Contrary to my assumptions, Shireen lived in a prestigious neighborhood, even though her house seemed to be the smallest on the block and lacked the big gate her neighbors had. Akbar parked the car in the shade of a tree just a few feet away.
I had never met Shireen's family. The Payans didn't seem to attend the meetings of Home and School Society. As devout Muslims, I wondered if they would be appalled with my lack of hejab. Reminding myself that I did not have to go in, I climbed the three steps to the narrow door and rang the bell.
Shuffling slippers approached and a woman's deep voice called, "Who is it?"
"Roya Afshar, a friend of Shireen's."
There was a pause, and I heard the latch before the door opened. A tall woman with broad shoulders filled the doorway. Giving me a bright smile, her pink cheeks revealed deep dimples. Relieved that the caller was female, she let her chador slip to her shoulders and I noticed the buttons on her tight sweater were about to lose the battle with her large bosom. A floral scarf covered her hair, leaving out only one thick lock on her forehead.
"Hello, Roya-khanoom. Please, do come in."
Surprised by such a warm welcome, I entered the narrow corridor, but stopped short of the foyer. The aroma of steamed rice and melted butter brought lunch to mind.
"I just came by to give Shireen her books," I said, determined to keep hold of the diary if I could not hand them to Shireen directly.
Mrs. Payan dismissed my comment with a wave of her hand. "Oh, but now that you're here, you must visit. Our home is yours. Come in. Come in and stay for lunch!"
She continued, stringing her words rapidly, and calling out, "Shireen-joon, your friend's here." Then she turned to me. "Go on in, dear. Her room is just down the hall." She removed her slippers before stepping onto the rug. I did the same. Auntie would not be pleased to hear of this visit, but by now, curiosity had the best of me. I had to make sure Shireen was okay and personally give her the diary.
"This'll cheer her up," Mrs. Payan said. "The past few days have been tough."
Overwhelmed by such friendliness, I wondered what could have made Shireen be so afraid of her. What hid behind such a jolly smile?
"You go on," she said. "I'll get you two some tea." And she disappeared into what must have been the kitchen.
Just then, a door to my left opened, and a young man came out. Shireen had two brothers and I figured this must be the older one, Ali. A little taller than me, his dark hair was cut close to his scalp. With his head bent down in modesty, I could only see part of his face, but even from that angle I could see his uncanny resemblance to Shireen.
"Hello," he said in a low voice, then turned around quickly as if changing his mind, and went back inside. Before he closed the door, I had a quick glimpse of the interior. A few men sat around the smoke-filled room, seemingly engaged in serious discussion. The way they sat in a circle made it appear to be a meeting and, for just an instant, I could swear I saw Jenab. He was talking to a red-haired man who had his back to me. If Shireen hadn't come to greet me, I think my bewilderment would have held me frozen for some time.
"Hey, what a surprise!" Shireen said in her usual, friendly voice.
Still in a daze, I didn't respond.
"Is everything okay?" She sounded alarmed.
I tried to smile. "Yes. Yes, everything's fine." I offered her the diary. "You left it in class, I just came to give it to you."
"And what happened?" She kept staring at me.
"You're going to think I'm crazy, but..." I shook my head.
"But what?" she insisted.
I nodded to the room. "I thought I saw Jenab in there."
"You're not crazy." She pulled at my sleeve. "Come. Let's go in and I'll tell you about it."
Shireen's room was small. White lace drapes on her single window partly softened the view of a brick wall behind it. Her books were stacked on the floor, except for one laying open on her bed. The room's meager furniture consisted of the bed, an ironing board, and an old dresser with a fan and more books sitting on top. The oval mirror on the wall showed blotches of faded mercury. A copy of the world map and a few random pictures and postcards were displayed on the wall. An enlarged portrait was stuck there with a single pushpin, allowing the edges to curl up. It showed Shireen and a younger girl standing on the stairs, smiling at the camera.
