Suheila watched him with pride. “That’s not possible, azizam” (dear). “You know that only women are given this job of weaving. Besides, you will have better things to do. You were born for greater things in life. You were born for Allah and for our homeland. Duset daram” (I love you).
She kissed him on his forehead and sent him on his way.
He took to skipping school but was nevertheless knowledgeable, even learned, in many fields. He did not attend religious classes and yet knew entire suras (verses) in the Quran. He only had to pass by a class where a history lesson was being taught, his teachers told his parents, to know the entire history of the Persian kingdom from the time Noah’s ark landed on Mt. Ararat.
That said, Mehdi’s teachers also came to know his dark side. During one break, the headmaster saw the children playing soccer in the yard. He noticed Mehdi kneeling in the corner. As he drew closer, he saw the boy tearing a live frog limb from limb.
“What are you doing?!” He shouted.
He did not await the boy’s reply. ‘Those glistening eyes. Such cruelty. I’d better call his father in,’ he thought.
“Why are you being so cruel to animals?” Suleiman asked Mehdi.
“I enjoy it,” came the boy’s reply, leaving the father astonished and anxious.
Mehdi would never cry. He never did. Not even as an infant, let alone as he grew older. At six months, his mother Fatimah took him to the doctor, the pediatrician Dr. Morhabi, a renowned figure in Tabriz and a close friend of the family.
“He never cries,” she complained.
“Do you feed him well enough?”
“Constantly. Daily. I have enough milk to nurse him.”
Dr. Morhabi glanced at her full breasts and set his own mind at ease.
“Do you change him regularly?”
“All the time, even when his diaper is dry.”
“Do you shower him with love and attention?”
“All day, doctor. I hug him and pat him all day. Suleiman says I am spoiling him…”
Dr. Morhabi patted the boy’s belly, turned him over and tapped the back, and proceeded to tell the anxious mother thus, “He’s getting all the food he wants, you keep changing him, you always walk with him out in the park, like you’ve told me, you’re giving him all your love, so what does he have to cry about?”
Suleiman, Mehdi’s father, both admired his son and feared him, having recognized the boy’s enormous talent, his aptitude for making contact with people, his great intelligence and leadership skills. And at the same time, as he grew into a teenager, Mehdi also exhibited signs of cruelty and a domineering nature. Whereas Suleiman, like his father, grandfather and ancestors before, were brought up to work well together with others within the confines of proscribed rules and norms, Mehdi would have none of it. He broke with the education he was given, unlike his brothers and sisters.
It took Suleiman no time to notice that his youngest son’s unfolding character consisted of individualism, leadership and internal toughness that did not conform with teamwork. ‘These qualities may put the family business at risk someday,’ he feared.
One time, Suleiman had an old Greek friend over. The merchant had the concession for the family’s carpets in the whole of Greece. The two firm friends had lunch together in Berkeh, one of Tabriz’s most famous restaurants, where you could only get halal food, in line with the strict dietary laws of Islam.
Dining to their hearts’ content in Gondi (dumplings), horshet sabzi (beef stew with herbs – sabzi means herbs in Farsi) and other delicacies the Persian and, in particular, the Tabriz cuisine is renowned for, they could be said to have been sitting at the Shah’s table, or better yet, as the Shah was gone by now, the imam’s table. They also had falooda, a famous Persian sweetened drink. Then, it was time to discuss each other’s families, as old friends do. Suleiman talked mostly about his children.
“I’m only concerned about my youngest,” he confided to his guest. “I am not sure he’s cut out for work in the family business and even less so that he has any interest in weaving. If this isn’t what drives you, it isn’t for you.”
“Why don’t you send him off to medical school, then?” suggested his old friend. “Look, Thessaloniki, where I come from, has a fine med school with a special class for overseas students.”
Astonished, Suleiman Mohammadi fell off his chair. “Are you crazy?” he asked his guest as he stood. “Mehdi? A doctor?”
