by Dalia Sofer
She watches her classmates, these croupiers and gamblers busy with games—the spin of a bottle, the combat of scissors, paper, stone, the flight of balls overhead, the cascade of glass marbles below. She decides she doesn’t want to play these games anymore.
She leans against a wall, slides to the ground, notices candy wrappers by her feet, sailing on the wind’s whim. Looking farther out she finds a sea of litter—more candy wrappers, orange and cucumber peels, half-eaten sandwiches, eggshells, even. She never really noticed them before. Above her the sky is a pale blue, without a single cloud—empty—a stark contrast to the playground. Where could it have gone, that ring? Her father had told her all about sapphires, worn by archbishops in the Middle Ages, believed by Buddhists to protect the wearer from illness and disaster, and said by the devout to have been the stone on which the Ten Commandments had been carved. Her mother always called it her good-luck ring. Does this mean she has lost her good luck?
She sees a pair of sneakers approaching her, and she knows it’s her friend Leila, because of the Donald Duck sticker on the left shoe. “Why are you sitting on the ground?” Leila says, eating potato chips.
“I’m tired.”
Leila sits next to her, offers her the bag of chips. “Me too,” she says.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Ghosts? I don’t know. My father always says shahidan zendeand—martyrs are alive.”
“No, I’m serious. Things are disappearing in my house.”
“Disappearing? You must have misplaced them.”
“Yes, probably.” It occurs to her then that her father, too, has simply been misplaced, and that he will one day be returned to his rightful place, in his leather chair in the living room, with his books and cigarettes, sipping the tea that her mother will serve him from the silver teapot, the sapphire ring back on her finger.
SEVEN
Inside the house, perched on the curves of the Niavaran hills, the lights are on. Farnaz stands outside, thinks of the many dinners she and Isaac had attended here. Shahla and Keyvan, Isaac’s sister and her husband, were once known for their parties—for the chef they had hired from Paris and the piano concertos they hosted after dinner sometimes, bringing young musicians from Vienna or Berlin or even, occasionally, introducing a budding prodigy from Tehran. She stands by the iron gate and presses the bell.
“Farnaz-khanoum!” the housekeeper says, unlatching the gate. “What a nice surprise! Come in, come in! You scared us. We thought, who could it be at this hour…”
“I hope they’re not sleeping. I should have called first.”
“No, nonsense! Who’s sleeping at this hour? It’s just, you know, things aren’t like they used to be. Everybody’s a little jumpy. How’s Amin-agha?”
“Who is it, Massoumeh?” Shahla yells from the doorway.
“It’s Farnaz-khanoum!”
When they reach the door Shahla says, “You came alone, Farnaz-jan? Where’s Isaac?”
“I need to talk to you.”
THEY WALK INSIDE, where it is bright and warm. Keyvan, sitting in the living room with his signature cup of black coffee, looks up from his book. A music of soft strings—Mozart—fills the room.
“Bah bah, look who’s here,” he says, shutting the book. He gets up and takes her hand to escort her to a chair, the one Shahla is so fond of, sensuous and curved, with the S-shaped cabriole and the vine-printed satin fabric, part of their collection of rococo furniture. Farnaz removes her scarf and sits.
“Where’s Isaac?” Keyvan says.
“They got him.”
The phrase quiets the room. Mozart’s allegro fills the vast space around them.
“When?” Shahla says.
“About two weeks ago. I got a call from your brother, Javad. Apparently someone he knows told him.”
“How awful,” Shahla gasps. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”
“I didn’t want to get you involved. Once they get someone, friends and family become targets too. I haven’t told anyone, not even your parents. How could I tell Baba Hakim and Afshin-khanoum that their son is in jail? But I knew I needed to warn you. You could already be in great danger, Keyvan-jan, given your father’s connections to the shah.”
“Yes, I know,” Keyvan says. “But we can’t leave now. My father has asked me to liquidate his houses and belongings before we join him and my mother in Switzerland.”
