by Terence Ward
“Be careful, Mrs. Ward!” Akbar shouted.
She obeyed. And as she ended her brief moment of flight, her cloak spun back around her body.
“Akbar,” I asked, “the chador, when did it become Islamic dress?”
“You know, it was originally Sassanian practice.”
“Before Islam?” My mother turned, surprised to hear his news.
“It was a custom of high-class women, the aristocrats. Even Ferdowsi describes ancient Persian women as having covered faces. If you look, there is no law in the Koran that dictates covering the whole body with a veil. But the Arabs, when they arrived, took on the traditions of our rulers. And over the years, harem and chador became Islamic.”
And a symbolic flashpoint. In the twentieth century, Iranian society had swung back and forth regarding the black body-length chador—which literally means tent. In 1936, Reza Shah ordered it removed. By 1979, Ayatollah Khomeini ordered it to be worn again. This issue became a fault line for Westernized Iranian women. In the nineties, fashion codes had loosened, and manteaus—knee-length raincoats—and flowery scarves were part of everyday life. More significantly, forceful calls for equal rights were being voiced by women, emboldened by Khatami’s election.
I remembered that Fatimeh never left our front gate without being wrapped in her chador. And this was before the Revolution. Around the house, she wore a pastel scarf. We never once saw her full head of hair, just her hairline. She was more comfortable like that. We never questioned it. I had no idea until now that her custom was older than Islam.
* * *
A tree-lined street led to the Safaiyeh Hotel, set in an oasis with pleasing white stucco bungalows scattered among pine groves. Pushed by Rich’s relentless schedule, we checked in, washed up and rushed over to the nearby Ateshkade, the Zoroastrian fire temple. Exhausted, we straggled into the courtyard.
Carved into the white-columned façade, sacred Ahura Mazda flapped his brightly painted eagle’s wings. I took a deep breath. A calm peace shielded this place from the bustling street outside. The door of the temple was open. Kev and Rich marched in.
In the center of the long white hall, an immense five-foot bronze urn spouted flames behind an opaque pane of glass. A priest dressed in white walked over and spoke to us in fluent English.
“This fire was first lit one thousand four hundred years ago, then it was brought to Yazd.”
“You mean it has been burning nonstop for all these centuries?” We looked at it in disbelief.
“Yes,” the priest said, “someone is always here to feed the flames. Generation after generation, the fire is never alone.”
Behind the glass, a young girl in a robe placed more wood on the fire.
“But there are so few of us now.” He sighed heavily.
“How many Zoroastrians in Iran?”
He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Then he turned. “In Yazd, ten thousand. Some mullahs call us heathens and stir anger toward us. What can we do?”
Pilgrims, he told us, came from all over the world to visit the twenty-two temples in the province of Yazd. They arrived by the planeload from Bombay, home to the world’s largest Zoroastrian community. The wealthy Indian Parsis—whose name derived from their Persian origin—worshipped here at the fire temple.
Chris asked his usual question: “Do you ever think of leaving?”
“No. I must remain. Who will keep the sacred flame going?”
“And what about your children?”
“I pray for their future,” the guardian said. “Many of our people are old. Life is very hard. There should be more tolerance. After all, Imam Hussein married a Zoroastrian princess, the Shahbanou. In Tehran you can see her tomb, but still some insult us and call us fire worshippers. But we only look to the light, our god. It’s not just about fire.”
The term “fire worshipper,” mentioned by Marco Polo, was pejorative, and this misconception had plagued Zoroastrians for centuries. Of course, like the cross or the crescent, the flame was only symbolic. But zealots did not understand symbols. We said farewell and returned to the hotel.
* * *
While the family rested, I walked out the gate past the trees. And from there I spotted three figures on the summit of the hill next to the towers of silence. Moments later, I found myself climbing to the top again, where I had a sweeping 360-degree view of the plain. Any dust of approaching horsemen could be seen fifty miles away. It was twilight.
I was admiring the vista when I heard a voice behind me.
