A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Her mother ordered a Croque Monsieur. “What about you, darling? What will you have?”

  Nouri’s absence was so visceral and raw it scraped the inside of her stomach. “Nothing.”

  Her mother frowned. “You’ve been eating poorly since you arrived.”

  Anna shrugged.

  Her mother stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. Then she looked at Anna, a knowledgeable glint in her eyes. “You are in love.”

  How did she know?

  As if she had spoken the words aloud, her mother said, “I know the signs.” She waved down the waiter. “Henri, a carafe of wine for us today.” She looked back at Anna. “Tell me about him.”

  Anna smiled and told her mother everything. She didn’t mind. Talking about Nouri made him seem closer.

  Her mother listened keenly, perhaps for the first time in Anna’s life. When Anna finished, her mother lit another Gauloise and slowly exhaled a stream of smoke. “I know some Iranians here. They are exiles. Mostly Communist.”

  Anna nodded. “Nouri says the Communist Party was expelled by the shah.”

  Her mother tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. “There are other Iranians as well. Muslim clerics.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  Her mother hesitated. “Is your Nouri…religious?”

  “Oh, no,” Anna said. “He’s studying engineering. He’ll go back to Iran once he has his degree.”

  Her mother inclined her head. “And will you go with him?”

  Anna had asked herself the same question. She didn’t know.

  “I see,” her mother said. “So. Do you have a photo of your lover?”

  Anna fished in her bag and extracted a shot of Nouri she’d snapped one night after sex. His hair was tousled, and his heavy lidded eyes said he couldn’t wait to go again. She handed the photo to her mother.

  Her mother examined it. “Ahh. Now I understand.” She gazed at Anna as if she was seeing her for the first time. As if her daughter had suddenly become a woman. Though her cheeks got hot, Anna felt a perverse sense of pride. She had just become a member of a sorority she never knew existed. She took the photo back from her mother and smiled.

  But her mother didn’t.

  Five

  Nouri lay on Anna’s bed in August—their bed now, he reminded himself. A small fan blew desultory air across his body. Anna, who, like Nouri, had just returned from abroad, was lying beside him, so still he wondered if she had fallen asleep. He turned his head. She was staring at him. She was always watching him. As if she was afraid he would disappear if she looked away.

  He rolled over and cupped her chin in his hand. She was so blonde and waiflike, so different from anything he’d known before. Like one of those yellow-haired porcelain dolls his parents used to bring his sister from Europe. From the best shop in Geneva, his parents would crow.

  He kissed Anna’s nose—it was small and straight with a slight tilt at the tip. She nestled into the crook of his arm. Her scent drifted over him. Since they’d reunited, he was never without the smell of her on or near him. Sometimes it caught him unawares; he would shift or turn around, and a hint of her wafted over him. He loved it. He was only half teasing when he called the similarity in their names a sign. They belonged to each other, body, soul, and scent.

  Anna rolled on top, her long hair trailing across his chest. Since their return, she had grown more sexually assertive. Sometimes she even took charge. She gave him a half-smile, another new habit she’d adopted. Part come-on, part mystery, it hinted at depths and secrets and untold pleasures, and it drove him crazy. Whatever she’d picked up in Paris he liked. He let her do her magic.

  Afterwards they napped. When they woke, it was dusk but still steam bath hot. August was a tricky month in Chicago, and sometimes even the setting sun offered no relief. Still, when people in Chicago complained, Nouri turned a deaf ear. Until you’d lived through a Tehran summer, when the air scalded your throat so relentlessly it was hard to breathe, you didn’t understand what heat was. He went into the bathroom to shower. Anna joined him. He admired her pale body, lithe and slim. There was not an ounce of fat on her.

  Anna made a cold eggplant dish for dinner, which she served with salad and flatbread. Although she tried to hide it, he spotted the Middle-Eastern cookbook she brought back from Paris. She was making an effort to prepare food he knew. But when he thanked her, she waved a dismissive hand and said it was healthier. He tried to show his appreciation, but her cooking was uneven, and he was still hungry much of the time. Sometimes he snuck into McDonalds for a Big Mac.

  By the time they finished eating, it was dark, but the heat had finally lifted. They decided to walk toward the Point on Lake Michigan. He laced his fingers through hers. “I need to finalize the topic of my thesis.”

  “Oh? What are you considering?”

  “I haven’t decided. But I know the criteria.”

  “What are they?”

  “I am to describe the problem to be solved, analyze why previous solutions to this problem are unsatisfactory, propose a better solution, and then compare its benefits and drawbacks to what has gone before.” He swatted at mosquitoes. They had to be nearing the lagoons.

  “Civil engineering is broad, isn’t it?” Anna said. “There is structural, construction, environmental, municipal. You have so many choices.”

  He slipped his arm around her. She’d been studying his field. It was so like her. To make sure she understood his world. “I know. The proposal is due next month. I have twenty minutes to present it to the heads of the department.”

  A fishy smell permeated the air. They were definitely near the water.

  “You’ve said you want to contribute to your country. Help modernize it. Like the shah.”

