by Ehsaneh Sadr
“I just wish”—Fatimeh’s voice dropped to a whisper intended only for Azar’s ears—“that her mother could have been here to see this. It breaks my heart that she died so young and before she and Sadegh had a chance to reconcile. Truly—” Fatimeh’s big brown eyes became glassy with tears. “—I blame myself. Not only for what I did as a child but for taking so long to confess. If only I’d told Sadegh earlier, perhaps there might have been time for him to intervene and she would be here today, celebrating with us.”
Azar had never considered this, perhaps because she’d been so busy blaming herself for endangering Ms. Tabibian and Leila. But thinking on Fatimeh’s role in Ms. Tabibian’s ouster from the Hojjati family—a story she’d learned from Sarah and Ali—Azar realized it was true. Had Fatimeh been quicker to absolve Ms. Tabibian of the charges of infidelity, Sadegh might have reconciled with her in a way that would have protected her from Mr. Heydari.
Azar felt a flush of relief. How freeing it was to shift the weight of blame to someone else’s shoulders. And yet, recognizing the pain in Fatimeh’s eyes, Azar’s relief was quickly followed by empathy for the large woman and a flash of anger directed at the source of misfortune they’d both taken misplaced responsibility for.
“You can’t think like that, Fatimeh-joon,” Azar said drawing on her father’s words. “It’s not your fault. You did the best you could and never intended to hurt anyone. If you’ve been told the full story, you know there’s only one person truly responsible for her death. A monster that the regime promoted and, even in death, protects. If we want to honor Ms. Tabibian’s memory, we need to work to make changes so that such men can’t gain power. We need to make sure there won’t be more Ms. Tabibians in the future.”
“Oh,” Fatimeh’s sigh rippled through her body. “You’re so strong and brave. I don’t know how you do it. Especially now when there seems to be so little likelihood of change. Even Mousavi has finally given up.
Fatimeh was, Azar assumed, referring to the large protests planned for last week’s one-year anniversary of the stolen election. In the end, Mousavi had canceled them to “protect people’s lives and property.” Despite the cancellation, small groups of protestors had dared to gather in the streets, only to be promptly arrested.
“I don’t think Mousavi’s given up,” Azar said. “He’s just being strategic about deciding when and where to challenge the system in a way that doesn’t lead to more loss of life.
“Forgive me, I’m sure I don’t understand these things,” Fatimeh’s heft seemed to shrink a bit as she apologized. “But what’s the point of continuing to challenge the system when there’s so little hope of winning? The government forces are so much stronger.”
It was an important question. One that Azar had struggled with herself as the darkness of depression threatened to envelop her. What was the point of resistance when there was no hope of winning? Why waste one’s life striving for something that would never be realized?
But when Azar spoke, it was with the conviction born of having survived a hard fight for her truth. “It’s not just about winning, Fatimeh-joon. It’s about the life I want to lead and how I want to contribute and who I want to spend time with. I don’t know if we’re going to win, but I know what side I want to be on, because all the people I most admire are on that side too. And I do have hope that my small efforts will move the wheel of the world in the right direction. If not me or my children or my children’s children, perhaps some future generation will enjoy a better life because of my choices. But even that modest hope will die if we stop trying.”
Fatimeh blinked several times. Her eyelashes were so long they seemed to tangle together whenever her eyes closed so that one expected her to have to struggle in opening them again. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything she was interrupted by Zainab, who was shepherding the ladies toward the head of the bridal spread so they could be in position, once the groom entered the room, to rub cones of sugar over the bride and groom’s heads and sprinkle sweetness over their union.
Azar took the opportunity to greet Leila with a warm two-cheek kiss.
“Congratulations, azizam,” Azar said. “May you grow old together and enjoy many happy years.”
Leila smiled warmly at Azar and gave her hand an extra squeeze before turning to the next well-wisher. Once again, Azar noted that there was something different about the young woman. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself with a different sort of confidence now that she was part of the respected Hojjati family.
