Censoring an Iranian Love Story

by Shahriar Mandanipour; Sara Khalili

  I say:

  “Sir, you’re going too fast. First of all, the story only tells us that a man’s shadow is behind the curtain. There is no mention of a bedroom …”

  “Sir! What sort of a comment is that? You are either trying to fool me, or you don’t know anything about story writing. Any reader can discern that those curtains are bedroom curtains. Shadows don’t appear behind living room curtains, and even if they did, the lady of the house would grab a broom and beat it against the curtain so much that the shadow would regret having ever appeared.”

  I say:

  “The workshop has ended. For next session, read Kafka’s The Trial so that we can discuss it.”

  I gather my papers from the desk.

  I walk out of the building, and I am surprised to see snowflakes. I am sure that when I was driving over to the magazine’s offices, the sky showed no signs of clouds or snow. But snowflakes, without a doubt, are falling. I see the dark shadow of Mr. Petrovich a short distance away. He is standing there smoking a cigarette, waiting for me. I start walking. He asks:

  “Aren’t you going to get into your car?”

  “No. I want to walk a little. I really like the snow.”

  He joins me. I don’t want him to learn the whereabouts of my friend’s house where I am spending the night. I randomly pick a direction and start to walk.

  “How was my critique of that woman’s story?”

  “It was interesting. I am surprised you don’t teach a creative writing course.”

  “I am thinking about it. Frankly, given all the years I have spent reading stories by you Iranian writers, and plenty of translations of foreign novels and short stories, I think I know stories and novels better than any of you.”

  “I congratulate you.”

  The snow has quickly emptied the sidewalks of pedestrians. The snowflakes, although large, are very light. They float around us.

  “How is your story coming along?”

  “I’m stuck at the next-to-the-last scene.”

  “Are you waiting for an inspiration?”

  “Inspirations don’t deem the likes me deserving. They come looking for you.”

  “But I want you to be able to write an Islamic love story. And if it happens to be postmodern, then all the better. In other words, for everything in it to be all muddled and confused and yet for it to criticize modernism, which incites sin. Don’t forget, we take no issue with postmodernism. After all it promotes a return to tradition.”

  “In any case, regardless of whether my story is traditional, modern, or postmodern, it is getting all very convoluted.”

  I turn onto another street. The sidewalk is so deserted that seeing a frail man walk toward us is somehow comforting. He is carrying a leather bag. His back is bent, and he is so drowned in thought that it seems he doesn’t see us. Just as he walks past us I recognize him. He is no other than Hooshang Golshiri, that same great contemporary writer I mentioned before. He has played an important role in my life as a writer, and I happily shout:

  “Mr. Golshiri!”

  In the light of the streetlamp his face looks tired and old. He seems to be straining his memory to remember me. Then in a cheerless voice he says:

  “I didn’t recognize you! Your hair has turned so white … Is it snow?”

  I shake my head.

  “No, it turns white despite the snow.”

  He pulls a handwritten manuscript out of his briefcase and hands it to me.

  “I have discovered a brilliant young writer. Read.”

  As if he has just then noticed Mr. Petrovich, he says:

  “I see you are walking with Mr. Petrovich!”

  I stammer:

  “The gentleman is walking with me. You know … He graced my story-writing workshop tonight.”

  The glint of his usual humor and cleverness comes alive in his eyes. He turns to Mr. Petrovich:

  “My dear sir, what news of my Prince Ehtejab and Christine and Kid?”

  His voice sounds young. Mr. Petrovich says:

  “What’s the rush, Mr. Golshiri? Your books are a bit complicated, and it takes time to scrutinize them.”

  Golshiri’s masterpieces have been waiting for a publishing permit for some twenty-seven years. He says:

  “I’m in no hurry. I was going from Prince Ehtejab’s house to Christine’s house. They constantly ask when they are going to be published, and I have no answer for them. Will you be at your office tomorrow for Morad to come and pay his respects?”

  Morad is one of the characters in Golshiri’s Prince Ehtejab. Every time he comes to visit the prince he brings news of the death of one of the prince’s relatives, until the end of the novel when he brings the prince news of the prince’s own death.

