Only now did I know why my grandmother had needed to scream. The hush around me, giving way to deafening sounds of memory, was more than I could bear. Maybe the cry trapped in Mrs. Payan's throat had no escape, but unchaining my tears, all I could do was stare at the rug and watch its pattern run in all directions.
Someone tapped on my shoulder and I looked up to find Nasrin. "Come with me," she said, and taking my hand, she led me to the room I knew. Shireen's books were still piled by the bed, her cardigan draped on the chair, her slippers paired at the door, as if she had just stepped out.
Mrs. Payan sat at the edge of Shireen's bed.
"I can't allow this, Roya," she said, pointing to my soaking face. She walked over to me. "No one was to shed a tear today. No one!" She wrapped her arms around me for a warm embrace and I could feel her trembling.
"There are all sorts of people here," she whispered. "We are not allowed to mourn Ali's loss. I have been instructed to publicly condemn his actions." She looked as if she would break down. "If you can't play their cruel game, then I must ask you to leave."
She said the last sentence rather loud and I knew the women standing in the hallway must have heard her. With a gentle stroke, she wiped the tears off my cheek. "Please go."
Before leaving, I recalled something Jenab had once said, "A hero is like an axe in search of water in a mountain. When he has cracked the rock enough to free the first drop, his job is done. Water will remember the axe in its strong flow."
Standing on the exact spot where Ali had once stood, I wondered if down the line, he would be remembered as the axe that broke the rock.
Eight years sounded like a lifetime, especially for a little boy who needed his mother every minute of every day. This I knew. No matter who raised Behrang, no one could take Shireen's place for him. He would grow up to wonder how it would have been to grow up with one's mother present in all the scenes of childhood.
Unable to sleep, I couldn't picture Shireen incarcerated and how they wanted her soul to rot in a jail. Would my father be willing to help? Couldn't he do for my friend the same thing he had done for the son of our gardener? I should talk to him, even beg if necessary, ask if he might use his influence to reduce Shireen's sentence. The more I weighed the idea, the better it sounded. Reza was wrong; when it came to saving someone's life, even my father could change his mind. Besides, with the government's harsh treatment of students, my father had to have altered some of his views... surely.
The following morning, I went to Pedar's room before breakfast. From the inhaler pump at his bedside, I figured he must have had another one of his asthma attacks.
He gave me a weak smile. "How's the doctor?"
"I'm fine," I said and pointed to the pump. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay now, but I had a rough night."
"I know what you mean. I've been up all night, too." I responded, pleased to find a way to circle around the subject.
"Oh?"
He reached for his box of cigarettes, but only held on to it.
"Horrible news these days. How long do you think it's going to be before we see a drastic change in this country?"
"A drastic change?" he said dryly.
I watched him light a cigarette, and it wasn't until after the first puff that he poured out his anger.
"Let me tell you about a drastic change." He glared at me through the thin layer of smoke. "We had one with Reza Shah's coup d'etat before you were even born. We had another when he went into exile. We also went through a drastic change with Mossaddegh." His voice rose with each sentence, his face distorting. "The last thing a country of idiots needs is a drastic change. At least this Shah has established a semblance of order." He smoked his cigarette for a while. "I smell trouble, Roya. Mark my words. If there is a change - and I doubt there will be - but if there is, countless lives will be destroyed."
Taking his last comment as an indication of sympathy for the most recent loss of lives, I jumped at the chance. "Then why don't you do something?"
"Do?" He squished his cigarette in the ashtray as if he was beating it. "Do what?"
"A few members of the oppositionists could use the help of someone as powerful as you."
He gave an angry laugh. "Are you serious? You expect me to help those wolves in the mountains rebel against the best army in the Mid East?" He shook his head. "Trust me, when you've lived as long as I have, you tend to sit back and watch. And that, my dear, is precisely what I plan to do." He wagged a finger at me. "And I'd expect you to do the same."
