Refuge--A Novel

by Dina Nayeri

  When the song is finished, they sit quietly for a long time. Then Karim takes Sy’s phone, a gesture very unlike him. “Can I show you something?” Sy nods. Karim searches the Internet, finds an Iranian song whose name she recognizes—“One Day When You’re in Love.” The three huddle around the earbuds, their heads touching, cradling the phone. Karim’s version is sung by a two-year-old girl and her father. The man’s familiar voice draws a little gasp from Niloo. “Oh god, is that you?”

  Karim smiles sadly, nods. “I made this years ago, the last time I saw my daughter. I played it for Mam’mad agha and he said we should send it to Geert Wilders with a note that says, fuck you, you bleached bastard.”

  For two minutes, Karim plays guitar and his daughter sings in a crackling reedy voice like sugar candy, flinging her joy at the microphone, mispronouncing all the words. It reminds Niloo of the tapes of herself and Kian, recorded when they were each two, singing and reciting poetry with their mother. The best part of the song (Karim taps his ear just then, to say listen here) is the single moment when the child seems to understand every word and says them with palpable emotion—Great god, oh god, I want to stay in love. Then she goes back to mispronouncing words and reciting from rote memory. Staying in love, this girl seems to know, is the true challenge. Is she born knowing this? Has she grown up expecting every love to end? Did she expect her Baba to disappear one day into Europe’s gaping mouth, maybe never to return?

  Niloo’s fingers shake, her keys jiggling hard against her knee. Karim catches her frantic hand in his dry, calloused one, covering it entirely so the tips of her keys jut from their enclosed fists like the beak of a small bird they have caught. “Calm down, Niloo khanom,” he says. “It’s not so bad if we’re all still here.”

  Generosity is the gift of the poor, Mam’mad once said, and she knows that now. She thinks of Baba’s letter, her fear of it. How bad can it be?

  • • •

  Alone in her bedroom, she stalls, returning a call from Maman before retrieving the letter. “I got a fuzzy voice mail from Iran,” Maman says in Farsi. “Terrible connection, but it sounded like Bahman. Have you heard from your Baba?” For a desperate second, she considers confiding in her mother about the letter, the emails, and all the frightening possibilities they hold. But a marble forms in her throat and she mutters a quick no.

  She lifts the envelope to her nose. How did a letter that smells like this make it out of the country? Likely the spice jar masked the earthy hashish smell. Maybe he didn’t even care. She turns the flimsy blue parcel in her hand and tears the seal. She plucks out the leaf-thin sheet inside. Niloo knows what Baba wants—she is supposed to belong to a larger organism. But her connection to it feels unnatural now, like foreign cells trying to attach and grow.

  Iranian families, Niloo recalls, are constructed as clans, or packs. Every time one of them sneezes, fifty relatives come running with pots of basmati and plum chicken. They are many, a bonded unit, and they come running. That’s how it was in Ardestoon, where a lonely lunch meant fifteen relatives under a canopy of trees tearing into lavash bread with cheese and cucumber, teasing one another with songs, stemming mulberries, and salting sour green plums. If something happened to one of them, their roots were strong. But Guillaume and Niloo are like the Dutch now—they have been only two for a long while. She reads the Farsi words one by one.

  “I don’t understand this.” She sits up in her bed, kicking aside the covers. Is the man high or just lying? Bahman Hamidi has a habit of lying. He does it often and with great relish. Before they left Iran, he looked Niloo in the face and said he would join them. She reads the letter again—maybe her Farsi has slipped. But there is no mistake. It seems that since June, Dr. Hamidi has been jailed inside his own house.

  SMALL JOYS, LIKE SOUR CHERRIES

  AUGUST–OCTOBER 2009

  Istanbul, Turkey

  In Istanbul Bahman had friends, but he instructed the taxi to drive him to the Ayasofya Pansiyonlari, the whitewashed guesthouse on a flower-lined street beside that grand rosy basilica, its namesake. When the chimes announced him, the manager, dressed in so much crimson he could light up a brothel, greeted him with a two-handed shake, slaps on the back, and smiling eyes. “Dr. Hamidi!” he said in an accented mix of Farsi and English. “Welcome back! We have the blackest, hottest coffee for you!” He led Bahman to his favorite chair in the balcony café.

