How? It’s obvious. With the five-hundred-year-old handwritten book in her arms.
The three days that remain until another romantic rendezvous pass like three hundred years for Dara. They have arranged to meet in a mosque. In its front yard, where the color of the turquoise tiles of the inscriptions pray upon the water of the shallow pool, they will have the opportunity to quietly talk for a short while. They both believe that the spiritual environment will help keep their love pure. But they are both shocked when they arrive at the mosque. There are cheap flyers giving notice of a death taped to the walls. Below the beautiful sentence “From God we come and to God we shall return,” there is a picture of someone familiar to them: the old lovesick poet. Inside, a modest memorial service is under way with only a handful of old men and women present. Sara goes to the women’s section of the mosque and Dara to the men’s. Separated, they will not have to worry about seeing each other’s tears.
When entering the mosque, neither Sara nor Dara saw the ghost of the poet who, with the sorrow of having remained incomplete and the agony of the poems he had not composed, was standing beside the old shallow pool. But the moment the poet lay eyes on Sara, his sad lips curved into a smile. He quickly moved to her side and at very close proximity accompanied her as far as the women’s entrance. His ghost is not allowed to enter that section.
Sara, together with the poet’s old sister, begins to weep. Dara, together with the poet’s closest friend, a long-forgotten writer whose works never received a reprint permit after the revolution, with tearful eyes stares at some distant point. He regrets that four days earlier, at the height of his anger, he had wanted to kill that cheeky poet, and he is ashamed that, having seen his picture on the death notice, for a few seconds he had felt joy deep in his heart. He therefore allows the tears seeking absolution to flow from his eyes.
Up on the pulpit, the preacher preaches about the seven stages of hell. Fire, pits filled with foul-smelling boiling liquids, women who have violated the Islamic dress code hanging by their hair, snakes with bites so painful that fearing them hell’s residents take refuge with the venomous vipers, and other infinite horrors. Then he proceeds to describe the beauties of heaven. Streams of milk and honey, fruit trees that bend their branches down to heaven dwellers who crave their fruit, beautiful heavenly nymphs with skin so translucent that their insides can be seen. The lot of every male heaven dweller is seven thousand of these nymphs who are all virgins and who after every sexual encounter become virgins again, and each sexual encounter lasts approximately three earth days … Then the preacher begins to talk about the deceased poet. Of course, he mispronounces his name and makes no mention of his pseudonym.
An hour later, having sufficiently cried, Dara and Sara walk out of the mosque. With no particular destination in mind, they begin to walk. Subconsciously, they are scared of going to an Internet café, and they don’t feel like seeing yet another film abounding with misery. The problem is, when a young boy and girl walk together, at times their arms come into contact. For two virgins, such contacts are both pleasurable and frustrating.
Every half mile they ask each other, “Well, where should we go?” or “What should we do?” and they find no answers to their questions. At the very moment of hopelessness when they both despair, and for being together they see no solution other than to part ways, in the interest of my story I am forced to inspire Dara. I whisper in his ear, “Boy! Look to your right. What do you see?”
“A hospital.”
“Well, this hospital has an emergency room. Do you get it?”
Dara looks at me sheepishly. I say:
“You really deserve to be a virgin at thirty-something. Go to the emergency room, sit comfortably in a couple of chairs, and talk … Do you get it?”
He looks at me with such surprise it is as if he is looking at Bacchus. I say:
“This is one of the few benefits of having a writer for a friend. It will never occur to the police or the patrols that a young couple would take advantage of an emergency room like this.”
Dara does not wait around to hear what I have to say. The two rush into the hospital. I write:
Seeing a hospital sign, Dara suddenly changes their course in that direction.
Sara says:
“Why here?”
“Be clever, my dear.”
The two sit next to each other in the emergency room. Tehran’s morning and evening newspapers, even the English-language Tehran Times, are arranged on the coffee table in front of them. They each pick up a newspaper and open it.
Sara says:
“You don’t look like someone who would know such tricks. Maybe you have lots of experience with girls.”
