I bend over and cry with joy and sorrow, exaltation, and misery. I close my eyes and tip my head to the skies, realizing that, for the first time since the day I gained consciousness in the hospital, a heavy burden has been lifted from my chest. The air I inhale seems to go down easier, at least for now.
What should I do? I need a plan of attack. Where is Ahmed when I need him? Does he know? Maybe he and Faheemeh know what has been going on but haven’t said anything to protect me and Zari from the SAVAK. Then it suddenly dawns on me that I’ll be leaving for the United States in less than a week. That cannot happen, now that I have my Zari back! Given the circumstances, the trip must be called off. We must call all the guests and cancel the good-bye party. But how do I get to the Masked Angel and uncover the truth? This will be embarrassing for her family, and there may also be safety ramifications as far as the SAVAK is concerned. I need to approach her carefully. I don’t want the SAVAK to take my angel away again.
I run downstairs and drink a couple shots of my father’s vodka, which immediately warms me up and calms me down. “To you, my love,” I whisper. “Resurrected, I hope and pray, from nothingness back into my life.”
I climb over onto Zari’s side of the wall and sit in the same spot where we used to sit. I remember the dream I had the last time I sat under this wall. I’m sure now that the experience was not a dream. She was sitting behind me, holding me in her arms. She said she wanted to keep her sweetheart warm. My poor little Zari. Oh, God, I love you so much. I miss you so desperately.
I was cold and delirious that night, and Zari saw me through the window and came out with a blanket. She wrapped it around me and hugged me all night long, keeping me warm and whispering in my ear that she was afraid that her sweetheart might catch a cold, and that she was going to make sure he didn’t. That certainly was not a dream!
My mind races from one topic to another. I can’t focus on one thought for long. The memories of the day she set herself on fire rush through my head. The days in the hospital and the suffocating depression that devoured me, the fear that Ahmed was lost, the old man, Apple Face . . . Oh, my God, why is life so cruel? If I had to live through all that again, I don’t think I would make it.
Then my thoughts turn to Zari, alive next door, breathing the same oxygen as me, and perhaps thinking of me at this very moment. No wonder I’ve felt her presence so strongly. These were the conditions that drew me to her window every night. And why would I dream of being on top of a mountain with the Masked Angel if it wasn’t for the fact that, deep down, Zari wants to unveil herself in my presence?
The vodka I drank gives me the courage to walk up to Zari’s window. The curtain is half open, and I get a good look into the dark room. The Masked Angel’s burqa is on Zari’s bed, so I know she’s in the room, or at least in the house. I return to my room.
The doorbell to our house rings. It’s Iraj. I’m so excited about my new discovery and I want to tell him all about it, but as always he begins to talk before I have a chance to say anything. He’s not the person I need to be talking to, anyway. We sit by the hose in my yard. He shows me a new book he’s purchased, a biography of his hero, Thomas Edison. He is deeply disturbed by the author’s account of Edison’s life.
“According to this guy, Edison was a crook,” Iraj says. “He used to hire hoodlums who forced young inventors to sell their inventions to him for pennies, or face a vicious beating!” Iraj is having a hard time believing these outrageous lies, but he swears that if these accusations are true, he will give up his dream of becoming an inventor in favor of being an honest politician.
According to his father and his uncle, the Shah’s days are numbered because people are fed up with his dictatorial ways and the inhumane treatment of political dissidents. Even the leaders in the army feel that he has gone too far. Iraj’s uncle, a general in the American-backed army of the Shah, was involved in negotiations to purchase a number of F-16s from the American government. These fighter jets would make Iran the superpower of the Middle East—exactly what the Americans always wanted. The Israelis would have been their first choice, of course, but it’s better to have a Muslim state carry your stick than a Jewish one that’s hated by millions of people in the region. Iraj says his father believes that the closer the Shah gets to the West, the less popular he becomes in the Middle East. The biggest threat to the Shah, however, is Israel. The Israelis must be getting nervous that a military powerhouse is developing in their backyard. Sooner or later, they will use the rich Jewish lobbyists to turn Washington against the Shah.
