We were silent. No one wanted to admit that these trips were part of the many little acts of subversion we attempted to cram into our day-to-day lives between school, homework and obeying our parents. That they were practice for the people we hoped to one day become. People, I thought, like them.
‘Nothing much,’ Shirin replied casually. ‘Just chatting about art.’
‘Picasso, right?’ Afshar grinned and we all looked down, embarrassed.
‘Farideh Lashai, actually,’ Shirin continued, her feigned confidence impressing me utterly. ‘We were discussing the post-revolution tensions of creating a new Iranian identity and the use of Persian and/or Islamic iconography in modernist expression.’
This was met with impressed looks from both tables, and only I knew that this was word for word the topic of an assignment we had recently completed in class.
‘What did you decide?’ Afshar asked, his dense eyebrows raised in interest.
Here Shirin squirmed, for she had failed the subject.
‘It’s complex,’ I cut in, draining my teacup. ‘Too many layers to get into. What were you discussing?’
‘The election results, mostly,’ the young woman with red lips spoke up. ‘How Ahmadinejad will prove nothing but trouble.’
The others looked at her hesitantly.
‘They’re kids,’ she replied. ‘They’re not going to cause us any grief.’
She turned back to us.
‘He was an incompetent Mayor and he’ll be an incompetent President, you mark my words. There’ll be nothing but hardline religious conservatism from him, you’ll all see.’
‘You can’t blame them, though,’ added another young man who we later found out was Afshar’s brother Hamid. ‘Not after Khatami. There’s only so much reform the Guardian Council will let through and Khatami pushed it to the brink. You know how many reformist candidates got disqualified from this election? We’ll be lucky to see any kind of reform for another decade.’
We sat nodding in mute agreement, our home lives having prepared us in no way for this level of discussion. For the most part my father increasingly kept his views to himself or a select group of trusted friends, and my mother simply thought that all politicians were rubbish. A waiter brought fresh tea and the discussion continued, Shirin and I pitching in where we could. They were university students, all of them, and Lida – the one with the red lipstick – kept an anonymous political blog in her spare time.
‘It’s called Follow the Leader.’ She grinned. ‘Do you think anyone will ever guess?’
She told us more about her blogging and of other friends who also sought out the stories of corruption and nepotism that dogged our country. We’d never met anyone so political before, who wore their beliefs so openly and proudly.
‘Aren’t you worried you’ll get caught?’ I asked, cursing myself for sounding so young and cautious.
Lida simply shrugged as if this thought scarcely registered in her mind.
‘How can I expect anyone else to tell these stories if I won’t do it myself? But if something happens to me, hopefully there will be others willing to take my place.’
She sounded in that moment so much like my father. I remember feeling heavy and weightless all at once as the scale and possibility of my adulthood finally became apparent. You know the kind of epiphanies you have on the cusp of growing up, where things seem so clear and certain before life complicates matters?
‘More importantly, though,’ Afshar spoke up, ‘is who will tell the story of Hamid’s spectacular moustache?’
The table erupted in laughter once more, all except Hamid. Hamid, they told us, was an actor. Not in the way that all Iranians claim to be actors or poets or singers, but in a genuine demonstrable way. He’d almost performed under Bahram Beyzaie, Afshar informed us, only he’d turned up on the wrong day and had been replaced. Hamid had all the while sat in embarrassed silence, his fraternal tolerance tested as his large hands hovered self-consciously over his top lip. It was, in fairness, a wondrous moustache, long and tapered like a Qajar-era Shah.
‘He means it ironically,’ Afshar added. ‘Though he keeps getting stopped because Ershad think it’s too international.’
