, except for my father, who quietly watches the scene from the terrace on the first floor. Obviously he knew that Mr. Mehrbaan was getting released today. The frantic look in his eyes has faded. I watch him for a long time. He doesn’t know that I’m watching him; he also doesn’t know that I hope someday I can be just like him.
As others try to hug Mr. Mehrbaan, Mrs. Mehrbaan sits down on the ground and weeps.
“Thank God, thank God!” she cries out, beating her chest. “I never thought I would see this day.” My mother hugs her and tells her that she should be laughing because her man is safe and free. But Mrs. Mehrbaan is caught in a fit of emotion that won’t soon subside. Mr. Kasravi hugs Mr. Mehrbaan and tells him he’s happy to see his old friend safe and healthy. Grandma says we need to burn some espand to keep the devil away, and Grandpa shoots her a dirty look.
Finally, my father and Mr. Mehrbaan hug. They laugh and whisper things to each other. Mrs. Mehrbaan is still sitting on the floor, rocking gently and crying. Her hands shake, her eyebrows twitch, and she sputters wetly.
I look toward the roof and discover that the Masked Angel has returned to her post on the third-floor balcony. Does she know what is going on, and is she crying, too? As soon as she again realizes that I’m looking at her, she steps back into the shadows.
We all go to the living room. “This is the best day of my life,” my father keeps saying. “My best friends are here, my family is here, and my two sons are here.” He points at Ahmed and me.
My father pours still more vodka for everyone and we all drink to Mr. Mehrbaan. He throws back his drink, wipes his thick mustache on the sleeve of his coat, and looks at his wife, biting his lips to hold back the tears. All the women start to cry, too, as the men turn their heads away politely. I hear my grandpa whispering something to the effect that our predicament is the fault of the damn British.
Mrs. Mehrbaan doesn’t take her eyes off her husband. She whispers prayers as she wipes her tears away. My father breaks the silence by asking Mr. Mehrbaan how he is doing. He shakes his head and whispers that he is okay, then breaks out into a bitter sob. I know that sob; I remember it from my hospital days. That sob speaks of a broken heart and a shattered spirit, of a pain too violent to be verbalized, except in the choked language of tears. I wish my father would pour us another drink! The bitter taste of vodka doesn’t bother me anymore and I welcome its numbing effect on my nerves, just as it had on the night of Doctor’s funeral.
Ahmed seems touched by all that has happened in our little house today. He is in awe of Mr. Mehrbaan. I’m glad that he finally got a chance to meet him. And I’m sure they have a lot to compare notes about as two men who had been wrongfully jailed.
“Why did they take you away?” Mrs. Mehrbaan asks as her voice chokes up.
“They never tell you why,” he says.
My two aunts are sitting next to each other near Mrs. Mehrbaan. They’re holding each other’s hands as tears roll down their faces. My uncles smoke their cigarettes and are uncharacteristically quiet. My future wife is sitting on her mother’s lap playing with a doll. Will she remember this day when she grows up? Mr. Kasravi is sitting on the floor by my father, and I have no doubt that he wants to say something about the Qajars and their backward policies, but knows better than to interrupt this moment that belongs to the Mehrbaans.
Lunch is followed by more drinking, which is followed by dinner and still more drinking. I’m totally drunk, and so is every other male in the house. Mrs. Mehrbaan sits next to her husband, and even though it’s considered rude in our culture for couples to be affectionate in public, Mr. Mehrbaan puts his arm around her shoulders and holds her close.
I have no recollection of when Ahmed and Faheemeh left, or how I got to bed. When I open my eyes, I’m lying on a mattress in the living room remembering a very strange dream I just had. An orange grove lies at the foot of a mountain, with a river flowing through it from the south to the north. Dark clouds are rapidly approaching the mountain from the west, and far, far off a stroke of lightning illuminates the skies as drops of rain, one by one, dance their way to the ground. The slopes are covered with white, fragrant orange blossoms that blanket the ground like snow. A dazzling glare makes it difficult to see straight down the mountain. Suddenly, the outline of a figure appears on the incline. I squint to get a better glimpse of who might be approaching me, but the glare is too bright. I recognize the eyes of the Masked Angel behind the lace of a white burqa, blinking rhythmically to the beat of my heart. It all reminds me of the picture Zari drew of my mystery woman, in the setting I had so clumsily described to her in the kitchen the first time we were alone.
