A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  The high-pitched voice kept going. “You have made your choice clear. You and your family.” Nouri’s stomach twisted at the mention of his family. Had they arrested Baba and Maman-joon?

  “You abandoned your homeland,” the voice continued. “You consorted with infidels and traitors. Tell me why we shouldn’t hang you for treason.”

  Nouri tried to think. How did they know about his studies abroad? When he was in the US there was no Islamic Republic. Just the shah. And the protests against him.

  The protests.

  The fog lifted for a moment. The demonstration at Daley Plaza in Chicago. He and Anna. Massoud and the others. He’d had a bag on his head, but he took it off. He’d been warned not to. SAVAK might be taking photographs. At the time he didn’t care.

  Now he understood. SAVAK was gone, its leaders either in prison or dead. But what if a few guards had been SAVAK agents before the revolution? What if they’d shot—or found—pictures? And decided to use them to bolster their new role as guards?

  His theory felt oddly satisfying. Perhaps it was just that he could still think clearly but, whatever the reason, it fueled a flash of courage. “I am no traitor or infidel. I fought for Iran. Against the shah.”

  “We know the truth. We have been watching you. Do you know what the revolution does to traitors?”

  Nouri went rigid. This time the blow slammed into his gut. He doubled over. He couldn’t catch his breath. His bladder released and he wet his pants, but he was in too much pain to care. What did they have on him? And who gave it to them? Did someone denounce him? As he struggled to sit up, he recalled that Hassan had warned him. Did Hassan know more than he’d admitted? Nouri knew his friend had changed. The question was how much.

  *****

  Nouri was alone. He had no idea for how long. No idea whether it was day or night. He was still blindfolded, his stomach in knots. His eyes, mouth and nose—his entire face, in fact—was hot and swollen. The rest of his body ached. Chills alternated with sweat. No one would save him. They were going to kill him. Yet he was surprisingly calm. Even detached. Terror cannot last forever. It was too powerful an emotion. This must be how a condemned man felt. He wondered what Anna was doing. Where his parents were. Whether they would miss him.

  Footsteps tromped down the hall. This was a busy place. Occasionally he heard a muffled scream. Someone in another room was being tortured. He felt no compassion, no pity. Just resignation.

  At length, a pair of footsteps stopped outside his door. Odd that he felt proprietary about “his” room, but he figured he’d suffered enough to warrant a sense of ownership. The door opened, footsteps closed in. More than one person. They were probably not more than a foot away, but no one spoke. Nouri cocked an ear. Was this the end? Were they about to shoot or stab him? He took what could be his last breath.

  Instead, someone ripped off his blindfold. Light flooded his eyes and he squeezed them shut against the glare. A moment later he cracked them open. He was seeing double. Four men—no, only two—wore the dark green uniforms that had become so familiar. One scowled at him, but the other had a neutral, disinterested expression, as if Nouri was simply a speck of dirt on his sleeve. Slowly his vision cleared.

  This man bent down and unlocked his leg shackles. “You are free to go.”

  Nouri wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.

  “Get out.”

  Nouri peered at one guard, then the other. He blinked several times.

  “Are you deaf? Go. Get out.” The man’s voice was gruff.

  Nouri took a tentative step towards the door. He was unsteady, dizzy. He leaned a hand against the wall until he could get his balance. Everything hurt. But no one stopped him. He took another step. Then another. When he reached the door he looked both ways down the hall.

  “Turn left.”

  Nouri shuffled down the hall to a waiting room with a desk and several chairs. Sitting in one of them was Baba-joon.

  Twenty-nine

  As Nouri sank into his father’s arms, tears welled in Baba-joon’s eyes. He, Nouri, must have looked half dead; he certainly felt it. At the same time relief surged through every pore of his body. He was going home. Baba-joon slipped his arm around Nouri’s waist, and together they descended the stairs and exited the building.