Unlike his brother, Afshar’s pursuits were more political, with pre-sunrise proclivities for spray-painting state-owned walls among his many interests. He was also in an underground metal band who produced two versions of all their songs – one that was acceptable to Ershad, the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, and a far more political version they distributed via the internet. All these things I would discover later, crammed together in the brothers’ tiny apartment swapping contraband books with Lida and helping them re-alcoholise non-alcoholic beer in plastic jerry cans hidden beneath the bathroom cupboard. And later, just the two of us, listening to Afshar’s music side by side on the couch as Hamid begrudgingly roamed the streets with his comical moustache until the cold forced him to return. All this from the girl who won the national essay-writing competition! But all that came later. Right then I was just a young schoolgirl charting a future that was full of so many sparkling, dangerous possibilities.
Later that day, not wanting to return home yet, we walked through Laleh-zar, the old entertainment district that now housed various stores selling light fittings, lamps and other illuminating paraphernalia. A single long street, it had once been home to more than twenty cinemas before the revolutionary government shut them down. Still today the posters of the movies that had been showing at the time are plastered to the outside walls, frozen and hopeful and sombre. We had joked often that where once the rich and famous had their names up in lights, now only the lights remained. One of the many ironies of the revolution, it didn’t seem as funny that day. We chatted, our feet dipping into the gutter as we wandered aimlessly through the streets. About the tediousness of classes, our frustrations with our parents, whether Shirin should ask for a nose job for her birthday. About Lida and Afshar, and the things we’d discussed.
‘Imagine once we’re at university,’ I gushed, Lida’s number safely saved in my mobile.
‘I’m going to wear lipstick every day,’ Shirin announced, her face defiant far from the presence of her strict doctor father and engineer mother. ‘Different from Lida’s, though, maybe more of a coral colour.’
We discussed her options given her fair skin tone, a remnant of the Armenian ancestry somewhere in the branches of her family tree.
‘We’ll call her when we graduate,’ I decided, emboldened, my future unfolding before me with the clarity and precision of the young and determined.
You know how sometimes people write a letter to themselves at sixteen? To impart all the things they wish they could have known then – the wisdom, the knowledge, the cautions? It’s so easy to write that letter, but I wonder if, given the opportunity, you would ever actually send it? Or is the journey itself what everything is all ultimately about? And what would I have said to someone so full of all those dreams?
The meat was stuck to the floor, dull and defiant. Aida arrived at work to find Kat and Nina huddled together by the counter, staring down at it in confusion. Hairs had collected about it so it looked like a sad dead toupee, and a little trail of ants were engaging in an orderly early morning picnic. Something viscous – garlic sauce, perhaps – had crusted around it, white and faint like chalk outlining a body on a busy New York street. No one recalled dropping it and no one volunteered to clean it up.
‘You’d need a bloody paint scraper.’ Kat shook her head.
‘All I’m saying is it wasn’t there last night when I closed up,’ Nina insisted.
‘Well, it was there when I arrived, and apart from Peter I was the first one here,’ Kat replied.
The three of them looked towards the back room where Peter was squirrelled away sifting through the cash log and trying to make his columns balance.
‘W
e could rock paper scissors?’ Kat suggested.
‘I’ll buy whoever cleans it a cerveza in Cusco,’ Nina countered.
This had been a running joke for weeks now, ever since Nina had announced that following the completion of her final exam she was heading to South America. She was finishing soon and had invited them all along – Kat with her two small children and Aida with her empty bank account – and they’d been playing along since.
‘Imagine me on the Inca Trail,’ Aida had laughed, not reminding either of them that without a permanent visa, she could not leave the country.
They stood observing the increasingly rank hunk of meat on the floor.
‘There’s not enough beer in the world –’
Aida cut herself short as Evangelia burst in, her entrance accompanied by the spasmodic explosion of the little bell above the door. She looked distracted and tired.
‘What are you all standing around for?’ She frowned. ‘Did someone die?’
The three women looked at the mess on the floor. Nina stifled a giggle. The mess stopped Evangelia in her tracks. She observed it with first confusion, then disgust, then rage, her face cycling through her own mini version of the seven stages of grief. Seven stages of beef, Aida thought to herself, though it was more likely lamb. As she stood before them Evangelia sought the appropriate words for this situation. The first she settled on was a cuss word, the second a command.