  “Not like the shah. He buys weapons, expands the army, enforces cultural edicts people do not like, and calls it modernization. That is not my plan.”

  “Okay.” She was quiet for a moment. Then, “What if you wrote a thesis about bringing electricity or running water to a specific rural village? If you do it right, it might even serve as a template for the real thing. When…,” she paused, “…you go back.”

  He thought about it. Of course.

  “You could choose a place where you already know the condition of the soil. Or the closest water supply,” she added.

  An idea jumped into his mind. “You know something? My parents have a summer home on the Caspian Sea. There are villages nearby. Some are in the mountains, but others…” He stopped. “The Caspian is salt water, but only slightly. If I could figure out a way to desalinate the water—it wouldn’t have to be as rigorous as the methods they’re developing for the ocean—perhaps the water could be pumped from the sea into the village.” He felt mental cylinders clicking into place. His enthusiasm mounted. “Oh, Anna, what a wonderful idea!”

  Even in the dark he knew that half-smile was on her lips. “It is perfect! You are perfect!” He kissed her on the nape of her neck, a spot he knew was one of her favorites. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. This girl, this marvelous American girl, completed not only his body but his mind, too. At that moment he knew, without a doubt, that Anna was the woman he would marry. They would go back to Iran. She would teach; he would be a famous engineer. They would serve their country and live a perfect life. He would bask in the respect accorded him for choosing such a progressive, desirable woman. They would call him Mohandes.

  *****

  The fall semester began on a sunny September day, and the pace of their lives quickened. Anna’s three seminars required hours of reading. She also did the shopping, cooking, and laundry. Nouri saw her only at night. Nouri’s schedule was more flexible—he had blocks of time supposedly devoted to researching his thesis—but he was busy. He had discovered a new pastime.

  Over the summer in Tehran, Nouri and Hassan had engaged in long discussions about the shah and the state of the country. They agreed that the shah’s massive military buildup had caused economic and so
cial dislocation. They also agreed that the corruption, the inflation, and the gap between the rich and poor were potentially disastrous. Although the shah did try to fix some things, his clumsy actions alienated the very classes who supported him. Even a new prime minister didn’t help. Iran’s economy was in shambles.

  Hassan also deplored the encroaching westernization. “There are over sixty thousand foreigners in Iran,” he said. “And forty-five thousand of them are Americans. We see only Western fashions, music, films, and television. What has happened to our culture?” He confessed to Nouri that he had joined a group of students with similar complaints.

  Their discussions continued via letters. In his latest, Hassan wrote that more people were speaking out. Amnesty International had condemned the number of political prisoners in Iran; even the American president was making noise about human rights. The opposition was strengthening. Hassan encouraged Nouri to get involved.

  “You are in the belly of the beast,” he wrote. “If you can convince the American people to join our cause, their leaders will not be far behind.”

  Nouri took Hassan’s letter into the bedroom.

  Anna looked up from her book. “What is it?” Was her voice sharper than usual or was it just his imagination?

  He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers gently through her hair.

  She put the book down and her body went slack. She seemed tired, but she was still ready for him. He swung his legs up on the bed and lay down.

  “I’ve had another letter from Hassan.”

  “Oh?”

  “Opposition to the shah is building. People are organizing. Speaking out.”

  “What opposition?”

  He propped himself up on his elbow. “Lawyers, judges, university professors. Professional groups like the National Front, the IFM, and—”

  “The who?”

  “The Iran Freedom Movement. Anna, the revolutionary spirit is spreading. People are writing open letters demanding the restoration of the constitution. For the first time I think there is a real chance we might get rid of the shah.”

  She ran her fingers up his arm, letting them sweep across his skin.

  “You miss being there, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “I have been lucky to lead a privileged life when there are many who do not. But America could do so much, if people just understood how evil the shah is.”

  “But you’re supposed to be here to study. What about your thesis?”

  Nouri waved a hand. “Sometimes there are more important matters than academics.”

  Anna’s eyebrows arched. “Your family has prospered under the shah. Your father supports him. They socialize together. What are they going to say?”

  “The oil industry will do well no matter who’s in power. And my father’s support is one of convenience. Believe me, he wasn’t happy when the shah declared war on profiteers and exiled those industrialists. You should have heard him.”

  “But you’re just a student. What can you really do?”

  “How can you say that, Anna? You know how powerful a student movement can be.”

  “That’s true.” She sighed. “Looking back, though, I’m sure we believed we were more powerful than we really were.”

  “That is not the case for us. The Iranian Students Association has a chapter in Chicago. I’m going to a meeting.”

  Anna dropped her hand from his arm. She frowned slightly, as if she wanted to say something.

  “What, Anna?”

  She hesitated, then looked down at her book. “Nothing.” She pressed her lips together.

  Six

  By the time winter settled in Nouri had attended several meetings. They were held in one of two Iranian students’ apartments near UIC. About ten people usually showed up, mostly men, although two women dropped in occasionally.

