He caressed her hair. “You said you had an interesting day?”
“Yes, yesterday and today. I’ve been to your embassy and got the passport, just as you told me to do, th—”
“Great. Now you’re Canadian.”
“No, Beloved, Iranian—you’re Canadian. Listen, the best part is that I went to Doshan Tappeh,” she said proudly.
“Christ,” he said, not meaning to, for she did not like to hear him blaspheme. “Sorry, but that’s—that was crazy, there’s fighting going on there, you’re crazy to put yourself in such danger.”
“Oh, I wasn’t in the fighting,” she told him gaily, and got up and rushed out saying, “I’ll show you.” In a moment she was back in the doorway. She had put on a gray chador that covered her from head to toe and most of her face, and he hated it. “Ah, Master,” she said in Farsi, pirouetting in front of him. “You have no need to fear over me. God watches over me, and the Prophet whose Name be praised.” She stopped, seeing his expression. “What’s the matter?” she asked in English.
“I—I’ve never seen you in chador. It’s—it doesn’t suit you.”
“Oh, I know it’s ugly and I’d never wear it at home, but in the street I feel better wearing one, Tommy. All those awful stares from men. It’s time we all went back to wearing them—and the veil.”
He was shocked. “What about all the freedoms you’ve won, freedom to vote, to take off the veil, freedom to go where you please, marry whom you please, no longer the chattel that you used to be? If you agree to the chador, you’ll lose everything else.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not, Tommy.” She was glad that they were talking in English so she could argue a little, unthinkable with an Iranian husband. And so glad that she had chosen to marry this man who, unbelievably, allowed her an opinion, and even more astonishing, allowed her to express it openly to him. This wine of freedom is very heady, she thought, very difficult, very dangerous for a woman to drink—like nectar in the Garden of Paradise.
“When Reza Shah took the veil from our faces,” she said, “he should also have taken the obsession from the minds of men. You don’t go to market, Tommy, or ride in a car, not as a woman. You’ve no idea what it’s like. Men on the streets, in the bazaar, in the bank, everywhere. They’re all the same. You can see the same thoughts, the same obsession, in all of them—thoughts about me which only you should have.” She took off the chador, put it neatly on a chair, and sat down at his feet again. “From today on I will wear it on the street, like my mother and hers before me, not because of Khomeini, God protect him, but for you, my beloved husband.”
She kissed him lightly and sat at his knee and he knew it was decided. Unless he ordered her not to. But then there would be trouble in the home, for it was truly her right to decide this matter here. She was Iranian, his home Iranian, and always would be in Iran—that was part of his bargain with her father—so the trouble would be Iranian and the solution Iranian: days of vast sighs and soul-filled glances, a little tear, abject, slavelike service, judicious sobs in the night, more tortured sighs, never a word or look in anger and all murderous to a husband’s or father’s or brother’s peace.
Lochart found her so hard to understand sometimes. “Do as you want, but no more Doshan Tappeh,” he said, caressing her hair. It was fine and silky and shone as only youth can shine. “What happened there?”
Her face lit up. “Oh, it was so exciting. The Immortals—even them, the Shah’s crack troops—couldn’t dislodge the Faithful. Guns were going off everywhere. I was quite safe, my sister Laleh was with me, my cousin Ali and his wife. Cousin Karim was there—he’s declared for Islam and the revolution with several other officers and he told us where to meet him and how. There were about two hundred other ladies, all of us in chador, and we kept up our chanting, God is Great, God is Great, then some of the soldiers came over to us. Immortals!” Her eyes widened. “Imagine, even the Immortals are beginning to see the Truth!”
Lochart was appalled at the danger of her going there without asking or telling him, even though she was accompanied. Thus far the insurrection and Khomeini had seemingly passed her by, except initially when the real troubles began and she was petrified over the safety of her father and relations who were important merchants and bankers in the bazaar, and well known for their connections at Court. Thankfully her father had dispelled all their concerns when he had whispered to Lochart that he and his brothers were secretly supporting Khomeini and the revolt against the Shah and had been doing so for years. But now, he thought, now if the Immortals are cracking and top-echelon young officers like Karim are openly supporting the revolt the bloodshed will be enormous. “How many came over?” he asked, trying to decide what to do.