My father's absolute lack of sympathy sounded unreal. Something boiled inside me and I could no longer hold back the anger. "I can't, Pedar. I won't!"
He shot me a look that a few months earlier would have made me eat my words, but now I stared back.
"Enough!" His hand went up and I closed my eyes instinctively. When he did not slap me, I looked. "What did you think I might do, Roya?" His voice quivered. "Did you really think I would stoop to hitting you?"
Too ashamed to say anything, I looked down.
"I had to ship your sister's butt far away when she was getting ideas," he growled. "As God is my witness, I won't hesitate to do the same to you."
Mitra's sudden departure had come not that long after the news of Alieh's death. I could still hear her heated discussions on the phone. I wondered if Mitra had any idea.
"Don't you go sneaking around town, thinking I don't know your comings and goings," Pedar said. He lit another cigarette. "It's one thing to offer sympathy to a grieving friend, but quite another to put your nose in matters that aren't your business."
My stomach formed a knot.
"One wrong move, young lady," he said and wagged his finger. "And I swear you won't know which way the wind will blow you."
The excitement made him cough. At first mild and throaty, then the cough grew deeper and his face turned maroon. Rajab rushed in with a glass of water. Moments later, his cough subsided and with the help of his inhaler, his breathing became normal.
"Remember," he said as I prepared to leave. "I'll be watching you!"
I had barely reached the end of the hallway when I heard him shout, "Rajab! Bring me that damned brazier."
Following the news that the executions would be carried out on the following Saturday, street demonstrations escalated. Not only were there more police cars everywhere, but also the army was called in. On Thursday afternoon, as we prepared for the week's end, there came an announcement of class cancellations and we were told there would be no attendance on Saturday. The radio had already reported the closure of both universities in Tehran. On Saturday, Pedar gave strict orders that all of us stay home for the entire day.
I doubted the radio would broadcast the actual executions as they happened. More than likely, it would be an item in the evening news, hours after the fact. I had seen firing squads in the movies and imagined it took place at dawn. Would they make Shireen watch? I pictured her standing in the yard as the prisoners were brought in, blindfolded, lined up against the wall.
No, that was inconceivable. I sat in my room and thought about my friend, wishing she didn't have to be so lonely.
I could almost see her in her cell, standing at her window, waiting for the first glimpse of daylight. Having stayed up all night, at dawn she would pray hard and talk to God in her purest of hearts. In the absence of a prayer seal, she would put her forehead on the cold cement floor and pray that her man feel no pain and show no remorse.
In my imagination, I could see her standing there, her head up in an attempt to maintain a fragment of pride. But as the gunfire shook the walls, she would run to the barred window, a cry escaping her throat before her knees would fold, making her body collapse and fall to the ground in the exact way that Eemon had fallen.
Fourteen
NELLY HAD MOVED To EUROPE, but her family still included me in their Friday luncheons along with other old friends. Mrs. Emadi's parties were different from any other I had been to. Not only was her hou
se decorated in the finest Italian designs, the tables she set looked like a page out of gourmet magazines: Cut geraniums in a crystal bowl, tall candles in silver candleholders, large serving platters adorned with appetizing garnishes. Her touch gave ordinary Persian food a French look.
After lunch, guests gathered around the pool. A few sat in the shade to play cards or enjoy a round of Backgammon while others went for a swim. Such carefree gatherings seemed to go on despite the political turmoil, and guests talked about everything except politics.
I had just settled down in the shade of a willow, sipping my cherry drink and watching others when I heard my name called.
"Miss Roya," the Emadi's maid announced from the terrace. "You have a phone call."
Too excited to look for my shoes, I darted barefoot over the hot tiles on the patio and went inside. Nelly's mother passed me the phone in the foyer, but she didn't leave.
"Mrs. Payan?" I responded to the familiar warm voice on the other end. Nelly's mother leaned in with curiosity.