  Outside Nouri found himself in the heart of downtown Tehran. The streets were choked with pedestrians and traffic. The slanting rays of the sun indicated it was nearly evening. Nouri was surprised. What seemed to him an eternity was probably no more than eight hours. It was as if nothing was amiss.

  Before he climbed into the car, he turned around to gaze at the building in which he’d been held captive. His left eye was almost swollen shut, but he caught a glimpse. Again he was surprised. It was an innocuous five-story office building. The windows were covered; then again, most Tehran windows were, to protect against the sun. Still, no one would ever imagine the abuse going on inside. Had it always been this way? Or did the new government convert the building into a makeshift torture chamber?

  Baba-joon led him to the car. There was no driver today, so his father drove. Baba was careful and solicitous as he settled Nouri into the front seat; still Nouri winced in pain. His father apologized, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. Once they were on their way, he looked over.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Nouri shook his head. “How did you find me?”

  His father hesitated. “It is not important. Praise Allah I did.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  His father didn’t answer. Nouri knew it must have been a lot.

  “How is Anna?”

  “She called as soon as they took you away. She’s at the house.”

  “Do you know who framed me?”

  His father grimaced. “No. Do you?”

  Nouri pressed his lips together. “No.”

  Neither of them spoke. Then his father frowned. The skin on his face looked looser, the lines on his forehead deeper than they had just the other day. “Nouri, I am grateful I was able to rescue you. But I doubt I can do it again. I have used up all my favors. The people who are in charge…I do not know them. I no longer have any influence. I don’t know what you’ve done or—”

  “Baba, I didn’t do anything,” Nouri said, cutting him short. “I am no rebel. Or traitor. The only thing I did was protest against the shah.”

  “Where? When?”

  “In Chicago. Before we came home.” Nouri told him about the demonstration at Daley Plaza.

  Baba-joon scowled “That should not have provoked the guards to…” His voice trailed off. “What about your wife?”

  Your wife. Baba usually called her Anna. “She’s done nothing either.”

  Baba ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. He needed a shave. Then again, so do I, thought Nouri.

  “Nouri, I think you and Anna should leave Iran.”

  “Leave? How can we?”

  Baba-joon gestured toward the street. “At first I thought this was an aberration. I thought this revolutionary…zeal…would subside. That sensible, competent men would regain positions of power.” He paused. “I am no longer sure that will happen. Your mother…” Baba sighed. “Well, never mind her. The country is being torn apart. I cannot protect you. You should leave while you can.”

  Despite the pain of his injuries, Nouri’s insides turned liquid. It had to be killing Baba to say this. His father was always in control, the fixer who solved everyone’s problems. Admitting he could no longer protect his family had to be his biggest shame. Indeed, in a culture that prized appearance and saving face, it was failure. More disturbing, it meant Nouri was on his own. He could no longer count on his father to rescue him.

  “I ask just one thing, my son. Whatever you do, wherever you go, do not dishonor the family.”

  A wave of panic rolled over Nouri. It sounded as if his father was saying goodbye. “But I don’t want to leave.”

  Baba-joon gave
him a sad smile. “Persia will always be your home. But things are different. Fortunately, you are still young. You have many good years left.” He stared through the windshield, his expression pensive and anxious, as if he was surveying the destruction wrought by a bomb or natural disaster. “And your wife…well…it is not good for either of you to stay.”

  “But I need you. I mean, you need me. I am your son.”

  “Yes, you are, and they arrested you anyway. Just like Maman-joon’s friends. Next time they may kill you. That is what it has come to.”

  Thirty

  Afterwards, Anna realized that Nouri’s arrest was the rip in the fabric of her life—the point at which everything veered off course, down the path to destruction. But the tear did not have a surgical precision; it took its time, it was relentless, and it sapped her. She came to feel as if she was drowning in a pool of quicksand.

  For the first few days, as his wounds and bruises turned purple then yellow, Nouri was quiet. Too quiet. He barely ate, he didn’t want to see anyone, go anywhere. He stayed in bed, but he didn’t sleep. When he did manage to doze, he had nightmares and woke up screaming.