  “Why Morad? You should come yourself. We’ll have some tea and chat. Perhaps we can even reach a compromise.”

  “No, Morad doesn’t know how to make an appointment. Christine … What if Christine comes? Will you give her an appointment?”

  Christine is a pleasant English lady who in Golshiri’s novel falls in love with an Iranian writer in Isfahan. Frightened, Mr. Petrovich holds his arms out to shield himself.

  “No, no … Absolutely not … Never … No.”

  “Are you afraid your colleagues will suspect you of being a British spy?”

  “Precisely.”

  Throughout the dialogue between Mr. Petrovich and Golshiri, I am tempted to sneak away and escape to my car. Golshiri knows how to talk to Mr. Petrovich more effectively than I can. From the very first day when the censorship machine got started, Golshiri announced that he would not change or delete a single word in his stories, and as a result, most of his books have not received a publishing permit. I take one step back. Mr. Petrovich has his back to me. Two steps, three steps. I keep walking backward. I wave to Golshiri, and … I head for my car. I am cold. The floating snowflakes get into my eyes; they seem to be acidic; they burn my eyes. I keep wiping away my tears, it doesn’t help, again the burning snowflakes … I remember Hooshang Golshiri, not having seen his new novel published and reprinted, died several years ago … I am very cold.

  In a computer chat Sara asks Dara:

  “Is it snowing in your neighborhood, too?”

  “Probably less than it is in yours.”

  “The weather was so nice. How come it suddenly started to snow?”

  “I don’t know. I like the snow.”

  Sara sighs.

  “Me, too. I wish we could go for a walk together in this snow.”

  “It would be beautiful. We would walk together and look at our footprints on the snow. I would take your hand to warm you … To me, love only means creating beauty.”

  After their last ungratifying rendezvous, they waver between love and anger.

  Sara says:

  “But I have still not forgiven you.”

  “I know. I can tell from the tone of your voice. What do I have to do?”

  “Well … I can’t leave the house this late at night… Why don’t you go out? Go out on this beautiful night and walk for me, too. Imagine I am next to you.”

  “These days, because of that guy who’s been following me, I don’t go out that much.”

  “You mean you won’t take a risk for me? What sort of a man in love are you?”

  “Is that what you want? You want me to risk my life for the sake of imagining you?”

  “What if I do? So far, you have only bragged about love. But you have never proven your love to me.”

  Dara doesn’t hear Sara’s playful giggle.

  “Fine, I’ll go out.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “You’ll see. Maybe I will finally be freed from this love.”

  “Dara, I was joking!”

  But Dara pays no attention to these last words and turns off his computer to go out and to prove to Sara the sincerity of his love.

  While Sara sends Dara out to walk in the snow and to look at his footprints, I am racing
toward my car hoping to save myself from this night. Heads made of fog float in the air. I try not to run into them. I keep thinking I am going the wrong way. On the opposite sidewalk a few shahnehs are dragging away the poet who died seven hundred years ago. One of them, trailing behind, is carrying a goblet and a decanter—the crime evidence.

  Mr. Petrovich is standing on the other side of my car smoking a cigarette.

  “Did you recently buy this car?”

  “Yes. For years I have wanted a new car that I can travel with, with peace of mind.”

  “Did you buy it with the royalties from your last book?”

  We both burst into laughter. We both know that in Iran, even a well-established writer can at most buy a car tire with his royalties.

  “It’s a nice color … Someone has scratched it with a knife on this side. Have you seen it?”

  I walk over to the other side of the car. Yes, there is a scratch from one end to the other end of the car.

  “There are jealous people everywhere.”

  “Yes, there are.”

  I open the car door.

  “I really have to go now. I just remembered that I have to pick up a friend who’s waiting for me on the street. The poor thing has probably turned into a snowman standing there staring at his footprints in the snow.”

  “I’m not stopping you. I just wanted to ask you a question.”

