A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Why were they still in their seats?” Laleh asked. “Isn’t that strange?”

  “Maybe someone sprayed some kind of poison. Or gas,” Nouri said.

  Maman got up, clearly upset. She looked at Baba, but he shook his head and kept staring at the TV. Maman went into the kitchen. No one said anything.

  *****

  “Mark my words, this is a turning point,” Nouri’s best friend, Hassan Ghaffari, pronounced after dinner that night. Hassan was thick and squat, like a bull. His black eyes glittered and, while they seemed to take everything in, they didn’t give much back. His skin was the color of melted caramel, he had a pointed chin, and he wore a thin mustache. Before he grew it, Laleh said he looked like Michael Corleone in The Godfather. Hassan took it as a compliment, although Nouri wasn’t sure Laleh meant it as one.

  Hassan was unusually quiet during dinner, answering Maman and Baba’s questions about his family, but not offering anything more. Nouri tried to keep the conversation cheerful by talking about the Metro—how quiet and modern it would be, how there would be art on the walls and sculpture in the tunnels. No one talked about the fire. Or the shah.

  After dinner, the four young people went out to the patio to dangle their feet in the tiny pool. Though it was dark, a spotlight threw a pattern of light and shadow on the fruit trees. A slight breeze carried the scent of flowers and leftover grilled lamb.

  “It really is a turning point,” Hassan repeated, kicking his feet in the water. He was animated now, so much so that Nouri wondered if Baba’s presence had intimidated him earlier.

  “A tragedy, yes,” Anna said. “But a turning point? How?”

  “Don’t you see? No one can pretend the situation doesn’t affect them personally. Five hundred families are the proof. It is time to take sides.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Hassan,” Laleh said. “I don’t know any of those families.”

  Hassan stopped kicking the water. “You can’t believe the shah is blameless. SAVAK’s fingerprints are all over this. Right, Nouri?”

  Nouri hesitated. “I’m not sure what to believe. My father—”

  “Your father works for the oil company,” Hassan interrupted. “He is a good man, but have you asked him what’s happened to oil revenues over the past few years? The price of oil has quadrupled. Yet peoples’ lives are no better. The shah keeps most of the profits. And what he doesn’t keep, he doles out to foreigners who woo him with all sorts of projects. Like the Metro.”

  Nouri suppressed his irritation. “A French firm is building the Metro. But it will give Tehranians clean, fast, and inexpensive transportation. That is a good thing.”

  Hassan snorted. “Especially since they’re not going to have their own Paykans.”

  Nouri pressed his lips together.

  Hassan explained to Anna that the shah, in one of his speeches about progress, assured the people that everyone would soon be able to afford their own Paykan, the national car of Iran. “It was an empty promise,” he added. “Just like all the others. No one gets anything…except the military.”

  “Are you saying Nouri shouldn’t take the Metro job?” Anna asked. “That he should be doing…something else?”

  “That is for him to decide,” Hassan said. “But the neighborhood in Abadan where the fire occurred was working class. The film was anti-shah. The fire trucks didn’t arrive until the building was engulfed in flames. And the police barred the door. I call that a clear case of mass murder. The shah is putting his own citizens’ lives on the line to protect his regime.”

  “Hassan, be honest,” Nouri said, “there are Shi’ite Muslims who think every film is an affront to Allah. They abhor Western decadence. Their militants could have set the fire.”

  Hassan shot Nouri a curious look. “You wouldn’t have said that a year ago. You have changed, Nouri.” He turned to Anna. “And what do you think, Anna?” There was an implicit challenge in his tone.

  She dipped her fingers in the pool. “I think any kind of oppression, whether initiated by a government or a religion, is wrong.” It was a prudent answer, Nouri thought. “But I also think true revolutionaries don’t have room for religion.”

  “What about your Martin Luther King? Or Martin Luther? Or Jesus?” Hassan fired back.

  “They were reformers, not revolutionaries,” she said. “The state must be separate from religion. When it isn’t, it ends badly. Even your Persian culture believes that. Look at Rumi and Hafiz. Their Islam has no tolerance for orthodoxy. It is spiritual, not dogmatic. It would be…unfortunate…if that wasn’t the guiding principle going forward.”

