Tehran at Twilight

by Salar Abdoh

  “What?” he heard James shout.

  Malek hung up the phone.

  Around dusk, when he finally locked the bike in front of Soaad’s building and went up, there was a surprise guest waiting for him in the kitchen.

  The two women seemed to have hit it off.

  Soaad pointed to Sina’s mother. “Azar khanum has been here since noon. Where have you been? Where were you last night?”

  There was just a slight tinge of motherly crossness in Soaad’s voice, as if Malek were still the kid she would haul to her old Communist poetry meetings.

  Malek bowed slightly to Sina’s mother and stood at the kitchen door while the two women sat at the table sharing tea and biscuits. He wondered if Azar would notice Sina’s bike parked out there on the street. Or if she would even care. The scene of his mother and Sina’s mother sitting there in the kitchen made him uncomfortable. He had given Soaad’s telephone number to Azar just in case, but never figured she’d actually show up here. It breached some sort of protocol to Malek’s mind, though he wasn’t sure what.

  Azar said, “Reza jaan, I have come to ask if you know where my son is.”

  “I know where he is.”

  No more was said, but his answer now brought intermittent weeping in that kitchen. First it was Azar who, Malek guessed, was crying from relief. Soon, Soaad joined the other woman in tearing up quietly. They were both graceful about it. None of that wailing of Middle Eastern mothers. Though it tore at Malek just the same. And a few minutes later he found himself back on the street calling Fani, telling him they had to meet right away.

  Within a half hour they were in a basement pool hall around the corner at Ferdowsi Square. Billiards had been banned during the revolution and only in recent years did they allow the pool halls to reopen. This particular place was bare-bones ragged, the kind of joint only small-time drug dealers and washed-out pool sharks hung around in, waiting for innocents to drop by. They were men with desperate faces who had known cheap, plentiful liquor and entire city blocks of brothels before 1979. The first two decades of the Islamic Revolution had been particularly unkind to a lot of these men, and only in the past several years had they managed to burrow out of their hideouts.

  Fani went to the back and told the errand boy to bring him a sandwich. Then he asked Malek, “What is it?”

  “Sina’s mother is at my mother’s house right now.”

  “Should I be curious about that?”

  “Not particularly. I’m actually here with a demand.”

  Fani laughed. “Let’s hear it.”

  “First this: I’ve signed all the papers you wanted me to. You’re getting your money—and I’ve found Sina.”

  “Oh?”

  “Let me finish. Tomorrow, you and I will go to the judge and you’ll ask him to release that small parcel of land that belongs to Sina’s mother. It’s her right. You’ll let that one property go.”

  “That would not be in my interest. But fair enough, supposing I do that?”

  “Then everything you and your bosses get from Sina’s estate, it’s yours. You can tell every hajj aqa you work for that I want nothing for my signatures. No commission. Nothing. I just want to gather my own mother and take her away from this city. And for that I will need a passport. Only you can provide her with that. So it’s a guarantee I won’t betray you. I won’t go back on what I’ve signed.”

  “Malek, have you developed an interest in saving all the mothers of the world?”

  “I’m only interested in saving two of those mothers. What do you say?”

  Fani sighed, but it seemed genuine to Malek. “Look, I am reasonable. And because I am reasonable, we have a deal. This might get me in trouble with my, as you say, hajj aqas, but you can tell that woman she can go to court the day after tomorrow. That should give me enough time to fix it. The land will be released to her and she can sell it whenever she wants and to whoever she wants. Her financial worries are over. Now . . . tell me about your friend. I am impressed that you managed to find him.”

  “Don’t play—you already know where he is.”

  “I have no reason to lie. I don’t know where he is. Mine is strictly a financial affair with Sina Vafa. If I go looking for him too hard or seem too interested in his person, I may find myself burdened with the people he has worked for. Those fellows do not take kindly to having someone seek out one of their own. Especially the ones in current disfavor.”