  Nouri learned that there was a vast network of Iranian student organizations in the US. Several years previously, though, the movement had splintered. Many of the Islamists broke away, leaving moderates and Marxists to vie for control. All three factions wanted the shah gone, but apart from that, their agendas were quite different. The Marxists gradually overpowered the moderates on some campuses, but internal tensions still ran high. As a moderate, Nouri sensed the others didn’t fully accept, or trust, him. And when, one night, he mentioned the short window of democracy that Mosaddeq opened twenty-five years before, one of the students challenged him.

  “What makes you think whoever replaces the shah will improve the lot of our people?” he asked in a strident voice.

  “Because, hopefully, the people will elect a leader who is committed to doing just that,” Nouri replied. “Iran must become democratic again.”

  The other student started to reply, but Massoud, their leader, cut in. “Internal squabbles will not help our cause. We have the opportunity to make a significant impact on US perceptions, perhaps even policy. But first we must show Americans how bad things are back home.”

  “How?” Nouri asked.

  “We’ve studied the tactics of the anti-war movement, and the American civil rights movement—protests, demonstrations, speeches, pamphleting, manifestos. All of these tools are part of our plan.”

  “What is the most important task?”

  Massoud gazed at the group. “To make sure we are united. After all, we come from all parts of Iran, and all segments of Iranian society.”

  Nouri was skeptical. Even though the shah now subsidized education abroad, you still needed money to study in the US. Most of the students in the US were, in all likelihood, from wealthy families. But he kept his doubts to himself. “What are you planning for Chicago?”

  “When the weather is better, we will demonstrate at Daley Plaza.”

  “For what purpose?”

  The student who challenged him cut in. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

  “I want to understand.”

  Massoud and the other student exchanged glances. The student glared at Nouri. “Let me see your identity card.”

  He pulled out his student ID and handed it over.

  The student inspected it, then passed it to Massoud. They retreated to a corner and whispered. The others stared at Nouri as if he’d developed leprosy.

  Nouri shifted his feet. “You can’t think I’m an informer?”

  “Are you?” the student asked.

  Massoud came back to Nouri. “This is not a game, Nouri Samedi,” he said solemnly. “We are not playing at politics.”

  Nouri thought it was theatrics, but he wanted to do his part. “I understand.”

  “You see, we are being watched.”

  “By whom?”

  “Supporters of the shah. The CIA. FBI too. They monitor us. Tap our phones. Their photographers take pictures of us and send them back to Iran. Once students return home, they are rounded up by SAVAK and questioned. Their family members, too. That’s why we insist our members wear masks or paper bags during demonstrations.”

  “I am not afraid,” Nouri said.

  “Maybe you should be.” The militant student shot him a patronizing smile and handed his ID back. “We will be keeping an eye on you, brother.”

  *****

  At Christmas Anna planned to visit her father, who lived near Frederick, Maryland, but Nouri would stay in Chicago. Anna apologized but said it wasn’t yet time for him to meet her father. Still, it was clear she didn’t want to leave him alone, and Nouri knew she felt guilty. He told her not to worry, that, in fact, he would relish the solitude. Over the past year, except for those eight weeks during the summer, they had not been without each other for more than a few hours.

  Still, after she left, he felt the emptiness. Without Anna, the apartment seemed less his, more hers. Objects he usually took for granted, like Anna’s stereo, her books, even her toiletries left in the bathroom, assumed a foreignness, a strangeness around which he didn’t feel comfortable. He spent his time going to the movies, eating junk food, and trying to ignore the fo
rced materialism and sentimentality of the American holiday.

  The evening before Anna came home, a woman from the Iranian Students Association invited him for dinner. Several other Iranian students were there as well, and they made a party. The hostess cooked chelow kababs with ground beef, which Nouri had not eaten since he’d been in Tehran. She apologized that she had only pita bread, not lavash, but no one seemed to care. They stuffed themselves. After dinner they broke out the liquor, and Nouri, who rarely drank, had too much. He stumbled home after midnight and collapsed on the bed.

  *****

  “Nouri, Nouri, wake up.”

  He came awake slowly. Light spilled through the window. He tried to answer, but his throat was like sand, and nothing came out.

  “Nouri, wake up!” The voice was insistent.

  He opened his eyes. Anna was standing over the bed. He tried to grin, but his lips felt like they were sewn together.

  “You are home,” he managed to croak. He spread his arms, but she stepped back from the bed. He blinked.

  “I called last night,” Anna said. He heard the ice in her voice. “I left a message.” She pointed toward the other room where the answering machine sat. “You didn’t hear it?”

  He shook his head.

  “I told my father about you. He wants to meet you.”

  Nouri realized what an important development this was. Anna had told him repeatedly how difficult her father was. How she had to time her announcements and requests just so. Nouri should have thanked her. They should have celebrated. But Anna was still scowling.

  “Why didn’t you answer?”

  He sat up. He was still wearing his clothes from last night, and he had a monster of a headache. “To be honest, I had too much to drink.” He got up slowly, shuffled into the bathroom, gulped down some aspirin with a glass of water. When he returned, she was sitting on the bed with a blank expression.