  Nouri smiled inwardly. Anna might be more intelligent than Hassan. She was certainly more eloquent.

  Hassan lifted his chin. “Rumi and Hafiz never had to see the country overrun by the British. Or watch the CIA depose the only democratic leader Iran has ever had.”

  Anna and Nouri exchanged glances. Nouri knew she would like to continue the argument but wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Nouri changed the subject. “My father has offered Anna a job at the oil company.”

  “Really? And will you take it?” Hassan asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you don’t what will you do?”

  “I was thinking of teaching English. There must be many people here who want to learn.”

  Hassan sat up straighter. “There is the Iran-American Society.”

  Laleh chimed in. “That’s a wonderful idea, Hassan. I was going to suggest Abbott Labs. The have just opened up an office here. Shaheen’s sister will be working there. But the Society is better.”

  “Who is Shaheen?” Hassan asked.

  Laleh explained that Shaheen was her boyfriend.

  “Really? Where’s he from?” Hassan asked.

  “He used to live in Shiraz. But he lives here now.”

  “What is the Iran-American Society?” Anna asked.

  Laleh twisted around to Anna and explained that the IAS was a center where Iranian and American citizens taught students about the US—its history, customs, and above all, its language. “It’s the perfect place for you, Anna.”

  “It does sound interesting. Thank you, Hassan. I will look into it.”

  Hassan left a few minutes later, and Nouri was relieved. He felt as though he had been walking a tightrope. He glanced at Anna. He suspected she felt the same. As they went back inside, he asked, “What do you think?”

  “Hassan has strong opinions.”

  “But is he right? Do you think I’ve changed?”

  Anna peered at him. “Do you?”

  “Perhaps. I still think the shah is wrong in many ways. But…”

  “It’s easy to be a critic when you’re not in the middle of things, isn’t it? When you are far away in America. But now that you’re home, you have a stake.” She brushed her hand across his cheek. “Not so easy.”

  He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers. “You have changed too, you know. You are getting accustomed to our ways. And becoming quite the diplomat.”

  She smiled. “Tell me something—at dinner, Baba-joon asked after Hassan’s mother and sisters. But he never mentioned his father. Why not?”

  “Hassan’s father was imprisoned and tortured by SAVAK. They let him go after a few months, but he was never the same. He took his own life soon afterwards.”

  Anna winced. They headed upstairs in silence. At the top of the steps, she said, “Speaking of fathers, Nouri, have you told your family about mine?”

  Nouri wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  Anna nodded as if that was the response she’d expected, walked into the guest room, and closed the door.

  Fourteen

  As the fiery summer blazed into fall, the shah behaved uncertainly. In late August, he replaced his prime minister and announced that he would honor Islamic traditions. Less than two weeks later, his troops opened fire in Jaleh Square during a massive demonstration. Depending on who you talked to, Nouri realized, somewhere between fifty and
two hundred people were killed. Dozens of arsons were reported, and numerous banks, cinemas, police stations, and shops were destroyed. Martial law was imposed and opposition leaders were jailed. “Black Friday”—as it came to be called—made many despair of compromise between the protest movement and the shah.

  Despite the turmoil in other parts of the city, the streets of north Tehran remained peaceful, and the planning continued for Nouri and Anna’s wedding. The celebration would be in mid-September, after the end of Ramadan. They would go to Esfahan for a honeymoon. Maman-joon and Anna spent hours, sometimes entire days with the seamstress who was making her bridal gown.

  The wedding ceremony and banquet would be held at a new luxury hotel, the Azadi Grand. The shah was not invited, but other important government ministers would be there. Parvin and Anna pored over the seating arrangements, the meal, the flowers, and the favors guests would take home. They spent two days rehearsing the ceremony so Anna would be prepared. Various members of Nouri’s family planned to host parties after the wedding, so the celebration would stretch over an entire week.