The housekeeper arrives with a silver tray that she places on the coffee table. On it is the familiar tea set, of yellow porcelain with a garden motif—passed down to Keyvan by his great-grandfather, a court painter during the reign of the Qajar king Nasir al-Din Shah. The set was a present from the king to the artist, upon the king’s return from Europe. Farnaz looks at the set, and at the plate of sweets accompanying it—browned madeleines, buttered and plump, made more golden by the soft light of the table lamp—and she thinks, here, on this tray, lie the country’s aspirations as well as its demise, its desire for cosmopolitanism and its refusal to see itself for what it has become—an empire that has grown smaller with each passing century, its own magnificence displaced by that of other nations. For what is a housekeeper named Massoumeh, born in Orumiyeh, in the province of Azerbaijan, doing preparing madeleines, that most popular of French pastries?
She remembers the coronation of the shah and the empress some fifteen years earlier, in October 1967. She and Isaac had been invited to the ceremony thanks to Keyvan, whose father was a minister in the government. They had stood with the other guests in the Grand Hall of the Golestan Palace, once the home of Qajar kings, and had watched the royal family make its way along the red carpet, under the blinding glitter of so many crystal chandeliers—the shah’s sisters and brothers, his young son, his wife, and finally the monarch himself. People smiled and curtsied as the procession passed before them. Farnaz, dressed in her silver satin dress bought in Paris, smiled but could not bring herself to actually curtsy. She looked at Isaac, who whispered in her ear, “So much fanfare! They take themselves for Napoleon and Josephine! Somebody remind them our bazaars are still filled with donkeys….” She was annoyed with him for making her laugh at a time like this, when one was to repay the honor of having been invited to such an event with stateliness and decorum. She was irritated with him, also, for shattering an illusion, for mocking what she secretly found enchanting. Standing in that hall, surrounded by the dizzying sparkle of the hundreds of stones bejeweling the crowns and tiaras, with only a few hundred other privileged guests, she felt a certain pride, for the ceremony taking place before her and for witnessing it. She was pleased that the shah had crowned not only himself but his wife as well—the first time in the country’s history that a woman had been named heiress to the throne. Still, she knew that later, when talking with Isaac or with people who had not partaken in the event, she would no doubt criticize the whole affair for its excesses.
“Maybe we should forget about the houses and belongings and just get out now,” Keyvan says. He looks pale and thin, his collarbone visible through his cotton sweater—the kind of man, Farnaz thinks, who would not survive prison.
Shahla picks up the teapot and fills the cups. “We can’t just leave,” she says as she pours. “How will we sustain ourselves—with love?” She extends a cup to Farnaz but looks at her husband, who glances back at her for an instant before turning his gaze to a painting on the wall, of the Qajar king Nasir al-Din Shah, made by his great-grandfather in 1892.
“This painting alone is reason enough to stay,” Shahla says. “How can you leave all this family history behind?”
He rubs his forehead, resting his fingers on the large, visible veins on his temples. “But what if they arrest me? How will this painting—and all the pages I’ve written about it in all those useless art magazines—help me in jail? Or this tea set, or that chandelier, or this stupid eighteenth-century chair—what will they do for me?” His voice rises—dusty and trembling—a voice untrained for such a pitch, and strained because
of it.
“Shhh!” Shahla says. “You want the whole neighborhood to hear you?” She sips her tea, then helps herself to a madeleine, which she brings to her mouth slowly and with deliberate calm. “Can you even imagine your father’s face when he sees us at his doorstep in Geneva, empty-handed?” She takes a bite out of her cake, cupping her hand under it to catch any crumbs. “These mullahs have no reason to come after us,” she says, bringing the matter to her desired conclusion, as she so often did.
“What reason did they have to come after Isaac?” Farnaz asks.
Keyvan stirs his tea absentmindedly. “My only crime is being my father’s son,” he says, looking down.
Shahla wipes her hands, then reaches for a cigarette and lights it. “Why all the drama, Professor?” She exhales in her husband’s direction, freeing her chest of not just smoke but also acrimony. “Who would you be without your father? And your grandfather and your great-grandfather? Stripped of your lineage, what would you have achieved? You think people would care about your opinions on art if it weren’t for your last name? If we leave this country without taking care of our belongings, who in Geneva or Paris or Timbuktu will understand who we once were?”