I want to tell Iraj that I’m not interested in hearing his father’s political theories, but I don’t. My God, why can’t he leave me alone? Why did he have to show up now? Aren’t there more important things in life than the political situation in Iran? I don’t yell at Iraj only because I remember his sweaty face at the cemetery, tired from all the running to join us at Doctor’s grave site, despite knowing that the SAVAK was watching.
To my surprise, Iraj switches gears and starts talking about the Masked Angel. He’s been depressed lately because he finds it impossible to get her attention. To make matters worse, no one takes his love for her seriously. I don’t tell him that the woman under the burqa is Zari and not the Masked Angel. I can’t reveal that yet. What if they have an agreement with the SAVAK for Zari to remain incognito and I blow her cover?
Iraj says he’s tired of people criticizing his love for the Masked Angel. Everyone wonders how he could love a woman he’s never seen, but does that really matter?
“One’s not supposed to fall in love with how a person looks,” Iraj argues. “That’s superficial love. True love is about accepting someone’s inner goodness. People criticize me because I don’t know her personally, but do I need to know her to believe in her goodness? Isn’t it true that genuine love is about respect for one’s character and disposition? Shouldn’t people marry based on the compatibility of their temperaments? If so, then everything I know about the Masked Angel makes her a perfect bride for me.”
The Masked Angel! Poor kid; if only he knew. Iraj continues to talk, but I tune him out. I occasionally nod in agreement as I drift further and further away.
He finally leaves and I run back up to the roof. The lights in Zari’s house are off. I know the family doesn’t go to bed this early, so they must be hiding from me. They can’t reveal the Masked Angel’s true identity. They must’ve made an agreement with the SAVAK. Yes, that’s how they saved her from going to jail and that’s why there is no grave. I look into Zari’s room. The Masked Angel’s burqa is still on the bed.
34
In the Silence of the Night
At dinner that night, I’m so preoccupied with thoughts of Zari that my father asks me if I’m okay. “Yes,” I say, playing with my food.
My father puts his spoon back on his plate. “Are you getting nervous about your trip?”
I know I can’t tell my parents about the events of the afternoon, so I nod yes.
“It’s normal, you know?” Dad says. “This is a big step, and your apprehension is totally understandable. It isn’t easy to pack up and move to the other side of the world, where you don’t speak the language, don’t know anyone, and don’t know the culture. I’d be nervous, too!”
From the corner of my eye, I see my mother begin to cry. My father clears his throat and continues. “My father used to say that life is like a laboratory in which people’s true characters are tested. He believed that the greater the person, the greater the tests they faced.” He lights up a cigarette and takes a huge puff; I have to check myself from asking if I can have one.
“Nobody in our family has ever been tested as you have been. I’m so proud of you for the way you have handled things. You’ve experienced more in a couple of years than most people do in a lifetime. Your mother and I are very proud of you, very proud. Tomorrow, this house will be full of people who love you. People who are happy to see you go, but will be even happier when you come back a
s an engineer. ‘Mr. Engineer,’ that’s what everyone will call you for the rest of your life. You’ll be an icon of success, a role model for many in this community. You’re opening a door no one in our family has ever been through, but I assure you that you won’t be the only one to pass through it! As you pave the way, others will follow in your footsteps. Your courage and determination will be an inspiration. Your success will make many lives better. You truly have That, my son.”
I look at him with a blank look on my face. The U.S., the laboratory of life, the test of greatness; if he only knew what thoughts were brewing in my head now!
My father continues talking, but I’m not listening anymore even though it’s impolite to be distracted when your father speaks. I hear words like U.S., airplane, civil engineering, four-lane highway, and Noshahr and Tehran, and I’m beginning to lose my patience with all the bullshit I’ve been hearing ever since I was four years old. I think, Fuck the United States, the airplane ride, the goddamn civil engineering degree, and the fucking four-lane highway that connects one fucking dump of a town to another.