A young woman in a chador spoke with a clipped English accent. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“I couldn’t help noticing your ginger hair.”
“It’s Irish.”
“Pappy! Mummy!” she called into the wind. “I’m afraid they’re quarreling again,” she said. “You know, there’s a common joke about Parsis. Put three of us in a room and there will be four arguments.” She smiled.
“And if one is alone?”
“Then a Parsi will look in the mirror and argue with himself.”
I laughed. The Parsis are one of the eccentric, perhaps unique offspring of the original Zoroastrian tribe that fled eastward in the seventh century to escape the invading Arabs. They settled in the Indian coastal state of Gujarat and the trading port of Bombay. They amassed great fortunes, lived in palatial grandeur, entertained lavishly and centuries later enjoyed favored status under the British raj. Their pale skin reinforced their position in the caste system. All in all, they had fared well far from home. But nowadays, their inbreeding was a grave concern.
A tall older woman appeared, pink silks fluttering from under a billowing black cape. Her striking face was no-nonsense, firm and handsome.
I introduced myself.
“Ah, so you’re an American,” her daughter exclaimed.
“Don’t be silly, Roshan,” the mother said. “He wouldn’t be wandering about here in Iran.”
“Mummy, don’t be unpleasant.”
“Roshan, you’re arguing again.”
An older man in white cottons walked into my view. “Speak up, old boy. Are you really a Yank? What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“I … well, my family … we’re on a sort of pilgrimage.”
“Smashing. So are we!”
“From Bombay?”
“Heavens no, old boy. London. We’re Parsi pilgrims, you know.”
“Yes, your daughter was just telling me.”
“You’re sounding like Noël Coward again, Darius, with your ‘Parsi pilgrims.’ ”
The gentleman’s well-lined face was unfazed by his wife’s snipe. “You see, we Zoroastrians have lived in exile for over a thousand years,” he said. “I thought it was high time we came to visit our native soil.”
“My son is resting in bed at the hotel,” the mother said. “He’s simply worn out from all this marching up and down.”
“No backbone,” Darius said.
“Yes, well now, Darius, enough culture for today.”
“Darling, this is not simply culture …”
“Here we are, night’s falling. Come, let’s leave these rocks before I faint.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Very good to have met you,” the mother said. “Darius is hard of hearing, please forgive him.” She reached over and shook my hand, something women rarely do in Iran nowadays.
“Perhaps we’ll have a chance to speak again at a lower altitude,” her husband said with a wave.
And off they went, trudging on spindly legs holding up rather corpulent torsos that spoke of a lifetime of fine dining. Roshan lingered behind. I watched them stumble over the rocks, and Darius reached down to pick up something and put it in his pocket. A memento?
* * *
In the most apocalyptic American novel, Moby-Dick, Herman Melville portrayed Captain Ahab not as a Quaker Christian but as a Zoroastrian. Harold Bloom, the renowned literary crit
ic, writes that Ahab’s “own whaling boat is staffed by Fedallah and other Parsis, the world’s last Zoroastrians.”
I had already seen Zoroaster’s face. In the Vatican, walking slowly with Idanna, passing from one hall to another, we stopped where Raphael immortalized the learned giants of the ancient world. In his fresco The School of Athens, Plato boldly strides across the white-marbled agora. Aristotle walks on his left. Satyr-faced Socrates leans stage right. In the foreground, Euclid draws triangles for students.
Raphael’s unassuming self-portrait peeks out from a crowd on the far right. And next to him, oddly enough, with a red-trimmed cap and a long, luxurious gray beard, stands the great Zoroaster. The Persian prophet holds a globe lit with stars, the sacred constellations. His eyes are piercing and clear; his smile is knowing. He stares beyond the viewer. Because of the astronomical powers attributed to him, Raphael naturally placed Zoroaster with the scientists, gathered around Euclid. Only he represents the mystical East as ambassador to this summit of classical minds. He alone has straddled both land and sky, and holds the heavens in his hands. All the other visionaries are earthbound.
