Baba pushed aside his teacup and stood.
Maman, who was bringing in a platter of fresh cut watermelon, stopped short in the doorway. A slice slid to the floor.
Baba shoved back from the table and moved to stand over his son, his index finger stabbing the air. “Only after you’re married. Only then.” Baba believed that a boy traveling abroad alone would become westernized, would sin, and go to hell. He had seen it happen to his nephews. That was not going to happen to his son.
Baba motioned for Maman to join them at the table. “We love you. We have more experience than you.”
Without looking at her husband or son, Maman placed the fruit on the table between them.
“I want you to build on my experiences, son. I want you to trust me the way I trusted my parents.” Baba placed a hand on Maman’s shoulders. “They only wanted the best for me, as we want for you.” He placed a slice of watermelon on Abdollah’s plate. In the brief silence that followed, Baba evoked the time he was nineteen, when his parents had sought his future wife and found Maman, then age fourteen. “I want the same love for you that your mother and I have. I want to see you grow with someone, settled.”
Abdollah stared at the watermelon slice and slowly stabbed his fork into its rosy flesh.
Two weeks later at the aghd ceremony, I caught an image of Abdollah and his bride sitting at the white silk wedding sofreh facing the symbolic mirror. It was meant to reflect back to them the joy and happiness they were to remember in their marriage. Neither Abdollah nor his bride looked in the mirror or at one another. They didn’t smile. I looked at Maman; she was looking down. Abdollah’s eyes caught mine, and I began to gnaw on my index finger. I wanted to take him to Italy. We would go in his Camaro.
Even though they were married, Abdollah didn’t touch or kiss his wife. In fact, he refused to be alone with her. The day after the wedding, on behalf of his absent son, Baba sent his driver to the bride’s house – where she continued to live with her parents – to deliver several trays of fruits and sweets, each four feet high shaped like pyramids, and topped with yards of decorative ribbons, tied in giant bows.
The following day, Maman made up an excuse for him as Abdollah snuck out before Baba’s driver brought the bride to our house to visit. The bride was dark-haired and soft-featured, reserved, with downcast eyes. I invited the new bride to play with me. She gave me a sweet smile as she placed a box of matches on the floor and taught me how to gently pluck each match away from the pile without disturbing the others. I was already pretty good at this game and when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, she would look up at Abdollah’s empty room. Once, when the doorknob turned, she knocked over the stacked matches. I let her start over.
As he hurried across the courtyard, Baba’s mind was spinning with yet another plan to force Abdollah to spend time with his new bride.
Baba had received a call that he had another special guest waiting for him in the hotel lobby – Mr. Gaffari, the principal investor and architect of the Rose Hotel, and now his closest friend. This must be urgent. It was not like his friend to appear without notice.
Ten years earlier, when he was twenty-five, Baba had entered the office of the famous Mr. Gaffari. Baba’d never been so nervous and sweaty, not even on his wedding day. Even though Baba had surpassed others his age in business, his securing the city’s approval for a third luxury hotel in Mashhad that catered to the needs of the religious community during the anti-religious climate of the Shah’s reign had been a significant and risky venture. Baba’s heart had been beating so quickly, he feared it was visible to Mr. Gaffari. All he could think of was the 95,000 tomans debt he had to his name. How could he ask this man to help him fund his hotel when he had no money at all to invest?
Mr. Gaffari motioned for Baba to sit. “You know, I met you one night a while ago. I heard you give a sermon at your father’s home. I know what you do for your community. I respect your faith and your purpose.”
Mr. Gaffari had done his homework. Baba had trouble swallowing.
“I will help you build your hotel.” The checkbook was large; it covered half of the large table when Mr. Gaffari flipped it open. Baba’s eyes froze at the sight of the check: 100,000 tomans made out to Baba.
“Pay off all your debts. With the remaining money, get ten men to start breaking ground.” Mr. Gaffari rose, kissed Baba on the cheek, and shook his hand tight. “I’ll be on site in five days.”
