A Door between Us

  “I’m not!” Ali responded. “But my sister asked me to do something as a favor to her. You had no right to take it without talking to me first.”

  Azar realized with a start that they were talking about the file.

  “Well you had no right to keep it in my home without talking to me first!” Sarah huffed.

  My God! Azar thought. What had that girl done?

  “What am I going to tell my sister?” Ali’s voice sounded defeated.

  “Tell her the truth,” Sarah answered. “Believe me, Ali, it is better for her this way too.”

  Azar had heard enough. She knocked on the door but opened it without waiting for an invitation.

  “What’s better for me?” Azar demanded.

  Ali and Sarah looked startled. They stared at her silently for a fraction of a second.

  “What did she do with it?” Azar shouted. “Tell me! It’s the least you owe me!”

  Ali moved forward and positioned himself between Azar and his wife.

  “Calm down Azar. Sarah was worried about us. She gave it to her cousin.”

  Azar’s mind reeled. “The one who works with the Basij? The one who got you arrested?”

  “Azar, you don’t know—”

  “No, Ali,” Azar cut him off. “You don’t know. You are a stupid, stupid child and I can’t believe I ever trusted you. I’ll never forgive you for this betrayal. Never! Not just because I may rot in Evin or because my children may grow up motherless. But because you’re so worried about your stupid business and your ugly home and making more money that you were willing to destroy the truth. I’m disgusted with both—”

  “That’s enough!” Ali hollered. “I’m sorry about what has happened, but you’re going too far. Sarah had the best of intentions—Hey!”

  Azar had turned on her heel to walk down the hallway and out of the house. She’d had enough and just wanted to get out of there. Ali followed her and yammered on as she stalked to the doorway and started putting on her shoes and outdoor coverings.

  “You’re making too big a deal of this, Azar. Sarah didn’t tell Sadegh the file came from you. She just slipped it in his bag. He isn’t going to connect this to you. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  It was at that moment, with Ali murmuring apologetic reassurances and her hand turning the doorknob, that Azar was shaken by a frightening realization. Leila had called her so early in the morning because she didn’t think Ms. Tabibian’s death was an accident. Ms. Tabibian had been murdered, and Leila thought Azar was in danger too.

  “I hope you’re right,” Azar said simply. Then she turned and walked out of her brother’s home.

  The streets were still clear on Azar’s way home, but there were enough people lined up at the sangak bread bakery that she knew she didn’t have time to stop after all.

  Despite her realization of Leila’s concern for her safety, Azar was surprised at how little panic she felt. Panic, she decided, is only possible when one can guess and frantically try to stave off what is coming. Azar felt so profoundly ignorant of how things would play out that she felt liberated to focus on the moment she was in.

  Azar suddenly ached for her boys. She hoped they would still be asleep in the bed they shared when she got home. She wanted to snuggle in between them and stroke their soft hair and watch them dream while she inhaled the aliveness of their scent. With one hand, Azar fumbled to reassemble her cellphone and turn it on. If her boys did wake up, she wanted them to be able to call if they needed her.

  Almost as soon as she reassembled the phone, she got an incoming call.

  It was her mother.

  “Salam, Maman,” Azar answered.

  “Azar-joon, kojaee? Where are you? I’ve been calling and calling. I called the house, and you didn’t answer. I woke the boys, and they didn’t know where you were.”

  “I’m almost home, Maman. I had to get something for their lunches,” Azar lied.

  “You left the boys alone?” Azar could hear the reproach in her mother’s voice.

  “Just for a moment, Maman. I’m almost home.” Azar tried to change the subject. “Did you need something?”

  “I was calling with some sad news. Nargess-khanoom called this morning to tell me Ayatollah Montazeri has passed.”

  “Oh my God! What happened?” Azar asked.

  “They still aren’t sure,” her mother replied. “He passed in his sleep. The doctors are still there. Nargess is beside herself.”

  “What a tragic loss,” Azar said. She was thinking mostly about the loss to the country. Grand Ayatollah Montazeri had been a significant chink in the propaganda of the Islamic Republic, reminding the country time and again what true Islamic governance could be. Who else had the stature to challenge these people?

  On the other hand, Azar thought with a small flutter of hope, perhaps Montazeri’s funeral and commemoration could provide the inspiration and opportunity for Green Movement supporters to show their strength once again. It would be satisfying to make the authorities see that the voice of the Iranian people, though temporarily quieted by the regime’s bullying tactics, wasn’t silenced forever.

  “I know,” her mother was saying. “It’s so sad. We’re going to Nargess’s house this morning to offer condolences. Do you want to join us?”

  “Yes, of course,” Azar answered. “I’ll come over right after I get the kids off to school.”

  “Yes, come quickly,” her mother urged. “We don’t know how . . .” Her mother hesitated a moment. Had she finally learned to be careful when speaking on the phone? “. . . things will go once the news gets out. It’s best to go early.”

  The regime often interfered after the deaths of important critics. Families would be told they had to bury their loved ones in secret and in undisclosed locations so as to prevent funerals from turning into a launching pad for more demonstrations. Azar assured her mother she would come as quickly as she could, and then she hung up.