* * *
After dinner, we drove through modern Yazd, with its well-paved broad avenues that offered a few cheery stores still open for night owls. We passed a movie theater and two brightly lit restaurants and almost forgot about the desert. Soon we reached the historic thriving heart, one of the largest traditional city centers in the country. Turning a corner, we unexpectedly confronted a remarkable sight, a display of baroque bravado: an ostentatious bazaar edifice called Chakhmaq Tekyeh. Grandly, it opened onto a piazza. The sky vibrated with wondrous pastels of last light and held a full moon hanging low. Two stories of vaulted arches, turquoise and cream, spanned the square. Floodlit in gold, the façade glowed. In the center towered an eighty-foot faience portal whose steep minarets rose like lances, doubling its height. A large fountain reflected the image.
Originally built to herald the bazaar’s entrance, this splendid pleasure was a worthy tribute to medieval Yazd’s mercantile patrons. But the bazaar, according to Akbar, had moved soon after its construction. Now it stood as an enchanting folly. I sat with my brothers by the fountain, gazing at the marvel. The long golden structure seemed poised like an archer’s bow, ready to launch those two tile-tipped minarets straight into the heavens to pierce the grapefruit moon above.
* * *
Surprised to find a copy of Iran News at the hotel reception desk, I scanned it to take the pulse of distant Tehran. The headlines said it all: “Karbaschi Has Emerged as a National Hero,” “Supporters of Tehran’s Imprisoned Mayor Rally to His Defense,” “Karbaschi’s Release Imminent.” The momentum of the reformers was building.
Another paper, the daily Farda, reported that a young girl imprisoned in Abadan had hanged herself using her scarf. Her crime? “The girl had been strolling in a public park along with a young man not related to her.” And then I read this announcement:
The Jewish Community of Yazd Province yesterday started celebrating the feast of Passover. Moussa Dodashi said the celebrations will last eight days. While performing their religious rituals, the Iranian Jews pray for the long life of the Leader of the Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the success of the Islamic Republic of Iran and the establishment of peace and tranquility throughout the globe.
After cups of tea, we sat out on the porches of our bungalows until, one by one, my parents and then my brothers drifted off to sleep. I prepared to say farewell to Akbar. Tomorrow at dawn he would return home to Shiraz.
The dry air left the stars polished, dazzling over us like a grand fireworks display. Bright Arcturus blazed in Boötes; Virgo’s left hand held her sheaves of corn marked by Spica, signaling spring. The Greater and Lesser Bears chased each other around the Pole Star. Cassiopeia circled in watch.
My family had agreed from the start not to mention the real purpose of our trip to our Iranian escorts. The three had seemed puzzled about our obsession with the village of Tudeshk. But now I decided to tell Akbar about our search for Hassan. As he listened, his eyes widened behind his thick glasses.
“I don’t believe it.” He shook his head. “Risking to come back to Iran only to find a cook.”
I showed him Hassan’s photo.
He studied the picture. “I can see it’s a nice family.” He raised his head. “And their village?”
“Tudeshk. Between Yazd and Isfahan. We hope.”
“Never heard of it.”
“No one has.”
“You’ve asked around?”
“Rich even offered the travel agency a thousand dollars for information.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“Terry jan, I’m surprised. You really think after all this time you’ll find him?”
“Insha’allah.”
“And what if you don’t?”
“Don’t know. I guess we’ll keep heading north to Tehran …”
I was stumbling and had no real answer. Before I could finish, Akbar cut me short.
“Don’t worry, my dear friend. Even if you don’t find him, something else will happen.” He paused, then smiled. “In the end, you will find many Hassans along the way.”
Lifting his eyes, he scanned the night sky. He spoke now in a calm sotto voce. “You see, the master is God, and if you make a prayer he will listen. God is everywhere. The problem is, we don’t see Him. We are too busy with everyday work. We use less than eight percent of our faculties. We’re busy making money, working, driving. When you wake up in the morning, for instance, and unexpectedly hear a bird singing in the courtyard, that’s His sign. It depends on you to ask, What is the message? If we learn to observe what is really happening around us, then we’ll get His answer.” He sounded like a Sufi mystic.