As Baba’s feet had landed on the sidewalk outside Mr. Gaffari’s office, the pounding of his heart had calmed and the sweat was gone. Falling to the ground, his forehead on the cement, he kissed the ground and cried out, “Thank you, God. Thank you.”
Now, when Baba met Mr. Gaffari at the reception desk, the look of worry on Mr. Gaffari’s face alarmed him. In a hushed tone, Mr. Gaffari asked Baba if they could speak in private.
In Baba’s office, Mr. Gaffari blew on the freshly poured cup of tea Baba handed him. “Someone told me one of the boys you hired was serving tea at a ceremony,” he said with worry and hesitation.
“I know from the outside it doesn’t seem like a good idea, but they’ve been here two months and they’re attending mosque and praying every day. They show up for work, and when they serve women, their eyes never leave the floor. I’m keeping a close eye on them. I can reform them.”
“Haji, listen to me. To temporarily imprison these criminals to protect the community, that’s one thing. You did what no one else in this town would have done. But hiring them is another. Even with your faith and your skill, you don’t have the power to reform them. Regardless of your good intentions, you are making a big mistake. There are some creatures beyond the reach even of God – they are not just young and misguided, they have done evil.”
“No one is beyond redemption.”
Mr. Gaffari put his teacup in the saucer without drinking. “Don’t be blind Haji, these thugs are like frozen snakes. The moment they thaw out, they’ll strike you first.”
Baba had been raised to believe that everyone deserved a second chance. Couldn’t a person repent and a new way of life reverse even the worst of human choices? Baba badly wanted this belief to be true.
Mr. Gaffari leaned toward Baba. “Get them out of there today. Or you’ll forever regret this. Your wife is a good woman. Don’t upset her anymore by ignoring her concerns. She’s right, your faith is blind, and this is not something you can ignore anymore. It’s getting serious.”
Mr. Gaffari put his hand on Baba’s shoulder.
“And get them away from your son immediately,” he commanded.
Baba cocked his head, frowning. “Are you saying something about Abdollah?”
“You have to know.” Mr. Gaffari squeezed Baba’s shoulder.
“What?” Baba stepped back.
“I think they are friends, Haji.”
Baba pulled his neck around so that he was looking toward the window. “I told him to stay away.”
“The manager said he’s seen the boys going into Abdollah’s shop. They are just a few years apart, and they see each other every day at work. Like it or not, they are going to influence your son.”
Baba kissed Mr. Gaffari on both cheeks as they rose. “You’re more than a brother to me. This will end here. I’ll get rid of them today.”
Hadi and I had gone to visit Abdollah in his shop that afternoon. We found him behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, twirling the beads of his tasbeeh without saying any prayers; he looked miserable.
When he saw us, his eyes filled with light, and he gathered us together in a hug. “Jigaretoono beram. Seeing you delights me,” his frown turned into a smile.
As I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, two strange boys, one taller with slicked-back hair and a gold medallion around his neck, appeared in the doorway. “Take a look at that – you’re smiling! Well, you should be; you’re a married man,” one of the boys said, his voice too loud.
Abdollah lowered us to the floor and
told us, “Go to the other side of the shop.”
“You’ve got it all, Abdollah: a business, a hotel, a hot Camaro, and now a wife. The only thing your father can’t get for you is friends.”
The second boy, who called Abdollah “Rafigh” – buddy – cocked his head toward the parking lot. “Come on, Abdollah. Everyone’s waiting. Send these little kids home and let’s go play some soccer.” The other boy was balancing a soccer ball in his palm.
I squinted up at Abdollah. “Who are they, Dadashi?”
I didn’t like them.
“Don’t worry honey, they’re friends.” Abodollah kissed my cheek. His hand, which I was holding, began to sweat. Finally, he spoke to the boys. “I have the kids here. I can’t go.”
One of the boys smirked. “There’ll be girls at the soccer match. The one that likes your car is coming.”
Hadi stepped in front of Abdollah. “Let’s you and me go for a ride in the Camaro, Dadashi.”