EIGHT
“Homayoun…Gholampour…Habibi…” A guard yells out the names as he makes his way up and down the hallway. Since his arrival, Isaac has not heard so many people called at once. From his mattress he glances at Mehdi, who, without looking away from the roach in the corner says, “You’d better get used to it. If you don’t hear your name, thank God, if you do hear your name, say a prayer.”
There is commotion in the hallway—metal doors, footsteps, the rattling of keys, sighs, and a man screaming, over and over, “Where? Where? Where?”
“That’s Gholampour,” Mehdi says. “He knew his end was near. He’d been talking about it for the past few weeks.”
“How did he know?” Isaac says.
“He just did. One develops a sense for these things. You smell it in your interrogator’s breath. You know he’s had it with you.”
When the roach passes by Ramin’s bare foot the boy gets up and follows it, and grabs it with a clean sweep. “Shall we crunch him or let him go?” he says.
“Why don’t we save him for later?” Mehdi grunts. “He may be the best meal we get all day.”
The thought of the insect’s crunchy flesh rubbing against the boy’s skin nauseates Isaac. He lies back on his mattress, tells himself that as long as he is alive he must find some kind of preoccupation—maybe he can ask the guards for some books, the Koran even. Roach in hand, Ramin approaches. Isaac sees the pair of brown antennae wiggling back and forth through the top of the boy’s fist. “Get that thing away from me!” he yells, his voice angrier than he intended.
The boy walks away and unclasps his fist. The roach tumbles to the floor and runs for cover. “I’m sorry,” Ramin says. “Just playing around.” He sits on his mattress, hugs a knee to his chest, and cleans the spaces between his toes with his finger. Isaac almost yells at him again for his repugnant manners, but he realizes that he is not the boy’s father and has no authority over him. Here they are equals, both of them taking orders from their captors. Moments later Ramin starts singing, a love song that Farnaz also sang, in the shower sometimes, or while doing dishes. His voice, low and clear, surprises Isaac. He had not thought it possible that so beautiful a sound could emerge from a boy like him. He shuts his eyes and listens. If his days were to end in this place, this boy’s voice would be the final sound he would want to hear.
Metal clinks outside. The door opens. “Shut up, boy!” a guard yells. “Singing is not allowed.” Then looking at Isaac, he says, “Brother Amin, follow me.”
Isaac wills himself to sit up. He unrolls his sock and slides a foot into it.
“Brother,” the guard says. “No need for such formalities. Forget the shoes and socks and come with me.”
He stands, one foot cold against the floor. “Don’t worry,” Mehdi mumbles. “Sounds routine.” When he is out of the cell he hears Mehdi continue, “May God be with you.”
BACK IN THE room where he had been interrogated on the first day, about three weeks ago, he sees a masked man behind the table. When he gets closer he knows it is Mohsen, because of the missing right index finger.
“Are you familiar with the Mossad?” Mohsen says before Isaac has a chance to settle into the chair.
Haven’t they been through this? He decides to be firm. “No, Brother, I’m not.”
“No? Last time you said yes.”
“I probably said I’ve heard of it.”
“Are you arguing with me?”
“No, Brother. I’m just clarifying. Maybe there was a misunderstanding…”
Mohsen throws the file on the table and stands up. “The misunderstanding, my dear Brother, is that you seem to think this is a game.”
“No…”
“Explain Israel then!”
“Like I said, I have family there, Brother. I’ve been there to visit them.”
“You listen to me,” Mohsen says. “Shisheye omreto nashkoun—Don’t break the glass of your life. Admit you’re a Zionist spy!”
The image of Mehdi’s ravaged feet flash in his mind. Is this the beginning of something terrible?
“We’ll crush you, don’t you believe me? You’ve lost. So admit it.”
“But, Brother, I have no connection to any political organizations. How can I admit to something I haven’t done?”
“Do you have witnesses to show that you’re not a spy?”