  My heart sinks. In Iran, a single question can turn a person’s life upside down. Mr. Petrovich, with those same eyes that can read the mind of his counterpart, stares into my snow-covered eyes. The car keys are stuck to my fingers like a lump of ice.

  “Do you recall a hunchback midget in any of the stories you have read?”

  “No … Not at all … Why?”

  “Don’t be quick to answer. Think.”

  A purple fog cluster passes over my shoulder.

  “I don’t know … Maybe … As far as I can remember there is a hunchback midget in one of the tales of One Thousand and One Nights. Why?”

  In the fluorescent light of the streetlamp I can clearly discern Mr. Petrovich’s frightening look of mistrust. Again I ask:

  “Why?”

  “It’s not important. I just wanted to say that I never forget the kindness of people who send gifts to my office.”

  I jump in my car, shift into four-wheel drive, and speed through the snow-covered streets of Tehran. It is one in the morning and too late for me to go to the friend with whom I was supposed to stay that night. I have to find a cheap motel; I have very little money in my pocket. A piece of carpet, the size of the palm of my hand, flies into the windshield and stubbornly sticks to it. The windshield wipers get caught behind it. Even now its shades of azure and indigo are distinct. I increase the speed of the wipers. The piece of carpet goes flying onto the street.

  In the southern part of town I pass a young man walking alone in the snow. I don’t have much time; at this hour of the night even the motels close their doors. I leave the young man to continue his walk with the warmth of his heart and the heat of his imagination, and to once in a while turn back and look at his trail on the snow and see two sets of footprints that end at his feet.

  I finally find a motel. I take my duffel bag and quickly walk to the front door. It is closed. I have no choice. I have to knock. A surly old woman opens the door. Her withered face is heavily made up. Her gums and the few teeth she has are black. In a hoarse voice she wheezes:

  “What do you want?”

  “Madam, why would anyone knock on a motel door … Do you have a room?”

  “If you have money, come in.”

  I follow her into a long hallway, doors on either side, all closed. The end of the hallway is drowned in darkness. We reach the reception desk. It takes up half the width of the hallway. The narcotic whiff of opium is percolating from somewhere. The old woman walks behind the rotting wooden desk calloused with grime from the hands of thousands of travelers. She pushes a large old notebook in front of me for me to write down my information. I blow away the fragments of broken moth wings from the page, and as I write my first name, last name, point of departure, destination, and purpose of travel in the columns of the notebook, my eyes catch a glimpse of the entries made by the last guest at the motel:

  Mr. P….

  I freeze. The date entered is ten years ago. Suspicious, I look up at the old woman. She exposes her sparse black teeth to me with a smile. I don’t know why, but from that very first moment her face and comportment have seemed familiar to me … She rubs her thumb and two fingers together gesturing for money. I take the crumpled bills out of my pocket and throw them on the reception desk. Patiently she flattens them out and counts them. I am still staring at her, trying to remember where I have seen her before. She snarls:

  “It’s too little … Give me more.”

  She holds her hand up to my eyes and again gestures for money.

  “How much does a motel room cost?”

  “It’s snowing outside. Isn’t it… ? Do you mean to tell me it’s not snowing?”

  “But that’s all I have.”

  I follow the path of her gaze. My watch … I bought it only recently. I put the watch in front of her.

  “I’ll hold it as a pawn. If you bring the money in seven days, it will be yours again. Otherwise, it’s mine.”

  She hands me a rusty key and points to the end of the dark hallway.

  “The bathroom is there.”

  “I don’t need it right now.”

  “Any time you have no money but have some pricey piece, come see me. Because you are such a polite and well-mannered man, I’ll charge you less interest than I charge others.”

  She looks me over.

  “Do you have a cigarette?”

  I take two cigarettes out of my pack. She lights one up. After a deep puff she smiles coyly and says:

  “It’s a cold night, if you need anything else, don’t be shy … All right?”

  “All right.”

