by Ehsaneh Sadr
Sarah wanted to hear Maman-Mehri’s answer. But the sound of the front door opening pulled her attention toward her own drama. Sarah turned to face the salon entrance and saw Ali being ushered in by her little brother. Both of them looked confused. Ali held a bouquet of colorful daisies.
Sarah heard Sadegh ask his mother again, this time with anger in his voice. “Maman-Mehri, I’m not going to stop asking until you tell me. Did you arrange for the grocer to have a key to her apartment?”
Sarah locked eyes with Ali, who gave his head a quick shake and widened his eyes as if to ask what was going on. Sarah had no idea what to say or do. Should she try to get the room’s attention again? Perhaps she could pull her mother and father aside for a private conversation instead? At a loss, Sarah simply shrugged her shoulders.
“You still don’t understand!” Maman-Mehri shouted. “That woman was a liar and a cheat and a . . . whore—God forgive me for saying such a word—from the beginning! God himself guided me toward doing what I had to do to make your father see and to protect this family from her. I prayed and prayed over what I was to do, but the ultimate outcome was so swift and easy that it was clear confirmation I had understood his will correctly.”
The last time Sarah had seen Aunt Mehri so agitated was at her wedding. But this time, there was a nervous edge to her voice that was quite unusual in a woman who was always completely confident in her indignation and self-righteousness. Aunt Mehri knew, Sarah realized, that she’d done something terribly wrong.
“Sarah, what is going on?” Sarah’s father’s stern voice cut through the conversation. “Mahdiyeh!” Sarah’s father called her mother and, gesturing to Ali, said, “Do you know what this is about?”
Sarah felt the blood rush to her face and looked down, wishing she could disappear into the hunting scene on the carpet. In her peripheral vision, she saw her father and mother join her in the center of the room, each stopping on one of the horse heads on either side of the lotus flower Sarah was still standing on. Then Sarah saw Ali’s thick, socked feet appear before her on the head of the stag the horsemen were hunting.
“Maman, Baba, I’ve been trying to tell you . . .” Sarah began as she looked up into each of their worried faces. “Well, we ran into each other a few months back. At a coffee shop, can you believe it? And, well, we were still married, so we thought it was okay to talk for a bit, and then we realized we still want to be . . . together. So we told his family, and I’ve been trying to tell our family today. Actually, we were going to tell you last weekend, but Baba had his work. So . . .” Sara swallowed hard and looked at the floor. “We want to start our lives as a married couple and . . .”
Sarah knew she was babbling but didn’t know what else to do in the face of her parents’ silent anger. She stopped talking and allowed herself to be distracted by the sound of Sadegh’s quiet declaration, “How could you? I don’t know what to say. I need to think. Sumayeh, get the kids. We’re leaving.”
Aunt Mehri responded with an anguished cry of, “Sadegh! No! Please, don’t let this woman tear us apart. Oh, dear God!”
Ali took her hand into his thick palm and give it a squeeze. Perhaps he meant to give her courage, but Sarah found the gesture irritating and embarrassing in front of her family and wondered how many of them were paying attention to her and Ali versus Sadegh and Aunt Mehri.
Ali leaned forward to offer her mother the bouquet of flowers. She took them awkwardly, careful not to inadvertently touch his hand.
“These are for you. To celebrate the good news.” Ali squeezed Sarah’s hand again and announced with a warm and happy smile, “Our little one will be here before we know it.”
Sarah could hear Aunt Mehri crying piteously for Sadegh, issuing warnings that her heart couldn’t stand this sort of trauma. But Sarah’s attention was occupied by the sight of her father’s face, which seemed to have turned several shades darker under his beard. It didn’t look like he was breathing and his hands were clenched in tight fists.
Ali stretched his hand toward her father for a handshake as he went on. “Mr. Bagheri, I want to assure you that I—”
“Nooo!” Sarah cried as she suddenly realized what was coming.
But she was too late.
Her father punched Ali in the face.