“No … I saw the hospital sign and I was suddenly inspired.”
It doesn’t matter. I, being a writer in whose country copyright laws do not exist, am very much accustomed to others passing off my ideas as their own. I have absolutely no problem with them doing so. But I just don’t understand why as soon as they do such things they suddenly become my enemy, so much so that they wish for my existence to be censored from the pages of time. What troubles me more is that there are a few writers who on the outside are opposed to the regime but who secretly collaborate with Mr. Petrovich and read some of the more complicated books to expose their concealed scenes and inferences. I worry that they will tell Mr. Petrovich, By handing two newspapers to his story’s characters, this guy is suggesting to his readers that the newspapers published by the Islamic Republic are worthless and that they are only good for this girl and boy to use as a cover for their transgressions. Consequently, in the final edit of my story, I will probably do away with Sara and Dara holding newspapers, hoping that Mr. Petrovich will like their innocence and creativity in taking refuge in an emergency room and not censor the scene.
Now I must explain the setting of my story. Hospital emergency rooms in Iran are places that perhaps even the art of cinema cannot justly portray. For you to have some concept of an Iranian emergency room, let me say only that the annual average number of people killed in road accidents in Iran is ten times greater than the number of Americans killed to date in the second war with Iraq. Therefore, as Sara and Dara sit in that hospital, the doors to the emergency room constantly open, and the casualties of highways, freeways, and streets, and the casualties of hundreds of other locations and accidents, are rushed in. Typically, they are drenched in blood; they scream in pain and their stretchers are being pushed by family members or friends who in typical Middle Eastern fashion often wail and scream louder than the injured or dying person. And they all pass in front of Sara and Dara. Other emergency room patients lie moaning on stretchers parked along the hallways because there are very few emergency room personnel and they don’t have the strength and energy to tend to everyone. Tired and stressed, they too are forced to shout as they talk to each other or when they ask each other for assistance.
Please set your imagination in motion. First, imagine that you are one of the world’s greatest writers. Then, imagine how, given all your writing skills, you can move your love story along in that horrifying setting …
I have learned from experience that if I put myself and my story’s characters in a predicament, if I can tolerate their reprimands, after a while I can come up with a good narrative solution. The emergency room scene is one of these predicaments. Now, after three days of thinking about how I should advance my story, I have come up with an idea. To compare the brightness of your mind with the darkness of the mind of an Iranian writer, you should first tell me what your plan is for this segment of the story, and then ask me about mine. And I will say:
Dara opens his mouth to speak a candid and unambiguous sentence to Sara. A sentence that more or less all the world’s lovers speak. That same sentence that all the world’s lovers count the seconds to hear from their own lips and from the lips of their beloved. You know what that sentence is, so tell Dara that, with the same make-believe seriousness, looking as if he is
reading news of the most critical nature in that censored newspaper, he should turn the page and suddenly say:
“Sara! I am so in love with you.”
Sara, looking very serious, as if she is reading news of the most critical nature, in the shelter of the newspaper turns to Dara, stares into his eyes, and with her eyes she answers:
“…”
This time, I have no fear of Mr. Petrovich’s censorship, because this segment of the story takes place in my imagination. In this world of imagination, away from Mr. Petrovich’s eyes, I want to invite you to inspire Sara to tell Dara anything you like—of course, only if you succeed in your efforts at preserving your freedoms.