  Although he’d started his job and wasn’t around much, Nouri was grateful the wedding had focused the family on something other than the future of the country. His mother and Laleh were consumed by the planning, and even Anna seemed swept up in the events. Only one problem remained, and one evening after dinner, after Laleh left with Shaheen for the disco, Nouri screwed up his courage. “Maman, Baba, there is something we need to tell you.”

  “What is that?” His parents were watching a variety show on television. They looked more relaxed tonight, a welcome respite. The frown line on his father’s forehead had become a permanent fixture, and the cheerful energy he normally associated with his mother surfaced only when she talked about the wedding.

  Nouri glanced at Anna who sat quietly on the sofa. She looked like she wanted to disappear into the upholstery. He took a breath. “Before we came here, while we were still in America, Anna and I were married.” He spoke in Farsi, but he could tell Anna understood.

  His mother reeled back as if someone had slapped her. His father didn’t move. Anna nervously fingered her arm. Nouri wanted to melt into the floor. The shocked silence lasted an eternity. Finally, Baba spoke.

  “Why?”

  Nouri swallowed. “Her father requested it. He isn’t able to come for the wedding, but he wanted to see his daughter marry.”

  His mother regained her voice. “I don’t understand. Does he not trust us? Does he think we are peasants with no knowledge, or culture, or—”

  “Parvin.” Nouri’s father cut her off. “Let me handle this.”

  His mother blew out a breath and clasped her hands together. She reminded Nouri of those women in old movies who nervously fan themselves during moments of crisis.

  His father’s eyes narrowed. “He gave you no other reason?”

  Nouri shook his head. “Baba, I’m sorry if I made a mistake. I spoke with other Iranian students in the US. Apparently, many who marry Americans do it twice—once in the States and once here. I didn’t think it would be an issue.”

  Maman let out a stream of Farsi, emotional and tense. She gestured in Anna’s direction.

  At length, Baba sliced his hand through the air. “Enough.”

  Maman went quiet.

  Anna cringed. She couldn’t possibly understand, but she knew it wasn’t going well.

  Baba turned to Anna and spoke in English.

  “Forgive us, Anna. We were…taken aback. That is all. We would like to have known this was happening. But it is not terribly serious. As you already know, many American and Iranian couples do what you and Nouri have done. With your permission, I will call your father and tell him that.”

  Anna felt relief wash over her. “Thank you, Baba-joon. If I had known the distress it would bring, I would have made sure you knew in advance. I didn’t know the protocol. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. And do I have your permission to call your father?”

  Anna’s face darkened. Nouri knew it wasn’t over.

  Baba leaned forward. “What is it, Anna dear?”

  Anna seemed flustered. “I don’t know…I mean, I don’t know if Nouri told you…” her voice trailed off. “But you—you and Maman-joon—need to know who my father is.”

  Baba steepled his hands. “Who he is?”

  Anna blurted it out. “His background. He…well…it might make you reconsider having me in your family.”

  Baba glanced at Nouri, then back at Anna. “You mean the fact that your father is a physicist who worked for the Nazis before he was brought to the US?”

  Nouri’s mouth dropped open. So did Anna’s. “How did you…”

  Baba’s smile told Nouri he was enjoying their confusion. “Did you think I would not investigate the family of my son’s fiancée?” He chuckled. “I know that your father lives in Maryland, and your mother—who divorced him years ago—is in Paris.”

  Anna’s cheeks turned crimson. She wouldn’t meet Baba’s eyes.

  “Anna, my dear, you should know there has always been a close relationship between Iran and Germany. The father of the shah changed Persia’s name to Iran, largely because of the Aryans who dominate our culture. The same Aryans who were so important to Hitler.”

  Anna and Nouri exchanged glances. Anna looked shell-shocked, Nouri thought.

  “In fact, Reza Shah wanted to ally Iran with Germany during the war but was prevented from doing so by the Allies. So, please, feel no shame. Your heritage is a proud one. You will always be precious to us.”