  I lie down on the grime-encrusted bed. I am very cold. I pull the blanket that smells of a traveler from ten years ago over me. Hard as I try to figure out why the old woman’s face and mannerisms are familiar to me and grow even more familiar, nothing comes to my mind. I try to lull myself to sleep by thinking about the love story I am writing. Sara is asleep. Dara, if he has not fallen prey to that assassin, must have turned into a snowman by now. And I suddenly feel sterile. I cannot think of anything for my story’s next scene …

  I try to see the beautiful sleeping Sara on a beautiful bed in Dara’s imagination, to see her plump half-open lips that seem to have just been released from a kiss, to see her chest as it rises and falls with every breath …

  And with an ancient squeak, the door gently opens.

  THE SNOW QUEEN OF TEHRAN

  It seems that we, together with Dara, must close our eyes to all the danger and go for a stroll. Sara, who has sent Dara out for a solitary walk in Tehran’s falling snow, is now suffering from a guilty conscience. She thinks, I sent the poor boy out in the cold and the snow, so now I shouldn’t sleep either until it is inspired to me that he has returned home. Several times she splashes cold water on her face. At three in the morning, after the final rinsing of sleep from her eyes, she returns to her room and looks out the window. Suddenly all the chill of the water evaporates from her face. Outside, on the sidewalk across the street, there is a white ghost wearing a layer of snow from head to toe. Sara would recognize Dara even under an avalanche. This is the first time she has caught him in front of her bedroom window. Dara is standing there like a snowman.

  Around one thousand years ago, in an epic legend in verse called Shahnameh (The Book of Kings)—which if written in any land other than Iran, its fame and influence would today far surpass that of The Iliad and The Odyssey—a story was composed about the love of an Iranian hero named Zal for the daughter of the ruler of Kabul, which Westerners are now familiar with because of the mad actions of the Taliban. This Iranian mythic hero
was born with hair as white as snow. Well, one night Zal stands beneath his beloved’s bedroom window, and his beloved lets her long tresses hang from the second-or third-floor window. Then Zal takes that most beautiful and magnificent rope and climbs up to her bedroom.

  Sara wants to cry out:

  Oh! What are you doing out there in the cold? You will catch pneumonia, darling.

  But she is scared of waking up her parents and the neighbors. She thinks she must somehow share in the cold that her beloved is suffering. Therefore …

  Sara flings her bedroom window open and shakes her head so that the strands of her hair like thousands of ropes fly free. She takes off her shirt for the cold to invade her body too and for her nakedness to warm her beloved standing out there in the pitiless cold. For centuries, however, my wretched Dara, unlike Khosrow, has been deprived of seeing such warming scenes and I of writing them.

  Ask, then, How will you write this hot scene? for me to write:

  Sara flings her bedroom window open. All her suppressed emotions cry out for her to share in her beloved’s suffering. The snow is a cold cloak clinging to Dara’s body, and she is selfishly warm in her clothes. The wind beats against her; from the cuff of her sleeves and the collar of her shirt it licks at her arms, at her neck. She longs to be on a snow-covered plain, alone, unseen, free. She sees herself on a snow-covered plain. The warmth of her being gradually melts away her clothes. She is inspired to give the truth of her existence to the nature from which it was born and she … The snowy wind beats against her; it turns her shoulders into ice and fills the hollow at the base of her throat with snow. And the hands of the Snow Queen touch those hills for which the Farsi language has no words … The snow covering Dara’s body gently melts …

  At the sight of the Snow Queen, Dara’s eyes, the eyes of that young virgin, have opened wide. He crosses the street, and in front of Sara’s house, with thoughts for which the Farsi language has no words, he stands staring up at the bright window … Time for him has stopped. How many minutes go by? He doesn’t know, and neither do I. The snow is quickly turning Sara’s body into ice, yet she feels her nipples burning, pink steam rises from them. After some time, Dara comes to himself and realizes that he is torturing his beloved. He tries with hand gestures to tell her she will catch a cold. But Sara misunderstands. She thinks Dara is asking her to take off her bra as well. She reaches back and undoes that clasp that no man in the world likes. Dara feels his eyes burning, black smoke will rise from them. Like a statue he stands staring up at the window that has opened onto all the anguish and all the denial he has suffered since puberty.