The emergency room doors open, and four men, two of them pushing a stretcher and the other two escorting it, walk in. One of the most beautiful and delicate women in the world is lying on the stretcher. I said one of the most beautiful women in the world because the most beautiful woman in the world does not exist in the world; although, when many men in the world want to tame a woman, they magnanimously call her the most beautiful. But what is most strange about the newly arrived group is not the woman’s beauty. It is that the four men accompanying her are wearing clothes reminiscent of outfits worn by Iranian commanders one thousand five hundred years ago. They are wearing shields and helmets adorned with shining stripes of what looks like gold, and the hilts of their swords sparkle from gems that resemble rubies and diamonds. They could be actors in a play about the lost Persian Empire. Perhaps during the show or the rehearsal the actress had an accident and they have brought her to the emergency room still dressed in their costumes. On entering the emergency room, the injured woman’s conveyors and companions have completely lost their composure and look overwhelmed. It is obvious that they don’t know what to do. The tormented eyes of the woman lying on the stretcher find Sara’s eyes from among the multitude of lecherous male eyes ogling her and appeal for help. She is terribly embarrassed in front of the four men accompanying her and cannot cry out from her feminine pain. The center of the silk sheet covering the woman is stained with blood. To stifle her groans she gnashes her bloodless lips between her teeth. Sara walks over to her. They whisper to each other. Then Sara pulls herself away and nervously runs around the emergency room until she finds a female nurse. Together they push the stretcher into a room and close the door.
Dara pounds his fist on his knee. He is not sure whether he should think, Just my luck …, or be happy that Sara has rushed to someone’s aid. He hears mocking laughter. He looks around and sees the man who sells talismans and spells sitting a few seats away laughing at him. Dara turns away from the magic peddler and stares at the closed door of the room Sara is in. Smelling of incense, Jafar ibn-Jafri walks over and sits next to him.
“I see you have not used my magic spell.”
Dara asks:
“Do you also have someone sick or injured here?”
“Yes and no. I mean, almost like you.”
A rare smile of understanding and sympathy forms on his lips. He whispers:
“The person who led you here did not have the brains to know that he should send young lovers to beautiful places and gardens and not to the thick of blood and pain.”
Dara shrugs and says:
“It was my own ingenuity.”
And again he looks at the closed door of the room. The magic seller says:
“Your friend isn’t coming out anytime soon. The injured lady is holding her hand and begging her not to leave her alone.”
He scoffs and, pointing to the door, continues:
“It is a violent world. Some brides end up with excessive bleeding.”
The four commanders, who contrary to their warriorlike appearance look scared and ill at ease, are standing in the corner whispering. The emergency room security guard walks up to them and points to the exit. They try to ignore him. The security guard gets angry. He calls his colleague, and together they throw the four men out. The magic peddler laughs out loud. Half an hour later, Sara walks out of the room. There is a drop of blood on her hand; she asks Dara for a handkerchief. Dara again gives Sara his grandmother’s handkerchief. The bloodstain spreads on the handkerchief like one of the delicate red flowers embroidered on its edge.
“What is it?”
Sara is about to cry.
“You men! Did you see how delicate she was? That savage groom has …”
She covers her face with her hands.
“Well, what happened? Will she recover?”
“They can’t stop the bleeding. They’re calling a specialist—Dr. Farhad.”
Dara is very sensitive to hearing Sara speak the name of another man.
“Who’s Dr. Farhad?”
“Don’t you know him? Many people in Tehran know him. He is one of the best specialists and surgeons. Some of the students who are beaten up and are afraid of being arrested at the hospital go to his office, and he treats their wounds for free and gives them medicine.”
Sara goes back to the room. Half an hour later, a tall, slim, tiredlooking man rushes into the emergency room. The admitting nurse shows him the room. It is the first time Dara, and we, see Dr. Farhad, but I don’t think it will be our last encounter with him. Medicine man Jafar ibn-Jafri points to the closed door.
“Did you see him? It was physician Farhad.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes. We are in some ways professional rivals. He takes business away from me. He has opened up a clinic in a run-down neighborhood, and three days a week he sees poor patients for free. These days, dimwits like him are hard to find. But although he hates me, I don’t hate him. I even like him. There will come a day when he, too, will be my customer … No matter how many diseases he can cure, there is one that he cannot. He will come to me to buy antilove medicine.”
Suddenly, Sara walks out of the room frowning and, ignoring the talisman seller, says:
“Let’s go.”
Outside it has started drizzling. The four commanders are still warily standing in a corner waiting. Sara walks over to them.
“Are you here with that bride?”
