I never saw Golsara again.
Eleven
ON MY FIRST DAY BACK, all I could think about was seeing Kyan and I hoped my excitement wasn't too obvious. I had noticed the way other girls eyed him, though he did not seem to return their glances. Sometimes, I allowed myself to think I was more than just a friend to him, but for all I knew, he considered me his pal, a younger student who needed help and leaned on his friendship. I would do nothing to jeopardize what we had.
Only when we drove through University Avenue and I saw a few demonstrators, did I remember the growing wave of oppositionist activities. This time, people gathered at the junction of University Avenue and Jaam Street and there appeared to be equal numbers of men and women. What surprised me was that all but two women wore a headscarf. They held a sign with a young boy's picture on it. As we sped past them I could only read "Free our..."
"Slow down," I said to Akbar, and tried to read the rest through the back window.
Akbar mumbled something without changing his speed.
"They didn't look like students," I said.
Akbar glanced at me in his mirror and said, "Who knows who they are these days? It could be teachers, students, even parents." He shook his head. "They're like weeds, growing everywhere."
I turned to look again, but the demonstrators had disappeared around the corner.
Minutes later, Akbar dropped me off in front of the gate where a new guard asked for my identification.
Students were gathered around the courtyard in small groups, talking. If they knew of the demonstration outside, they didn't show it.
In the cafeteria, Kyan waved at me from a table near the wall. When I reached him, he pretended to check the watch he never wore, "Right on time, little lady," he said, smiling.
"Look at you, all roasted!" I knew he had spent most of his summer by the Caspian Sea, where his uncle lived. "Looks like you had a great time."
Squinting, he studied me as if searching for a clue. "I missed you," he said at last.
That flutter was back in my rib cage. Thoughts of Kyan had been a major part of my summer, but only now did I realize how much I had longed to see him.
"Aren't you going to say you missed me, too?" His eyes had a playful sparkle.
"Are you joking?" I said and chuckled. "I had a great summer away from those anatomy lessons of yours."
He laughed.
I told Kyan about the demonstrators I had seen on the way. "From what our driver told me, it sounds as though their numbers have increased over the summer."
"I don't think so," he said. "Though, having been away most of the time, I wouldn't know for sure." He leaned closer and whispered, "It's been hush-hush. But this week, with the start of school..." Two boys neared, and Kyan didn't finish.
I had hoped we could sit there and talk for a while, but someone from the courtyard called Kyan, and he had to leave.
"Tomorrow, same time, same place?" he asked.
I nodded.
Walking to my locker, I made a mental note to call Shireen again. The day I returned from Golsara, I had called her house. She was out, but the woman answering the phone told me that Shireen had given birth to a healthy boy five days earlier than expected. I couldn't wait to see the baby.
That evening, I called Shireen again and this time she picked up. "I've been meaning to call you myself." She sounded rather formal, distant even.
"I'm dying to see the little guy. When can Auntie Roya come over?"
She hesitated for a few seconds. "How about Friday?"
"Perfect."
Friday afternoon, the taxi dropped me off at the opening of a dead-end alley, not too far from the Payans' home. Rows of new construction on both sides of the street resembled identical stamps on a large envelope. The doors were painted olive green with a large white tile mounted above to show house numbers.
Shireen's was second to last. How strange it felt to know this was the first time I would set foot in my best friend's own home. I had a small gift for the baby and now regretted not having brought some flowers from our garden.
Cautious that the doorbell might awaken the baby, I knocked lightly and soon Shireen opened the door. She was in a short-sleeved cotton dress and wore her hair pinned up in a bun. She carried her son, wrapped in a blanket, in the curve of her elbow. With the baby in her arms, we gave each other an awkward hug.
"Look at you," I said, my voice high with excitement. "I can't believe you're a mom."
"Neither can I," she said softly, and closed the door behind me.
The dimly lit hallway smelled of plaster and fresh paint. Shireen turned on the light. "In this dark place, day and night are the same." She held the baby so I could see his face. "Meet Behrang."