“Only three joined us, but Karim said it’s a good beginning and any day Bakhtiar and his scoundrels will flee like the Shah fled.”
“Listen, Sharazad, today the British and Canadian governments’ve ordered all dependents out of Iran for a while. Mac’s sending everyone to Al Shargaz till things cool down.”
“That’s very wise, yes, that’s wise.”
“Tomorrow the 125’ll be in. She’ll take Genny, Manuela, you, and Azadeh tomorrow so pack a b—”
“Oh, I won’t leave, my darling, no need for me to leave. And Azadeh, why should she go either? There’s no danger for us—Father would certainly know if there was any danger. No need for you to worry…” She saw his wineglass was nearly empty so she jumped up and refilled it and came back again. “I’m quite safe.”
“But I think you’d be safer out of Iran for a wh—”
“It’s wonderful of you to think of me, my darling, but there’s no reason for me to go and I’ll certainly ask Father tomorrow, or you can…” A small ember of wood fell without danger into the grate. He started to get up but she was already there. “I’ll do it. Rest, my darling, you must be tired. Perhaps you’d have time tomorrow to see Father with me.” Deftly she tidied the fire. Her chador was on a nearby chair. She saw him glance at it. The shadow of a smile washed over her.
“What?”
For answer she just smiled again, picked it up, and ran gaily across the room and down the corridor to the kitchen.
Unsettled, Lochart stared at the fire, trying to marshal his arguments, not wanting to order her. But I will if I have to. My God, so many troubles: Charlie vanished, Kowiss in a mess, Kyabi murdered, and Sharazad in the middle of a riot! She’s crazy! Mad to take such a risk! If I lost her I’d die. God, whoever you are, wherever you are, protect her…
This living room was large. At the far end was a dining-room table and chairs that could seat twelve. Most times, they would use the room in Iranian style, sitting on the floor, a tablecloth spread for the dishes, lounging against cushions. Rarely did they wear shoes and never high heels that could damage the deep carpets. There were five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms—this one they used generally or with company, the other, much smaller at the far end of the apartment was, as customary, for her to go to when he had business to discuss, or when her sister or girlfriends or relations were visiting so their chatter would not disturb him. Around Sharazad was always movement, always family nearby, children, nannies—except after sunset, though frequently relations or close friends were staying in the guest bedrooms.
He never minded, for they were a happy, gregarious family, in front of him. It was also part of his bargain with her father that he would patiently learn Iranian ways, patiently live Iranian ways for three years and a day. Then he could choose to live outside Iran temporarily with Sharazad if he needed to: “Because by then,” her father, Jared Bakravan, had said kindly, “with the Help of the One God and the Prophet of God, may His words live forever, by then you will have enough knowledge to make the correct choice, for surely by then you will have sons and daughters, for though my daughter is thin, divorced, and still childless, I do not think she is barren.”
“But she’s still so young, we may decide it is too soon to have children.”
“It is never too soon,” Bakravan had said sharply. “The Holy Books are quite clear. A woman needs children. A home needs children. Without children a woman will get into idle ways. That’s the most of my beloved Sharazad’s problem, no children. Some modern ways I approve of. Some I do not.”
“But if we agree, she and I, that it is too soo—”
“Such a decision would not be her business!” Jared Bakravan had been shocked. He was a small, paunchy man with white hair and beard and hard eyes. “It would be monstrous, an insult, even to discuss it with her. You must think like an Iranian or this possible marriage will never last. Or even begin. Never. Ah, is it that you don’t want children?”
“Oh, no, of course I want children, but per—”
“Good, then it’s settled thus.”
“Then can it be settled thus: for three years and a day may I decide if it is too soon?”
“Such an idea is foolish. If you don’t want chil—”
“Oh, but of course I do, Excellency.”