"Sorry to disturb you," Shireen's mother said. "I called your home and was given this number to reach you." She hesitated for a moment. "We're going to Tehran in a couple of days. I'll be there for about a month. If you happen to be in Tehran, I could take you with me."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes dear, you could go as—"
The line went dead and I noticed Nelly's mother had her hand on the cradle. Looking furious, she took the receiver out of my hand and replaced it. "Did that woman ever stop to think that the line could be tapped?"
Oblivious to all caution, my heart soared with newfound hope. "Oh, but did you hear? This was Shireen's mother. She can take me to see her."
Mrs. Emadi's expression didn't change. "I expect more common sense from you, Roya-joon," she said and turned away.
"I'm not doing anything wrong. She'll get an official permit for me."
"But why, my dear?" she said. "You come from such different backgrounds."
I did not need a reminder to know I was raised to be different from the Shireens of my society, but no longer could my upbringing prevent me from being myself. And, nothing anyone said could change my mind.
Mrs. Payan had just washed her hair. With her head wrapped in a large scarf and her cheeks red from a hot bath, she looked healthier, younger.
"You're no stranger," she said with a smile. "Let's go to the kitchen." And she led the way.
The smell of steamed cabbage wafted into the hallway. A small bowl of water on the tile floor suggested the presence of a housecat. Thoughts of Shireen lingered as I sat in a chair she must have sat in at some point, and watched her mother pour tea. Mrs. Payan and I seemed to meet under the most unusual circumstances, yet she always managed to behave casually.
She pointed to a closed door. "Behrang is here today. He's asleep."
Behrang. I smiled at the chance to see him again.
Through the clean lace curtains, I could see the small garden beyond the window. Signs of a good life around this home presented a huge contrast to my last visit and that awful memorial service. Staring at a large enamel sink, I tried to picture Shireen here, helping her mother prepare a meal for Ali and his friends. I couldn't. Shireen's presence was now more that of a ghost, than a real woman's. All that came to mind was my friend in a dark cell, with no heat and a mattress that smelled of death.
For a month now, each time I closed my eyes the same vision had returned: Shireen's body curled up in a dark corner, her face hidden in the fold of her arm, her food decaying on the floor. I would hear the opening of the cell's door, the sound of heavy boots. The jail keepers and torturers were faceless, as if I had trained my mind to stop there.
I took the hot tea that Mrs. Payan offered.
"You were serious about taking me to her, weren't you?" I said at last.
She looked at me. "I am if you are."
"Would they let me?"
"I'll have to pass you off as a cousin."
"What made you change your mind?"
"Nasrin just came back from Tehran. She brought messages from Shireen."
"Is she okay?" I asked and realized how ridiculous that sounded.
Mrs. Payan looked at me. "How can she be okay, Roya-joon?"
She put the sugar bowl before me.
"I mean, how does she handle... it?" I asked, thinking of all the awful possibilities.
She bent over the table, leaned on her fists, and peered into my eyes. "That place changes people. Like a warped mirror, only this one distorts their entire persona. She'll never be the same." She shook her head. "Ever."
Shireen's mother seemed to plunge into her own thoughts and images and I knew better than to expect more. I also knew that, unless she spoke further, I would be stuck with the horrific details of my imagination: The chain cuts on Shireen's wrists, the cigarette burns on her body, and the bleeding lines on her bare back. And worse, sometimes I could see, feel and smell the disgusting weight of a guard, forcing himself on her. I wrapped my fingers around the teacup.
"The last time I went to see her, she couldn't believe you had attended Ali's memorial," she said. "I think it comforted her to know that you finally understood the reason for what she did to you. Getting rid of the simplest evidence was all she could do to protect you."
At first, I missed her point, and by the time I realized what she was telling me, a cold sensation covered my whole body. They were both wrong. I had not understood at all, not until that moment. The pounding in my ears muffled Mrs. Payan's voice while she went on, "God only knows what would have happened to you if they had found all those notes, pictures, and diaries," she said. "Or worse, if you had gone to visit her in Tehran while the team-house was under surveillance."
