Rooftops of Tehran

by Mahbod Seraji

  “He’s a fascist,” Ahmed told everyone on the school grounds a week or so ago, when Mr. Gorji was standing only a few meters away.

  “Who’s a fascist, Ahmed?” Mr. Gorji asked.

  “Mussolini, sir. Mussolini was a fascist; Idi Amin is a fascist. There are a lot of fascists in the world, sir. A whole lot of fascists!” Mr. Gorji looked at his rosary, said a prayer, and walked away. “And you’re a fascist, sir,” Ahmed whispers. Mr. Gorji turned around and looked at Ahmed, who smiled as if he was not afraid of Mr. Gorji’s wrath at all.

  “What’s he going to do to me?” Ahmed asked Faheemeh, who was worried Ahmed was going too far.

  “He’ll make trouble for you, honey,” Faheemeh said, while pleading with me to reason with him. “Don’t you think? Please, tell him to stop this nonsense.”

  One day, Mr. Gorji told Ahmed that he needed to get a haircut.

  “My barber has left on vacation, Mr. Gorji,” Ahmed sniped.

  “Really? Where to?”

  “He’s gone to Afghanistan. He’s a drug smuggler, you know!”

  Ahmed claims later he could tell Gorji wanted to slap him.

  “The length of my hair is none of his business, don’t you think? Who does the son of a bitch think he is? He’s a control freak. Didn’t you tell me once that fascists are control freaks?”

  “No,” I said, “you and I talked about anarchy, not fascism.”

  “All right, then. I must have read it somewhere. Fascists are control freaks. That should be the definition of fascism in the dictionary.”

  Faheemeh pleaded with him to stop. “You’re not going to win a war with your principal, so why do this?”

  “Because I hate the son of a bitch,” Ahmed said.

  Ahmed’s hatred for Mr. Gorji costs him dearly. The next afternoon Ahmed comes home with his head shaved. Mr. Gorji brought a barber to school and forced Ahmed to get a number-two buzz cut while all the students and teachers watched in disbelief.

  “He walked around in the yard, staring into the eyes of the kids who had gathered around us, telling them that he is the ultimate authority at school and that his decisions and commands should never be challenged,” Ahmed recalls. The dejected look in Ahmed’s eyes and the dispirited tone of his voice tell me that he is having a difficult time with the humiliating experience.

  “Did you put up a fight?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “I would have lost anyway. There’s no sense fighting powerful people because you will lose. You wait for the right moment to strike back and get even.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  A few minutes later Faheemeh comes over. She looks at Ahmed’s head with a shocked look on her face.

  “What did you do to yourself?” she asks, holding her fingers in front of her mouth.

  “Gorji cut my hair,” Ahmed says, forcing a grin.

  “How?”

  “With a pair of clippers!” Ahmed responds, exasperated. Faheemeh tries to hold back her laughter.

  “You didn’t hit him, did you?” she asks.

  “No”—he scowls—“but I should have.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” Faheemeh says. “Did you say anything?”

  “Yeah, after he was done, I looked in a mirror and asked if he could bring the sideburns up a little bit.”

  Faheemeh puts her hand over her mouth and giggles. Ahmed looks at her with surprise.

  “I’m sorry, but you look really funny!” she says, and finally laughs.

  Ahmed widens his eyes at me. “She’s laughing!”

  I give an exaggerated shrug, hiding my grin.

  “She is mocking me!” Ahmed says.

  “No, no, no,” Faheemeh soothes, then lets out a loud, boisterous laugh. “I just think you look really cute.”

  Ahmed looks at me.

  “You do look cute,” I say.

  “I do?” he asks. “Really? How cute?”

  “Really, really cute,” Faheemeh says.

  Ahmed turns back to me, and I nod my head in all seriousness to confirm.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, walking around proudly. “We’ll call this the Ahmed Buzz and offer a free one to the kids in the alley. But only the kids in our own alley. Everybody else has to pay.” He looks at me. “Hey, you, you’re my first customer!” He runs inside the house and comes back with a pair of scissors in his hands and starts chasing me around the yard as Faheemeh laughs.

  “Come here, you son of a bitch!” he yells. “I order you to get a haircut! Are you disobeying my supreme command? How dare you! You bastard son of a bitch!”