Fatimeh and Azar took their places behind the bride, where they would take turns rubbing the sugar cones and holding the lace canopy over the new couple. Azar watched as Mehri-khanoom, Sarah’s aunt, fussed over the train on Leila’s dress so that it would sweep properly along the side of the bridal spread.
It was sweet to see the old woman’s attentions. At every family function in the past six months, Mehri-khanoom, forgetting that Azar already knew her, would reintroduce Leila. “Do you know Sadegh’s sister Leila?” Mehri-khanoom would ask. “I can’t tell you how happy we are to have her with us. It’s as if she was supposed to be in the family all along. Vallah, she’s just like Fatimeh and Zainab for me.”
Mehri-khanoom clearly meant well. But Azar couldn’t help wondering whether Leila ever thought about how her mother might feel to know that she, like her brother Sadegh before her, was now being cared for by Mehri-khanoom as if they were her own.
“You know, I saw her that day,” Fatimeh whispered into Azar’s ear.
Azar didn’t know what Fatimeh was talking about.
“Roxana,” Fatimeh whispered again. “She came to my house before going to see . . . him.”
Azar realized Fatimeh was talking about Ms. Tabibian.
“She’d been trying to get in touch with Sadegh but, well, he still wasn’t talking to her then. So she came to my house.” Fatimeh leaned even further into Azar’s ear. “She had some papers she wanted me to keep for her.”
Fatimeh backed up and looked at her meaningfully. Azar understood immediately. Fatimeh could only mean the original file on Arman Tamimi. The one that Leila had shown her in her office and that Azar had copied. Leila had said she’d given it to her mother and had assumed she was going to return it to Heydari. But Heydari had behaved as if he’d never gotten it. Had Fatimeh had the file all this time?
“My God!” Azar struggled to keep her voice low as her excitement soared. “You understand what this means? I can get it to the right people. We can make sure the Iranian people know without a doubt what the government is doing. What a miracle . . . I thought that file was lost forever.”
In her excitement, it took a moment for Azar to notice Fatimeh looking increasingly abashed.
“Chi shode? What is it?” Azar asked.
“I’m sorry,” Fatimeh said, flustered. “I didn’t mean that . . . I didn’t want to . . . I don’t have it anymore. See, I thought the best thing was to pass it on to Sadegh. He’s been trying through different channels to get answers about what happened to his mother and . . . well, the file was his mother’s after all.”
Azar was silent as she watched Fatimeh’s eyelashes fluttering again
“I’m so sorry,” Fatimeh said again. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I just wanted you to know that Sadegh was working on it, and insha’allah, those involved will be punished.”
Azar swallowed this disappointment, as she had so many before, and managed a small smile. “Insha’allah, if God wills it,” Azar agreed aloud, although recent history didn’t give her much hope that God actually cared to punish those who abused their power.
Wanting to distract herself, Azar turned her attention to Leila, who was greeting yet another guest who had come to wish the bride well.
“Vagh’an, he was always a good boy,” the woman said with a knowing shake of her head. “The best. So good and kind and warm h
earted and always taking care of everyone.”
The guest must be talking about the groom.
“My heart broke,” the guest went on, “the way things turned out for him. But you’re such a good girl, it’s clear. Insha’allah, you’ll be happy together for many years.”
Leila bowed her head with a smile to agree with the guest, and this time Azar realized immediately what was different about the young woman. She looked happy. Her smile went beyond the corners of her mouth to shine through all her features, and even the way she carried herself seemed to exude joy.
Was it because of the marriage? Was Leila truly in love? Azar didn’t know Leila’s groom well, but he did seem like a good man. In fact, Azar owed him a special debt for the way he’d once cared for her son. And she’d heard that he’d recently left the Basij, perhaps because he was troubled by some of their actions. A man like that could be a kind husband and father and exactly the sort of friend and protector Leila needed.