“Go ask him. What have you got to lose?”
A few days later, Suleiman did ask his boy, in jest, telling him of his Greek friend’s idea.
“Dad, that suits me fine,” Mehdi replied in an instant.
Only Mehdi’s lightning response kept Suleiman from falling of his chair yet again. a few days later, Mehdi enrolled to learn Greek at the Thessaloniki School of Medicine.
Chapter Eight
Med school began in October. All the classes were in English, which Mehdi had learned back in Tehran. His high aptitude for languages also came into play when he quickly picked up Greek during the summer preparatory class the university offered ahead of the academic year. Mehdi shared his room at the dorms with Ali, a fellow student from Tehran, who studied economics.
Suleiman paid all of Mehdi’s expenses. On top of the steep tuition fee, he also financed his son’s rental payment and added a generous sum in the form of a monthly bank transfer.
In 1979, with the advent of the revolution that ousted the Shah and feeling support for its ideals, championing adherence to Islam, equality and fighting corruption, Mehdi decided to stand on his own two feet and pay his own way. He told his father he would no longer receive his support and that he would fend for himself. Suleiman, who always made sure his children would want for nothing, was very proud of Mehdi’s declaration of independence, despite the constant worry this caused Mehdi’s mother.
“What will he live on?” she complained to her husband. “He’ll have no food on the table...”
But Mehdi made ends meet. Determined and resolute, he would not shy away from any paying job. He gave English lessons, joined Ali whenever he went to do some gardening at homes of the wealthy or as a doorman in high rise apartment buildings. When money was tight, he did not shirk from cleaning the premises at the small mall that was not far from his dorm.
***
Mehdi was homesick. He missed his parents and his siblings and most of all Suheila, his grandmother. He also missed the new Iran very much and followed the news closely in complete accordance with the new regime and the principles of the revolution. He considered going back home for the summer break, but then the school announced a special summer class for non-Greek students, so he changed his plans, concluding he would rather not disrupt his studies. ‘Iran would have to wait for another time.’
His fellow med student Samir turned to him one day and asked, “I need a favor, please. I promised Maria, the one I’ve told you about from the hotel by the island, to show up for a shift on Monday night. She and her husband have an appointment in Thessaloniki, so it’s my chance to help up at the reception desk. But then, I received a call saying my mom is ill, so I have to go see her urgently.”
“I wish you and your mother the best of health, but what can I do but pray for her with all my heart?”
“I would like you to pick up my shift. Stand in for me.”
“What? How? What do I have to do?”
“Don’t worry. There’s practically nothing to do there. Maria told me that during the middle of the week, there’s only one guest in the entire hotel. All you have to do is show up. Just be there so that the guest who is staying there will not feel he is there all by himself. You have to get there by evening. Maria is expecting you. She will explain everything. Don’t worry, there is very little to go over.”
Samir smiled, lent Mehdi his car and gave him the directions to the hotel and ad
ded, “Don’t forget to collect your pay, one thousand drachmae.”
The following day, Mehdi climbed into his friend’s worn-down Skoda and began driving to the hotel at noon, following the directions to hotel Kallithea (Greek for “the best view”) that was out at the Sithonia Peninsula. As he climbed up the hill, Mehdi already knew he had arrived. ‘The hotel’s name really lives up to the scenery…’ Atop this marvelous cliff, overlooking a spectacular bay, it seemed to proudly announce “Here I am.”
The hotel consisted of eight rooms, each with its own balcony overlooking the breathtaking bay and Athos Peninsula on its other end. Another structure comprised a kitchen, and adjacent was the hotel restaurant, boasting a spacious veranda with a view to the sea. The small room that constituted the hotel’s reception desk was no more than twenty square feet. It was situated all the way at the end of this complex.
‘This woman nervously tapping her heels out there must be Maria.’ Mehdi relied on his friend’s explanations. Next to her a man was seated in the only parked car in the middle of a small lot. ‘Indeed. Not another soul in sight.’