‘What the shit is that? Answer me, someone.’
Kat shuffled her feet nervously. ‘It’s, well . . . this morning . . . just there.’
Evangelia frowned at her non-sentence. She looked to Nina for clarification.
‘It’s, well . . . Peter?’
Evangelia’s frown sunk deeper into her face.
‘It’s certainly not Peter.’
‘Not even after a big night out?’
The words slipped from Aida’s mouth before she could stop herself. Nina’s eyes bulged and Kat swooped her head to hide the laughter scrambling out of her mouth. Evangelia stared at Aida, her mouth open. A snigger slipped out.
‘You might be right about that. I’ve never seen someone so enamoured of testing their own wares. I feel like the consigliore to one of those drug lords on the telly – don’t get high on your own supply, I keep telling him, but he doesn’t listen, does he? Promises he keeps away from the spit, but scales don’t lie, right?’
She barked out a series of short laughs. The women joined in nervously. Evangelia looked at them for a moment with something close to warmth. A tepid, brackish warmth.
‘Meat throwing everywhere in this family right now,’ she muttered cryptically. ‘Still, though, someone needs to clean it up. It’s an OHS issue plus it smells terrible.’
‘I’ll do it for double pay,’ Aida offered jokingly.
She sensed Kat and Nina’s eyes flick to Evangelia. Evangelia raised an eyebrow. For a moment, it looked as if Aida was about to receive the kind of tirade they were all so used to. Instead, Evangelia pursed her lips.
‘Don’t push it. Remember whose name is above the door here.’
In reality it was actually Jemal’s, the long-departed owner of the Mediterranean grocery that had graced the lot prior to Peter’s gyros store, but this wasn’t what Evangelia meant. So Aida begrudgingly scraped the muck off the floor for the same sub-minimum wage she always got while Nina and Kat retold the preceding events over and over, Aida becoming cheekier with each retelling. In the back room they could hear the comforting duet of Evangelia and Peter’s usual marital-business discord.
Eventually, they fell back into their everyday rhythms. The day was busy, as Thursdays often were. The gradual spring thaw meant customers had once more started using the outside tables, so Aida spent the day shuttling out to catch the refuse and rubbish from the tabletops before it scuttled off in the breeze. She had just reached for a sauce-stained wrapper when someone caught her arm.
‘Aida?’
She whipped around, startled by the Tehrani accent.
‘It’s me, Massoumeh! From MITA! Ahh, you look terrible. Your hair! What happened to you? We never see you!’
Though it took her a moment to recognise her, Aida remembered Massoumeh. They’d been in the detention centre in Broadmeadows at the same time, just before they were released into the community. Massoumeh was a hairdresser, comfortable and constant in sharing her opinions. She was blonde now, all detailed makeup and flashy clothes, when inside she had been duller, flatter. At one point she’d become prone to erratic crying, convinced the guards were keeping her mail. She’d come with her husband, Aida recalled. The whole family, in fact.
‘Massoumeh! How are you?’
Aida leant over, kissing her cheeks, left right left. Massoumeh shrugged, her strong perfume wafting over Aida.
‘Good as one can be, what with the waiting. Immigration here is slower than Tehran! Who thought that was possible? I’d go crazy if it wasn’t for the hairdressing. You know what it’s like – finally out of detention and all you want is some highlights to make you feel like a person again. Even the ones who want to keep wearing the scarf, they’re too scared to, so you can imagine how busy I am! I could do yours, you know. No charge.’
Aida batted away the offer.
‘And how is your husband? The children?’
‘Mansoor? He’s well enough too. You know him, never bends an eyebrow. The children too. You remember he had an uncle here? He’s working with him, in a café closer to the city. Nice little place. Lots of customers, all the young hip people. Iranian food but also international dishes. Hot chips. Everyone always wants hot chips. The best kabob in Australia but people come for the chips. We’re famous for them.’