"That's my little sister, Nasrin."
The word 'little' made me smile, because in that picture Nasrin stood much taller, making Shireen the little one.
"Okay, tell me. What's Jen-"
I stopped as Mrs. Payan entered the room.
"I'm so embarrassed," she said while setting a tray of tea, sugar cubes, and dates on the floor. "Those men seem to have finished all my cookies."
I thanked her. "This is more than enough."
As soon as she had left and closed the door, Shireen said, "The way Maman talks, you'd think there's an army in there. It's only my family, my uncle and cousin, plus Jenab. They've been at it all day and I bet nothing is solved." She placed a glass of tea before me. "Lately, Jenab's been coming here every single day. "
"He has?"
"For several reasons." Lowering her voice, she added, "Remember I mentioned there's trouble at school?"
I nodded.
"Well, it all has to do with him. Jenab has run into some problems with the Ministry of Education. Someone must have been telling SAVAK things, you know? Trying to make a dossier on him."
"What's he done?"
"Nothing, but if they want to make trouble, they can find things. Like that whole book discussion, for one, and oh, remember how he seemed sympathetic about. that girl? God only knows what else they have on him."
Jenab was a remarkable teacher. To hear of him having problems with the Ministry of Education was almost as if someone had told me God was in trouble for the way he ran the world.
"Come on, they won't dare touch him," I said.
"They will if we let them."
Shireen told me that Jenab and her father knew each other through poetry gatherings and philosophy meetings. She hadn't mentioned their acquaintance at school for fear that people might accuse him of favoritism. Now her father was trying to help Jenab.
"Strict as Agha-jan may be, he's going to let me testify."
"Testify, like in a court?"
She nodded. "But not in the court house, it'll be private. That's what I wanted to tell you before they called me out of class."
"Yes, what was that all about?"
"Jenab's lawyer had come to see the principal and see if they could find a few witnesses. He asked me a few questions and then the principal sent me home in a taxi and told me to stay here for the rest of the day. When I saw Jenab's car in front, I thought there would be more questions, but now I know the principal just wanted to make sure I didn't talk to other students about it."
"Why did they choose you?"
Shireen shrugged. "I have a feeling it was Jenab's idea. Maybe it's because I have the biggest mouth in class."
And the most bravery, I thought. Jenab sure knew how to pick his team.
"Won't this make trouble for you?"
She nodded. "It may, but I don't have a choice. After all, Jenab did try to look at The Little Black Fish for its prose and not the message. Someone has to tell them that and I may need everyone in class to back me up on it. We must join hands to save him."
She told me that the men had gathered there to compose a petition. She was to bring it to class the next day for everyone to sign.
"You'll be the first, Roya, won't you?"
I thought of Jenab sitting in the next room and for some peculiar reason, I pictured his children, whose livelihood had to be their father's job. My father would never understand if I got involved. But how could I refuse?
I nodded.
"I don't think it's all that bad," Shireen said, as if sensing my uncertainty. "In fact, Ali guarantees that no one will get in trouble." She smiled. "Well, maybe I will, but then again, I h
ave a safety net. My father won't object to something he himself has instilled in his children."
"And what's that?" I asked.
"Courage."
Soon, most of Jenab's time seemed to be taken by meetings in the principal's office and trips to Mashad's Department of Education. Our favorite teacher arrived late and he appeared to be preoccupied during class. As always, Nelly reported detailed accounts of what she had heard from her father. "It looks like they'll get rid of Jenab," she predicted, shrugging with indifference.
One afternoon, Jenab arrived much too late and, for the first time, offered no topic for discussion. Holding onto his briefcase, he glared at us and then, pointing a finger at the whole class said, "I hold every one of you accountable for this mess."
A heavy silence followed, lasting several breaths.
"School is where you learn," he said at last. "But there's not a book in the world that can teach you how to be responsible." Taking a book off his desk, he tossed it into a corner. "Don't be book-carrying donkeys!"
