Tehran at Twilight

by Salar Abdoh

  The department head explained to the others who Malek was, what an “excellent” job he had been doing the past two years at the college, and that they hoped to keep him here if they could come to some kind of understanding.

  The understanding was that they wanted James McGreivy gone. They didn’t say it in so many words, but it was there, the unspoken elephant in the room which they had to get to sooner or later.

  The woman and one of the two men remained quiet for a while and it soon became apparent to Malek that the other ponytail was the fellow to reckon with. They asked him if he liked the university. He said yes. They asked if he wanted to continue here. Yes. Did he like his students? Very much. Yes and yes.

  At last, the boss lifted James’s article from his desk and began: “You are a colleague of Mr. McGreivy.” It was a statement and Malek nodded in assent. “How well do you know Mr. McGreivy?”

  “I know him somewhat.”

  “I assume you have read this article.”

  “It would have been hard to avoid it around here.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  “It’s one man’s take on what happens in a workplace.”

  “Do you agree with it?”

  He felt hot. Not out of anxiety but anger. They had decided to cajole and browbeat him at the same time. Which was why three of them plus the department head were in this room right now. Just one of these people would have been enough. But they wanted results. They wanted James out. Yet Malek, a fixer from the battlegrounds of the Middle East, could already smell their questions coming a mile away. They were tough people, but tough only for a safely insulated place like this.

  “Sir,” he said with just enough cool to bite the edge off the tension in his throat, “what I think about McGreivy’s article is my business. Please tell me why I’m here.”

  The room went silent. One of the ponytails stared hard at him but did not appear particularly displeased, just maybe a little surprised. The others glanced at their shoes for a moment. Malek took all this in. And suddenly he felt the familiar protectiveness for McGreivy and Sina and Soaad. He wasn’t going to let anyone bully them. Or bully him, for that matter.

  “Late last semester,” the woman said, “there was an incident in front of the school gym.” She had an excessively soothing voice like an elementary school teacher’s. “You happened to be the victim of an attack by a man who, we have come to find out, was recently out of prison. From what we’ve gleaned of the campus security report and other sources, we’ve concluded that this was a case of mistaken identity. You were attacked by a man who mistook you for James McGreivy. It was James McGreivy that he was after.”

  She stopped and eyed him for a response. They were all examining him curiously. Malek gave nothing away. He stared straight back at the woman, and realized she must be some kind of a lawyer for the school.

  “That incident is in the past for me. I have nothing against the man who hit me.”

  “That is not the issue,” the woman said.

  Standing his ground, Malek raised his voice just slightly: “Let’s hear the issue then.”

  There was another pause. Now one of the ponytails spoke again: “Do you know a student named Candace Vincent?”

  “She was my student and she was there when I was knocked down. You already know all this.”

  “Mr. McGreivy is having an open relationship with this student on our campus.”

  “Candace Vincent is thirty years old. She is not James McGreivy’s student and never has been that I know of. And she has two kids already. So I don’t see how it’s any of my business what they do with each other on their own time.”

  Malek saw the department head squirming in his chair. He was sitting next to Malek, facing the other three. After a few seconds went by in silence, the department head said in his high, nasal voice, “I called you in here today for a good reason. Indeed, Mr. McGreivy is openly living with a student of ours. He has been holding some kind of strange self-defense course at the gym—which, by the way, we have put a stop to—where nearly all the students are women. He has called into question time and again the honor of our department, and now . . . now he has gone and written this article making us a laughingstock. So it would behoove you—”

  Malek stayed focused on the three people in front of him, but interrupted the department head’s diatribe. “Behoove me? I’ll tell you what the issue is: you guys are sick and tired of McGreivy. And to be honest, I can’t say I blame you too much. James McGreivy can be a hardheaded man.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” one of the ponytails chimed in.

  “But I’m not going to help anyone bring a case against him. I’m not going to sue anybody because someone knocked me down. I have no problem with whomever Mr. McGreivy chooses to sleep with. And as for this stupid article he’s written, people write this stuff every day. With all due respect, I think you are upsetting yourselves over a dead issue. You won’t be renewing McGreivy’s contract for next year and he won’t be wanting to come back either. If you try to give him a hard time, he’ll fight you. Why? Because he’s a trained fighter. You want to punish him and you’ve called me here today to help you do that. In return, what do I get? A guarantee of a permanent job. Who wouldn’t want that! But I won’t do it at James McGreivy’s expense. He’s served his country well—”

  The same ponytail laughed now. “Mr. Malek, he served in a war you’ve criticized in your own writing.”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t serve well, sir! I saw plenty of men like him in Iraq. Some of them were pieces of shit. But a lot of them, they were men I would take a bullet for.”

  The woman smiled. “You’d take a bullet for Mr. McGreivy?”

  “Madam, I didn’t see the likes of any of you in Baghdad taking bullets for your country, did I?”

  “What does that mean?”

  Malek was spent. He didn’t want to flail at these people. But they’d forced him into it.