How grand I had felt at being the forgiving one, the merciful. Oh, how I had hated Shireen for breaking my heart. My best friend, she must have counted on me to take the bait because she knew that a fool is a fool!
The baby cried in the other room and Mrs. Payan went to get him. Moments later she returned with the toddler in her arms. Behrang, now much bigger than the last time I had seen him, yet still smaller than anyone I knew, rubbed his eyes and didn't seem thrilled to find a stranger present.
He had Shireen's soulful eyes, and I noticed he had the red curls and severe facial expression of his father. I reached for his hand, hoping he would hold my finger the way he had held on to Shireen's, but he jerked his hand away and buried his face in his grandmother's bosom.
"Don't mind him," Mrs. Payan said. "He's cranky when he wakes up, and even worse with strangers." She sat down and put him on her lap. Behrang pulled one sock off his foot and brought a plump pink toe to his mouth.
"I always thought grandchildren were God's best gift," Mrs. Payan said. She looked beyond the lace curtains and I had a feeling she could still see her own babies playing out there in the yard. "As a grandparent, you're not supposed to feel so responsible or worry so much." She sounded as if she would cry. "All my friends told me the best part of being a grandmother is that you can enjoy your grandchildren and, when they get crabby, you can send them right back to."
Her unfinished sentence hung awkwardly in the air.
Behrang touched her face, but soon the sugar cubes on the table distracted him, and he leaned over to grab one.
"I used to think her marriage was all wrong," Mrs. Payan said with a sigh. "But Eemon was a good man and she loved him so." She took a crumpled tissue out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "God only knows how hard I try not to blame him for any of this."
The baby pulled at her neck-chain. She didn't stop him.
"Now I don't know what to think any more," she went on. "Living in the world of the blind, it's easy to ridicule the one who speaks with vision."
I squirmed and looked around the room.
"Don't worry. After the phone company paid us a surprise visit to remove a few wires, we knew they had lost interest in our pitiful mourning."
She seemed so broken, I wante
d to reach over and hold her.
"I'll be damned if I let this be a total waste of precious lives," she said. "My children may be dead, but their dream is very much alive." Her words were heavily charged and I knew then that she had joined Shireen.
Before I left, we exchanged phone numbers in Tehran. When I was at the door, she pushed a folded piece of paper into my hand and said, "Shireen sent you this message."
On the ride home, I opened my sweaty palm and studied the wrinkled note. I knew those tiny letters, the neat handwriting.
"If I shall rise,
And if you would rise,
Everyone will."
The quiet Mashad afternoon told me of the peaceful nap of a blind nation. The taxi traversed streets that appeared calm, yet the walls sheltered other Shireens and Alis, masking a revolution.
A few streets away, we passed another group of demonstrators. These weren't students, but a mix of young and old, men and women, marching peacefully on the sidewalk, holding a sign that said, "Justice, Now!"
For a moment, I imagined asking the driver to stop the car. I saw myself running to join them, holding a huge sign: "Free Shireen." I saw Shireen smiling that same smile I had seen on the day I signed the petition. I am one sky proud of you, she had said.
When I glanced out again, we had passed the protestors.
As my father had said, it was one thing to be there for my friend, but quite another to become involved. It took self-sacrifice and a strong conviction to rise the way Shireen had. Through repetition, my father's pessimistic forecast had taken away all my hopes. If the poem Shireen had sent me was a summons, I would have to decline.
I smoothed the wrinkles on the note, folded it, and tucked it into my wallet. A simple visit had to be harmless enough. SAVAK had to know I was no revolutionary.
Kyan called the week before his finals. "Hey, little lady. Remember me?"
"You sound familiar. Is this Dr. Ameri, also known as the bookworm?"
Sky of Red Poppies Page 16