Behrang? The only person I had heard of with a name close to that was the author of The Little Black Fish - Samad Behrangi. But I had never heard it as a first name. Did it sound masculine enough? I wasn't sure.
Wrapped in a hand-knitted blanket, the baby turned his pink face away, squinting at the light. His miniature fingers wrapped around one of Shireen's. Who knew a baby could be so small?
"He's precious," I whispered and touched his cheek with the back of my finger. His skin felt soft as a flower petal. "And so tiny!"
"Tiny?" Shireen chuckled. "Ask my arms how tiny a five-kilogram baby is."
She opened the door to what seemed to be the dining room. Except for a rug, an oval table and six chairs, the room had no other furnishing. Bare walls with a few holes left from nails gave the place a transitory look. I wasn't sure if they had just moved in, or were about to move out.
I took the chair Shireen offered me.
"How did you come up with such an extraordinary name?" I asked.
"He's an extraordinary boy," Shireen said and I had the feeling my remark was misunderstood.
An awkward silence fell and for the first time, it seemed as though we had nothing to say to each other.
"Can I hold him?" I said, not knowing how else to break the ice.
She hesitated at first, but then lowered her arms and put the baby in mine. He weighed less than a cat and smelled of milk. His out-of-focus eyes did not meet mine. He half opened his mouth, revealing the tiny button in the middle of his upper lip. It was as if the finest work of art was entrusted to my hands. The baby started to frown and squirm. Afraid that I wasn't holding him right, I gave him back.
"The poor thing is so tired," Shireen said. "But I wanted you to see his beautiful eyes while they're open." She nuzzled the baby's head and kissed it gently.
"How does it feel to be a mom?"
"It's the strangest sensation," she said. "He's a gift far beyond what I deserve. I look at him and see a part of myself that I can shamelessly worship." She stopped smiling. "Sometimes I get this hollow feeling that someone's going to steal him."
The baby's face turned red and he started to fuss. Shireen got up. "He really needs his sleep. Be back in a minute."
She left and moments later, I could hear her humming a soft lullaby. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a home, a husband, and my own baby, but all that came to mind was Kyan, waiting for my answer to a question from the Gray's Anatomy.
Shortly after the adjacent room had gone silent, Shireen came back, carrying a tray of tea and homemade cookies.
"I'm still practicing," she said, nodding to the cookies. "You'll be the first to try these."
She seemed content, and the hostess role suited her, but something was missing. As if pre-rehearsed, her words lacked sincerity and sounded hurried.
"Just look at the dust around here," she said and rubbed a finger on the dining table, leaving a shiny line behind. "One tiny baby can take up all of your time."
Her attempt at small talk intensified my anxiety. Had I not called in advance, I might conclude I'd come at a bad time. Shireen went to the window and looked into the backyard. "This would have been much easier by phone," she said at last.
I had no idea what she meant by
'this,' but the chill in her voice stirred a bad feeling in me.
"I guess there's really no good way," she added.
Looking back, I wish a thousand times that something had interrupted Shireen before she uttered the next sentence.
"I don't want you to call me," she hesitated, "or visit."
She had to be joking. While she continued to look outside, I tried to make sense of the situation. A minute must have gone by in silence, and with each passing moment her words lost more of their meaning until they became just sounds hanging in the air, casting a shadow between us. A car horn sounded in the distance.
"What do you mean?" I finally said.
"We can no longer be friends."
I felt the way one feels after dropping something valuable into deep water, wishing to dive in and retrieve it, while there is no doubt it is lost for good.
"I'm a married woman-" My nervous laughter interrupted her.
"I know, I know! You may open my eyes and ears," I said, trying to imitate our vice principal in high school, but now it didn't sound funny at all. "Don't worry, I know all about sex. I'm almost a doctor." My voice was too high-pitched.
Shireen didn't laugh. She stayed at the window with her back to me.