  To get out of Iran, Bahman had managed to obtain a legal exit visa (he had purchased it with bribes, which is one way of doing it). He had gone about that business quietly, in Tehran, hoping that the court in Isfahan wouldn’t notice an international trip so soon after his house arrest. In case of an office search, he had left all of his family photos on the walls, some cash in his desk, and his brothers in charge. The plan was this: for as long as they could keep it up, his brothers, Ali and Hossein, would open Bahman’s office, do cleanings, cavities, and x-rays, and even schedule operations that they would cancel at the last minute. In honest moments, which occurred tediously often as he grew older, Bahman could admit that dental work wasn’t all that hard—his unschooled brothers had learned it easily enough. But then, he had always been a touch lazy and self-indulgent. If you’re going to study teeth, you should study their evolution, like Niloo, or how to make them itch for new tastes, like Kian. He shook with excitement at the thought of seeing the children.

  In the café overlooking the Aya Sofya, Bahman drank dark coffees and he made plans. He would obtain a three-month European travel visa—he had done this before to visit the children. He would travel to Holland, where he was almost certain Niloo still lived. Then, on day ninety-one, when his visa expired and it became obvious that he was throwing himself at the mercy of whatever Dutch back channel dealt with illegal immigrants, his lawyer, Agha Kamali, would send his remaining money to his mother and would wash his hands of the matter.

  Bahman spent a long, hot day standing in line at the Dutch embassy. Niloo had never responsed to his letter—would she be disappointed to see him? For hours he watched the anxious travelers in the waiting rooms. He listened to Farsi conversations, never revealing himself. How fortunate he was to have some money to ease his path. He tried to imagine the journey as a poor laborer smuggling a family. How would he get the exit visa? How would he pay the lawyers and translators? How would he convince them he wasn’t going to stay too long?

  And yet, if you looked beyond the goings-on inside, these European embassies displayed such riches, occupying such stunning streets. He was reminded of a day in London, in front of the American embassy, when he had asked Niloo if they might go in. The kindness in her eyes had retreated behind a wall of panic. It saddened him to think of his daughter’s shortcomings in the face of these unequal gifts. Did Europeans realize how lucky they were, to be a part of so much order and care through an accident of birth? What would his life have been if he had been born the son of an English barrister instead of an Ardestooni farmer? He would spend his days in manicured gardens, wearing white billowy trousers, reading poetry and drinking tea. At that familiar image, he chuckled at himself—all his life, this had been his dream: the white trousers, the tea in a garden, the books. Maybe it had nothing to do with the English; maybe that was his own private paradise.

  He didn’t get an appointment at the Dutch embassy that day. The next day, he was given a stack of English printouts outlining the application procedures for a tourist visa. He left with the pages and called a lawyer Kamali had recommended.

  The lawyer spoke in stilted, bookish Farsi. “Why do you want to leave?” he said, guessing that Bahman had no intention of returning.

  Bahman didn’t mention the opium (that he would’ve left long ago if his hands and feet hadn’t been tied to that cursed plant). “Thirty years is enough,” he said, his sadness leaking out in his voice. “Iran won’t change back. You’ve seen the situation. These kids don’t have the stomach for revolution, and our generation e
ven less.”

  “Well, sir, everyone’s trying to get out,” he said. “Tourist visas aren’t easy, even for gentlemen like you.” He shook his head and rubbed the sweat off his endless forehead. Bahman left his office without another word.

  One can’t put their fate in the hands of a man without hope—especially one so unmoved by an entire life suddenly vanished. Was it so commonplace, this thing he had done, that this miserable man couldn’t muster one encouraging word? Had he not torn himself from the home of his childhood, from all that he loved, and all that bound him? Opium, yes, but so much else. He had freed himself, and that should astonish. Well, at least it astonished Bahman . . . maybe that was enough.