  “Then why show me those videos of the American contract workers?”

  “Because, as I said, I don’t want him to become a martyr. I need this person alive. For now.”

  “Then the two of you see eye to eye. Like I told you before, he doesn’t want to die either. I believe Sina had those on his computer intentionally. He wanted you to find them.”

  Malek watched Fani’s face. The man’s eyebrows were creased and he was thinking hard, wondering if all of a sudden it was he who had become Sina Vafa’s plaything. Malek could see the seasoned operator considering all this and dismissing the possibilities one by one from his mind. Finally he said, “In that case, I am glad that your friend and I understand each other.”

  The errand boy returned with Fani’s sandwich, which he ate fast, taking enormous chunkfuls with each bite. Malek continued observing him. Shadowy men lurked on the other end of the basement hall, glancing from time to time at the strangers, trying to size up Malek and Fani. One of the more courageous men eventually sauntered over and asked if either of them wanted a game. Fani dismissed him with a wave of the hand and the guy, thin as one of those old pool sticks, shuffled like a drugged animal back to his own game.

  Fani washed down the last of his chicken sandwich with orange soda. “I’m not a monster, you know. But I have to protect myself. That woman, Sina’s mother, may keep the piece of land. You got my word. I won’t change my mind again.”

  “Why did you change it the first time?”

  “I already told you why. Everything about Sina Vafa told me he’d be ready to die once he was guilt-free over his mother.”

  “You expect me to believe this cheap psychology?”

  Fani sighed again. “Look, Malek! Tehran is not your America. This town I live in, every day the laws change. The guy who is king today ends up in a prison cell tomorrow. One man is disgraced, another has to confess to crimes he never committed, and a third has to sell his soul. It is really quite simple: I don’t even trust my own brother. Let alone anybody else. But tonight, here in this awful little nowhere, I’ve decided to trust you because I know you are not lying to me. How do I know? I know because there is nothing for you to lie about. This is the difference between us. I have a thousand things to lie about in this city. And you have nothing to lie about. So I trust you more than I trust myself.” He extended his hand, grabbed Malek’s, and shook it. “But I must insist again, and I mean it—this is not a joke to be taken lightly: if the Americans ever do come to Tehran with their tanks and soldiers, please do not forget to tell them I’m one of the good guys. I know you’ll be at the front line interpreting for them. So please put in a good word for your old friend Fani. And now you can leave. I will see you here this summer. And you, as well, please don’t die on me either until our business is finished. I still need that last set of signatures for the sale proceedings.”

  Back at Soaad’s, the two women were watching television in the kitchen. It was one of those dubbed Korean historical soap operas with a lot of angry swordsmen and kings glaring at one another. Both women sat with impassive faces, more blanked-out and dazed-looking than really paying attention to the show.

  Soaad said, “Azar has a request.”

  Malek went to the TV and turned it off, then joined the women at the table. “How is your husband?” he asked Azar.

  “He is unwell. We worked very hard for that property. You saw for yourself what the judge did the other day. We have nothing to live on. We are finished.”

  Malek had never made as much money as he’d been making during th
e past couple of years of teaching. All that good old American money and no one and nothing, except Soaad, to spend it on. How odd that if the Americans hadn’t gone to war, Malek would have never written his book or gotten his academic job. He really owed his good fortune to the United States Department of Defense!

  He reached into his pocket and brought out more hundred-dollar bills. He spoke English to Azar, maybe to diminish the awkwardness of the situation by using a different language. “Madam, please consider this a short-term loan until things improve for you.” Her pride, he could see, was choking her. So he added quickly, “In two days we will return to that judge. I have word you will get your land. You can tell your husband.”

  He stood up to walk away before she could make a demonstration of refusing the money.

  “My son is truly all right?”

  “He sends his love.”

  * * *

  Clara Vikingstad’s two bodyguards, the ones he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with last summer during that fight in Qum, caught up with him outside the courthouse.