The other boy put his arm around Hadi’s shoulder and pulled him to the door. “Not today, kid. Your brother needs a break. You guys run along.” He waved us toward the door.
Hadi grabbed the boy’s leg and said, “Get away from us.” Then he bit him.
The boy jumped and swatted at us as we ran from him. We ducked under Abdollah’s desk.
Was it a minute? The next events seemed simultaneous. The door slammed. Baba stood in the doorway, “Didn’t I tell you never to talk to these thugs?” Baba clenched his fists and turned toward the boys.
“Get off the property and never come back!”
The manager and three hotel employees were right behind Baba. The boys backed away.
Baba went nose-to-nose with the taller boy, and yelled. “I said get out! And don’t come back.”
The boys scattered fast – like bugs.
Abdollah stepped around the desk, his movements cautious. “Baba, Salaam.”
He pulled out a chair. “Sit. Can I get you some water?” Abdollah’s voice shook.
“Abdollah, tell me this isn’t true. You’re a married man now.”
Abdollah’s tone changed. His voice rose. “I might be married, but that wasn’t my choice, was it? And I still need friends even if I’m married.”
“Tell me you’re not friends with those thugs? Just tell me you kept your promise.”
“I hardly know them, Baba. We’ve just talked a few times.”
“What else?”
“It was nothing. They begged me for a ride and I drove them to a soccer game once. I swear to God, Baba, nothing else.”
Baba was shaking. “You took them in the car? You’ve been giving them rides?” With the tip of his finger, Baba pushed Abdollah back behind the desk into his chair. “I trusted you, son.”
Then Baba looked down and saw me and Hadi under the counter.
We were cross-legged on the floor.
Hadi smiled up at him. “Baba, I bit that thug.”
“The kids are here? Those criminals were here with the kids?” The look he gave Abdollah could have lit the shop on fire. “We need to take your sister home. Now!”
Hadi pulled me to my feet, and we waited in the doorway.
“This is the end of it. You’re married now. You’ve got to start taking responsibility and acting like a man. Finish work and come home.”
Baba’s tone was final. He left, slamming the door.
Abdollah snatched his beads and rocked slowly in his desk chair, his eyes were trained on the open window. He had a look I had never seen on his face. When I think back, it was as if he was already gone, taken from us.
Was that the moment he made the next decision in the series that would cost him everything?
I followed his gaze to the polished Camaro. I knew what he was thinking: How long would it take to drive far far away?
That night, Hadi saw Abdollah sneak out his window. All night, Hadi lay in bed with his fists balled and his eyes squeezed shut, while he waited for the scraping noise that would indicate Abdollah sneaking back into the house. The night passed, light seeped into the room.
It was past morning prayers and there was no sign of Abdollah.
“Rahimeh, have you seen Dadashi?” Hadi woke me up and started to walk toward the bedroom door looking very worried.
“No, why?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” Hadi walked out, Zain trailing behind. Before going to school, Hadi had recruited Zain to help him find Abdollah. After hours of searching the yard, the hotel parking lot, the car parts shop, they gave up. Hadi was certain that Abdollah and the Camaro hadn’t returned that morning. He sat in the living room, wondering. Should he have told our parents that he had heard the motor late at night or that Abdollah had been sneaking out the window? In truth, Hadi had seen Abdollah do this twice before, but his brother always returned by dawn.
The next morning, Baba awoke to his son’s defiant disappearance. He pushed past Maman, who held out his breakfast, grabbed his jacket, and headed out of the house to look for Abdollah. “Haji!” Maman called after him, “I’m sure he has a good reason. Something must have happened and he is probably with my parents. He is… just a boy!” Her voice trailed. Baba had not heard her.
The school called: Abdollah had not shown up for the second day in a row. Baba rushed to the hotel to call our relatives. Maman sank down on the floor, and rocked Iman on her lap. She stared at the door to Abdollah’s room as if she could will him to reappear.