All four nod.
“Are you related to the bride or the groom?”
Confused and embarrassed they look at one another.
“Don’t tell me you are just the guard officers on duty!”
They nod.
“Tell Khosrow for me that he is more savage than a wild beast.”
Sara’s face has darkened with hatred and rage, and her lower lip is cut from the bites of her teeth. She walks away … Burning with curiosity, Dara cannot hold his tongue, and a few steps away he asks:
“Khosrow? How do you know the groom?”
“Their wedding was last night. The girl told me … Her name is Shirin. You disgusting men. It’s between you and me now!”
Sara starts walking faster toward her home. A shocked Dara can barely keep up.
To tell you the truth, I too am shocked. I am thinking, What if King Khosrow’s lovemaking with his bride Shirin was not as our great poet Nizami has described, ever so romantic, ever so soft, as soft as flower petals and stamens … I am shocked and terrified to think that Nizami too may have been afraid of censorship and has offered an account contrary to reality.
The raindrops over Tehran bring with them the dust of nearby deserts and the soot of dilapidated cars; with them they bring to earth the drifting dust of flying carpets and the dust of the bodies of emperors; and with them the dust of Adam and Eve and grapes that were never picked from vines pours onto the asphalt… Dara, still in disbelief, is thinking of timeless and placeless names and events when for the second time that day he is caught off guard. Sara, still with anger in her voice, says:
“I’m very late. I should have been home by now. Mr. Sinbad is coming to our house.”
“Mr. Sinbad? Who in the world is Mr. Sinbad?”
“My suitor. He insists that we get married while it is still spring and go to Spain for our honeymoon.”
THE BEARD
At eight in the evening, in front of Sara’s house, Sinbad climbs out of his latest-model BMW. He has been relentlessly pursuing Sara’s hand in marriage for some time now. Sara’s parents are very much in favor of the marriage because Sinbad is a self-made man. Unlike most crude yet wealthy bazaar merchants, he is a handsome thirty-seven-year-old. And unlike most crude yet wealthy bazaar merchants, he can speak a foreign language, and Chinese at that. How it is that without any university education Sinbad can speak Chinese is a story unto itself that I may tell you later. But, in the vein of classic novels, allow me at the first appearance of this character in our story to introduce him to the greatest extent possible.
As a schoolboy, Sinbad dreamed of becoming a doctor or an engineer so that he could selflessly serve his country. However, tides did not turn in his favor. His father died when he was still in first grade and reading lessons on Sara and Dara. He grew up in poverty and finished high school with great difficulty. At the time of the revolution, Sinbad was a clerk issuing birth certificates at a General Register Office in Shiraz. However, just as the revolution changed many things in the land of Iran, it very quickly changed Sinbad’s life, too. The first change occurred on his face. Ask me what I mean, for me to say:
In the year following the revolution’s victory, Sinbad still did not have a positive outlook on the reformations that were taking place. His father’s death and a life with no resources and no support had made him conservative and apathetic. He had not taken part in any of the anti-Shah demonstrations in which the majority of the people of Iran had participated. He used to say, “Who cares if the secret police arrest political activists and torture them? Who cares if oppositionists say there is no freedom of speech in the country or that there is censorship? I know I can say whatever comes to my mind. Now if what comes to their mind is forbidden, then it’s their own fault. Let us live our lives. I am content. I know that I will receive my salary at the start of the month, and I know that until the end of the month my mother and I will not go hungry and the landlord will not evict us. Of course, my salary isn’t as high as I would like it to be, but my boss has promised that in a few years I will earn enough money to even save some for a trip. Let us live our lives …” And thus he had lived. He was always afraid that someone would become upset with him. He was afraid that people would think he didn’t have a good opinion of them or that he disliked them, and he was afraid of being asked his opinion on even the most mundane issues. He believed that whatever there was in the world was meant to be, and that people who fell on hard times were people who had ignorantly tried to change all that was well entrenched in the world.
Censoring an Iranian Love Story Page 14