Then I think about Zari, my beloved, who is embarrassed to show her charred face, or forced by the government to hide her true identity. My angel who has accepted a life of solitude and loneliness. These are not hypotheses anymore. These are facts—not my perceptions, but reality.
Ahmed’s poor grandma knew what she was talking about. Why didn’t anyone ever listen to her? She kept telling us that the girl next door cried every night, longing for her husband. The girl next door was Zari, and I was the husband. I can’t believe that I thought my sweetheart was dead. I bite the space between my thumb and index finger. There is no doubt that everyone will think I’m crazy when I announce that Zari is alive and hiding beneath the Masked Angel’s veil, but I don’t care. I know what I know, and I know what I heard. It was Zari’s voice that hushed Keivan when he begged for one more story. The Masked Angel is Zari—I have no doubt about it.
The thought of Zari alive fills me with such joy and excitement that I suddenly find myself leaning back with my arms stretched out wide to the sides, eyes closed and face pointed at the ceiling, as if welcoming the sun’s embrace. I feel the warmth of her body against mine as I did on the nights she fell asleep in my arms. I feel her breath on my neck where her face rested. I hear her heart like the beating of wings. Thank you, God, for bringing my Zari back to me! Forgive me for doubting your wisdom and magnanimity. Forgive me for living a godless life. Let me be your servant, and I promise to make up for my stupid ways.
I open my eyes and notice that both my parents are watching me. I sit forward quickly and hang my head without saying anything. I expect my father to ask me what’s wrong, but he doesn’t. My mother whispers, “It’s too much pressure for him. He’s been acting strange since this morning.” She reaches over and touches my forehead. “He’s not hot,” she mumbles. “He must be burning from the inside, my poor child.”
“Stop it,” my father snaps with more impatience.
He leaves the room as my mother touches my face gently with her fingertips and whispers worriedly, “What’s wrong?”
“She’s alive.” I’m unable to contain myself.
“Who’s alive, sweetheart?”
“My Masked Angel,” I whisper.
“Of course she’s alive,” she says, thinking I mean Soraya.
“I’m not crazy,” I murmur, looking to the hallway, where I can hear my father approaching.
“Oh, God,” my mother soothes. “You were never crazy. You’ve just been through a lot, that’s all.” My father enters the room with a glass of water in his hands. He gives me a pill, and tells me to take it.
“What is it?” my mother asks.
“Valium,” he says. “It will calm him down.”
I’ve never taken Valium before, but it must be better than anything my mom would give me, so I swallow the pill without arguing.
It isn’t long before a sense of numbness envelops me. I’m reminded of my hospital days, when a sensation of tranquility was followed by a painful awakening to a somber and austere reality. Before I lose consciousness, I want to make sure my mother is okay.
“Why’re you crying, Mom?” I ask. “Please, stop. Zari is alive. I don’t need to go to the States anymore. Isn’t that grand? Doesn’t that make you happy?”
Mom grabs my face in both hands and leans her forehead against mine as she weeps bitterly. “My sweetheart, my little child. What has happened to you?”
“If I ever go anywhere it’d be with Zari, Ahmed, and Faheemeh, and only for a short time. Just on vacation. Isn’t that great? I’ll be very happy from now on, just like I used to be, before this nightmare began. Isn’t that great, Mom?”
She nods. “Yes, it is, my sweetheart.”
“Living is like being lost in the desert where the stars are the only guide you can count on,” I continue, my lips dry, but a river flowing from my eyes. “You and Dad, Zari, Faheemeh, and Ahmed are the stars that guide me. You all have That. And someday I’ll write a book about everything that’s happened.”
Then I turn to my father and slur, “Do you believe in destiny, Dad?” My voice feels distorted to me. I don’t remember hearing my father’s answer.
