“Mina. We’re here.”
Nothing could have prepared Frank for Mina. Tiny, beaming, miniskirted, booted, wearing a cashmere sweater, she bounced down the hallway.
“Oh I’m so glad so glad so glad Anwar finally brought you. We never see anyone the least interesting these days and Anwar’s told me so much about you and you sound so interesting and I’m so glad he finally brought you. Hi. I’m Mina.”
“And I’m … breathless. How do you do?”
“Frank Sullivan. I know who you are. You aren’t breathless. Come in. Come in.”
“I have a gift. Something for dessert. I know Anwar’s looking forward to it.”
She peeked under the tin foil. “A pie. Apple pie?”
“It’s been in my refrigerator. It will taste better if you can warm it up a bit.”
“You baked it yourself?” Mina asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Anwar’s always, always asking me to get cook to bake an apple pie, but cook hasn’t the faintest. I’ll be right back. Anwar, take his coat.” Pie in hand, she retreated up the hallway.
“She’s quite mad,” said Anwar. “And I must admit, though a man shouldn’t say such things about his wife, I love her very much.”
“Congratulations. And of course you should say such things about your wife.”
“Thank you.”
He hung Frank’s parka in a wardrobe closet and led the way into a sparsely furnished but comfortable dining room. The house proved more spacious than it looked from the outside—a long hallway and wide staircase, high ceilings and hardwood floors. A settled, flickering fireplace warmed what might otherwise have seemed a chill elegance.
“We have some very fine Russian vodka and some even finer Iranian caviar.”
“Two of my favorite commodities in all this world. But I must admit I haven’t had any caviar since we came to Iran.”
“Like many things, it is hard to come by these days.”
“Poof,” said Mina, coming back into the room. “My family has it stored by the case. Since you brought us apple pie, we’ll send you home with a couple of pounds.”
“Mina. We have a tin. Not pounds.”
“I’ll run across later and fetch some from auntie’s pantry. But not now.” She pronounced “auntie” as most Americans would, “antie.” At other moments, her accent had sounded British.
“How do you like your vodka?”
“Well, if I’m going to be having it with caviar, just plain would be fine.”
“You sound like a Russian,” said Anwar.
“No, but I learned how to drink vodka with caviar from a Russian.”
“Was she very beautiful?” asked Mina, spooning caviar onto a salad plate.
“Mina, you’re being rude.”
“I’m not rude. Just inquisitive.”
“He was very big,” said Frank, “and not at all beautiful.”
“No matter what people say, Iranian caviar goes very well with barbari.”
Mina Non Sequitur, thought Frank. And nonstop. He had already discovered the flat Iranian bread that tasted wonderful fresh from the oven but tended to stale quickly. The piece he broke off felt warm and soft. He used it as a spoon to scoop up a heavy portion of caviar. The combination of tastes melted the tensions that had stiffened his neck and shoulders.
“Wash it down,” said Anwar, handing him a water glass half full. He raised his own glass. “Na zdarovye.”
“Now who sounds like a Russian?”
“They are our neighbors, after all.”
They sipped their Stolichnaya and settled themselves in straight-backed chairs semicircling a compact glass coffee table.
Anwar glanced at his wife, smiling. It seemed he couldn’t look her way without smiling. “Mina doesn’t drink.”
“I’m surprised you do.”
“We’re at home,” said Anwar.
“We were more at home in America,” said Mina.
“That’s true. Mina is American, you know.”
“No,” said Frank. “I didn’t know.”
“Born and mostly bred.” Her eyes, huge, almond shaped and hued, danced to the leaping rhythms of the fire. “My parents live in Los Angeles.”
“I thought,” Frank hesitated, “I thought the house next door…”
“Oh, it’s my father’s house, but Ameh Nasserine, my father’s sister, and her terrible tribe occupy it.”
“We met in Texas,” said Anwar. “I was in training and Mina was at university. Her father was not too happy about it all, especially about my bringing his daughter back to Iran.”