Roula Khalaf, “Iran’s ‘Generation Normal,’” Financial Times, May 29, 2015.
CHAPTER 8
Friday, December 18, 2009, Late Afternoon and Evening
—six months after the election
I never thought that these matters could be contaminated like this. I thought that I was continuing the path of my uncles and our martyrs . . . We really believed that what we did was correct, that we were serving the people, that we were serving God and that our mission was nothing but worshipping God. But now I am ashamed in front of people, even say that I was mistaken, and I am ashamed in front of my religion. I committed crimes, knowingly and unknowingly.
—Anonymous former Basiji interviewed by a Western reporter
Sadegh paced outside the half-open door of Sarah’s home, where he’d been waiting for his wife and kids to join him. Sumayeh stood across the threshold, still in her house chador.
“I think you should get a cab.” Sumayeh shrugged as she said this. It was a small subtle movement that made Sadegh feel she couldn’t care less about the maelstrom that had just upended him.
“What?”
Sumayeh shrugged again as she handed him his jacket and briefcase. “I need the car to get the kids home. Maybe someone will give you a ride. I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you kidding me?” Sadegh yanked the briefcase and jacket from Sumayeh’s hands. “Come on, let’s go.”
Sumayeh’s voice was calm. “I don’t feel right about it. Your mother . . . I’ve never seen her like this. If the kids and I leave, it will be as if she’s lost all of us. Besides, it’s the first of Muharram, and I want to join in the prayers.”
Sadegh wanted to throw his overstuffed briefcase against the wall but controlled himself with difficulty, knowing his situation wouldn’t be improved by an explosion of papers, pens, and other contents into the hallway. “Sumayeh, stop it!” Sadegh shouted. “Go get the kids. Now.” In a softer tone he pleaded, “I can’t stay here. I need you with me.”
“I know Sadegh-jaan,” Sumayeh looked genuinely sympathetic but entirely unmoved. “I wish I could go with you, but it wouldn’t be right. You’re upset. I understand that this is all a shock, and it probably is better that you leave and cool down before you say something that will hurt her even more. But I think—”
Something clicked in Sadegh’s brain and he interrupted his wife. “You blame me?”
Sumayeh closed her mouth and looked at him evenly. When she started speaking, the words came slowly, as if she was taking her time choosing them.
“You had a shock, Sadegh. Many people would have reacted the same way or worse. But, azizam, my dear, we hold ourselves to a higher standard. The Prophet himself, peace be upon him, spoke of how much respect and obedience we owe our mothers.”
“Are you even listening to yourself ?” Sadegh fumed. “What about the woman I threw out of my house? Don’t I owe her anything?”
In almost exactly the same tone she used with their son when he was throwing a tantrum, Sumayeh said, “Sadegh, you need to calm yourself down and then find a way to respect and obey both of the women that are your mothers in the manner they each deserve.”
Sadegh stared at the unyielding woman before him and then spat words he knew would hurt her. “My God!” Sadegh blasphemed with satisfaction. “Are you even human?”
Sumayeh lifted her eyebrows and flattened her mouth against his disrespectful use of God’s name. Her scar was tugged from both sides so it looked tight, shiny, and a deeper purple than usual. Without saying anything further, she closed the door in his face.
; Sadegh’s breathing came in sharp gasps. He considered pounding on the door for his wife. Instead, he turned and jogged down the stairs to the courtyard, where he pushed through the heavy gate and heard its satisfying slam behind him. He walked briskly, almost running through the alleyways, not entirely certain of his route. His briefcase bumped awkwardly against his knees. Sadegh knew, instinctively, that movement would help his body work through his competing emotions.
Sadegh headed toward the main road, where he turned right toward the square. It wasn’t long before he heard the beep-beep of a cabbie looking for a passenger and a battered, boxy orange Paykan car pulled over for him.
“Hello. Khaste nabashid. How much for a ride to Shahrak-e Gharb?” Sadegh asked.
“For you? Ten tomans.” The driver used the common shorthand of “ten” for his asking price of 10,000 tomans.