“Are you Samir’s friend? My husband and I have been waiting for you for very long.”
Maria proceeded to show Mehdi where the power switches were, then the alarm system and the main water pipes. “This should do,” she concluded. “The kitchen is closed, and we currently have only one guest. This is where she’s staying,” Maria pointed at the rack where only one key hung. “She went down to the beach.”
Underscoring her heartfelt wishes he would not have to use it, Maria gave him an emergency phone number, and left, not before telling him she and her husband would be back by nine the following morning.
“You do not have to wait for us. Simply leave the key in the potted bougainvillea plant by the entrance, and you may return to Thessaloniki.”
Maria rushed over to the car but stopped in her tracks, ran back to Mehdi and gave him a bunch of rolled up banknotes. “This is your pay, according to the arrangement with Samir,” she said and ran right back to her husband, who had already started the engine.
Left to his own devices, Mehdi had nothing to contend with but silence. The small office had a wooden desk, an armchair padded with a Greek pattern and two chairs. He sank into the armchair, but, feeling a bit boxed-in, he carried it outside.
Facing east, he saw a large pool with clear waters rivaling those of the cove. The pool seemed to extend into it. He felt calm and at peace, as if his tension, pressure, bad energy and troubles suddenly all went away by a miracle and were supplanted by an unshakeable smile. Sleep soon got the better of him.
The view was different when Mehdi opened his eyes again. The sun no longer shone brightly, and the deep blue of the sea was likewise gone, both having given in to a soft twilight. The inlet was gone, but he could make out the distant lights of the far-off monasteries. He took in the large moon over the bay, beyond which he could hardly see the stars.
And then, lo and behold! What a woman!
Coming up the stairs from the pool to the reception desk, the beauty of the scenery, and perhaps his own imagination, made him believe that the princess of the bay was riding the waves toward him. ‘Such lovely blue eyes. Face like marble.’ She looked at him, motionless and silent.
She eyed him, and he her. They both said nothing. She stretched out her left arm and gestured with three upright fingers.
He got up from his chair, walked in, and, almost buckling, reached for the key rack. He laid the key to room three in her open hand, avoiding any contact with her bare skin. She, in turn, made her way to her room, her lovely, curving back getting farther away from his gaze.
It was as though the moon guided him. Mehdi rose to follow her. Something told him her door would not be locked. He opened the door.
Rising from her bed, she undressed, letting her galabia fall to the floor without a word. She awaited his own naked flesh.
The room was lit by nothing but the moon. Her milky skin glistened by the dim glow the fell through the windows, but he could still somehow make out her breasts and arching belly. Transfixed by her light blue gaze, he could barely believe this was real. ‘More lovely than the mid-day sun on a blue spring day.’
As he took off his shirt, he could feel his shorts falling to the floor on their own. Their bodies merged.
Not a word was uttered. Not a sound was made.
Next thing he knew, he was out the door again. But the moon was gone by now, as were the dim, distant monastery lights. The darkness, slightly alleviated by the stars, guided him back to his reception desk. ‘I’ll never forget thee, princess of the bay…’
But the night was not yet over. Mehdi found no rest. He kept quivering.
Tormented, he finally shut the door behind him in the morning, leaving the key where Maria had instructed him. He got into the car and made his way back to Thessaloniki.
***
Meeting the ‘princess of the bay’ shook him to the core. A tall, well-built man, Mehdi was a striking man with a pair of piercing blue eyes to boot. Though handsome, his sexual experience nevertheless amounted to few encounters with the opposite sex, as he had attended a boys-only school and had never encountered any girls his age aside from his sisters.
“Never let any Tabriz girl trap you,” his mother, fully aware of the attractive figure he cut, had warned him. “They are only after your money and our family’s name. Let me get you a bride. I will find you a suitable wife from Tehran, or at the very least, from Esfahan.”