A few students in the back giggled, but his glare silenced them.
"Even in this so-called 'backward' country of ours, people have rights." He suddenly turned to the Shah's portrait hanging above the blackboard and added, "Though some appear to have more than others."
His eyes scanned the room. "We must stand for our rights. Otherwise," he gave a sad smile, "we deserve what comes to us."
Not bothering with a lesson, he stormed out of the classroom and slammed the door so hard I thought it would come off its hinges. The knot in my stomach told me this was serious. I felt a silent danger, a creeping presence, as if a deadly snake was hiding nearby, waiting to strike.
With the news of our petition, the school's atmosphere changed. For the rest of that week, class cancellations and teachers' conferences became frequent. Mixed reactions escalated. Even at home, each time a friend called, I heard Mitra's heated discussions over the phone. However, apart from signing the petition, most students remained inactive. I had signed it too, but when Shireen said it would appear in the newspaper, I panicked.
"Pedar will be sure to kill me now," I said, and I was considering it more than just a figure of speech.
I think that must have been when Shireen decided to stop telling me what went on behind the office doors. I saw other students going in and out, but each time I asked Shireen about it, she changed the subject. It seemed as if she had become the one with the tough walls around her, and I felt helpless, left on the outside.
We were gathered for a late dinner and Pedar seemed happier than usual. Once in a while, he enjoyed a drink with his dinner and it seemed to put him in a jolly mood. He told anecdotes, talked about his youth, and I hoped that he might strum his tar later on.
Pedar poured himself a glass of whiskey, turned to the mantle, and stared at my mother's photograph. In that black and white portrait Maman was much younger than all my friends' mothers. Her arched eyebrows, the neat curls in her hair and that shiny lipstick presented a contrast to the pale face and sunken cheeks of my memory.
When Pedar turned, sorrow had crept into his eyes. He took a swig.
I went to him and gently touched the frame with my fingertips. "Why don't you ever talk to me about Maman?"
He stared at me with darkened eyes, but did not speak.
Auntie stepped in. "This isn't the best time, dear."
Losing my temper, I yelled, "There's never a good time to talk about her." My eyes welled with tears. "How will I know my mother if no one ever talks about her?"
Pedar looked away. Mitra and Reza exchanged a look and Auntie just went back to the table and took her seat.
"How is school going these days?" she asked.
I was too mad to respond.
Mitra sat down next to Auntie. "It sure is more fun with all the chaos."
Pedar put his glass down. "Chaos?"
"Yes, it's that teacher of theirs," Reza said. "Mr. What'shisname. It's all over the place. Everyone talks about it, even at my school."
Pedar ignored him and continued to stare at Mitra.
"They're going to fire Mr. Elmi," Mitra offered. "And if you ask me, that man should have been kicked out years ago. But most teachers are protesting. I guess it's a union thing." She turned to me. "Isn't it great with no classes?"
"No class?" Auntie stared at me. "So, what do you do all day?"
"Study for finals," I said with a shrug and wished she would change the subject in her clever, subtle way.
"It has turned into a real movement," Mitra went on. "I think it's great to see the students involved in school politics."
Pedar leaned forward and studied me. "Not the two of you, I hope." His eyes pierced through me.
I shook my head.
"She doesn't have the guts," Mitra said. "I just saw their class petition in the paper and Miss Goody Roya's name wasn't even on it."
If what she said was true, it could only mean that Shireen had removed it.
"Good," Pedar said. "Keep your head in your books. Leave school politics to the school."
Mitra put her glass of water down so hard a few drops spilled out. "But students are the school, Pedar. Compliance seems to be what's wrong with this country."
"Do tell!" Pedar said, using his stinging sarcasm again. "What exactly is the matter with our country?"
I shrank back in my chair and feared the worst.
Mitra stared at Pedar. "Everybody expects somebody else to solve our problems. Why should people leave politics entirely to politicians?"