  Anna tried to persuade him that the worst was over. He was home. And safe. But he didn’t listen, and she felt as insignificant as the noise that blared from the TV when no one was watching. Aural wallpaper, she called it. Baba-joon telephoned twice a day, but Nouri wouldn’t speak to him. Anna knew the memory of the arrest was raw, that he needed time for his wounds, both physical and mental, to heal. She wondered how long it would take. His suffering broke her heart.

  Anna remembered the pills—tranquilizers, she thought—that Maman-joon was taking when they returned from the Caspian Sea. She suggested he go to the same doctor. Nouri did and stayed away all day. He finally came home with a prescription for something Anna couldn’t pronounce.

  “You were gone a long time. What did the doctor say?”

  “After the doctor I went to talk to some people.”

  “What people?”

  “Baba-joon thinks we should leave Iran.”

  “Really?” A butterfly of hope fluttered her stomach. “When? How? Do you really think—”

  Nouri lifted his palms. “Stop. It isn’t going to happen.”

  “What? Why not? We could just go for a while. You know, until…”

  “Anna, I cannot leave. The authorities will not let me.”

  “Why not?”

  “They…it has to do with the arrest. They will not give me permission to leave.”

  “But that’s absurd. Crazy.”

  Nouri didn’t reply. He wheeled around and started up the stairs. Anna followed. “But, Azizam, isn’t there something we can do? Maybe Baba-joon—”

  Nouri whirled around. “Stop. Baba-joon cannot help. Not anymore. Don’t bring it up again. We stay in Iran. That’s final.”

  Anna fought back tears. How could they stay in this place? Perhaps, in a week or two, when Nouri had fully recovered, she could bring it up again.

  *****

  One night about two weeks later, there was a knock at the door. When Anna opened it, Hassan was there. He was in his uniform, the gun belt around his waist. Anna shrank back. In the days that had passed, she’d tried to work out who, or what, prompted Nouri’s arrest. She couldn’t help thinking Hassan had something to do with it. He’d practically warned Nouri the last time he was at the house.

  She greeted him with barely disguised hostility. “Good evening, Hassan.”

  Hassan shifted uneasily. Did he know he was under suspicion? Did he feel guilty? “I heard about Nouri,” he said quietly.

  I’ll bet you did, Anna thought. She said nothing.

  He looked down. “I am sorry.” Finally he looked up. “I would like to see him.”

  “He’s not seeing anyone.”

  “Please, Anna.”

  Was he the one who’d betrayed Nouri to the authorities? Caused him to suffer? If he wasn’t, did he know who did? This man used to be Nouri’s best friend. Anna had to make a split-second decision. Either choice was fraught with risk. The only thing that swayed her was their childhood friendship. “Stay here. I’ll ask him.”

  She went upstairs. Nouri was lying on the bed, staring at the wall. He’d started taking the pills, but they didn’t seem to make much difference. When she’d commented on it, he seemed suspicious of her motives. Why did she want him to take more drugs? Couldn’t she live with him the way he was? Anna admitted she might be judging him unfairly. He had been beaten. Tortured. She couldn’t imagine the trauma he’d been through. She vacillated between coddling him, and going crazy with worry.

  Now she said quietly, “Hassan is here. He’d like to see you.”

  Nouri didn’t move.

  “I can tell him you’d rather not.”

  He rolled over and looked at her. Was he thinking the same thing she was—that Hassan’s visit might take Nouri even deeper into the maw of evil? Nouri’s eyes left hers, flitted to the window. He sighed. “Let him come up.”

  Anna didn’t move. She felt protective. “Are you sure? I told him you weren’t seeing anyone.”

  He hesitated. “I will see him.”

  She went down the steps. Hassan was still standing outside the door, his hands clasped together. “You can go up. But only for a few minutes,” she added.