Massoumeh’s face grew secretive and she leant forward, one arm on Aida’s.
‘Say! You remember Fariba? Big lady with the funny teeth? Her husband is back in detention. Broke the code of behaviour. Driving without a licence. Back in MITA and maybe back to the island. Refuses to return to Tehran voluntarily so he’s stuck in detention until who knows when. She can visit him, though. At least there’s that. Not like the other ones – you know, the Sri Lankans and the Afghans – sent back without a word. Happened to one of the boys working for Mansoor’s uncle. Went in for an interview and never came back. Shocking, isn’t it? Still, what can we do but wait?’
She paused for a moment, then her face broke into a wide grin.
‘Why don’t you come work for Mansoor’s uncle? He needs more staff. What do they pay you here?’
Aida told her.
‘Is that even legal? You’d starve on that. You must come work for Mansoor’s uncle, no arguments. It’s the least I can do. You were always so kind, helping us with our forms and things. You still writing? I’m sure you are. Our very own Ferdowsi of the cell block! That’s settled then, you’ll work with us. Here’s my number. It’s much nicer there, closer to the city, not out here with the rest of the bridging visas. Nothing wrong with them but you know how it gets. So much sadness and never any good news to share. Exhausting. You come in Monday, okay? Take the weekend for yourself. Maybe get those highlights. You’ll love it there. Sometimes we play the ’97 Iran–Australia World Cup qualifier on the television just to heat things up a bit.’
Aida hesitated, breathless from listening to Massoumeh. Here she was different, nothing like she’d been inside.
‘Monday? Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’ Massoumeh beamed, leaning in to kiss her goodbye. ‘If we can’t look after each other, who do we expect will?’
Massoumeh turned to leave then paused.
‘You know what, give me your address. I’m coming round. Tonight, okay? We can’t have you working in the café looking like this. You’re a strong Iranian woman, not someone who lives in the forest. Okay? Areh. Khodafez, Aida-joon.’
She left in a cloud of perfume and exuberant
waves. Aida walked back inside, her hands full of litter and her mind full of possibilities. She would take the job. Of course she would. She would get a decent wage. She would be treated with respect. She would need to tell Evangelia. Oh. She paused, sucking in deep breaths. Of course she could tell Evangelia. She had stood in the front of the crowd facing down Basiji. She had smiled as the vice police searched their car for contraband, never finding the alcohol hidden beneath the spare wheel. She had won the national essay-writing competition, for god’s sake. She paused before the back room, knocking first tentatively then a little more confidently. Evangelia and Peter looked up in surprise when she entered.
‘Is something wrong? Is there a fire?’ Peter asked, confused as to why his staff would breach his inner sanctum.
‘I’ve come to tell you that today will be my last day. I will be finishing this afternoon and I’d like my pay, please.’
Peter’s mouth fell open. Red rippled across his face, starting from his ears and finishing around his jowls.
‘You, you . . . Such disrespect,’ he began, but Aida cut him off.
‘Please don’t talk of disrespect to me. Have a look at yourself first.’
Peter’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t you start with me. My parents came to this country with no money and an empty suitcase and –’
‘And did they get this kind of treatment? Were they cheated out of their pay? Is it now your turn to do the same?’
Peter’s mouth fell open and he glanced at his wife, nervously scanning her face.
‘What is she talking about, Petro?’ Evangelia asked coolly. ‘Because it sounds like she’s talking about the kind of bullshit our parents put up with, and she better not be talking about that kind of bullshit, because we are not going to be the kind of people who do that kind of bullshit. Am I understood, Petro?’
Peter looked at his feet then at the ceiling then at an assortment of other places that were not his wife’s face. The two women’s eyes met. Aida held Evangelia’s stare.
‘Give her the money,’ Evangelia said quietly. ‘All of it.’
The Book of Ordinary People Page 26