"Eemon doesn't approve of our friendship," she said at last.
I don't know how long it took me to believe she was serious, but overcome with humiliation I said, "He doesn't even know me."
"He knows enough about you, your family, and the people you associate with." She hesitated a moment. "Eemon rarely makes mistakes in his judgment."
Why won't she look at me?
"And how exactly does he judge me?"
"I don't think he knows you well enough to be able to set you aside, or make an exception." She added softly, "The way I do."
She remained by the window while I stared at her back, waiting for the next lash. After a long pause, she hit me with her cruelest remark. "He thinks you're shallow."
"Shallow?" I hit the table so hard it hurt my hand. Her worried eyes turned to the next room.
Hoping I had not awakened the baby, I repeated in a lowered voice, "Shallow?"
Shireen walked over to me and put a hand on my bent arm.
"That's his opinion," she said and for a second I thought her voice had a touch of affection. Resuming her matter-of-fact tone, she added, "I can't be around you without somehow getting mixed up in your society."
I would not put up with any more of her condescending remarks.
"What's wrong with my society, Shireen? What did we ever do to you?"
"Roya-jan, please don't make this any harder than it is."
She sounded well rehearsed, as if she had planned exactly the path this conversation would take. Why couldn't we talk the way we used to? What happened to finding our own words, making up our own expressions? Busy at building a divide between us, she seemed to add another layer with each word. "Please, try to look at it from my side. He's my husband and, as a wife, I comply with his rules."
'Comply' had never existed in Shireen's vocabulary before. Had marriage changed her that much?
"Then why did you tell me to come here today?" I asked her.
"I have something to give you."
When our eyes finally met, I thought I saw a trace of my own feeling of loss in hers, deep sorrow, even regret. Then again, I was desperate for anything that might salvage what she was so set to destroy. She rose and left the room in search of whatever she had meant to give me. Alone, I reviewed her words, trying to make sense of what was happening. The blow was so hard that if Shireen had asked me to leave that minute, my feet could not have carried me.
She returned with an armful of papers, notebooks, and letters. Piling them on the table, she said, "I have no use for any of these."
I saw the gray cover of the Phillips diary, but there was more: things we had written together, my letters, and a photograph of the two of us. I should have left before my tears betrayed me, but they now flooded my cheeks, blinding my eyes. I detested those damn tears for making me look so weak.
"I'm sorry," Shireen said, but she didn't sound sorry enough.
I gathered the stack of papers and was in the hallway before she could say another word. I thought I heard her say goodbye as I slammed the door, but I wanted to walk away as fast as my high heels would let me.
The smell of fine herbs filled the alley, coming through a neighbor's window. Children playing behind one of the walls talked and giggled. The main street was quiet and I saw no taxis. Feeling the unbearable weight of the memories Shireen had dumped in my arms, I didn't stop until I was far away from her neighborhood.
At my house, I went straight to the big kitchen. Hassan was busy fanning the lit charcoal in preparation for making kebab. He yelled as I threw the stack of the paper into the fire. "What are you doing, miss?" he said. "This isn't a wood stove! Aw, look at the mess you've made of my good charcoal!"
Hungry flames rose and swallowed the remnants of my younger days. The poems, stories, and silly notes shriveled and turned into thin, gray flakes that Hassan considered just a "mess." And oh, what a mess! I wanted nothing to do with the times when I was soft clay. How intense my world had been back then, when everything was either black as the night, or white as innocence! An entire slice of my existence, a time of hope, trust, and pure emotions was burning into oblivion. I have no use for any of these! So that was what happened as life moved forward. I wondered if I was the only one who still clung to tender memories.
Tearing the picture of two friends in half, I threw it into the fire and watched our faces distort, as they each burned alone.
Hassan watched me in surprise, but when I threw in the Phillips diary, he reached into the flames, grabbed its corner and threw it on the ground.
"Not this one, Miss," he objected. "It's too heavy. It'll be sure to kill the fire."