As the day went on, there was no sign of Abdollah, or the Camaro. My parents tried to maintain the routine for their other children. That afternoon, I went with Baba in the car to pick up Hadi from school.
I can still see the car chase that followed, as I did that day. At high speed but in slow motion, as in an action adventure film that ends in an explosion.
Without warning, Baba made a sudden turn that sent Hadi and me toppling onto each other in the backseat. Baba sped across traffic, cut ahead of a rickety truck carrying rocks, and passed a motorcycle carrying a whole family. Ignoring the truck driver honking and yelling out of his window, Baba closed in, chasing the car ahead…
When I peeked, I saw the taillights of a black Camaro. There was only one Camaro in all of Mashhad. I could see my brother, and riding next to my brother was a girl – a girl who was not wearing a headscarf. Her long black hair whipped in the wind.
Baba pressed his foot to the gas pedal and swerved in and out of traffic to try to catch up to the Camaro as it roared down a back street.
Abdollah saw Baba over his shoulder and Abdollah accelerated far beyond the speed limit. I could feel the wind and warp of the speed. My brother jerked the Camaro around another corner.
That crazy turn of the wheel, to evade Baba – was that when Abdollah made his fateful decision to not come home? Was it the crazy impulse of an adolescent boy, in the first fire of rebellion against his authoritarian father? Or was it just a reflex that had the same terrible effect? Acting on hot instinct, like a kid race car driver – fleeing his father in the luxury car Baba had bought him, did Abdollah commit an act of such defiance, an act beyond rebellion – a revolution – that he banished himself from home? The situation worsened each second as the car chase roared toward disaster…
If only, if only…Abdollah had no car, if…he had not left the house in secret; if…he had not been seen with the girl without a head scarf. If only…he had not reacted. If only Abdollah had stopped then… the rest might not have happened…
In the rear-view mirror, I could see Baba’s face, distorted by rage. The veins on the side of his temples throbbed. We could hear the shrieks of indignant car horns in our wake. If only Baba had not lost control of his own temper, and had just driven home and waited. What would have happened? Not what did…
“Hold onto your sister,” my father called back to Hadi. Baba executed another high-speed turn. Even as a child, I could see his driving was reckless. This was my first car chase and it wasn’t going well.
When the Camaro finally disappea
red around the last corner, Baba’s car limped back to the main road where the car horns still blared at him and all the drivers blasted one another in the massive traffic jam. When one driver got out and tried to undo the knot by directing traffic, Baba pulled to the side and banged his fist on the wheel. The rage in his voice made me shiver. “Khodaya komak kon.” He repeated his prayer, “God please help me.”
Then the tension left his body and Baba jerked the stick shift into gear and drove the car in the direction of home.
It did no good, but the thoughts tormented me: If only, if only...
If only… Baba had not bought my brother that car. If only… Baba had not seen him driving with the wild girl. If only… if only… Abdollah had closed his top button.
THE LESSON
Mashhad 1978-80
Baba
It was growing dark as two police cars, their lights off, pulled over onto the curb. Baba was in the first car with the head officer of Khomeini’s newly-constituted Mashhad police force. After several hours of interrogating the cook at the Rose Hotel, Baba had what he needed: the address where the two boys were staying.
As they stepped out of the police cars, Baba’s face flushed. He was breathing hard. The police would find alcohol and drugs and take the boys back into custody.
When a girl without a headscarf and long black hair opened the door, Baba rocked back on his heels. It was the girl he had seen riding in Abdollah’s Camaro. Love songs from Googoosh, the famous Iranian pop singer, blared in the background.
As Baba and the head officer questioned the girl, the police searched the house, which smelled of cooked rice and body odor. The only furnishings were a few stained mattresses spread on the floor, and strewn between the bedding were half-eaten plates of food and empty beer bottles.
The officer questioned the girl but she refused to speak. He resorted to threats and raised his voice, “I’m going to tell your parents that you sell yourself. You’ll be disowned and your family will be shamed!”
The Rose Hotel Page 5