  “It means . . . even if the world’s gone to hell, honor still matters. And a guy like McGreivy, he’s an honorable man. He’s honorable now, and he was honorable when he was commanding house-to-house in Fallujah.” Malek saw that he had drawn a blank from them on mentioning Fallujah. He settled back into his chair and exhaled. “Look, let’s just be wise about this.”

  Ten minutes later, when he finally left that room, alone, peace had been reestablished. What he had said to them about James McGreivy being a fighter seemed to have sunk in. They had collectively seen the error of their ways. If they tried to mess with the former Marine he would bring their whole house down. On the other hand, if they stayed quiet, another three months and the guy would be out of their hair altogether. They might get a little flak because of the article, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

  Yet Malek realized that after a meeting like this, he himself might have to take one of those think tank jobs in Washington after all. Meanwhile, Clara had finally called a few days ago and left a message saying the end run to the elections in Tehran seemed to be getting hot and that he should be ready to fly with her in early June. He hadn’t returned her call yet. But she was going to be in New York giving one of those I’m-a-war-correspondent lectures soon. It would be at the Midtown library and he’d catch up with her there to relay her protector’s advice in person.

  The next day, Malek stopped briefly in the mailroom of the English office to pick up his mail. There was an envelope from the administration offices sitting in his box. He opened the letter. It said that they were happy to inform him that his contract at the college had been extended into the following year.

  * * *

  Malek walked north. After Trinity Cemetery he didn’t turn onto his street, he just continued walking. He wasn’t sure he would actually go there until he was smack in the middle of the 181st Street Bridge between Manhattan and the Bronx. Ahead of him lay the projects where Candace and her kids—and now James McGreivy—lived.

  It was a Friday and neither Male
k nor James had classes to teach that afternoon. Malek sat on a bench between the fences of two basketball courts. In one of the courts a game was on. A brisk February day, but not freezing. Young mothers pushed strollers on the asphalt. People eyed him suspiciously—a white guy sitting on the bench like that. Undercover?

  “I’m down by your building.”

  “Get yourself up here, hajji. I could use a hand with this damn kitchen.”

  James had all the cabinets on the floor. There was sawdust everywhere and carpentry tools lay about. The place was one of those huge project apartments that you’d have to pay an arm and a leg for anywhere else in the city.

  The walls in the rest of the house were freshly painted. The rooms clean. James gave him a tour and then popped open two beers.

  “You’ve been hiding from me, Rez. Not answering my calls. How come?”

  Malek had thought he would do it casually, reel out the info on Sina after maybe half a dozen drinks in some bar. But now it came out, because the sooner he got done with it the easier he’d feel.

  “My friend that I told you about, he’s . . .”

  James was fussing with an Allen wrench set. They were both sitting on the floor in the only clean corner of the kitchen. He glanced up and caught Malek’s eyes. “You have something you want to say to me about him?”

  “He’s going after American contract workers now.”

  “Shia sector?”

  “No. Up north. Kirkuk. Kurdistan mostly.”

  “You came here to the Bronx to tell me this?”

  “No, I came to tell you the suits just tried to railroad me at the college. It was about you.”

  James laughed, though the serious expression didn’t leave him. “What do you want me to do, Rez?”

  “About what? Your screwup at the college? Or about my friend in Iraq?”

  “Let’s start with the second.”

  “He has to be stopped.”

  “What do you care? There are hundreds like him. Thousands.”

  Malek thought, I am sitting on this kitchen floor with James McGreivy pretending I’m having a crisis of conscience. Pretending that he wanted Sina Vafa, his best friend, stopped at any cost. And at the same time he had to pretend it wasn’t easy for him to do this. The intricacy to the web of half-lies made him sick. And it was no figurative sickness. He excused himself to the bathroom for a minute.

  When he came out, James was standing in the hallway holding a handsaw. “You got some intel on your friend? Recent areas of operation. Contacts.”

  Malek nodded. Sina had worked all of that out with him. He asked, “What will you do?”

  “I already did something.”

  “What?”

  “I told someone.”

  “Who? The colonel, your father?” Malek asked, acting shocked. Though he wasn’t. Not nearly.

  “Maybe I should tell the colonel. He’ll think of me as halfway back to being his patriotic son again.”

  “Who did you tell, James?”

  “I couldn’t go through official channels. They’d be knocking on your door tomorrow. I told it to a former colleague. A fellow doing postdoc now at the American University in Beirut. He happened to be in town for a seminar.”

  “He’s what I think he is?”

  “No. At least I don’t believe so. But I’m pretty sure one night soon over some Lebanese wine on Hamra Street in Beirut he’ll pass the intel to someone else. And that someone will pass it to someone else. It will find its way to where it needs to. These things have lives of their own. And if your information is legit . . .” McGreivy didn’t finish his sentence.

  “You told him where your information came from?”

  “I told him I dreamed it, for all you should know. Look, what do you care how I told him?”

  Malek was now standing face-to-face with James. “But what if I’d made you promise not to tell anyone about this?”

  “You didn’t.”

  “But what if I had, James?”

  “I would have still passed it on.”

  “Because your country comes first. Right?”

  “Damn right!”

  Malek turned to the door.

  James asked where he was going. “You just got here.”