“The Baha’i—my family is Baha’i—have always been persecuted in Iran.”
“Not under the Shah,” said Anwar.
“Yes, under the Shah. The Shah himself has been good to many Baha’i, but what he does hasn’t changed what others do.”
“You’re right,” said Anwar, nodding solemnly, then smiling.
“I know so little,” said Frank.
“We can change that,” said Mina. “You can come every night for the next month and I’ll give you the standard lecture course, Baha’i 101, and you’ll learn…”
“Mina,” said Anwar, laughing. “Major Sullivan may have a few other things to do.”
“Oh, I know, but it’s been so long since another man noticed me, since another man’s been able to notice me.” She turned to Frank. “It’s been months since I’ve been able to go out of the house without a great coat down to my shoe tops and a chador to cover my hair and my hands and most of my face except maybe one eye to try to see where I’m going. Don’t misunderstand me.” She reached out and touched Frank’s knee. “Anwar is a wonderful husband. A woman couldn’t ask for a better man, more affectionate, more attentive. And he’s wonderful in bed.”
“Mina, please.”
“But once in a while it is rather nice to be noticed by someone other than your husband. Just noticed. I’m not talking about any mad affair. Just noticed. Please come more often.”
I am breathless, thought Frank. He smiled and began to understand Anwar’s reflexive grin whenever he looked Mina’s way. “I’d love to,” he managed to say, “but Anwar’s right. There are some other things I have to be doing.”
“Oh you men.” She must know her pout is charming, thought Frank. “You’re all alike. Like Anwar with his air force and his meetings and his great concern about the Shi’ite revolution. Poof.”
She popped up from her chair, turned, and headed for the hallway. She didn’t flounce, but, sure they were watching her exit, she did twitch her tiny, well-rounded butt.
Mina was not gone long. Frank heard her boot heels tapping toward them on the hardwood hallway floor. The sound reassured him. Tapping. Not stomping. If she’d been angry, her anger had melted, and the smile she turned on them as she entered the room made both men respond with schoolboy grins.
“Dinner isn’t served just yet,” she said, settling into her chair, “but it will be soon. Even cook seems to realize this is a special occasion. Please have some more caviar and please come see us again. Soon.”
Frank, more than content with vodka and caviar, followed Mina’s polite lead and with a teaspoon dropped a modest black mound onto the no longer warm but still fresh barberi. Then he did it again. He could wait all night for dinner.
“I couldn’t spare you Mina, of course,” said Anwar, “But at least we spared you the children.”
“Oh, wow,” said Frank, swallowing a mouthful of caviar too quickly. “You needn’t have. How old are they?”
“Four and six,” said Mina. “I could go fetch them.”
“Mina, please. We have things to discuss it would be better for the children not to hear.”
“Please,” said Frank. “I’d like to meet your children. I have a son of my own, eleven now, and I miss him very much.”
“Then you’re married,” said Mina.
“No. Separated. Divorced,” said Frank.
“Why Major Sullivan,” said Mina. “You’re
blushing.”
“It … it must be the fire,” said Frank.
“I’ll fetch the children.” And she was gone.
* * *
An uncomfortable silence eddied between Frank and Anwar. They toyed with caviar and vodka, and Frank wondered if Anwar felt as awkward as he did. Neither had ever spoken of their children before.
Mina seemed to have been gone only a moment. Frank looked up to see her framed in the doorway, a hand on the shoulder of each child. A lovely family portrait, but troubling. He glanced at Anwar, who should be in the picture.
“Our son is Anwar. Another Anwar,” said Mina. “I understand you know Anwar the Taller. Anwar our son was born in America. Our daughter, we call her Mina Two, was born here.”
Frank looked to Anwar, then back to Mina and the children. He hadn’t realized how much Anwar and his wife looked alike. The same spare frame and sharp features, almond eyes and olive complexions framed by neatly cropped dark hair. Seeing the children brought it home.