The white figure stops a couple of meters away from me. Her large blue eyes stare into mine.
The wind picks up, blowing blosso
ms into the air in a whirling blizzard of heady scent. The Masked Angel struggles to keep her balance. I reach to grab her hand under her burqa, but she floats away from me, propelled back by the wind. I try to hold on to her, but unmerciful Mother Nature circles her, blowing away the Masked Angel’s burqa. I squint to catch a glimpse of her but the stormy riot of white blossoms makes it impossible to see.
What a strange dream.
Then I wonder why the SAVAK won’t tell us where Zari is buried. What’s the harm in that? A lump crawls into my throat. I look at the clock again. I wish I were smart enough to fix it.
27
Shade in Shadow
I’m sitting in the living room, staring out the window at our yard, and as usual am lost in my own thoughts. I hear Dad talking to Mom: “Time flies. He’ll get over this before we know it, I’m sure of it.”
Time flies? How absurd! So not only is time the most precious human commodity and the cure of all pains, it flies, too!
Ahmed, Iraj, and the rest of the kids in the alley spend all day in class. I don’t miss school, but being alone bothers me a lot. I’ve told Dad that I won’t go back to our school next year without Ahmed and Iraj. He understands and he’s making arrangements for me to leave for the States in just a few short months. “It’s not safe for you to remain in Iran,” he says. “You never know when the SAVAK may decide to revisit this case because a new detainee says something that implicates Doctor.”
The thought of leaving Iran and being alone in a country twelve thousand miles away doesn’t appeal to me, either.
During the days, the majority of my time is spent on the third floor of our house, where I’m free to clutch the pillow I’ve come to depend on, regardless of whether I’m sitting, lying down, or pacing back and forth in my room. The tighter I hold it, the calmer I feel. It provides a much-needed buffer between my surroundings and me. Sometimes I find myself sitting in one spot for hours, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing, and, most disturbingly, caring about nothing. A persistent silence has taken over my life. Life moves on, and I seem to be standing still, defying its demand for change. I live in my life without touching it, without feeling it, and certainly without appreciating it.
From time to time, I wish that I could go back to when every memory of the past looked like a chapter in a fairy tale. Sometimes, out of boredom, I pick up a book to read, only to realize that I’m just staring, eyes unfocused, at the pages. Not long ago I was celebrating taking control of my life, like a man. That all seems like a joke to me now.
A few days after my strange dream, I remember the night Zari drew the picture of me staring at the faceless girl floating toward the mountains. I remember pinning the drawing to the wall. I see the hole in the plaster where it used to hang. I look behind the books on the shelf, inside the briefcase that my father bought me in my first year of high school, but the drawing has vanished.
I ask my mother about the picture, and she says she doesn’t know anything about it, while my father says he would never take anything out of my room without asking me first. I cover the hole in the wall, and wish someone could do the same with the one in my heart.
Some nights, after everyone has gone to bed, I look out the window of my room to where Zari and I used to sit. I remember holding her in my arms, her head on my shoulder and her eyes closed. My eyes fill quickly, and I feel short of breath, as if a heavy object has been placed on my chest. The feeling is so real that the only way for me to escape the illusion is to get up and walk. I usually end up on the terrace, where I try to keep my glance from falling on anything that might remind me of Zari, but my eyes eventually wander toward her room. Her lights are always on, and the curtains are always pulled shut. Sometimes I can see the Masked Angel’s shadow behind the curtains. Her silhouette flows through the prayer movements: hands up by the ears, then body bending forward, and eventually sitting down with her head on the mohr. The weather is cold and I can see my breath, but I still would rather be outside than in my room, where the walls seem to close in on me at times.
One night, the window to Zari’s room is open and I hear the Masked Angel reciting a poem. I remember Zari telling me that she had memorized Hafiz’s entire Divan. I try to listen to her voice, but all I hear is a constricted whisper. I look around. The moon is fastened to the belly of the sky, and the night outside my window is drowned in moonlight. The buildings cast shadows that seem bolted to something that itself is bolted to everything else. It’s in these shadows that I feel Zari is keeping her promise of being with me. I burn with a desire to penetrate the darkness and merge with the shadows. I search for her in the darkest areas, intently fixing my glance at one spot and then the next, hoping that she’s watching me and that we might make brief eye contact. I feel her presence, and I want to leave the room, but I’m afraid of not finding her.