  Malek was feeling good. It was the satisfaction of having done something concrete. He had just taken Azar and her husband into the room of the same judge who had completely brushed the three of them off the previous week. But this time around the judge, a minor government attorney with slightly crazy eyes, was the model of propriety. He nervously explained that there had been a trivial mistake in the documents presented to him before, then ordered his servant to prepare tea. Azar and Afshar sat in the same seats as last week looking on in disbelief. Was it possible?

  In the corridors of the courthouse, badly dressed men shuffled back and forth carrying papers and briefcases. There was an air of languid nothingness about it all, like this was all make-believe. But it wasn’t make-believe. It only took three signatures, copied four times over, for the property to be transferred to Sina’s mother’s name. The last signature, and the most important, was from Malek, Sina’s representative. When it was all done and the parties finished the final exchanges of goodwill and left the room, Malek reentered the judge’s chamber and met the fellow’s roving eyes. “For your troubles.” He left a thick envelope full of money on the desk. The judge, for the sake of saying something, remonstrated that the Persian new year wasn’t for another two months. To which Malek replied, “The new year comes early with your fine deed, hajj aqa.”

  Azar and Afshar waited in the hall until Malek returned. “How can we repay you?” Afshar asked, still seeming a bit dazed from what had just happened.

  “This land is really and truly yours now. But do sell it fast. They can always change their minds.”

  Afshar started to say something, but his wife cut him off. “God protect you.” She tugged at her husband to leave, but lingered for another moment. She met Malek’s eyes. “God protect you,” she whispered again, and pulled her husband after her.

  Malek walked down the steps of the courthouse, where he found Clara’s bodyguards waiting for him. The two men seemed genuinely glad to see him again and joked about his life in America.

  Malek finally asked, “Am I in trouble, brothers?”

  “Not today.”

  And that was all either of them said about why they had come after him. They appeared almost too carefree. Which usually spelled some kind of trouble. Malek then settled into the backseat and let the men take him to their boss’s house.

  * * *

  He sat waiting in the same receiving hall he’d met Clara in half a year ago. When The Man finally came in, Malek was struck by how tall he was. He appeared distinguished and relaxed. The papers always described him as a politician of too few words. His thick white hair was parted to the side and once in a while he would run a hand over it as if to make sure it was all still there. Just that morning Malek had glimpsed a picture of him in a rival newspaper. The accusations were heating up and The Man and his team were blamed for plotting antirevolutionary shenanigans to disturb the upcoming summer elections.

  “I am glad I was informed you are in town, Mr. Malek. I have something I want you to relay to Miss Clara.”

  “Forgive my words, but can you not pick up a phone and call her yourself?” Malek asked in the politest tone he could muster.

  “It is not a good time to communicate directly. It is, in fact, a bad time. This is why I sent for you.”

  Several random thoughts went through Malek’s head: One, could this guy steamroll over the establishment and get a passport for Soaad? Two, just how many people had he executed during the darkest days of the revolution? And did he have nightmares about that time? And did turning into a “reformed” revolutionary mean that you were absolved of past sins? Was it all so simple?

  “I will be happy to relay any messages you have. Your wish is my command.”

  The politician turned away, as if searching for a sign on the walls of this enormous room studded with poor choices of glitzy furniture. “I want you to tell Clara khanum not to come here for the election.” The muscles on the man’s face tensed up as he spoke. It was almost impossible to imagine this. The man’s career was one of solely getting ahead. Guys like him had confiscated the homes of men like Sina’s father during the revolution before later selling them and putting the money in their own pockets. They’d taken over businesses, taken cuts in oil deals and mining operations. They had the power to send freighters filled with weapons to Damascus and South Beirut. They had the run of the place. So why the anxiety? It was like a page had been torn out of an otherwise perfect playbook.