Mehdi smiled back to his mother. “Don’t you worry about it, madar,” (Mom). “I’ll find my own mate, whom I am sure you’d approve of.”
He did have a short fling with the sister of a friend of his. She would never put out, though, always insisting they would progress “after we wed,” She was a good Muslim girl from a good family, after all. Her strict upbringing saw to it they never did anything remotely amounting to full intercourse.
One day, he decided he would at least make an attempt to break through the confines of tradition, norms and conservative values. On one of his trips to Tehran, he stole into a lingerie store and asked the saleslady to discreetly pack something for him. He barely contained his excitement at the prospect of seeing his girlfriend put it on for him. He asked his friend, her brother, to pass the parcel on to her. Needless to say, he was careful not give away its contents.
The following evening, when he put on his best clothes, made sure every hair was in place and spent extra time in front of the mirror, he told himself he should not forget to ask his friend to let him and his girlfriend spend some time by themselves. But when the door to his friend’s house opened, his girlfriend was furious. So much for the loving smiles he was expecting.
“You sick bastard! I thought you loved me! Get out of my sight! I never want to see you again!”
She shut the door in his face, cursing inaudibly through the door. Astonished, he caught sight of the door opening again, only to see her throw the bra he bought in his face “Get your own mother a D-size bra, you scum!”
She slammed the door again. ‘What’s gotten into her?!’ Her slurs, not to mention invoking his mother, meant that he was over and done with. He left the house and went back home to finish packing for the flight back to Thessaloniki.
***
The road to Thessaloniki had been renovated not long before Mehdi drove on it to Sithonia. The project had been designed to help promote tourism to the three inlets. As the tour guides say, the area boasted three small peninsulas, each about thirty miles long, that stretched into the Aegean. The two-way road cut through low hills, often covered by orchards and olive groves. But Mehdi saw none of this. Still dizzy with last night’s exploits, not to mention tired, he could barely pay attention to the road ahead. He knew he had better stop by the side of the road and steady himself before driving on, but before he could get a chance, a huge truc
k came crashing in.
Luckily for Mehdi, he managed to veer to the right in a split second. The car flew into a deep ditch that broke the fall.
When he woke up in the hospital, the police told him the accident was caused by his drifting into the opposite side of the roads, straight into the incoming traffic. They also told him he was brought in unconscious. He had his Iranian passport on his person, so they had left word with the Iranian consulate in Thessaloniki, informing them about the car accident.
Chapter Nine
Professor Inusias Siasu was instructing his group of eight med students, five of whom were young women, at Thessaloniki’s Hypocratio Hospital. This was his clinical training class, one of the additional duties there, on top of serving as deputy manager and faculty member. Joining his class was the ultimate dream of any fourth-year med student there.
The professor led his excited pack through the corridors, until they reached orthopedics, where, in room 19, they were greeted by Sandra, the attending nurse.
“Good morning,” he returned her greeting. “Let’s begin with the patient’s medical file.”
“The patient, Mehdi Mohammadi, a foreign national,” began Nurse Sandra, “was rushed to hospital after sustaining injuries in a car accident. When the ER examined him, they found three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a broken nose and several bruises of varying degrees of severity all over his body. He was then admitted to surgery for a splenectomy,” (an operation to remove the entire spleen) “after which his broken nasal bridge was attended, and he was then admitted to the internal medicine ward. His last checkup established he was doing fine. He might be released home for a full recovery and complete rest in a couple of days… Professor, shall I move on to the prognosis?”
“No, thank you, Nurse Sandra.”
The professor then turned to his students. “If you think I’ve brought you here for three broken ribs, you’ve got it all wrong. My intention is completely different. I wish to introduce to you the hospital’s policy concerning its patients. We shall come back to this point later. In the meantime, we have Professor Dionysus, who will tell us about the case’s continued treatment.”
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