On another evening, I’m sitting in my room by the window and looking toward the terrace of Zari’s house when suddenly someone moves in the shadows. My heart leaps. It looked as if someone glided from one spot to another: a shift in location, a quick displacement, and then a permanent pause. The moving person is now static, fixed in one spot. Is it my imagination, or is someone out there? I remember Apple Face talking about an illness that makes people hallucinate. Am I losing my mind?
I concentrate on dilating my eyes to better explore the shape that fades in and out of the darkness, but I’m not sure that the silhouette I’m staring at has a real outline. The more I look into the night, the less certain I am that the piece of darkness that has attracted my attention is anything more than night framed by itself. I get up and switch off the light in my room. I come back and sit in the same spot as before, searching for the outline. There is nothing out there. Even the silhouette is gone.
It’s a mild but pitch-black night. I walk quietly out onto the terrace and look toward Zari’s room. The lights are off. The window to her room is open, and as the wind blows through, the curtains move like a woman in the arms of an accomplished dance partner. I sit on the short wall that separates our homes. I remember how she and I used to sit together on her side of the wall and read poetry. I slide down on her terrace and sit at the same spot, pretending that she is sitting next to me. I’m suddenly catapulted into a sea of melancholy. I land smoothly and without much of a splash, just a sudden surge of pain and a flood of tears. I lean my head against the wall, close my eyes, and collapse inside myself.
Zari and I are walking up a hill that’s engulfed in a hazy mist. Down below, the prairies are wrapped in withered green weeds. The wind blows in more than one direction and the grass bends and twists passively. The skies above are an inky blue and free of the charcoal darkness that normally accentuates the luster of the stars at night. There’s a marvelous scent in the air, refreshing and clean, that leaves my nostrils craving more, my lungs longing for a finer share.
Is this really a dream?
Zari is wearing a white cotton dress and I’m in a dark suit. She turns and looks at me. I have my right arm around her waist. She rests her head on my shoulder, and her face touches mine. I kiss her face over and over and whisper that I love her, and that I don’t ever want to be without her. If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.
Zari tells me that this is not a dream.
Then we are on the terrace of her house. She’s sitting behind me, holding my head to her chest with her arms wrapped around my neck. I can’t see her face.
“It’s cool out,” she whispers. “And you’re not wearing much. Don’t you know that I don’t want my sweetheart to catch a cold?”
I press myself against her and she tightens her grip on me. I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to test her existence by opening them. Her voice is all I need.
“I will keep you warm with the heat of my own body until the sun comes up, and then I must go,” she says.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I cry.
She touches my face, kisses my cheeks, and assures me that she is never
far away, never too far. In the merest whisper she says she loves me, but I’m not to mourn her loss; this is what was meant to be. She is glad I visited her parents, and was strong enough not to cry in their presence.
You are my angel, I tell her, but she replies that no one can see an angel. No one can hear or feel an angel.
So, I tell myself, if I hear Zari’s sweet voice and if I feel her warm weight, I must be dreaming. I want to turn to embrace her, but a paralyzing heaviness engulfs my entire being.
When I open my eyes, I can’t remember where I am. I look around and realize that I’m sitting under the wall on Zari’s terrace. The sun is coming up in the east, and the air has a chill that makes me want to crawl under the covers. Then I notice that a blanket is wrapped around me. It’s not one of our blankets, and I certainly don’t remember coming out of my room with it. I look toward Zari’s room, and see that her window is shut. Did the Masked Angel wrap the blanket around me, or was it Ahmed? Ahmed would have woken me up. The blanket has a sweet fragrance, a brand of women’s perfume unknown to me. Is this Zari’s blanket? Did she once wind it around her beautiful body to keep herself warm at night? Maybe it was she who wrapped it around me last night!
The location of the sun tells me it must be around six in the morning. I look toward the alley, and see the Masked Angel walking back toward the house from the bakery. She’s carrying two large pieces of Barbari bread.
She walks fast. Much faster than Zari used to.
Rooftops of Tehran Page 26