At length the old man had said, reluctantly, “One year and a day only—but only if you swear by the One God that you truly want children, that this astonishing request is completely temporary! Your head is truly filled with nonsense, my son. With the Help of God, such nonsense will vanish like the snow on desert sand. Of course women need children…”
Absently Lochart smiled to himself. That wonderful old man would bargain with God in the Garden of Paradise. And why not? Isn’t that the national pastime of Iranians? But what do I say to him in a few days now—the year and a day almost over? Do I want the burden of children? No, not yet. But Sharazad does. Oh, she went along with my decision, and she’s never mentioned it but I don’t think she ever approved it.
He could hear the muted sounds of her voice and the maid’s voice from the kitchen and the quiet it enhanced was, as always, wonderful—such a contrast to the cockpit that was his other life. His cushions were very comfortable and he watched the fire. There was some gunfire in the night but by now it was so commonplace that they hardly heard it.
I’ve got to get her out of Tehran, he thought. But how? She’ll never leave while her family’re here. Maybe she’s safer here than anywhere, but not if she joins the riots. Doshan Tappeh! She’s crazy, but then they all are at the moment. I wish to God I knew if the army’s really been ordered to crush the revolt. Bakhtiar has to move soon or he’s finished. But if he does there’ll be a bloodbath because Iranians are a violent people, death seekers—providing it’s in the service of Islam.
Ah, Islam! And God. Where’s the One God now?
In all the hearts and heads of Believers. Shi’ites are Believers. So’s Sharazad. And all her family. And you? No, not yet but I’m working on it. I promised him I’d work on it, promised I’d read the Koran and keep an open mind. And?
Now’s not the time to think of that. Be practical, think practically. She’s in danger. Chador or not she’s not going to get involved, but then, why shouldn’t she? It’s her country.
Yes, but she’s my wife and I’ll order her to stay out of it. What about her father’s place on the Caspian Sea near Bandar-e Pahlavi? Maybe they’d take her there or send her there—the weather’s good now, not as rotten cold as it is here, though our home’s warm, the oil tank always full, wood for the fire, food in the icebox, thanks to her old man and the family.
My God, I owe him so much, so very much.
A slight noise distracted him. Sharazad was standing in the doorway wearing the chador and a light veil that he had never seen before. Her eyes were never more alluring. The chador was sibilant as she moved closer. Then she let it fall open. She wore nothing underneath. The sight of her made him gasp.
“So.” Her voice as always soft and throbbing, the Farsi sweet-sounding. “So, Excellency, my husband, so now my chador pleases you?”
He reached out for her but she darted back a step, laughing. “In the summer the public women of the night wear their chadors thus, so it is said.”
“Sharazad…”
“No.”
This time he caught her easily. The taste of her, the sheen of her, her softness. “Perhaps, Master,” she said between kisses, gently taunting him, “perhaps your slave will always wear her chador thus, in the streets, in the bazaar, many women do, so they say.”
“No. The thought would drive me mad.” He began to pick her up but she whispered, “No, Beloved, let us stay here,” and he replied, “But the servants…” and again she whispered, “Forget them, they’ll not disturb us, forget them, forget everything, I beg you, Beloved, and only remember that this is your house, this is your hearth, and I am your eternal slave.”
They stayed. As always her passion equaled his though he could not understand how or why, only that with her he went to Paradise, truly, stayed in the Garden of the Paradise with this nymph of Paradise and then returned with her safe to earth again.
Later, during dinner, the front doorbell disturbed their peace. Her servant Hassan answered it, then came back into the room, closing the door. “Master, it’s Excellency General Valik,” he said softly. “He apologizes that he arrives so late but it’s important and asks if Your Excellency would grant him a few minutes.”
Lochart’s irritation soared but Sharazad reached over and touched him gently and it went away. “See him, Beloved. I will wait for you in bed. Hassan, bring a fresh plate and heat up the horisht, His Excellency’s bound to be hungry.”