  *****

  Hassan stayed for more than an hour. The door to the bedroom remained closed, but Anna heard their murmurs. At one point Nouri raised his voice. Hassan’s reply was strained but quiet. They were talking in Farsi, and Anna wished she knew what they were saying. Since she didn’t, she made busy work for herself. She hadn’t been cooking much since the arrest. Nouri wouldn’t eat. Now she pulled out paper and pencil and made a list of his favorite dishes. She would shop for the ingredients tomorrow. Inside the house it was warm, but a chill of unease crawled up and down her arms. She felt out of control, powerless, with Hassan in the house.

  Finally, the bedroom door opened, and Hassan hurried down. Anna came out of the kitchen. He was almost at the front door. He was trying to slink out without saying goodbye.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Hassan stopped, spun around. “Nouri will be fine.” His expression was lighter than when he’d arrived. Almost triumphant, she thought.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He understands what he needs to do. Inshallah, all will be good.” He turned to leave.

  An icicle of fear pricked Anna’s spine. She went upstairs. For the first time since the arrest, Nouri was out of bed. He was actually getting dressed in something other than shorts and a t-shirt. He turned around and gave her a smile, or what passed for one.

  “How was your visit with Hassan?”

  His smile faded, and she realized it wasn’t a smile; it was a grimace.

  “You talked for more than an hour. What did he say?”

  Nouri shrugged.

  Anna ran a hand up and down her arm, her agitation growing. “Nouri, have you considered the possibility that he was the one who set you up?”

  He stared at her for a moment. Then, “That’s what he said you’d say.”

  She jerked her head up. She felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

  Nouri folded his arms. “Anna, I’ve known Hassan all my life. I’ve known you eighteen months. Who would you believe?”

  Anna stiffened. Nouri was looking at her with perhaps the emptiest expression she had ever seen.

  “In fact, how can I be sure it wasn’t you who informed on me?”

  “Me?” Anna staggered back, stunned. “Because I’m your wife, Nouri. I left the States to be with you in Iran. I changed my life because of you. I love you. Why on earth would I try to have you arrested? That’s crazy.” Still, a wave of fear rushed up her spine.

  Nouri’s face softened, and his voice went quiet. “I know that, Anna. Never mind.” Then, “Anna, would you make me something to eat? I will be going out.”

  Thirty-one

  When
their first anniversary arrived, Anna was bitterly disappointed. She’d imagined it as a day of celebration and joy. Maybe even teasing the family with the hint of an impending pregnancy. At least that they were trying. But none of that happened. If not for the gift Anna gave Nouri, she doubted he would have acknowledged the day at all.

  She had thought about her gift for weeks. It was actually a series of gifts: she had assembled an “engineering kit”—a set of tools that included a fancy calculator, mechanical pencils, a drafting table, and several triangular scales. She shopped at three different stores, asking enough questions to make sure she bought the right things. She brought them home surreptitiously, wrapped them separately, and, except for the table, had kept them hidden until now.

  Nouri unwrapped the gifts and inspected them, as if it was his due. Then he gave her a peck on the cheek. “I do not have your gift. Yet,” he added hastily.

  “It doesn’t matter. Happy anniversary, Azizam.” She slipped her arms around him. For a moment, Nouri relaxed into her body the way he always did, but then he stiffened and pulled away. Anna was left with her arms outstretched in mid-air. She felt foolish.

  “What shall we do to celebrate?” she asked.

  “I have no time to celebrate today. I have a meeting.”

  “But it’s our anniversary. We should do something special. I thought…”

  Nouri looked at Anna with the empty expression she had seen several times now since his arrest. She was starting to dread it. “I have commitments.”

  A jolt pulsed up her spine. Since Hassan’s visit, Nouri had been going out almost every night. On one hand, she was glad he seemed to have bounced back from the arrest, on the other, she was disturbed. Where was he going? What was he doing? And why not celebrate their marriage, just this one evening? What could be more important?

  “Where do you go when you go out?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Is it part of your Metro job?”