  In the following days, Ahmed tries to avoid Mr. Gorji as much as possible. Knowing Ahmed, I’m sure he’s formulating a plan of attack. Mr. Gorji, in turn, shows up in almost all of Ahmed’s classes and sits in the back observing the teachers and the students.

  “Yesterday, Gorji came to Mr. Bana’s geometry class,” Ahmed says. “From the second he walked in, I knew something was up. All the kids knew it, too. They all sat in their chairs with their backs straight, unsure where the ax was going to fall. But I knew. Gorji walked up to Mr. Bana and whispered something in his ear, then proceeded to the back of the room, where he had a good view of everyone. Mr. Bana didn’t seem happy about what he was asked to do. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other a couple of times, nervously looked at Mr. Gorji, walked back and forth in front of his desk, then finally whispered my name and asked me to go to the board. Bana asked me to solve a theorem I’d never seen before.” Ahmed looks down at his feet while touching his shaved head.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t solve it, of course. So he gave me a zero and Mr. Gorji walked out with a satisfied smile on his face.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Faheemeh says.

  Ahmed turns to me. “You remember how much we used to hate Mr. Bana? Now we all like him. Isn’t that strange? Gorji makes everyone else look good. It’s like having pain in multiple parts of your body. You only feel the one that hurts the most.”

  He then shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and says, “This zealot fraud is making the autocrats of yesterday look like angels of mercy. Isn’t that bizarre?”

  “What does Moradi think about all of this?” I ask, referring to our discipline teacher.

  “Moradi is totally powerless. Gorji hates Moradi because he likes the Americans. According to Gorji, there’s no nation in the world more deserving of hatred than the Americans, with the possible exception of the Israelis.”

  “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but I think you need to find a way to make peace with him,” Faheemeh says.

  Ahmed ignores Faheemeh’s comment. “Can you believe that bastard? He’s going to show up in all of my classes and get me in trouble!”

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” Faheemeh says, beginning to cry.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Ahmed soothes with a gentle smile on his face, “don’t worry. Please, don’t.”

  Faheemeh’s tears have a strong impact on Ahmed because from that day on, he doesn’t say much about his battles with Mr. Gorji. However, I notice that he reads the Koran all the time.

  “Becoming religious?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says with a smirk on his face.

  I wonder what he’s up to, but don’t dare to ask. One night I hear him reciting verses out loud.

  “You memorized all that?” I ask, impressed.

  “Yep,” he responds.

  “How come?”

  “Enshallah—God willing—you will find out soon.” Then he smiles and walks away while reciting another verse.

  I learn the reason for Ahmed’s preoccupation with the Koran the following day, after school, when I hear the whole story. Mr. Gorji showed up at Mr. Bana’s class, said hello to everyone, recited a prayer, then proceeded to the back of the classroom, where he signaled Mr. Bana to call on Ahmed. Mr. Bana, who didn’t approve of Mr. Gorji’s tactics and frequent visits to his class, looked understandably dejecte
d. Ahmed immediately raised his hand and asked loudly if he could ask a question.

  “Sure,” said Mr. Bana.

  “The question is for Mr. Gorji,” Ahmed said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Gorji replied, “you may ask your question.”

  Ahmed recited a verse out of the Koran, and asked Mr. Gorji for a literal translation and commentary. Mr. Gorji, who doesn’t speak Arabic, and only knows certain verses by memory, shook his head and coughed a couple of times to clear his throat, then said that Ahmed’s accent made it difficult for him to understand which verse he was reciting. Ahmed took a small Koran out of his pocket, kissed it, pointed to a page, and said, “It’s this one, sir. Here, would you like to read it?”

  Mr. Gorji stood motionless, staring at Ahmed and knowing full well the fate that awaited him from now on if he ever stepped into another one of Ahmed’s classes. Ahmed swore that he could see the sweat running down Gorji’s face. After a long and agonizing moment, Mr. Gorji excused himself and left the room quickly. Laughter, applause, loud screams, and whistles followed his departure. Even Mr. Bana laughed and bowed to Ahmed!