“I’m the older,” said young Anwar, bowing very formally. Mina curtsied.
“You’re a very beautiful family,” he said to Anwar.
“Thank you,” said Mina.
“Are you in the air force?” asked her daughter.
“No,” said Frank. “I mean, yes. But the American Air Force. Not the Iranian Air Force like your father.”
“Do you have children?”
She’s as inquisitive as her mother, thought Frank, glancing and smiling at Mina.
“Yes. I have a son. He’s eleven.”
“That’s older,” said young Anwar.
“Why didn’t you bring him to dinner?”
“Oh, he’s way off in America.”
“Silly. No one brings their children to Tehran these days,” said the solemn Anwar. “It isn’t safe.”
“Can you take us to America?” asked his sister.
The children lingered. The four-year-old Mina settled on Frank’s lap while her brother, still standing, grilled him about America.
“I was born there, you know, but I don’t remember it much.”
“Perhaps one day soon,” said his mother, “you may get to live there again, and meet Major Sullivan’s son.”
“Will your son think I’m too young to play with?”
“No. No,” said Frank. “I think you’ll get along just fine.”
“What is your son’s name?”
“Jake,” said Frank. “His name is Jake.”
* * *
“You’re wonderful with children,” said Mina, coming back into the room. It had taken some insistence on Anwar’s part to get her to take the children upstairs. “Your son must miss you.”
“I’m afraid he doesn’t get to spend much time with me.” He glanced at Anwar. “I guess men are out of the picture too often.”
“Of course,” said Mina. “You leave civilization to women. Such barbarians.”
“We aren’t all that bad,” said Anwar.
“Poof. If it weren’t for women, there’d be no society, no culture. Not even families. Just war and religion. Especially here. At least in America our children would have a better chance to grow up civilized. But I worry about Mina. She was born here. Does that make her an Iranian?”
“It may,” said Frank. “But she has an American mother. That makes her an American. You should run it through the embassy. Get her an American passport.”
“I’ve already done that,” said Mina.
I should have known, thought Frank.
“Then you won’t have any problem,” said Mina. “Getting us all to America?”
I’m being played, thought Frank. He smiled. And I’m enjoying it.
“Anwar told me you’ve lived in many countries. So I had cook prepare some specially Persian things. He wanted to cook American, but he followed my orders. I hope you don’t mind?”
“I can always cook American for myself,” said Frank, but his expectations sank when Hamid entered the room. Frank thought of the invariably sodden chelakebab and stale snacks he served at Supreme Commander’s Headquarters.
“You recognize him?” said Anwar.
Frank nodded.
“Don’t worry. He does what he has to do at work. Hamid cannot read or write, but he speaks and cooks in several languages. Isn’t that so?”
Hamid nodded and began serving. They remained semicircled around the coffee table, ignoring the large oval dining room table behind them. Hamid set out individual plates of salad greens decorated with radishes cut like roses and miniature carrots spread like a fan, separate bowls of yogurt, and a tray they shared containing mint, leeks, basil, and other herbs Frank could not identify. To Frank’s regret, Hamid removed the caviar, but only as far as the dinning room table, which he used as a serving stand.
Still silent, Hamid left them.
“I hope you enjoy,” said Mina.
“I am. It all looks much better than what Hamid serves us at work.”
“Yes, Hamid,” said Anwar. “I notice your friend Commander Simpson talks to him.”
“Maybe he’s trying to negotiate something better for lunch,” said Frank.
“You should warn Commander Simpson to be cautious with Hamid,” said Anwar.
“Really?”
“As I told you and Commander Simpson, Hamid reports to Savak. He watches over us all during the day, because we are military officers, and, since Mina’s family are Baha’i, he watches us in the evening, but not for Savak. In the evening he works for J2, military intelligence. I understand Mossad and the GRU have also tried to recruit him. I’m surprised you haven’t.”
“I had no idea,” said Frank. “What are his languages?”