It was too high, but Sadegh didn’t feel like haggling and got in. The inside of the car was in worse shape than the outside and reeked of cigarette smoke. Sadegh could feel the hard wire springs of the seat under his bottom and wondered if they might rip through the upholstery and into his backside.
As the cabbie started driving, Sadegh thought about the events of the last hour. He didn’t know what to think of the disturbing revelation that Maman-Mehri had orchestrated Ms. Tabibian’s ejection from the family. Maman-Mehri had claimed she’d only been following God’s direction. But as she’d been speaking, Sadegh had for the first time noticed the spittle packed into an ugly crack where her upper and lower lips met. The beatific face he’d always known to be especially loved by God had suddenly transformed into that of a petty and ugly old woman.
And now he had to figure out what to do about Ms. Tabibian’s calls. He felt bad for her, he really did, especially now that he’d learned how unfairly she’d been treated. But he still didn’t have any desire to rekindle that relationship. He felt a surge of anger at Maman-Mehri for putting him in this position.
The worst of it was how he’d snapped at Sumayeh and spoken to her in a manner deliberately intended to inflict pain. Now that he’d calmed down, he needed to apologize and explain things better so she’d understand.
He rummaged through his briefcase for his phone and dialed his wife. It took a long time for her to pick up, and when she did, there was a lot of background noise. Sadegh could hear agitated women’s voices and, more distantly, the baby’s whimpering.
“Allo? ”
“Sumayeh,” Sadegh said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just—”
“Here, give her to me.”
“What?”
“Sorry,” Sumayeh apologized. “Fati was handing me the baby. Look, it’s okay. Let’s talk about it at home.”
The baby’s whines were much louder now.
“No, it’s not okay,” Sadegh insisted. “I had no right to ask you to go against what you believe is right without any explanation. You see . . . Ms. Tabibian . . . I didn’t tell you . . . she’s been calling and leaving such sad messages. I felt cruel for ignoring her, and now . . . Hello?”
As he’d been speaking, the baby’s shrieks had escalated. Sadegh, straining to be heard above them, was yelling into the phone even as he tilted the receiver away from his ear to protect his eardrum. But he wanted to be sure Sumayeh was listening.
“Sadegh,” Sumayeh answered, “I can’t really hear you . . . Fati-joon, I’ll be right there. Sadegh, let’s talk at home.”
“I need you to understand. I’ve been avoiding Ms. Tabibian out of loyalty to Maman-Mehri, but . . . Can you just put the baby down for a minute?”
“Sadegh, it sounds like you’re breaking up. I really have to go.”
She was right. Her voice, and the baby’s screams, had gone staticky.
“Okay. I just . . . I love you. Please come home soon.”
“Sadegh. I can’t hear you but I’m going to hang up now. I hope you’re feeling better, and I’ll see you at home.”
“I said I love—”
The line cut off.
Damn. Sadegh flipped his phone closed and looked out the window at the street traffic.
He opened his phone again. He had four bars. Perhaps it had just been a bad line. He should try calling again.
Instead, Sadegh pushed buttons to get to his voice messages. He’d gotten seven calls and three messages from Ms. Tabibian since yesterday. The woman had been persistent in calling every few days since he’d kicked her out of his house two weeks ago, but this was a new level of harassment. He felt bad for her. But he wasn’t sure he had it in him to manage this whole new set of obligations. One mother was plenty.
Sadegh punched the button to listen to the first message.
“Sadegh-jaan!” Her voice was almost a shriek. “My dear, dear son. Please, I am begging you, by all that you hold dear, call me. I need to talk to you today. Immediately. I . . .”
There was a pause and then her voice continued, lower now but still urgent.
“Your sister is in grave danger. She’s done something . . . so stupid. I’m going to try to fix it, but I . . . I need your advice. And your help, Sadegh-jaan. I know you are angry with me, and you have every right, but please, for your sister’s sake, call me!”