Valik apologized profusely for arriving so late, refused food twice but of course allowed himself to be persuaded and ate ravenously. Lochart waited patiently, fulfilling his promise to her father to remember Iranian ways—that family came first, that it was good manners to skirt an issue, never to be blunt, never to be direct. In Farsi it was much easier than in English.
As soon as he could, he switched to English. “I’m very pleased to see you, General. What can I do for you?”
“I only heard half an hour ago that you were back in Tehran. This horisht is easily the best I’ve had in years. I’m so sorry to disturb you so late.”
“No trouble.” Lochart left the silence to prosper. The older man ate without embarrassment that he ate alone. A piece of lamb attached itself to his mustache and Lochart watched it, fascinated, wondering how long it would remain there, then Valik wiped his mouth. “My compliments to Sharazad—her cook is well trained. I will tell my favorite cousin, Excellency Jared.”
“Thank you.” Lochart waited.
Again the silence hung between them. Valik sipped some tea. “Did the clearance for the 212 come through?”
“Not by the time we’d left.” Lochart was unprepared for the question. “I know Mac sent a messenger to wait for it. I’d phone him but unfortunately our phone’s out. Why?”
“The partners would like you to fly the charter.”
“Captain McIver’s assigned Captain Lane, presuming there’s a clearance.”
“It will be granted.” Valik wiped his mouth again and helped himself to more tea. “The partners would like you to fly the charter. I’m sure McIver will agree.”
“Sorry, but I’ve got to get back to Zagros, I want to make sure everything’s okay.” He told him briefly what had happened there.
“I’m sure Zagros can wait a few days. I’m sure Jared would be pleased you thought it important to do what the partners ask.”
Lochart frowned. “I’m happy to do anything. What’s so important to the partners about this charter, a few spares, a few rials?”
“All charters are important. The partners are very concerned to give the best service. So that’s all right, then?”
“I’d…first I’d have to take it up with Mac, second I doubt if the 212’ll be cleared, third I really should get back to my base.”
Valik smiled his nicest smile. “I’m sure Mac will give his approval. You’ll have clearance to leave Tehran airspace.” He got up. “I’m going to see Mac now and I’ll tell him you’re agreeable. Thank Sharazad—ag
ain a thousand apologies for calling so late but these are troubled times.”
Lochart did not move from the table. “I still want to know what’s so important about a few spares and a hundred thousand rials.”
“The partners have decided it is, and so my dear young friend, hearing you were here and knowing your close relationship with my family, I presumed at once that you would be happy to do this if I asked you personally. We’re the same family. Aren’t we?” It was said flat now, though the smile remained.
Lochart’s eyes narrowed. “I’m glad to do anything to help b—”
“Good, then it’s settled. Thank you. I’ll see myself out.” From the doorway Valik turned and pointedly looked around at the apartment. “You are a very lucky man, Captain. I envy you.”
When Valik had gone, Lochart sat by the dying fire, staring at the flames. Hassan and a maid cleaned away the dishes, said good night but he did not hear them—nor Sharazad who came back later, peered at him, then went quietly back to bed, dutifully leaving him to his reverie.
Lochart was sick at heart. He knew that Valik was aware that everything of value in the apartment, along with the apartment itself, had been a wedding gift from Sharazad’s father. Jared Bakravan had even given him de facto ownership of the whole building—at least the rents thereof. Few knew of their argument: “As much as I appreciate your generosity I can’t accept all this, sir,” Lochart had said. “It’s impossible.”
“But these are material things, unimportant things.”
“Yes, but this is too much. I know my pay’s not great, but we can manage. Truly.”
“Yes, of course. But why shouldn’t my daughter’s husband live pleasantly? How else can you be at peace to learn Iranian ways and fulfill your promise? I assure you, my son, these represent little value to me. Now you are part of my family. Family is most important in Iran. Family looks after family.”
“Yes, but I must look after her—I must, not you.”
“Of course, and with the Help of God you will, in time, provide for her in the way she is used to. But now this is not possible for you with the support for your ex-wife and child which you must provide. Now it is my wish to arrange matters in a civilized way, our Iranian way. You have promised to live as we live, no?”
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