  “He won’t be coming to my classes anymore,” Ahmed says. “And I’m not done yet, I promise! Pretty soon I’ll be following him in the yard, into his office, into the bathroom; I’ll be wherever he is, reciting the Koran and asking him questions. I’ll do whatever I can to embarrass him. I’ll memorize every word of our holy book and expose the son of a bitch for the no-good pretender that he is. That’s the way to deal with the Mr. Gorjis of the world, that powerless religious teacher turned emperor.”

  31

  That Is All

  I’m dozing off in the chair in my bedroom when a loud scream wakes me. This one is a far cry from the soft sobs of the Masked Angel. I recognize Ahmed’s voice. I struggle against a fearful paralysis and haul myself to my feet. More noises begin to fill the alley: doors opening and closing, people running, women crying, and men huffing and puffing. I run out the door and onto the terrace.

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God!” cries a woman, whose voice I recognize as Ahmed’s mother’s.

  “Grandma, Grandma!” I hear Ahmed screaming.

  I run to the edge of the terrace and see neighbors in the alley, rushing toward Ahmed’s house. In Ahmed’s yard, Grandma’s body is lying on the ground, her entire family gathered around her. I cross over to Ahmed’s terrace and head down the stairs, skipping two or three steps at a time.

  Many of the neighbors are already in the yard when I finally reach the ground floor. Ahmed is leaning against a wall, his eyes bleary with tears. He slides slowly down and slumps on the ground. When he notices my presence, he shakes his head in disbelief and anguish, as Iraj sits down next to him and puts his arm around him. Iraj’s mother and a number of other women attend to Ahmed’s mother, who is crying next to Grandma’s body. Ahmed’s father whispers prayers as a number of men try to console him.

  The yard seems dark, and there’s an uncomfortable chill in the air that I recognize from my previous encounters with death. The light from the living room makes the single tree in Ahmed’s yard cast a grotesque shadow, in which Grandma’s twisted body rests.

  Zari’s parents enter the yard at the same moment that I look toward the roof and see the Masked Angel in her black burqa looking down at the commotion. She must notice me because as usual she immediately takes a step back and melts into the shadows.

  Grandma’s skull is crushed, her joints wrenched from the force of the impact. The neighbors walk around carefully to avoid stepping in the blood that peppers the yard. It’s difficult for me to accept Grandma’s death. Only a couple of nights ago she unleashed her imagination and told me improbable stories of her childhood and her late husband. A wave of grief and anxiety crashes over my heart, for Grandma’s death is a painful reminder of the anguish I have bottled up inside me from the loss of Doctor and Zari. Why is life so cruel?

  Ahmed’s father cries, “I told her to stay away from that damn roof. She must have walked right off the edge.”

  Iraj shakes his head and bites the thick hair on his upper lip. Ahmed whispers, “Grandpa didn’t catch her this time.”

  “What should we do?” one of the neighbors asks another.

  “It’s too late to call an ambulance.”

  “Oh, for sure, but we should call one anyway.”

  “Poor woman must have thought her husband was down in the yard.”

  In the next two days, people come from all over to offer their condolences to Ahmed’s family. In times like these, men don’t shave their beards out of respect for the dead, and women wear little or no makeup. Kids are kept away, and no one plays music. The faces are somber.

  Faheemeh’s parents come over to help receive the visitors. They seem sympathetic and kind. Ahmed’s mother serves aash, with the help of my mother and some of the other female relatives and neighbors. Ahmed’s father chain-smokes. Every once in a while he uses his white handkerchief to wipe the tears from his eyes as he receives friends and relatives.

  The night before the funeral, Ahmed and I go onto the roof. The crescent-shaped moon, which hangs from the belly of the star-crowded sky, looks like a neon cradle designed to outshine everything around it. The neighborhood appears quiet and subdued, as if it has collapsed under the weight of all the grief it has experienced in the past few months. Somehow the dark shadows of the homes and the trees seem longer, and the twinkle of the city lights flicker frail and lifeless. It’s as if someone has sprinkled the dust of death over the alley once again. Ahmed lights a cigarette and offers me one, too. I accept.

  “She was a good woman,” Ahmed says.

  “Yes, she was.”

  “But everyone has to die sometime, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Her time must have come,” he says, taking a long draw off his cigarette.

  “Yeah.”