Pedar chewed the corner of his mustache. Not a good sign. He wagged a finger at Mitra. "Let there be no doubt in your feeble mind that politicians know a hell of a lot more about the needs of this country than the likes of you do."
Mitra did not dare say more.
"Students," Pedar said and chuckled. "Children, barely out of their dirty diapers, trying to tell their king how to run his country."
"He is not my king and this isn't just his country," Mitra snapped back.
"Oh, but it is! Who else but the king would shepherd this dumb flock?"
"Someone who really cares, someone like Doctor Mosaddegh-"
Pedar's fist hit the table so hard that we all jumped. The bulging vein on his forehead told me Mitra had gone too far.
More than a decade after Mosaddegh had died, his followers kept his memory alive and they still seemed to be the strongest anti-Shah group. This wasn't the first time the subject had caused such a rage in my father. I recalled a similar argument between him and my uncle the year before, just about when I had heard that Dr. Mosaddegh's election to Prime Minister had in fact been against the Shah's will. "The fact that he took the oil out of the hands of the British, is a milestone in history," Uncle had said, to which Pedar had responded with anger, "Out of the ditch and into the well we go."
Ever since that day, Pedar prohibited the mention of Dr. Mosaddegh's name, but now too outraged to say another word, he raised an arm and just pointed to the door.
Mitra pushed back her chair and left the table.
My father took a gulp of his drink before his eyes pinned me down. "You're a good girl, Roya."
The "good girl" would not dare talk of the storm within her. Grateful and relieved as I felt that Shireen had removed my signature, I also had the uneasy feeling that perhaps in doing so, she had cut me off altogether.
"Glad to see one of you has a good head on her shoulders," Pedar said at last, and from his tone, I had the feeling he wished for his own head to be on all our shoulders.
Reza spoke with a mouth full of rice. "What about me?"
No one responded. Pedar took the last sip of his drink and stared out of the window as if he could see through the darkness into the distance. My aunt passed more food around. For the rest of dinnertime, I listened to the sound of spoons hitting china plates.
Five
I READ OUR PHILLIPS DIARY now and it is as if the notes belong to someone else. In a strict society where you had
no choice but to exchange your best years for a worthless diploma, Shireen and I tried to build memories on the pages of a discarded, outdated diary. The exchange of sentiments on those pages became an outlet that hardly made up for the after-school activities we didn't have. On some pages, our coded language is hard to understand, for I have forgotten whom we had named "the candidate" or "butcher." Reading it again, I still see an abundance of joy, but there's also a deep sorrow that seems more than our share to have carried at such a young age.
Now that the fog of ignorance has lifted, what used to be hope for the future has turned into regrets of the past. The lion's den had been there all along, in clear view, and only a step away. Years later, it is so easy to see the many signs of danger that we missed. I open the diary to a page where I have written, "Hooray, Shireen is coming to my house!" And all of a sudden, I am seventeen again, anticipating the thrill of finally having my friend over.
"Is it okay if I come to study with you tomorrow?" Shireen had asked me.
Up until then our friendship had remained within the school walls, aside from the one time when I'd dropped her books off. I wasn't sure my family would welcome a girl they didn't know, nor could I guess how they'd view her shrouded figure. "I would love that," I said.
The following afternoon, Shireen and I walked home together. The iron gate was ajar and as soon as we entered the garden, she exclaimed, "Oh my! Look at this heaven."
I laughed. "My father would love to hear that."
"Did he do all this?"
I smiled at the naive question and shook my head. "But it's his ideas."
She walked to the pond with the fountain, before going over to the roses. I followed, but she stopped so abruptly that I thought she had seen a garden snake. Her face turned white. I followed the direction of her gaze and saw the skinny son of our gardener - I didn't know his name. He, too, had a look of incredulity on his face. After a few seconds, he looked at me, said a quick hello, turned around, and rushed back to the greenhouse.
Shireen continued to stare at where the boy had stood. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
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