"At least Reza is with Maman," Mitra said as she drove us, and I had a feeling her meaning went beyond the location of his burial. "Auntie's place is in the courtyard."
I followed Mitra. Pilgrims stepped over stones without paying attention that these were also graves. Mitra had no trouble finding Auntie's burial. Having been only a month since her passing, a servant sat there, guarding the flowers, platters of fruit and dates, and a candleholder. Pedar must have pulled a few strings to get that beautiful marble slab with a verse from Hafez:
"Immortal is the one whose heart comes to life with love."
It felt awkward to imagine my aunt under that slab of marble. On all my previous visits, I had never been conscious of my mother's body actually lying under the ground. I had seen Maman's name on the wall of the private chamber, but had never connected it to the grave on its floor. To her youngest child, she had remained a mysterious fairy, flying about, watching over her. But my aunt's name on the open courtyard's stone was bitter proof that her body lay underneath. Did she know we were there? Oh, how I would have loved to see her one last time.
I squatted down and said the only prayer I knew by heart, but had no doubt she didn't need my help to reach eternal peace. We bought some candles and while I lit them, Mitra paid a clergyman to recite the Quran for Auntie's soul. In my heart, she'd be my 'immortal' mother, now in a safer place, a rose for God's garden.
"I never realized her strength," I said to Mitra. "In her own gentle way, Auntie was quite the ruler, wasn't she?"
Mitra gave me a pitiful look. "Not that it was ever hard to rule you!" She shook her head. "Don't get me wrong. I mean this in a nice way, you were the lamb among us."
The lamb?
"I only obeyed out of desperation."
"No, honey. You obeyed because you never knew how to defy."
That comment reminded me of a question I had meant to ask my sister years earlier. "Speaking of defying, what did you do that made Pedar send you away?"
"Oh, that," she said and smiled slyly. "When he threatened that if I got involved he'd send me away, I did just that. Not only did I sign the students' petition to free political prisoners, I also marched with the demonstrators. That was enough to win me the trip abroad."
"How devious!"
"Honey, when the opposition is that strong, deception is the only way to win."
We must have sat in the courtyard for a good hour. I finally stood, feeling achy all over from crouching down on the cold stone. I glanced at the room where my mother would now guard my brother's remains and started to walk in the opposite direction.
"Aren't you going in there?" Mitra called after me, pointing to the corner now that it was no longer just Maman's place.
I shook my head. "Not today," I said, unsure if I wasn't a coward, making excuses. "I'll come back for that another day. I want this one to be my special visit to Auntie alone."
I spent most of my time helping with the preparations for a Fortieth Day memorial service for my aunt. Around four in the afternoon, women began to trickle in, leaving their shoes out in the hallway before entering. Rows of shoes of all shapes and sizes lined up against the wall brought back the distant memory of when I had counted them at my mother's funeral. How familiar this aroma of rose water, Turkish coffee, and tobacco had become. As the adult me looked back, it seemed as if that child had risen from the rubble of a destroyed castle.
I also saw the contrast between this elaborate gathering and the simplicity of the Payans' memorial ceremony. At Ali's, no halva had been served, no flowers were displayed and no one, not even his mother, had cried. A clergy gave a long and formal sermon, but it offered no solace. I could hardly wait for the monotonous ritual to end. Had I been away too long?
The next day, I told Kyan I was going back to the shrine. He offered to accompany me, but I needed to do this alone. Part of me wanted to feel closer to God, and part wished to sit down with Reza and say the goodbye I never had a chance for. I also wanted to pay respect to my mother. But above all, I needed to have a good cry without being patronized.
Akbar dropped me off close to the gilded gates. I bowed to the shrine out of habit, but did not kiss the gates as everyone else did. This time, there were no favors to ask for and no hope of receiving any. Now calmer, I surveyed the area. Rows and rows of pilgrims sat in the courtyard. Some prayed, others talked to each other, and a few lay by the wall and napped. The gray stones of the courtyard were covered in names, making it impossible not to step on someone's grave.
At my mother's tomb, the wooden door to the chamber was ajar. It opened with a squeak and I entered the dimly lit room we shared with another family. According to Naneh, Pedar had bought three plots. With Maman and now Reza resting there, I refused to contemplate for whom the remaining plot was saved. My eyes searched the walls. Next to the black and white portraits of strangers, I found one whose eyes were the same as my son's. The life-size photograph had captured
Reza's mischievous smile, and his neat haircut indicated he must have had it trimmed that day.
And I had thought I was over this! I barely managed to kneel before I would collapse. Only then did I realize I was not alone and saw another woman sitting in the corner, praying. My stagger must have startled the woman because she turned to look. Heavy set, she rose from the rug with some difficulty and suddenly opened her arms. "Roya-jan!" the husky voice cried out, the light coming through the open door illuminating her pale face.
"Shireen!" I screamed.
She bent down and we embraced for what seemed like an eternity. I put my head on her chest and cried until no tears were left in me. She held me tight, but did not cry. Finally, I let go, wiped my face, and took a good look at my old friend.