I picked it up from the ground. The fire had only made the cover hot, but not yet reached its pages. I wiped the ashes from it. This wasn't Shireen's alone to discard; it was my life too, my stories, and my memories.
The old cook had a point. Not this one.
There were only a few students around the cafeteria. Despite the large fan on the counter going full speed, the place felt hot. The minute I reached Kyan, he frowned asking, "What's wrong?"
I shrugged. "I'm different."
"Oh?"
"I grew up."
He chuckled and gave me the once-over. "Nope. Still the same cute five-foot-nothing." When I didn't respond to his humor, he asked in a more serious tone, "Did someone dare hurt my favorite girl?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Because for each growth, there's a growing pain, and for each pain, something - or someone - who caused it."
I nodded.
He paused. "No one - and I mean no one - is worthy of your tears, because those who are worth it, will never make you cry."
He reached over and gave my hair a gentle stroke, brushing away a layer of pain.
Weeks later, I ran into a classmate and learned that Shireen and her husband had moved to Tehran. Good. That meant I wouldn't bump into her. Nor would I be likely to hear their names in conversation. At some point, I took the Phillips out of my dresser and put it in a box where I stored old books and magazines. I, too, could discard Shireen from my life and for a while it looked as if I had succeeded.
When months later Auntie spoke Shireen's name, I had to actually think before I realized to whom she referred.
One day at breakfast, I realized all eyes were on me. My aunt put down her newspaper and poured me a glass of tea. Then she took the paper, folded the front page and held it in my face. I read the headline.
BANK ROBERRY ATTEMPT LEAVES ONE DEAD AND THREE IN CRITICAL CONDITION
I shrugged and reached past her for the bread, but she held the paper steady.
"You' ll want to read this," she said, her voice alarming.
"Auntie, dear. You know my bank robbery days are over," I sai
d and chuckled at my own joke.
"It concerns your friend," she said.
"I don't know who you're talking about."
Reza said softly, "You know."
My aunt looked at the article and read the name, "Shireen Payan."
I dropped my bread and snatched the paper from her hand. "Let me see that," I said, still sarcastic. That couldn't possibly be the same Shireen, and I'd soon find out where the misunderstanding came from.
"Last night, the guards at Tehran's Eisenhower Bank shot and killed one man, and critically wounded two others during a robbery attempt. According to the police, the bandits were armed and guards shot them in self-defense. These men are linked to the terrorist group responsible for the bloody incident at Siahkal"
With no names mentioned, so far I had not seen a link. Suddenly, the door opened and hit the wall behind it as Pedar walked into the room.
"I see you've read the paper," he said to me, and sat down.
"I just started, but I don't see what-"
"Keep reading," he growled.
I went back to the article and the next paragraph hit me.
"Three other members of Fadaiyan were later arrested at their residence. Ali Payan, a key member, was shot and killed at the scene. Eemon Arfa, believed to be the mastermind behind this terrorist act, took a bullet to his lung and is listed in critical condition. His wife, Shireen Payan, was later captured at their operation base. Despite the indirect nature of Payan's crime, no bail is set for her release. Her infant son is believed to be unharmed."
Ali shot dead? For a second I saw my own brother, Reza, in a pool of blood. As tears welled in my eyes, the words on the page slid around like dark ink blotches. There had to be a mistake. By now I could believe the political motivation, even in them being members of whatever "Fadaiyan" were, but bank robbery and acts of terrorism? No matter how mean she had been to me, I knew that the last thing Shireen Payan cared about was money. She would never do anything that might jeopardize lives, certainly not for money. And, from what she had told me, neither would Eemon.
Like dust particles in a storm, my thoughts whirled in different directions. The pain of our last visit resurged, as if a scab had been removed from a wound. I blinked the tears away and tried to read more, make sense of it, but it was hard to concentrate with everyone watching me. Pedar stared as if I'd had something to do with the incident.
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