“Farsi, Arabic, French, English, of course, and, interestingly enough, Russian.”
“Oh?” Frank wondered if Gus knew that Hamid spoke Russian.
“He also speaks Kurdish,” said Mina. “I’ve heard him with some of the other servants.”
“He’s an Azari,” said Anwar. “Originally from a poor area somewhere between Baku in Soviet Azerbaijan and Tabriz.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Frank, smiling. “Maybe we should recruit him.” He watched as Anwar and Mina glanced at each other.
“You could do better,” said Mina.
Hamid returned. He placed a huge tray on the table behind them. He cleared the salad and served plates of green rice, laced with mint, basil, onions, and leeks from a steaming earthenware pot. He added to each plate slabs of fried chicken and onions, then placed on their crowded table two bowls of a stewlike sauce, which Mina identified as khoreshe. Both involved lamb, one with eggplant and tomatoes; the other with tomatoes, onions, and what Frank took to be chickpeas.
“It has pleased me,” said Hamid, bowing, “to have prepared for you in the Persian style this humble meal. Enjoy, with God’s blessing.”
“Inshallah,” said Anwar.
“Inshallah,” echoed Mina.
“Thank you,” said Frank.
They ate with just their hands and the thin, pancakelike bread to wrap their food.
“I hate to tell you,” said Mina, “but there’s more. A saffron rice that’s very special. Hamid will be very disappointed if we don’t gorge ourselves on it.”
“Save some room for the apple pie,” said Frank.
“I will,” said Anwar.
Hamid, possibly calling on his knowledge of Kurdistan, made coffee in the Turkish style, but, at Frank’s request, his came without sugar. Hamid had warmed the apple pie.
When Hamid had left them, Anwar said, “This is wonderful.” He took another forkful. “You really do know how to corrupt a man, don’t you?”
“It’s a great American tradition.”
“Khomeini is right. You are the Great Satan.”
“Official America doesn’t believe in God or Khomeini,” said Frank. “All we worry about is the Soviets.”
“Don’t you know anything about the history of this part of the world?” said Mina shar
ply. “Long before Soviets, Russia has always wanted this part of the world. It doesn’t matter if they call themselves Soviets or czarists. Iran, Afghanistan, a gateway to the subcontinent, warm-water seaports, all the way back, at least to…” Her flash of anger had taken him by surprise. “… to Catherine the Great.”
“Catherine the Great Satan,” said Frank.
“Exactly,” said Anwar. “And it’s a great pity, the way we have turned against America.”
“It’s true,” said Mina. “You were loved here, more than any other foreigners. For a while.”
“You will think we are fickle,” said Anwar. “But after World War II, when the Russians occupied us in the north, you forced them out, and you forced the British in the south to give up their control of our oil. You freed us from the two colonial powers who had fought over us for more than a hundred years, and, for a time at least, you were loved for it.”
“What happened?”
“1953,” said Mina.
Frank nodded. He knew enough of Iran’s history to recognize the date of the coup that toppled the government of Mohammed Mosaddeq, the prime minister who had attempted to nationalize Iran’s oil industry.
“Do you know the name of the street you follow most of the way when you go to the palace?” asked Anwar.
“Pahlavi?”
“That is its name just now. And you know what that name signifies?”
“The Shah,” said Frank. “The Shah’s family name.”
“The name the Shah’s father chose when he made himself Shah. Till then, he had been Reza Khan. Pahlavi was an ancient Iranian language. Before Farsi. Before Persia. Before Islam. Reza Khan made people stop calling our country Persia. He wanted to go back to Aryan times and said we must be called Iran. He was much influenced by Ataturk, who back then had turned Turkey into the secular state it is today. Reza Khan gave freedom to women and tried to forbid them to wear the chador. He wanted men to give up their prayer caps and wear fedoras like a European. Can you imagine a man like Munair wearing a fedora?”
The Peregrine Spy Page 25