  In late September, Bahman met another lawyer who was young and kind and had a good London accent, a university accent—he cost twice as much as the other one though he was half that man’s age. The boy served mostly as a translator, which suited Bahman. With every mild-mannered translation he changed Bahman’s words into their best, most refined variation. Sometimes he omitted things or added things and Bahman saw the wisdom in his choices. The young lawyer accompanied Bahman to the Dutch embassy, securing an interview for two weeks’ time.

  Bahman spent the next morning in the glass greenhouse where breakfast was served. He read Hafez and thought of his last visit here. The memory saddened him. He went for a long walk and returned to the hotel tired and sweaty.

  In his room, he turned out his suitcase onto the bed. Suddenly, his clothes seemed wrong, the clothes of a villager with troubles. They stank of his old life. The luggage too smelled of decades of misuse—all the contraband he had sewn into the linings. He threw all the clothes back into the suitcase, took it downstairs, and left it on the street with a note in English: Take please. Cloths of old man. Good quality.

  He walked to Istiklal Caddesi, the busy shopping street with a tram, dozens of pastry shops, and the famous American café he liked, the one with ice cream masquerading as coffee. “Where is the Starbuck?” he asked five or six passersby.

  How different this trip was from all the other times he had come to Istanbul for visas; in those days, he had been confident of returning home and that confidence announced itself. Iran wasn’t in such chaos then, and Kamali had done all the paperwork. Each time, he had secured his visa in a few days and spent the rest of the time shopping for one wife or another. Now the world had grown weary of Iranians and he wore his secret plans like a soiled undershirt; he was sure they could smell him coming. What would he do if he were turned away? If they saw in his nervous eyes that he had changed, that he was no longer bound to home?

  He walked around for a while, sampling Turkish delicacies until he found a men’s clothing shop. He bought four pairs of white trousers (three respectable ones with zips, one with a drawstring for some future garden), undershirts, and several breezy button shirts in light, carefree colors. “I want to look like British men in Topkapi and mosques,” he said to the salesman. “The good ones, not the riffraff.”

  He also bought a hat to protect from the sun, dark glasses, a new cane, and counting beads in a darker shade of green. Later he returned the beads because they didn’t move easily under his thumb, and it was all too much change.

  That night he sat up with the hotel manager, who offered him a manghal. “I’ve given that up, my friend,” he said. “It’s not healthy.” Then, after a moment’s thinking, “Do you know someone reliable who could put a little color back in my hair?”

  “Dr. Hamidi,” said the manager in his own special Finglish. “You’re a friend, so I’ll say this plainly. I forbid you from whatever craziness you’re considering.”

  “I’m about to become a trespasser in a place that wants me to turn around and go home,” Bahman sighed. “Shouldn’t I fix myself up a little?”

  “Stop worrying,” said the manager. He poured Bahman another coffee. “Your children will be happy to see you.”

  “Oh, you’ve forgotten my Niloo,” Bahman said with a little laugh. “Those hard, disappointed eyes.” The manager nodded and lit his own cigarette.

  Two weeks later, Bahman returned to the Dutch embassy. He sat humbly through the interviews. He spoke of his son and daughter, his wife in Iran, and his dental practice. Of course, he planned to go back home, he assured them. He showed his bank balances and proof that he had traveled to Europe before, always going home on time. He showed a return ticket, bought and paid for. He even pulled out a photo of Ardestoon—See how beautiful? See how the river sparkles? I tell you, no one ever leaves this village. In immigration offices, as in divorce courts, everyone lies.

  Then he waited. He ate lunches with his clever lawyer and spoke to Kamali on the phone. September came to an end and he grew restless. In October, he tried to call his children. He left a voice mail in Niloo’s office but never heard back. Some days later, he was granted a short-term tourist visa to the Netherlands.

  That night he sat up on the balcony with the hotel manager. The crisp autumn air fluttered the tablecloth and, for the first time in weeks, he craved the manghal. “This damn itch,” muttered Bahman. “I’ve had the same bad habits all my life.”

  He thought of his last trip to Istanbul; he had drunk a hundred extra-hot Turkish coffees trying to avoid the mistakes of Madrid. On that first day, before the children arrived, one of the waiters here had sold him four mild opium cookies at a high price. He had eaten three bites a day to stave off withdrawal.