Leila’s joy lifted Azar’s own heart as she recalled the love of her life, Ibrahim, standing before her in a mess of broken glass and kabobs. With a man like that, a woman could survive almost anything.
* * *
Sadegh saw the boys as soon as they entered the room. “Salam, amoo,” he used the familiar term that signified he was Hossein’s uncle or a good friend of his father’s.
Azar’s older son looked up at him with serious eyes. “I’m looking for my Uncle Ali. Do you know where he is?”
“Hmmm . . . Let’s look for him together, huh?”
Sadegh put a hand on Hossein’s neck as he scanned the room, looking for his cousin’s husband.
“I don’t see him. But why don’t we go over to the kids’ table. You can hang out with my son, Mahdi, until your uncle comes along.”
“How old is Mahdi?” Hossein’s brother asked, eyeing Sadegh suspiciously.
Sadegh chuckled. “You’re right, he’s a little young for you two. But there are other children with him.”
Sadegh steered Hossein and his brother around the room, surreptitiously examining Hossein’s ear as he did so. At the children’s table in a corner of the room, more than a dozen boys between five and fifteen years old were crowded around one child playing video games.
“See, I told you there were kids your age.” Sadegh said to the boys as he delivered them.
“Wow, what is that?” Hossein’s brother asked as he pushed his way through the pack of boys to hover over the gamer’s shoulder.
Sadegh, too, was intrigued by the flat device that seemed to operate with no controller other than the boy’s own fingers. He watched for a bit as the child positioned a red cartoon bird on a slingshot and then released it to sail through the air and crash into a pile of blocks.
Sadegh’s son, Mahdi, was standing at the edge of the group. He saw his father and used the opportunity to press his case again.
“Baba, can I?” he asked.
“I’m still deciding,” Sadegh answered his son.
Sadegh decided he’d better make a speedy exit before his son pestered him again.
“I’m going back to my table,” he told Hossein. “I’ll let your uncle know he can find you two here.” But Hossein was so engrossed in the video game that he didn’t seem to hear.
“Hey.” Sadegh reached out and tugged on the sharp corner of Hossein’s deformed ear. This got his attention immediately and Hossein scowled at Sadegh as he pulled away and rubbed at his ear.
“Sorry,” Sadegh apologized.
But it was too late. One of the boys at the table had noticed.
“Oooh, Gross! What happened to your ear?” His question was interesting enough that several boys looked up from the video game.
Hossein’s expression changed immediately to one of confident indifference.
“Whaddya think? The barber cut it off.”
The boys laughed and turned back to the game.
“Sorry,” Sadegh apologized again. “I just wanted to make sure you’d stay here until I can send your uncle over.”
Hossein nodded and turned his attention back to the game, still absentmindedly fingering his ear.
Sadegh wondered as he made his way back to his own table, how much Hossein remembered of the night he’d lost his earlobe. Did he even realize that Sadegh had been there? After Azar had been freed from her restraints and rushed to hold her boy, she’d insisted that he keep his blindfold on. She didn’t want him to see, Sadegh assumed, the bloody scene in the room or the dead man with the knife in his heart.
In fact, it had been incredibly lucky for Hossein and his mother that Sadegh and Ganjian had decided to drop in on Heydari. Actually, Sadegh reflected, it was really Leila who’d saved the boy. She’d been so certain Heydari had something to do with her mother’s death that she’d made Sadegh promise to go find the man immediately. It wasn’t until Sadegh had walked into that room and seen the cowering child and his terrified mother that he began to share Leila’s suspicions as well.
Heydari’s female assistant eventually confirmed everything in a later debrief with Sadegh and Ganjian at the Sa’adat Abad mosque office. She’d been in the room when Ms. Tabibian, clearly trying to protect Leila, told Heydari she was the one who’d taken the documents to try to pressure him to leave her daughter alone. Ms. Tabibian told him about the documents and had begged for Heydari’s forgiveness. In response, Heydari bludgeoned her to death with the wooden leg of a chair.