He reached over and hugged me. We promised to stay in touch and exchanged addresses. I had come to admire him. His poetic nature, artistic sensitivity, knowledge and humanity, we would sorely miss.
“Very special people, your dear parents, so much love they have,” he said. “Good luck and good night.”
“Khoda hafez,” I said and thanked him again.
He went to bed, and I stayed outside in the night breeze. Passing clouds swallowed the moon’s light. A tingling fear came over me. What had we embarked on? In our mobile Ward family cocoon, it had all seemed natural, so straightforward. I tried to push negative thoughts out of my mind.
A gentle wind gusted suddenly, rustling the leaves overhead. I heard a shuffling behind me. I turned and peered into the dark grove, but spotted nothing. Then a lone figure appeared. It was Vaz. Had he been eavesdropping on my conversation with Akbar about Hassan? Puffing tensely on his cigarette, he didn’t say a word. He swung his leg over the low stoop, sitting down opposite me. I said nothing. We stared up at the heavens. Then he spoke.
“Terry, why didn’t you tell me?”
“What?”
“Look.” Vaz lowered his voice. “You really want us to get into trouble?”
“No,” I protested.
“A baji, a servant. I don’t believe it. It’s crazy.” He kept his eyes on the stars. “So, this Hassan was your cook?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know you’re coming?”
“No.”
“And you really think he wants to see you.”
“Don’t know.”
“Baba, after all these years, he may be dead.”
I was silent. He was restless.
“So, please tell me, why are we going?”
“Because we have to.”
“Why can’t you just be ordinary tourists?” Vaz tossed his burning butt onto the marble floor, stomping on it.
I did not reply. If he didn’t understand, there was no point.
“Look, you can go back to Tehran tomorrow,” I snapped. Rising from the stoop, I glanced over to gauge his reaction. My words were still sinking in. “Shab-bekhair, good night.”
“
Shab-bekhair,” he mumbled.
Lighting another cigarette, he stared in the other direction. I slumped back to my room, leaving him smoking under the moon. In darkness and flickering shadows, I tossed and turned. Was I out of my mind? With more than sixty million people in Iran, how could we ever hope to find Hassan? And if by some miracle we did find him, what would he say? Would he greet us with open arms or slam the door?
* * *
When I awoke, Akbar was gone. On the porch, sitting on the same stoop, Vaz looked groggy, rubbing his eyes in the crisp morning sun before putting on his glasses. Chris was giddily laughing, telling Rich a story that he called “The Night of the 1,001 Beds.”
In the confusion brought on by all our traveling, last night Chris had stumbled into the wrong room and fallen asleep in Akbar’s bed. When Akbar had turned in, he had found his bed taken, so he staggered into Kev’s room and crashed in my bed. When I saw a body in my bed, I crept into the adjoining room and lay down on an open bed, which belonged to Vaz. After all his cigarettes, Vaz found both mattresses in his room taken and, not realizing Richard’s room was half empty, he did the obvious. He slept on the floor.
In the fresh morning light, with my brothers laughing, I overheard Nasrollah complaining to Vaz. “That one kept me up all night.” He scowled at Chris. “Snoring like a buzzsaw. Be Khoda, worse than a train!”
“That bad?” Vaz said.
“The worst noise I’ve ever heard. How am I going to drive today without falling asleep? This was a trick of yours. You sent him to my room, and you slept—”
“On the floor.”
“Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Unfazed by the driver’s diatribe, Vaz looked at Chris with keen admiring eyes. During breakfast of yogurt and honey, hot bread and fig jam and steaming tea, he commended Chris on his snoring prowess.
“Bah, bah,” Vaz said, shaking his head. “You must be a real professional.” He poured Chris a fresh cup of tea. “Only a real pro could keep a driver awake all night,” he said.