This was certainly different than any of the other messages she’d left. He wondered whether he could take this as confirmation that Leila really was pregnant and that they’d finally decided to be honest with him about it.
He owed her a call and an apology anyway. Sadegh pushed the Call Back button. As long as she and Leila would be honest about what was going on, Sadegh would try to help.
“Baleh? Yes?”
The shrill female voice wasn’t one he recognized.
“I’m sorry,” Sadegh said, “is this the home of Ms. Tabibian?”
“Befarmayeed. Go ahead.”
“May I speak with her?”
“She isn’t here,” the shrill voice informed him. “Who’s calling?”
“Is Leila there?” Sadegh asked. “Can I talk to her?”
“Na. Leila isn’t here. Who is this?”
“This is Sadegh. Ms. Tabibian’s . . . son.”
There was a pause. “Ms. Tabibian doesn’t have a son.”
Sadegh thought about how to answer and resorted to a question. “Who is this?”
“I’m Ms. Tabibian’s neighbor. Who are you?”
He ignored the question. “Why are you at her house if she isn’t there?”
“I’m not at the house. Miss Leila brought the phone over for me to answer in case her mother called. She’s missing.”
“Who’s missing?” Sadegh asked.
“Ms. Tabibian,” the woman answered. “Miss Leila went down to the police station to see what to do.”
“What?” Sadegh shifted forward and felt the springs in the seat shift beneath him. If Leila had gone to the police station, she must be really worried. Sadegh felt an additional pang of guilt as he though of how alone his mother and sister were without a man in their lives to depend on. No wonder they’d clung to him.
“Hala, now who is this?” the woman asked.
“I told you.” Sadegh answered. “I’m her son. How long has she been missing?”
“I’m not sure I should be talking to you about this,” the woman said. “Why don’t you call Leila? Poor thing is worried sick.”
Sadegh, irritated, repeated his question. “How long has Ms. Tabibian been missing?”
Another pause. Longer this time. Sadegh wondered if the woman had hung up. “Hello?” he said.
“If she really is your mother,”—the woman paused a beat for emphasis—“why do you call her Ms. Tabibian?”
Sadegh groaned inwardly. “Look, it’s a long story and, frankly, isn’t any of your business. But you’ve got me worried. Can you tell Leila to call me when she gets in?”
�
��Why don’t you call her yourself ?” the woman asked. “She has her cellphone.”
“Oh, yeah, okay. Give me the number.”
“You don’t have your sister’s phone number?” the woman asked. Sadegh could hear the suspicion in her tone.
Sadegh clenched his teeth. “It’s complicated! Could you give me her number please?”
“I’m not going to give Miss Leila’s number out to a strange man,” the woman retorted in her shrill voice. “When she gets home, I’ll tell her you called, and she can call you herself. If she wants, that is.”
Without waiting for any further response, the woman hung up on him.
Sadegh brought the phone down away from his ear and looked at it. Ms. Tabibian was missing? What could the woman mean? The last call he’d gotten from her was—Sadegh checked his phone—just this morning. There was a voice message at 9:08 and a missed call at 11:15. How could she have gone missing since then?
He listened to the voice message from the morning.
“Salam, Mr. Sadegh,” Sadegh realized immediately that it was Leila, not his mother, who had called. “Kheili bebakhshid baraye mozahemat. I’m so sorry to disturb you again. But . . . I don’t know where my mother is. She didn’t come home last night. And I’m so . . .” Sadegh thought the message might have cut off but realized once Leila’s voice went on that she must have paused to compose herself. Her voice continued in a whisper, “. . . worried. Please call. I don’t know what to do.”
There was a silence of several seconds before she had hung up.
Sadegh listened to the third message. This one had come late the night before and was also from Leila, who wanted to know if he’d heard from their mother and had any idea what might have kept her out so late.
Sadegh thought a moment. All the calls had come from Ms. Tabibian’s house phone. He dialed her cellphone and was immediately routed to her voicemail.
“Agha,” he addressed the cab driver. “I’m going to a different destination. Take me to Laleh Park.”