Demented logic. But Isaac does not contest it. If he turns the tables on his interrogator and asks if he has any witnesses claiming that he is a spy, then he would be worsening the situation. On the other hand, if he says many people would testify that he has no political connections, he would be putting others in danger. “Brother,” he says. “I am a simple man. My preoccupations are my work and my family.”
“Simple?” Mohsen laughs. “I suppose figuring out all your bank accounts is very simple. Well, I, for one, had trouble following. Transfers from this bank to that bank, withdrawals…I say it takes a pretty sophisticated mind to carry out all those transactions.”
“Sophisticated in business, yes. But…”
“Listen to me!” Mohsen yells. “We’ll get it out of you, you know that. Just admit it and get it over with.” He leans across the table, his masked face an inch from Isaac’s. His left iris is a lighter brown than the right, the whites of his eyes a sickly yellow. “We know everything about you. Even how many cucumbers you consume,” he whispers. “News comes to us from outside.”
Isaac wonders whether there really is a news-bearer. A neighbor? An employee? It occurs to him that his brother Javad may have also been arrested; with his loose tongue Javad was sure to slip and say something incriminating. His brother-in-law Keyvan may also be in prison, given his father’s connections. Surrounded by his daily comforts, Keyvan is a kind man. But he does not have the resources necessary to withstand pain; he would no doubt say whatever it would take to spare himself. And what about Farnaz? If his wife is, in fact, in the women’s block, could she have succumbed to coercion? The thought overwhelms him with guilt. He has always believed that the ultimate test of love is the willingness to die for another. He asks himself if he would die for her. He believes that he would. Is he, then, doubting whether she would do the same for him?
“So?” Mohsen presses.
“Brother, I swear…”
“How terrible that it should come to this,” Mohsen says. From his shirt pocket he retrieves a pack of cigarettes, slips one through the mask between his lips, and throws the pack on the table. “Help yourself,” he says to Isaac as the flame of his yellow lighter ignites the tobacco. “We may be here a long time.”
Isaac pulls a cigarette from the pack. He brings it to his mouth, waits a few seconds for Mohsen to offer him a light. When no offer comes he removes the cigarette and places it on the table. He feels stupid.<
br />
“What’s the matter?” Mohsen exhales.
“I…I need a light.”
“Well then, Brother, just ask!” He walks toward Isaac, cigarette in mouth. “And I’d like the same from you. When I ask you for something, I’d like to get it without too much difficulty.”
Isaac nods, brings the cigarette to his lips again. Is this some kind of game? He has an uneasy feeling but ignores it. Mohsen bends toward him now, his masked face inching closer, and only stops when the orange tip of his cigarette meets Isaac’s bare cheek. Isaac lets out a cry. His unlit cigarette topples from his lips to the floor.
Mohsen pulls back and exhales, clouding Isaac with a thick puff of smoke, which burns his cheek, as though a hole had been drilled through it.
“You see what you’re forcing me to do, Brother?” Mohsen says. “Admit it, bi pedar-o-madar—you bastard, admit you are a spy!” He grabs Isaac’s hand and turns it around, burning his palm with the cigarette, which he presses with a child’s determination to crush an insect. “You’re nothing! You hear me?” He stops, brings another cigarette to his mouth and lights it, rips open Isaac’s shirt and presses the cigarette on his chest. Isaac tries to breathe; his body contracts with pain.
A kick in the stomach throws him to the floor. A wad of saliva lands on his right eye but he has no strength to wipe it. It travels slowly along his face, down the bridge of his nose and through the left eye, landing on the concrete floor.
“In this prison, Brother Amin,” Mohsen says, “we are used to getting what we want. Your resistance is pointless.”
WHEN HE IS brought back to his cell he finds Mehdi polishing a piece of wood and Ramin sleeping. Mehdi glances sideways, at Isaac’s feet. “They let you off easy,” he says.
“Yes.” Isaac walks to his bed, removes the one sock. He sits on his mattress, listens to Mehdi’s sandpaper shaving off the wood. He feels dizzy. Blisters have formed on his right palm, his cheek, and his chest. He lies on his back, carefully, avoiding all contact between the burns and the mattress.