Drink wine secretly, for they will punish you.
We would say: “Akbar Agha, we beg of you, not so loud.”
Later, we would rinse our hands and mouths, and be done. What did we need Barat for? We just said, “Death to America,” and kept going. And when some new drinking fountain appeared on the street corner, dispensing “sacred water,” we’d say: “It’s okay, some people believe in such things. In the old days, maybe only an old woman would have stood here, holding on to it, wailing and begging for help. Nowadays many more people are like that, they even have to wait in line. Well, this too shall pass. So what if a couple of bookstores get attacked, and ransacked, and they even pile up the books in the middle of the streets and burn them. They’ll print them again. They’ll write them again.” And we told our friend’s uncle: “Can anyone prevent changes from happening? Can anyone reverse the course of time?”
“Yes, as you can see for yourself.”
“In the short run, but
He’d shout: “Change requires instruments, requires knowledge. When you destroy these things, you can even return to the Stone Ages.”
Nonsense, this was all nonsense. What a shame, to have vocal cords and yet speak with the voice of another.
When his son was arrested, Sadduq came to us and said: “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Well?”
“I saw it myself. They broke all his bones with their sticks. These people are riffraff. I didn’t recognize a single one of them. They’re bringing them in from other places.”
“It will be all right.”
“What will be all right? They say that someone threw acid into a woman’s face. They say that a girl got attacked with a needle; they injected her with something and now her arm is paralyzed.”
“These are rumors. The counterrevolutionaries are spreading rumors. Don’t you remember what they said about the people who set fire to the Rex Cinema?”
He said: “They don’t need to give precise instructions. They say, ‘Films lead to corruption; cinemas are centers of corruption, dens for infidels.’ And someone, one of their most fervent devotees, is bound to think, ‘This is a jihad.’ So, he pours gasoline around the theater and strikes a match, and the enemy’s fortress — and all its belligerent infidels — turn to smoke and disappear into thin air. Now, what should you do? Should you grab this guy by the collar? No. I say, you should grab that idea by the collar.”
We said: “There are those who want to prevent the fight against America, and for this revolution to become victorious.10 They want the blood of all our young people to go to waste.”
He said: “Revolution? This is more like vomiting one’s guts. Like taking a knife and sticking it into your own belly, then pulling out your innards and crying out, ‘Come and see.’”
There you have it: this is our intellectual, our Western-educated fellow. There are times when you would like to stretch him out and beat his precious bottom with a stick.
Sadduq was upset. He said: “They won’t even give visitation rights. They’ve thrown my boy in prison along with the SAVAK agents, can you believe that?”
We said: “It’s a revolution; it has its ups and downs. It is not going to get fixed in a day or two.”
Well, this is how it was. Soon, there was just one bookstore left, and it carried only books by Shariati and Al-e Ahmad, or books like The Rays of the Quran, The Path Taken.11 There was also just one cinema left: it had been confiscated from its previous owners, and now it played censored movies from Tehran, which had been cut so many times that in the end you could no longer tell what they were about. As for television, they only showed documentaries. The number of newspapers was down to just a few, and all were following the same line, one just like the other, as if they’d all been printed in the same shop.
Then there were the doors and walls, and they had been painted and written over so many times, you could no longer tell what they said. And besides, how many streets did we have? All together, six main streets, and a couple of narrow lanes with small dried-up trees on either side. There was also a park and two squares. The retired people would still come and sit on the old benches around the square and look at the fountains. A green cloth was now wrapped around the base in the center of Imam Square.12 We went there with Sadduq.
We said: “You see it’s not there, that neighing horse, with the rider who seemed to want to gallop forever. It’s no longer up there. We should be patient. It’s a struggle, but we should not despair. We should not despair over things.”
Sadduq said: “All that’s left is religious mourning and weeping. Why don’t we just say, ‘Long Live Death! Long Live the Graveyard!’ and get it over with?”
His son was still in jail for distributing newspapers. Not even his mother had been allowed to visit him. They had told her: “Go away, Mother, and thank God that we have not sent him to the firing squad yet.”