  Standing on the sidewalk, as Azar fit her key into the lock of her condo’s gate, she felt, rather than saw, the two men approach her. The panic finally set in as she tried to figure out the best outcome for her boys. Should she beg the men to wait so she could go in and explain and maybe even get them off to school? Should she call her mother back quickly so she would come get them?

  But there was no time for any of these options. As the men ushered her toward their waiting vehicle, Azar simply spoke to God, begging and beseeching him to look out for her boys.

  * * *

  Azar entered the back seat of the black SUV. Inside, a small woman in a black chador was waiting for her. She had a large brown growth, possibly an overgrown wart, directly in the middle of her chin.

  The men closed the door behind her and waited outside.

  “Salam, khahar,” the woman said. “Come closer, my sister.”

  Azar scooted across toward her.

  “The windows are tinted, so no one can see inside. I need you to pull your chador back and take your scarf off so I can check you.”

  Azar silently complied.

  “Natars, azizam. Don’t be afraid my dear,” the woman said kindly.

  The woman ran her hands over Azar’s legs and hips and made her lift her bottom off of the seat so she could feel her backside as well. Then she ran her hands over her back and arms, around her neck and across her chest, where she paused and gave Azar’s breasts a little squeeze.

  Azar pulled away.

  “Sorry, dear, just checking,” the woman said, laughing. “Vali heykalet khoobe, azizam. You have a good figure. Not skinny and flat like me. Okay, put your things back on and give me your purse.”

  Azar pulled her scarf and chador back over her head as the woman rifled through her belongings. The men tapped on the door, and the woman called to them.

  “We’re almost finished.”


  The woman set Azar’s purse on the other side of the back seat. Then she pulled out a black cloth and turned to Azar.

  “Okay, azizam, I have to put this blindfold on you. So turn your head. There we go.”

  The woman slipped the blindfold over Azar’s eyes then called to the men.

  “Tamoom shod. Biya too. We’re finished. Let’s go.”

  Azar heard the men get in the car and turn it on.

  They traveled mostly in silence. From the slight tilt of the car, Azar guessed they were heading north, toward the mountains. She had no idea who these people were working for. If she was lucky, and this was an official arrest with approvals and some hope of oversight, they might be headed to Evin. Her greatest fear, however, was that they might be going to an unmarked station, where she might once again be at the mercy of a madman like Heydari.

  The car hit a pothole.

  “Okh, kamaram! Slow down, my back is killing me.” The woman next to her said to the driver.

  “Sorry,” he replied.

  No further words were exchanged until the car stopped and, Azar guessed from the sound of the door opening and closing, the man in the passenger seat got out. A moment later, Azar heard a gate open, and the car pulled forward, stopped, and turned off.

  “Akheysh, residim,” the woman exhaled. “We’re here.”

  The woman opened the door on her side, then took Azar’s hand and guided her out of the car.

  “Movazebe saret bash, azizam. Watch your head, dear.”

  The woman’s shoes clicked as Azar was led along what she guessed was a garden pathway and then up some stairs and into a building.

  “Stop here,” the woman told her.

  Then, addressing someone else, she called “Agha Mustafa, koja bebaramesh? Where should I take her?”

  Azar heard a creaking and rolling sound and guessed someone was moving around on a chair with rollers.

  A man’s voice answered.

  “Payeen dige. Downstairs, of course.”

  “Okh. All those stairs bother my knees. There’s no one in the back room. Can’t I put her there?”

  “Sure. I don’t mind.”

  “Khoda hefzetoon bokone, agha-Mustafa. Thank you, Mr. Mustafa. May God always keep you safe from harm.”

  The woman pushed Azar forward and guided her through a few turns before stopping her again.

  “Take off your shoes.”

  Azar complied.

  “Now walk forward.”

  The woman had let go of her arm and was no longer guiding her. Azar moved forward but raised her hands to make sure she didn’t hit anything. She felt carpeting under her feet.

  “Okay, that’s enough. You can stop.”

  Azar heard a door close behind her and the woman called through it. “You can take your blindfold off now, dear.”

  “Wait!” Azar called to the woman as she swiveled around and ripped the blindfold off. She was in what looked like a large bedroom that was entirely devoid of any furniture. This was definitely not a prison cell in Evin.

  Azar pounded on the door.

  “Khanoom, please!” Azar pleaded wondering whether she’d be able to get any useful information out of the woman. “Where am I? How long am I going to be here? Why have you brought me here?”

  “Calm down dear.” The woman answered through the door. “I’m sure you know better than I do why you’re here.”

  “No,” Azar cried. “I have no idea why you’ve brought me here. Please, help me!”

  “Only God can help you now. Tavvakol be khoda. Trust in him.”

  The woman’s shoes clicked as she walked away.

  * * *

  The noontime call to prayer was Azar’s first concrete indication of how much time had passed. It felt like she’d been there for weeks, but it had only been about five hours. Azar was famished and thought longingly of the sangak bread bakery.