No longer the slender girl, the extra weight gave Shireen the look of an ailing, middle-aged woman. Her scarf slipped back, revealing graying hair, now cut short and uneven. Her eyes had exchanged their old sparkle for a haunted expression. It made my heart ache to realize I would not have recognized her in a crowd.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, not knowing where else to begin.
"Ah," she said, and gave me the smile I had missed so. "Waiting for you, of course."
"How did you know I'd be here today?"
"I didn't," she said. "But I would have come back tomorrow, and the next day, and as many more days as it took you to show up." "Crazy as ever!" I said, and laughed.
She looked away. "Am I?" Her voice lacked humor. "I'm so sorry about your dear aunt." She looked around. "Which one is hers?"
"None of these," I said. "Hers is in the courtyard. I'm here for my brother." Then remembered. "And my real mom."
We both fell silent. Shireen looked at Reza's picture and forced a smile. "Your aunt was a true mother, too," she said trying to distract me.
I shrugged. "True mother, fake mother. I've lost them both, haven't I?" The truth in those words sent a cold sensation through me. Shireen's unexpected presence had helped me to see my sorrow in its actual form. Now I cried for both my mothers, and I yet had to come to terms with the loss of my brother.
Eventually, we sat against the wall with our legs stretched out over the worn rug. In such a holy place, God's eyes must have seen us as the same two girls who had snuck into the school's prayer hall.
Outside, the minaret echoed the call for prayers and a group of pilgrims chanted, "Allah-o Akbar!" Having crossed continents to get here, it was as though I had bypassed decades, as well.
"You're still the same," Shireen said. "I mean, older, but the same person."
"I don't know if that's all good."
"It is. I'd hate to see you change, becoming the kind of adult that Jenab cautioned us against."
I frowned. "I loathe that man!"
"How could you hate someone you don't know well enough?"
"I can't believe you still defend that slime."
"I'm just being fair," she said in her patient tone. "At least give him some credit for his wisdom."
; "Never mind him. I can't believe we're both here," I said. "If you knew I was back, then why didn't you come to the house?"
"I didn't want to take a chance, or mess up your return to America." She lowered her voice. "The new SAVAMA isn't any better than SAVAK."
"Why mess up? Kyan says association with someone who had opposed the Shah would gain me points."
"No, not if she's not exactly a great fan of the new regime."
"You're not?" This was news to me. "But aren't they devout Muslims?"
"Are they?" she said looking troubled.
The stories I had heard about political prisoners were too disturbing and I had no right to stir her memory. So I told her about Arman and showed her the little picture I carried in my purse. "How is our little Behrang?" I said.
The mention of her son's name softened Shireen's expression. "He is a fine boy, and the best thing to come out of all that." She laughed, but seemed nervous. "I don't think Eemon and I could have been as good a set of parents as my in-laws are. He knows we're his parents, but treats us like relatives"
She mentioned Eemon's name with serenity and in a casual manner as if he were still alive.
"Behrang must be about eight, right?" I said, adding the years in my head. "Who does he look like the most?"
"No one I know." She laughed. "Thin, tall, dark and awfully handsome." Each time she laughed, the lack of joy in her voice combined with the lost look of her eyes, took me off-guard.
For a while we talked about school days, a couple of teachers who had passed away, my giving up medicine to study literature. Shireen took care not to mention my brother. Each time I looked at his picture, she would ask me an unrelated question right away. The simplicity of my life in the States seemed to surprise her the most.
"That's so hard to believe."
"But it's true. Most Americans have strong morals and live a decent life."
She laughed. "You're just saying that so I'll respect you."
I hit her with my elbow. "You never did before, so why start now?"
There was that nervous laughter again, cautioning me about the fine line in our conversation. While her voice rose and her face flushed, her eyes were unchanged, cold even. Had the tortures driven my friend insane?
Mrs. Payan's recounts were hard to forget: the tapes of Shireen's baby crying, the threats, and the possibility of other gruesome acts, even of rape. I had so many questions, but was it fair to ask them?
"I never thanked you for protecting me," I said at last. "Giving back my letters, our notes, the Phillips - "
With her eyes closed and leaning against the wall she cut me off. "You always made too much out of nothing."
"Did I?"
She changed the subject with such skill that before I realized it, we were talking about me again.
I held her hand and wondered about her middle finger, now bent out of shape as if from an old injury. The confusion in her eyes averted my questioning. One moment she showed great strength, but by the next I was sure she would fall into pieces. I prayed that my old Shireen was still somewhere inside that unrecognizable body.
Mindful of her condition, I would not pressure her, but I couldn't deny the reality that soon I'd be back on the other side of the Earth. God only knew when we might see each other again. I couldn't afford to let the moment slip away.
"Shireen, I don't know where to begin my questions. Or, if I should begin at all."
"Ask away." She sounded calm. "I'm used to questions. People ask them all the time. At least with you, I don't have to pretend."
"I don't want to bring up what's behind you, but."
"Nothing is behind me."
"Did Jenab have anything to do with your capture?"
She glared at me. "Leave him alone. I can't believe you'd even think that!" She sounded rational, but I noticed her hands had started to shake a little. "He just knew beautiful words," Shireen said.