Sadegh had been horrified and enraged to hear the story of his mother’s death. He was touched to see Ganjian’s eyes fill with tears as well. When the woman had finished telling her story and left, Ganjian got emotional again. “Oh, Lord, it’s just so awful. I’m sorry this happened to your mother, God bless her soul. It’s such a shame, Sadegh-jaan.”
“It’s criminal is what it is!” Sadegh hissed as he paced the room. “Who else did that man murder? How many others are there like him? We’ve got to do something about this.”
Ganjian shook his head. “Sadegh-jaan, be careful. You have every right to be upset. But things like this happen. Maybe they even happen for a reason. Maybe almighty God was simply ready for your beloved mother to return to him. It’s horrible, but this is the world we live in. You need to let it go. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
But Sadegh couldn’t let it go. Sadegh was smart enough not to say anything to the investigator that was looking in to Heydari’s death but kept pestering Ganjian until he got Sadegh a meeting with someone he promised was influential.
Sadegh met the man in his office off of Bobby Sands Boulevard. His dark skin was weathered and wrinkled, but his thick beard didn’t have any grey. He wore clerical robes and a black turban to indicate he was a descendent of the prophet Muhammad. The man smiled kindly when he stood to greet him, his lips and fingers moving silently as he chanted continuously on his prayer beads.
Sadegh was careful in how he told the story of Heydari’s misdeeds to avoid any mention of the medical documents. Instead, he focused on how Heydari had tortured Hossein, pressured Leila into marriage, and possibly killed their mother. It was hard to tell if the cleric was really paying attention. As Sadegh spoke, the man took no notes, continued his quiet chanting, and even closed his eyes.
When Sadegh stopped speaking, the man opened his eyes and nodded.
“Good. I’m glad you came to me,” the cleric said. “We’ll be sure to look into this. I’ll let you know what we find out.”
Sadegh felt he was being dismissed but wasn’t ready to go.
“Hajj-agha, the concern I have isn’t just about Heydari. I’m worried that there may be others like him that are doing . . . inappropriate things in the name of the Islamic Republic. I’m worried that we might not have a strong enough system for making sure that deviants don’t get into the system and behave in a way that can shake people’s faith. I’m worried that—�
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The man interrupted him with a raised hand.
“Pesaram,” he said. “My son, why don’t you leave the worrying to me.”
“But what’s going to happen?” Sadegh asked. “I don’t understand.”
The man smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling like an accordion. “Well, dear boy,” he chuckled softly, “there are many things in this world that we will never understand.”
“But”—Sadegh couldn’t stop—“Heydari was a bad man. If bad men take over a good system then won’t it become bad as well?”
The man sighed. He put his prayer beads in a small dish on his desk and leaned onto his forearms.
“How do you know he was a bad man?” he asked Sadegh.
Sadegh was taken aback.
“He . . . I just told you. He tortured a little boy. He . . . may have murdered someone.”
“Was Khizr a bad man?” the cleric asked.
Sadegh shook his head. He was familiar, of course, with the story of Khizr in the eighteenth chapter of the Quran. Khizr was a mystical being or prophet who had agreed to take Moses on as a student. During the course of their travels together, however, Moses had objected to some of Khizr’s actions including his killing of a small boy. In the end, Khizr lost patience with Moses’s doubts and explained that all of his deeds were in accordance with God’s will and toward a good end. He had killed the young boy as he would have become a rebellious and defiant unbeliever who would have guided others, including his parents, off the path of righteousness.
“And what about Montazeri, a man that the blessed Imam Khomeini once called ‘the light of my life,’ was he a good man? You know better than I what his followers are doing in the streets.”
Montazeri’s death had sparked a series of protests all around the country that the authorities had had to deal with for weeks. Things had gotten so bad in Najafabad, Montazeri’s hometown, that authorities had imposed martial law for the first time since the 1979 revolution.