  Anna sat motionless, her hands folded in her lap. She must still have been absorbing Baba’s words, Nouri thought. She had been carrying the weight of her father’s supposed villainy for years. It was the guilty secret that tainted her, that made her less American. No one had ever expressed tacit approval of her father before. To have that weight lifted so quickly and easily must be cathartic. Nouri offered an encouraging smile. She needed to know he understood.

  At length, Anna jumped up and threw her arms around Baba. Then she hugged Nouri’s mother. Although his parents seemed flustered, even a bit awkward, Anna flashed Nouri a radiant smile. Nouri felt her release. Or was it his?

  Fifteen

  Nouri woke on the morning of his wedding with a massive weight crushing his chest. The day that had been heralded since he was a child was here. He took a deep breath, pondering its enormity. He was straddling the line between boy and man. For the first time, his actions would have real consequences.

  He laced his hands behind his head. It would be too easy to assume it started when he stepped back onto Iranian soil. In truth, it began when he decided to marry Anna—soon to be his wife, the mother of his children. Their children would go to the best schools. He would have a distinguished career. They would live in a magnificent house. There was nothing they could not accomplish together.

  Nouri got up and went into the bathroom. His father had held political aspirations once upon a time, but despite his connections to high-ranking ministers and the royal family, Baba’s hopes were never realized. Nothing was ever said, but Nouri knew his parents saw him as their second chance. If he did well on the Metro, and parlayed that into other successes, he would be well-positioned. Perhaps one day he would be asked to help run the government.

  He splashed cold water on his face. No. The shah was corrupt. He had abused his power. He must be replaced. Still, there would always be a need for Western-educated engineers, no matter who was in power. There were still many villages that lacked electricity and running water, people who could not read, too many with too little. He gazed at himself in the mirror. It was time to put away his childish ways. He would play an important role in the future of his country. And today was the first step.

  He bathed and shaved, while the servants laid out his tuxedo. He was not allowed to see Anna until the ceremony, but Laleh and his mother were already tending to her. Anna’s mother had been invited, an
d they’d expected her to fly in from Paris, but the violence of the past week had frightened her, and she canceled at the last minute.

  The day passed as slowly as rock turning to desert sand, but finally Nouri dressed, and he and his father drove to the hotel. Many of the guests had already arrived and were seated in an auditorium with huge chandeliers. The soft hum of conversation filled the air. Nouri recognized faces he hadn’t seen in years. He hoped he remembered their names.

  On the floor, at the front of the room, was a white silk spread edged with vases of fresh flowers. On top of the spread lay the items for the Sofreh Aghd, the formal part of the ceremony, which was based on ancient Zoroastrian rituals. The ceremony required specific objects: a large mirror which represented light; a pair of elegant candelabras which signified fire (one for the bride, one for the groom); an enormous loaf of decorated flat bread; gold coins symbolizing prosperity; esfand, a smoky incense, which would be lit to ward off the evil eye; tiny bowls containing honey and rosewater; and small baskets filled with sweets, fruits, eggs, and nuts. Later, a ceremonial cloth on the spread would be lifted to represent Nouri and Anna’s union. The spread itself faced the direction of the sunrise.

  Nouri sat on the right, in one of two chairs near the spread, and at the other end of the room, the band struck up a version of “Bada Bada Mobarak,” a happy tune often played at weddings he’d attended. Its lyrics congratulated the couple on their joyful event. His stomach flipped as he realized that today was his turn.

  A moment later, Anna entered the room, trailed by Laleh and Nouri’s mother. The crowd, which had gone quiet as the music began, emitted a collective gasp.

  Anna looked ravishing. Her gown, a rich white satin, was fitted at the bodice and flared gently to the floor. The top of the dress was covered with lace, and threaded with tiny jewels that sparkled in the light. Her skirt and train repeated the jewels. The gown was strapless, and Anna’s skin retained a rosy summer glow. A veil, attached to a thin headband, hung over her face, but Nouri could see her eyes. Lit by an inner fire, they blazed like green emeralds. Her long, blonde hair was coiled in braids around the head piece, and her ears were pierced with delicate diamond studs. She looked like a magic princess, Nouri decided. Or a movie star: Jessica Lange or Olivia Newton-John. He wished they were alone.