  “But why did she have to go this way? Why couldn’t she die peacefully in bed? Why is God so cruel?” He stops talking, an apologetic look on his face. “I shouldn’t be saying things like this after what you’ve gone through. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve actually been feeling very close to Grandma lately. It was almost as if our lives were on a parallel course.”

  “God, don’t say that,” Ahmed says. “I don’t want you to fall off the roof someday.”

  “No, no. I mean I could feel her anguish and the pain of permanent separation, the loss. I had begun to feel as if maybe she wasn’t so disconnected from reality.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the talk about seeing Grandpa.” I pause as the expression on Ahmed’s face grows worried. “I mean, people can’t just die, right?” Ahmed doesn’t respond. “Grandma’s insistence that Zari was waiting for me . . . well, sometimes I think I see her in the shadows at night.”

  The look on Ahmed’s face becomes even more alarmed. He’s quiet for a long time before he says, “I wonder what it’s like to be dead?”

  I think he’s trying to avoid talking about my crazy thoughts. I don’t say anything, but remember Mr. Gorji talking about death as the ultimate source of terror. “The afterlife is designed to punish wrongdoers, who will be condemned to an eternally unimaginable torture,” he once said with fire in his eyes. I remember Grandma asking whether hell was built beneath heaven, and a smile flashes on my face, but disappears just as quickly. Ahmed looks toward the spot where Grandma presumably fell off the balcony. His face contorts as he tries to hold back his tears.

  “God bless her soul,” he whispers as he looks toward the skies. “Watch out, Grandpa!”

  The next day, we all go to the cemetery. Ahmed, Iraj, and I sit in the back of my father’s Jeep, and my mother and Faheemeh sit in front. Every once in a while, Faheemeh turns around and looks at Ahmed. Then she reaches over to touch his hand or pat him on the knee.

  I remember the day we went to the cemetery for Doctor. I remember Iraj’s face as he was running behind the taxi. I feel goo
d that this time he’s with us. The streets are full of cars, and the scent of exhaust fumes sets my heart stuttering with the memory of Zari’s last moments. The sky is gray and painted by dark clouds bloated with rain. The sidewalks are crowded with pedestrians who seem to be rushing to escape the inevitable downpour. We don’t say much, except at one point my father says that Grandma was a great lady and we all murmur our agreement.

  All the neighbors are at the cemetery, including Zari’s parents. Everyone is dressed in black out of respect for Grandma’s death. It’s great to be able to wear black for a change—we can finally grieve not only Grandma, but also Zari and Doctor. Zari’s parents extend their apologies to Ahmed’s mother for the Masked Angel’s absence, explaining that she had to stay home to take care of Keivan. “It wasn’t appropriate to bring him to the cemetery,” Zari’s mother says. “He’s still too young.”

  Everyone is gathered around a hole that has been dug in the ground. Most of the women are on one side of the grave, and the men are standing on the other side. Ahmed’s mother cries quietly and whispers to my mother that she’s worried about her husband. Grandma was the only family he had left.

  “She lived a good life,” somebody tells Ahmed’s mother.

  “Yes, she did,” another woman agrees.

  “Look around you,” the first woman says. “This place is full of young people. God bless them all, and God bless Grandma’s soul. She lived her life as she pleased, and thank God it was long and fruitful.”

  I wonder how many of these neighbors know the story of Grandma throwing herself off a cliff. I doubt that any of them do.

  The cry of “There is no God but the almighty God!” is suddenly heard from a distance, the signal that Grandma’s body is being carried to her permanent resting place. Pandemonium breaks out at the graveside. Everyone begins crying, including the women who were consoling Ahmed’s mother. Ahmed runs toward the group that is carrying Grandma’s coffin. Iraj and I run behind him, lending our shoulders and arms to hold the coffin up in the air. The wood feels unnaturally cold and rough on my neck. I think about Grandma’s lifeless body overhead, and a rush of blood makes me shake uncontrollably as my face grows hot. At first, dizziness takes over, and then I feel the energy and strength drain from my body like water through a sieve. I let go of the coffin and fall behind the procession, walking dazedly behind the crowd. Nobody notices my sudden weakness. The anxiety that overtakes me reminds me of my early days in the hospital. I wonder if Zari is buried in the same area, in a grave without a name.