  “Just have them deny her a visa, hajj aqa,” Malek said. “If she can’t gain entry to the country she can’t be here for the election.”

  “I have no power over that now. My enemies have given her the visa already. They want her here.”

  “And if she comes, you cannot guarantee you can protect her. That’s what you’re saying?”

  He nodded. Yes, that was what he was saying. It was a bad time, he said. A very bad time. It came down to the simple fact that he knew something no one else wanted to believe right now: the election was going to be a fraud. His enemies were going to win; they would probably start putting a lot of people in jail. He didn’t say that he himself would be one of those people, but the intimation was clear. All his life he had been wise enough to hedge his bets, but now the great man—the jailer of so many opposition fighters and one of the revolutionary student leaders who had stormed the American embassy and taken hostages—found himself cornered. Cornered, but at least clever enough to realize it. His gang would lose the election. And once they did, he would go down. He didn’t want Clara here. Why? Because, Malek thought, this son of a bitch is in love. In love with Clara Vikingstad! He is so in love with her that he’s willing to call me here to relay a message. Don’t come, Clara, they’ll get you! This man who had burned more than his share of American flags was now in love with an American reporter and would do anything to protect her. If Malek had the guts, he would have asked, So, did storming the American embassy in 1979 and storming Clara Vikingstad in 2008 give you the same pleasure, hajj aqa?

  “Hajj aqa,” Malek instead said, “I will deliver your message to Clara khanum in person. You can rest assured I will carry the message.”

  NEW YORK CITY

  Soaad called almost every day. He had instructed her not to say anything of substance over the phone, so she mostly talked about missing him. They had settled into a familiar mother-son relationship that revolved around her asking if he ate well and got enough sleep. There was something both ridiculous in this and also reassuring. His last day in Tehran, she had insisted on coming to the airport with him. After seeing off his luggage, they had stood on opposite sides of the departures hall glass divider and looked at each other like they were each being sent into exile. As if this was it and there would never be another chance to be together again. It made him think of borders that could never be recrossed and, in turn, of Anna. One day Soaad had asked him, “Where was that town Anna was born in?”

 
“Does it really matter now where she was born?”

  Yes, it did. She wanted to go there. She wanted to see what Anna had left behind.

  “You really wish to do that?”

  He had to understand, Soaad explained, Anna was all she had for so many years. “What if I lost you tomorrow, Rez? It would be the same. Anna and I, it was like we were two people stranded on some island. I owe her something.”

  So he’d promised her Poland. Of all the places in the world, he had pledged to take her to Poland to “experience” Anna, and then to Fresno, California, so she could visit Malek’s father’s grave too.

  Meanwhile, he put off the two tasks he’d been charged with back in Tehran. He avoided James and didn’t call Clara. Then, in the third week of February, there was a bombshell. James had written something online about his misadventures as a former Marine trying to work in academia. He wrote of carefree incompetence in the civilian world and contrasted it with the hard, crystal-clear reality of military life. In no time Malek got a call from the department head to come see him.

  It was a planned attack. At the university, Malek walked quietly next to the department head into the office of one of the higher-ups where two men and one woman, none of whom he’d ever seen before, were waiting for him. The two men had almost identical ponytails and were both stocky, their expensive suits seemingly ready to pop open on them. And in their eyes, behind the reflections of their glasses, Malek could sense that they had been discussing him until the moment he walked through that door. The woman sat a little farther to the side. She had a small round head and was carefully dressed, an aging and precise administrator. It was the world of bureaucrats in this room, not professors. But they appeared friendly enough. Offered him coffee and asked him to sit in a comfortable chair.

  Still, something about the setup reminded Malek of the times he had been “invited” to the Intelligence Ministry in Tehran to see if he would cooperate with them. He also glimpsed a printed copy of James’s article sitting on the desk. He imagined one of those two ponytailed men was the boss, but could barely tell them apart, leaving Malek to wonder which of them had the real power in that room.