I wake up on a mattress in the living room—sweaty, hot, drowsy, and aching. My parents are asleep on the floor a couple of meters away. The lights in the room are off, but the moonlight spilling through the curtains makes everything visible. I look toward the grandfather clock that my father had repaired a few days earlier, and the time reads three thirty, while my watch says it’s ten thirty. I see the pendulum moving sluggishly from one side to the other, and wonder why my father and I bothered to try and fix this poor old clock that has long outlived its usefulness.
My mind spins itself dizzy with thoughts about time. To stop it, I get out of bed and head up the steps toward the terrace on the third floor. I will hide there in the dark and wait for Zari to come out, as she often does, to watch me. When she appears, I’ll confront her and reveal that I know the truth.
When I get to the third floor I look out through the window to see if she is already on the terrace. God’s round, glowing orb of light has lit the sky, and I have a great view of everything outside, but the terrace is barren. I cross over the short wall between our houses and move to the extreme south side of the terrace to sit down in the shadows. I look at my watch—still ten thirty.
It’s a quiet night, so quiet you could hear the falling of a leaf, the squeak of a door, or the sound of the night itself breathing through the mild breeze that starts and stops. I sit patiently there in the dark, my chest expanding with a balloon of anticipation, anxiety, and hope. I look at my watch. It’s still ten thirty. I wonder how long I’ll have to wait.
As I’m sitting in the dark on the balcony of Zari’s house, I hope that my parents don’t wake up, because they will undoubtedly panic, rush upstairs, and potentially ruin my plans to expose Zari. A familiar anxiety, similar to the panic attacks I used to experience in the hospital, sweeps through me. Maybe I’m losing my mind. God, I hope not!
But I’m beginning to lose my patience. Maybe I should just storm into her house and demand to see her. I look at my watch, and it still says ten thirty. I shake my wrist and tap the watch. I hear the soft squeak of a door opening. My heartbeat throbs in my ears so fiercely that I fear the whole neighborhood will be woken up. I place my hands on my chest and push down hard to calm myself. I hear her muffled footsteps on the terrace, accompanied by the whispery rustle of her burqa dragging behind her on the cement. She’s still out of my sight, but her long shadow stretches away from the door, rushing toward the edge of the terrace, then contracting suddenly as she crouches low. The weight of the moment turns me to stone, unable to speak or even breathe.
She has a good view of my room from where she sits, and I conclude that she’s waiting for my light to come on. Maybe this wasn’t the best place for me to hide. What is the benefit if I can’t see what s
he’s doing?
Suddenly, her shadow extends again and she comes into view, moving slowly from my right to my left, toward the spot where we used to sit together under the short wall. Her figure, enshrouded in the black burqa and illuminated by the full moon behind her, seems taller than I remember it. She looks over the wall toward my room, then she stands up on her tiptoes and stretches her neck to try and improve her view. She stands there for a while, then moves to the edge of the terrace and leans over to look into my yard. I’m certain now that she’s spying on me, and that it was she who watched me every night from the safety of the shadows. She returns to our spot, casts one more look at my room, and sits down. I can feel my blood coursing through me, pulsing with an intensity that makes me as weak as water.
She starts fussing with the front of her burqa, as if she’s removing the lace that lines the mask section of her veil. Her fingers work quickly, but it seems she is struggling to untie a hidden knot. Her hands are thin, pale, and slender, just like Zari’s. My God, if she succeeds, I may be able to see her face! With a flick of her hand, she throws the lace back and begins to scratch the top of her head. I strain to see her face, but her arm shields my view.
After a few moments her arm slides down, but now the side of her veil blocks her face. All I can see is the velvet silhouette of her profile, motionless like a model posing for a painter. After a few seconds, she leans back against the wall. Although I can’t see her face, I can tell that her eyes are closed and her lips are moving, perhaps reciting a poem from Hafiz or Khayyam—maybe even one of the ones I read to her. Her chest rises and falls, and I can almost see her breath as it comes and goes. Suddenly, she perks up, as if she’s heard a sound. I can tell from the direction of her gaze that she thinks the sound came from my house. I hope my parents are not on their way up. I know she would run back to her house if she saw them.
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