  The bedroom was about fifteen by fifteen feet with an attached bathroom that was missing its door. Some sort of metal sheeting covered what Azar assumed must be windows. The walls and carpeting were grimy with a film of dust and dirt. Azar tried to avoid contact until they became so familiar and she so tired of standing that it didn’t matter anymore and she sat on the floor.

  She got up and went to the bathroom to make her ablutions. She said her prayers using a cracked prayer stone she found in a corner of the room. She recited the Arabic verses quickly and tried not to focus too much on the meaning of the words that implied a love for and trust in the divine that she did not feel. She finished the eight rakats of prayer and sat against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. In the distance, she could hear a telephone ringing and the sound of muffled voices.

  Azar wondered where Ibrahim was and what he was doing at that moment. He would be horrified to know where she was, but a part of Azar felt closer to him, knowing that neither of them was free. They’d always done everything together. When she was choosing her school major, Azar had even considered joining him in economics so they could study and work together, but he’d encouraged her to go into law. “You’ll win every argument in court like you do with me,” Azar remembered him saying as they’d cuddled in a postcoital conversation on the topic. “Besides,”—he’d lightly slapped her naked buttock—“I can’t have you showing me up in my own profession!”

  Azar smiled at the memory.

  One of Ibrahim’s favorite poems came to her—Why struggle to open a door between us when the whole wall is an illusion? Who was the poem by? Rumi? Hafez? Attar? Azar had always thought the point was to comfort believers that their God was nearby. Now, for the first time, she thought of the implications for two people separated as she and her husband were. Perhaps, on some level, they were actually together, and if Azar could only see past the illusion of this dirty room, she could find a connection to her husband. Perhaps, on some level, Azar thought with a sudden aha of insight, everyone in the world was connected despite the illusion of separation one felt due to distance or even different religions, cultures, and political views.

  Azar’s thoughts turned to her boys. She often, and perhaps to their detriment, thought of them as a unit, but their personalities were actually quite distinct. Hossein, strategic and driven, was more than willing to put in the long study hours necessary to keep his position at the top of his fourth-grade class. Muhammadreza—just as smart as his brother, but only willing to make an effort on topics and projects that actually interested him—saved his competitive streak for his Ping-Pong matches. But, even there, he wasn’t ruffled by a loss in the same way that Hossein might be devastated by a test he hadn’t aced.

  Azar wondered how long the boys had waited before calling her mother. Smiling wryly, she guessed they wouldn’t have called until all their favorite morning shows were over and there was no danger of being interrupted before they’d had their fill. Oh, they were getting so big and independent. She felt confident they would be okay no matter how this ended.

  And how was this going to end? Azar turned the possibilities over in her mind again. She could only guess that she was in Heydari’s station. She thought back to her previous interaction with the man and immediately felt nauseous. Heydari was unpredictable, evil, and possibly even a murderer. With rising panic, Azar wondered whether she was going to die in this place. Would she never hold her boys again or tell them how much she loved them and how they deserved a better mother than she? Would she never again hear the man she loved whisper of his desire for her.

  Stop it! Azar scolded herself. There was no reason to imagine the worst. Yes, Heydari might be evil, but he wasn’t stupid. Azar wasn’t like Ms. Tabibian. She wasn’t an unknown single mother without any family. Heydari would have to be more careful with her. There would be consequences for her death.

  She had to prepare herself for an interrogation and possibly a beating. But, unlike her previ
ous interaction with the man, she had two advantages. First, she already knew who and what he was. Second, she had nothing to hide and no one to protect. She didn’t have the file, and Ibrahim was already in jail. All Azar had to do was be smart about how she answered the man’s questions, to avoid admitting she’d ever had the file. Ali said the file had been slipped into Sadegh’s briefcase. Azar wondered whether he’d found it yet, where he would think it had come from, and what he would do with it. Perhaps she could tell Heydari that Leila had put it in his briefcase for safekeeping? That would protect Leila by making it seem as if she’d done the responsible thing by giving it to her Basiji brother. And it would leave Azar out of the whole thing altogether. Yes, that could work!

  Although, Azar reconsidered, surely he would check the story out with Leila—perhaps he was interrogating her already—and would be looking for any differences in their stories. If only there was a way to coordinate with her or be sure that Leila would also realize this was the best story to get both of them out of this.

  Perhaps the best approach would be to probe the man with questions of her own to try to figure out what exactly he knew or suspected, whether he’d already spoken with Leila, and then adjust her story as needed on the spot. She’d have to do it carefully so he wouldn’t realize what she was doing. She’d need to be respectful and deferential so he could enjoy feeling powerful and perhaps even relax a bit and let his guard down. And then, well, it was impossible to know how this would play out, but maybe, just maybe, Azar could talk her way out of this. She’d often managed to do the same when representing clients in family court. So much of the outcome depended on attending to the relationship with the judge and trying to figure out and influence his priorities. She could do this.

  Having decided how she would handle Heydari, Azar felt almost impatient to see him. Anything would be better than staying in this room another second.

  She didn’t have much longer to wait.

  Azar heard the familiar click of footsteps outside her door, and then a key was inserted into the lock.

  “Turn around so your back is to the door and you’re facing the wall.”