Some time later, Barat showed up again. We had totally given up on him. They had broken the sitar of Akbar Agha “Magic Fingers.” Barat’s cast was gone and he grinned from ear to ear. As he sat down, he said: “Well. . .”
We knew what he wanted to say. In fact, he was saying it with his eyes. Sadduq was there, too. He didn’t let on that he understood. He answered: “Well, what?”
“Why don’t you come?”
“What? We should come there so that you put a bottle right in the middle of our table?”
“No, it’s finished. All that I had is finished. And you know that I’m not the kind to deal in contraband.”
“Could it be that you are afraid of religious punishment, of lashes?”
“Maybe.”
And then he said: “I only serve food, all sorts of things. And the students are coming, too. It gets crowded. Be sure to come.” He got up. He was still grinning. He had come to his senses. We stood up. He hadn’t reached the door yet when he turned around and came back toward us. He pulled a sealed bottle from the inside pocket of his overcoat, and placed it in the middle of the table. He said: “I almost forgot that I’d brought this.”
We were all stunned. We had pretty much put it out of our minds, and now, it was right there in the middle of the table. One could get the homemade stuff, but it wasn’t any good. Besides, it was different when you’re sitting at a cafe table, drinking out of those slender glasses, with a big bowl of beans and angelica power in the middle. Sadduq would peel a cucumber, slice it, and place it around the plate of feta cheese and fresh herbs. Then, you’d hold the slender glass between your thumb and forefinger and say: “Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
“To your health.” “To yours.
And you’d take a sip of the chilled and bitter “Mother of All Evil,” and as it burned your throat, your lips, and your tongue, you’d welcome the next sip, along with the brittle and salty aroma of a slice of salted cucumber.
We said: “Have a seat, what’s the hurry?”
We felt awkward with the bottle sitting there. We all dug into our pockets to contribute. He said: “This one is on me. I had a few left over; I thought you should have your share.” He bit the end of his mustache, sucked on it. Then he left, dragging his foot, the same way he always came in or went out.
We thought of calling Akbar Agha, “Magic Fingers.” He was heartbroken, and this would make him feel better. These sad and fearful songs have come to us over the years because of such times. We talked about recording Akbar’s voice, how his music had to survive. We would just make it a condition that he should sing in a low voice. But Akbar Agha didn’t show up. We were told that he was sick, that he didn’t feel up to it.
Later on, we started getting our weekly supply. Barat would bring our ration, and say that it was the last of it. And he’d take our offering — the same price that he had paid for it when he had bought it himself — and he’d leave. Sometimes he would sit and have a couple of glasses. When he got warmed up, he would begin complaining again.
Then, for a couple of weeks, he stopped bringi
ng it, so we went to see him.
He said: “You see, there isn’t any left.”
He had removed the bar, but we had already heard about that. In place of the colorful shelves with all their “Mother of All Evil,” there was now a straight wall covered in wallpaper with a flower pattern, and a framed picture. There was also a notice, written in his own good handwriting: “No Alcoholic Beverages Served Here.”
It was rumored that he had closed the place for a week and had changed everything by himself.
When the food was brought out, the leg of lamb and eggplant stew, the feta cheese with the small radishes, the yogurt with cucumbers, and God knows what other concoctions, we didn’t feel much like eating. He came and stood by us, very dignified but smiling. As he chewed on the ends of his mustache, he said: “Eat. Wasn’t this your problem, a few shelves? Now they’re all gone. I don’t even have a single bottle left. And, as you can see for yourself, I haven’t had any drinks myself, either.”
He brought his head forward so that we could smell his breath. He hadn’t been drinking. We ate, bit by bit, but it was hard to swallow.
He said: “You can’t eat? It won’t go down? But see, others are eating, just as they ate in those days, and on Mordad 28th,13 when they’d go to Shah Square, cracking melon seeds, and listening to military marches.”
He shouted to his waiter: “Boy, turn on that radio, turn it up.” No. He was going too far.
We said: “Please, Barat.”
He said: “Maybe you’ve come for your ration?”