  The manager nodded. “Maybe replace one old habit with another.”

  “Yes,” said Bahman, and laughed to himself. He no longer needed to go scavenging for dirty cookies; but, he reminded himself, there exist in this world small joys that don’t move you to abandon reason. “You wouldn’t have any sour cherry lying around?” His friend smiled, took a drag of his cigarette, and shook his head. “Never mind. Pour us another coffee, will you? It’s a very nice night. Very nice.”

  THE FOURTH VISIT

  ISTANBUL, 2008

  There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

  —JALAL AD-DIN RUMI

  In Istanbul, I reckoned with the inevitable: introducing Baba to Guillaume. The notion of melding my two worlds had given me nightmares for nearly a decade, and after the disaster in Madrid a year and a half before, I promised myself that I wouldn’t. But Baba had insisted on meeting my husband, and, when Gui found out, he gleefully insisted too. I agreed to go only because Kian wanted to do a summer fish tasting tour, learn some new kabob recipes, and shop for bulk spices at the Grand Bazaar. I figured at least Gui and I wouldn’t be alone with Baba.

  Lately Gui was spending much more time at work. I didn’t mind; I had my own work and we had long agreed to prioritize our careers. Besides, Gui’s job made our lives comfortable in ways I had never experienced before. What else could I want? A part of me delighted in showing Baba all that I now had. See? I’ve made a good life. Who would imagine that I was once a refugee kid in Oklahoma? That I had ever stood in a breakfast line in a hostel outside Rome, or worn ill-fitting clothes from the Salvation Army, or spent a night in Jesus House? This is happiness.

  Our flight from Amsterdam Schiphol landed in the afternoon. Kian’s and Baba’s flights had arrived in the morning, so Gui and I went straight to the Ayasofya Pansiyonlari, where we had reserved three rooms, hoping to find them settled. At the front desk, a Turkish host, a peacock of a man with tense eyebrows, gold buttons on his royal blue jacket, and a shiny, disconcerting mustache trimmed too far in, greeted us. He had an affected manner, the flourish of his fingers, the lilt of his voice, like he had learned the art of luxury hosting from an old cartoon.

  Sometimes I like to imagine our Istanbul trip from the perspective of the hotel staff. After several visits with Baba, we didn’t see our own strangeness, the way we had transformed a little each year, drifting into disparity and becoming so foreign to one another that together we made no sense, like the mismatched elements of a
face after too much plastic surgery. In our three years as Amsterdamers, Gui had begun to dress like the upper-class urban Dutch, and, for the trip, I made an effort too. We arrived in our thin gray jeans and linen jackets in shades of cream, our longish hair hanging over aviator glasses. We asked if our party had arrived—my father and brother, we specified, enunciating their names. The host glanced at Gui, his European face and floppy haircut, then back at his roster and said, “No, there’s no one here for you. We’ll let you know.” He added that we could wait in the balcony café, or rest in our room, and someone would call us when our party arrived. Maybe, he said, they had gone for a walk around Sultanahmet or their planes were delayed.

  “I checked the flights,” said Gui, mostly to himself. “They arrived.”

  We dropped our bags in the room, a bright airy space decorated almost entirely in white. A four-poster bed framed in gold and the gauzy, fluttering curtains opening to a view of the Aya Sofya conjured an old Istanbul from books and movies. An hour later, we visited reception again. “I’m sorry,” the host said, without looking up. “Only a small handful have arrived today. No one for you.”

  We decided to go for a walk. The street was whitewashed and pristine, the sidewalks streaked with tiny blood-orange flowers. They reminded me of our street in Isfahan, the way the high outer walls of houses were covered with spray roses, and the streets sloped downward from the best house at the top to the impasse where children played soccer. Every few steps, I would scan clusters of passersby or peer inside cafés for Baba and Kian. Most of the houses on this walkway were pansiyonlari rental suites. Near the end, the hotel café jutted out onto the road from a second-story balcony. A couple was having tea on one side, and an old man sat three seats from them, rapping his fingers on the head of his cane as he leaned against the railing, staring into the street, transfixed by foreign children and cheerful families.