  He had to act hurt. He had accomplished exactly what Sina asked him to do. He had done it by default, and he had done it quickly. “Is that why you wrote that article about the college too? Because America needs fixing all over?”

  “In that regard, me and my old man don’t disagree too much.”

  Malek opened the door. “The college people, they were out for your blood. I convinced them to be patient.”

  “Thanks, friend. They won’t have to see me again after this year.”

  “That’s exactly what I told them too, and they bought it. But tell me: wherever you go after this, you’re certain you’ll take Candace with you?”

  “That I will.”

  “You’ll do it for America? Or really for Candace?”

  “For both. And there’s nothing wrong with that.” Malek began to leave. “Wish you’d stay, Rez. We’ll have dinner out. Candace and the boys will be here soon.”

  Malek didn’t turn around, but asked quietly, “Do you still need more intel on him?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ll do what I can. But no pictures.”

  “Smart hajji. And thanks for not selling me out at school.”

  “I don’t sell people out. I guess I’m not quite American enough for that yet.”

  “Aw, that hurts, Rez.”

  “It was meant to.”

  * * *

  The large reception hall of the New York Public Library was full of old, wealthy donors to the place. Clara Vikingstad was all smiles, but also serious. She was a crowd-pleaser who understood how to work her audience. There was a moderator and a couple of other foreign correspondents, but Clara was by far the toast of the evening. She talked about her profession with verve and knowingness. She spoke of the war, the soldiers she’d met, the terrorists she’d interviewed or almost interviewed. There were unspoken but closely hinted suggestions of life on the line, of pushing the boundaries of her job. She talked about her one-day incarceration in Tehran and about how she was heading there again soon to cover what promised to be an intriguing election.

  When it was over, people clapped and headed out into the New York evening. The talk about war had evaporated so fast that it was as if it had never happened. In fact, the war itself now felt more like window dressing than something real. Malek felt guilty for even being here and wondered what Soaad was doing right now in Tehran. He thought about the heroin dealer, Maman, sitting in that park all day in the far south of the city selling her goods from under her chador. And what of Sina? What was he up to just then? Was he still teaching the poor kids of his neighborhood the English alphabet?

  When the hall had emptied out, Clara finally noticed him standing there. She was standing with the people she’d just been on stage with and a few cheery hangers-on. Her boyfriend was there too, the esteemed war photographer with the thick résumé. He stayed put as Clara excused herself from the group and walked up to him.

  “Rez. We’re all going out for drinks. Why not come with us? We can talk then.”

  “I’m not equal to the company, Clara,” he joked. “I can’t sit across from you and your gentleman friend and not feel heartbroken.”

  “Oh, Rez. Come on!” She tried to drag him back with her.

  He could see the photographer was glancing their way and pulled his hand out of hers. “Clara, I’ve come here as a messenger.”

  She stopped and looked at him intently. “From Tehran?”

  “Yes. Your friend, he wanted me to tell you something.”

  “I’ve had no word from him for a while. Nothing. It’s very strange.”

  “He called me in. Told me he could not communicate.”

  “Out with it then,” she said impatiently.

  “He says that you sho
uld not come to Tehran. He can’t guarantee your safety.”

  “What?” She sounded outraged. “My book is riding on that trip. And there’s the election.”

  “I’m just a courier, Clara.”

  “What exactly did he say? Tell me his exact words.”

  “His guys picked me up one day, took me to that place you were staying at last summer. He wanted you to know that things are not what they seem. His own position is shaky. He can’t guarantee anything. He begs you to stay put. I believe he cares enough that he took the risk of telling me these things in person. He could have easily not done it. It says something about the man he is. Don’t you think?”

  “You are a fool, Malek.”

  He saw that Clara’s little crowd was slowly coming their way. She may have saved him in Baghdad, but now she had insulted him. And maybe the only way to save her skin and keep her from doing something as stupid as returning to Tehran was to insult her back: “No, the fool is you, Clara. If you go to Tehran, best find yourself another interpreter.”

  “Fuck you, Malek.”

  “You already did, my dear. Remember? It was brief. And not always sweet. I guess it’s just that way with us hajjis. Kind of like sleeping with your butler or something.”

  * * *

  Clara did not call him again. Soaad rang in late April, and in a roundabout way let it be known that she had finally sold the house, as planned, to that “certain friend.” There was excitement in her voice. She said that the friend had been generous and told her she had until the end of the summer before she had to vacate her place. “I’m selling a few things nowadays,” she said cryptically, meaning her furniture, which wasn’t much to begin with.

  Until then, getting Soaad out of Tehran had seemed like a future dream. He had put all the wheels in motion for it to happen, but had never actually considered a specific date. Now that specific date was the end of summer. If Fani went back on his word, Malek would have to give the go-ahead to the Afghan. Get his mother out of the country illegally. Probably through Pakistan. But then what? Without an American visa, Soaad would be a refugee in a foreign country. Clara Vikingstad, he knew, had the State Department contacts to get the visa approval. But that was a bridge already burned. And even if Clara did that for him, where exactly would the Americans stamp the visa for Soaad when she didn’t even have an Iranian passport?