We had gone for our ration, but if there wasn’t any left, so be it.
He said: “I know you, because I know myself. We believed any old back street, any means that could lead us to our political and social lala-land, would do. The main goal was to get there, take over the power, get political sovereignty. And we thought that once we achieved that goal, these things — our hypocrisy and our daily flip-flops — we’d take them off like so many borrowed clothes, and toss them into the trash bin of history. But now we realize that history has no trash bin at all. Nothing gets thrown away.”
We said: “Barat, will you let us eat our damned food in peace?”
He said: “These people have taken some students.14 One of them said, ‘I’ll execute you; if you have not committed a sin, then you will be a martyr and go to heaven; and if you have, well, you’ll get what you deserve.’ Do you people understand? We deserve it.”
We said: “We shouldn’t pay any attention to him. Let him babble.” And he babbled. He talked and he talked — about cheating in the elections, the slaughter at Qarna, Turkoman Sahra.15 Then, finally he left.
Well, after all, this is a revolution, and counterrevolutionaries are not sitting idly by. Whorehouses have been attacked and set on fire. Pictures of one of the executed smugglers are distributed, as if to say, “We told you so!”
You can tell from their shoes, their tattered pants, who we are dealing with. We say: “Well, mistakes can happen, but what about the torturers?”
Oh, it made us feel so good: people had gathered around to see the picture of executed General So-and-So. What a crowd! We were climbing over each other’s shoulders.
But the counterrevolutionaries don’t miss a beat. They’re saying: “Yes, first they killed just a few, to be able to kill whomever they please later on.” And they distribute a picture of executions and firing squads. It is probably a fake, and how skillfully done! They’re saying: “See how they wrap their faces?” The faces are wrapped in Arab shawls, their backs are to the camera, and guns are held up. Counterrevolutionaries are lined up, facing forward, blindfolded, their hands untied; they’re standing there, without even the support of a wall or a post behind them.
They say: “You see that corner?”
We say: “Yes, we do. It is a package, something white lying on the ground.”
They say: “They must have brought that guy on a stretcher. His leg’s broken because he’s been shot. They executed him lying down.”
They keep circulating pictures. And each time they do, someone is down on the ground. Another one and another one. It seems as though, in this firing squad where all the heads are wrapped in Arab shawls, some are firing shots just for the fun of it, one after another; an hour later, still more. And then, there’s an enlarged picture.
We said: “Maybe it is a movie.” It really is like out of a movie. Otherwise, how could a person stand like that, erect, blindfolded, with hands untied, facing the firing squad? And, since they are aiming at his chest, how can he continue to stand, not bending toward the firing squad, not shouting or saying anything, though his hands and mouth are free? And finally, there’s a picture of the man who fired the finishing shot. They have plastered this one on the walls. What stature! Clad in white, with boots and gloves, one hand on his waist, bending over to fire the finishing shot.
We say: “This is a Hollywood actor.”
They say: “Yes, we also believe that he is an American; or maybe an Israeli.”
Nonsense. It is all nonsense. Sadduq says: “By the way, did you read about the man and woman who were stoned for adultery in Kerman?”
We say: “There you go again!”
“The religious judge said it.”
He digs into his briefcase for the newspaper to read the protocol: “First, the person should perform an ablution. Then it is recommended for the adulteress to repent and put on her own shroud, with her own hands. It mentions that the adulterer should get buried in the ground up to his chest and everyone should cast a stone upon his face. I heard that one of them died after ten minutes and the other after forty minutes.”
We say: “Please, don’t make us vomit.”
Slowly we eat, but the food won’t go down. Our stomachs are twisted into knots.
He says: “Apparently, the foreigners have filmed it and shown it on television around the world.” We feel sick to our stomachs. As one friend’s uncle would say, it feels as if our guts are coming up into our throats.
Sadduq says that they made his son run with his eyes shut. The boy said: “They keep running after me, and hit me on the forehead, and there is the sound of a gunshot.”