"Damn him and his fancy words. He was the teacher, for Heaven's sake. Did he know what he was doing?"
"He wasn't doing anything," she said and I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was holding back.
"I don't care what you say. I saw how he planted ideas in your head."
"That's not fair," she said, and I noticed she had gone back to her old tone: she the adult, telling me, the child.
"What are you trying to cover up, Shireen?"
"Nothing. It's just that Jenab, his son, the whole unfortunate lot of them suffered enough." She looked even sadder than before.
"So, you heard about that, too?" I said.
"The whole nation heard about that poor boy. He had only attended a couple of meetings. They took him in along with a group of street demonstrators, but he didn't have a record, so they let him go."
"That's not what I heard," I said.
She gave me a look as if to shame me. "I can imagine what you heard," she said angrily. "Jenab's son must have heard the same nonsense, that his father had made a plea bargain with SAVAK: us in exchange for his freedom." She shook her head in utter despair. "The week after Eemon's assassination, Bijan Elmi went to the courthouse with a bomb taped to his chest." Her hand now shook violently.
Someone had to change the subject or we would both break down.
"I heard you taught in prison. Tell me about that."
But Shireen continued. "That didn't even make the national news. The local radio called it a random explosion. His name wasn't even mentioned, his voice was never heard."
Shireen's pallor now gave her a ghostly look.
I held on to her shoulders. "Enough of Mr. Elmi," I said, my worry bringing tears to my eyes.
"Oh, look what I've done," Shireen said, " and I'm supposed to comfort you at this time of sorrow!"
Where had Shireen learned to take blame?
She opened her purse and took out a box of cigarettes and I remembered a carton of the same brand that Mrs. Arfa' had brought to Evin prison.
"Since when are you a smoker?" I asked her.
"What's a prison good for if you can't smoke?" She took out two, lit both, and offered one to me.
A non-smoker, I held the cigarette and watched the smoke twirl. I wished Shireen could tell me her story, picking up where we had left off, without my having to push her. In another life, she would have filled in the blanks, but the fragile soul of this traumatized woman sitting before me had already endured enough. I saw the ash fall off the cigarette in my hand and waited for Shireen to talk at her own pace.
Outside, a baby cried, and the humming of a crowd told me people had gathered for group prayer.
"I used to pray," she said, as if I didn't know. "But once you've been through that damn place, you're lucky if you can still believe there's a God."
That was her first direct reference to being mistreated.
Shireen took the last drag from her cigarette and crushed it in the corner of the room. "As for teaching," she said, "the monotony of jail can drive you insane. I had to find something to do, but what else am I good for except teaching? The problem was, most prisoners at Evin were more educated than me!" She smiled sadly. "After a year, they needed more room at Evin, so they moved some of us to Qasr prison, where we had to room with what they called common criminals. There at last I found friends who also needed to learn."
"Among thieves and prostitutes?"
She glared at me. "In prison, one's perspectives change, as does the meaning of words such as respect, crime, and even decency." She closed her eyes and I tried to imagine the faces that must have appeared before her. "Some of those women had more honor than you and me. When you reach bottom, you find a whole new criteria."
She looked in my direction, her eyes glazed over and I knew she had slipped into a place I knew nothing of.
"In a way, prison felt more like home than the team-house had." She lowered her voice and explained, "That's what we called the apartment, you know."
I nodded and realized she talked more freely when I didn't ask questions.
"The house was meant for meetings." Forgetting the prison story, Shireen had now gone further back in time. "Every few months, we moved to a different building. SAVAK was everywhere. Eemon and I took care of food and supplies for the comrades. The landlord thought we were just being good neighbors." She laughed again and now it sounded normal. "Ali and Eemon never told me much. Kept me out of plans to protect me."
She sounded well rehearsed. I wasn't sure if her words were the truth, or if the lies had become her truth through repetition. Nothing she told me came close to what I had heard. According to Mitra, Shireen had not said much, not even under torture. That fit her character, as I knew it. But I wondered if in her state Shireen was even able to distinguish between reality and what her mind had designed as a ticket to freedom.
She clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "At first, the walls of my cell seemed to be plain white." Her jagged laughter alarmed me. "But after many days of staring at it, I began to see patterns on the white-wash. Some of them looked like math problems."
Sitting up, she moved the palm of her hand in the air, left to right, as if tracing a formula. "It was all there, underneath the paint. And all through the lashing I thought of ways to solve those."
"You don't have to—"
"But I do." She looked at me, the untamed expression back in her eyes. "Who else will understand me? Who's left without problems of their own?" She then reached into her purse for her pills. "Twelve of these a day." She laughed her nervous laughter. "Funny, when you consider they're not sure what's wrong with me." "I didn't mean to upset you."
"You couldn't upset me if you tried. In fact, you're the only one I feel I can talk to without being judged, or pitied. No one knows how much I've needed to say all this." She shivered more as she opened her arms. "Ask me anything you want. Anything."
Frightened, I held her. "Let's take a walk, get some fresh air. You'll feel better."
"I am better," she said in her reassuring tone. "Should've seen me at the hospital."
"Why were you in a hospital?"
"They thought it was serious, something I picked up in prison." "Like what?"
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