First, it was a game. The boy thought it was a joke. They had made him run again, and again, and the gun barrel had hit his forehead and, bang, they had fired. And then again, they had made him run, till finally he couldn’t run anymore.
He said: “Dad, I threw up.” He had fallen to the ground and thrown up.
We say: “But, dear Sadduq, do you have to do it, too? You see that they’ve surrounded us with all the radios and propaganda. They’re exposing our insides to the world, and then you come and sprinkle salt on the wound?”
Sadduq said: “I beg your pardon. I didn’t want to say these things. I just remembered it.”
But do you think Barat would understand? He had turned up the sound of his radio. We didn’t go there anymore. We didn’t even think about it. We had seen so many guts, stomachs, and innards in the newspapers. We had carried so many mutilated people on our shoulders that we had forgotten all about “Mother of All Evil.” So many pictures, endless news. But will the young people let go? They don’t understand. They are inexperienced. Severed hands, cut-off legs, pictures of graves. So much death! A woman is wailing on a grave, and next to her, the wide-open black eyes of a girl who is staring, staring at us. Death is so cheap now, like they are giving it away. Like they have placed the television camera in the cemetery, and they have given the radio microphone to the ones who read the prayers in the graveyards of the world. And when you get up in the morning, it is like you have been sleeping with the dead.
On Fridays, with heavy heads, with an acrid taste of flesh in our mouths, and the smell of camphor under our noses, we would go and sit on the old benches in the square and look at the fountains. And then, we would go to the Friday prayers. We would stand in line, shout slogans, perform our prayers more or less, and run into some friend or acquaintance. Until one morning, when a van
came with a loudspeaker. It said: “Hurry up.” It said: “Come, let’s go.”
They were going to flog someone. The van circled the square. An eight-wheeler truck appeared. They had stretched the condemned person on a bench on the truck. Two men were holding his legs and two his arms. Another, with an Arab shawl wrapped around his head and face, was standing above him, whip in hand.
It was Barat. He was half-naked. We ran toward the truck. A large crowd gathered. They said: “Last night, they stormed his house, searched everywhere, even split open a couple of walls. They didn’t find anything. Then, they went to his store. When they split open the wall in the front, God knows how many bottles they found.”
When we reached the main square, we saw the eight-wheeler at the fork in the road, with a line of bearded young men surrounding it. The van continued to circle, reciting Quranic verses and shouting slogans. We shouted slogans, too, and climbed over each other’s shoulders. Women were holding babies in their arms. Men, even old men with canes, had come. Little boys had climbed the little trees. Sadduq said: “Let’s go over there, on that platform!”
We did. We took a peek. The first blow was struck with the whip. It was the man with the shawl wrapped around his head and face. Barat had raised his head and was looking at the people. The whip struck a second blow. A woman lifted her child over her head. It was an infant with a pacifier in its mouth. It was looking out and sucking on the pacifier. The man struck again. A little boy held on tight to my leg. He wanted to come up. There was no room. We held him up. He wasn’t even ten years old. He was sucking on his lip and with his two big black eyes, staring. He struck again. Barat just looked, as if he were counting the people’s heads, one by one, the heads of all of us, old and young, even the child who was held up by the woman. We shouted a prayer. He struck again. This time, someone else was hitting. He had not wrapped his head and face. He lifted his arm as far as it would stretch, the whip swung in the air, in that blue sky, and descended. This one was an expert. He knew how to hit. This is how you should hit! You fling your arm so that it comes down heavy, and then you jerk your arm back just as the whip reaches the skin. It takes a lot of practice. If you hit as they usually do, it is not very painful, but if you jerk it, jerk your arm suddenly, it’s like fire. You can embed the whip in the skin. It takes a lot of practice. Later, you will be able to hit so well that, with only a few strikes, pain will reverberate to the marrow of his bones, and the fellow will begin to cry out. It is necessary. A corrupt member of society must be surgically removed, severed, and thrown into the trash bin. Then no one will ever dare to hide all those bottles for himself, as rations for fun-loving people. The villain! The cursed man had no doubt kept them for himself, or to sell at a high price.
Strange Times, My Dear Page 5