Searching for Hassan

by Terence Ward

  “You handled it brilliantly, Vaz,” said Kev, who looked refreshed. A night’s sleep without Chris’s railroad engine had done him well. His eyes no longer had that deadened look. It was Nasrollah’s turn to suffer.

  * * *

  When you wake up in a new city, the prodigious travel writer and historian Jan Morris suggested two rules: “One is found in E. M. Forster’s guide to Alexandria—to wander aimlessly. The second is from the Psalms; grin like a dog and run about through the city.”

  Before we could do either, a crisis erupted. A new van mysteriously appeared. A loud argument between Nasrollah and a new, unwelcome driver obliged Vaz to call his boss, our travel agent. After putting down the phone, Vaz was ashen-faced. All of us wanted to keep Nasrollah at least until we reached Tudeshk. To make things worse, the new van would not start.

  “Call again,” my father told Vaz. “Rich will straighten it out.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Ward. I have just been fired.”

  In the end, Rich phoned and saved Vaz’s job. Nasrollah stayed.

  “Rich, I owe you one,” Vaz said. “Believe me, I know. I’ve got a lot of experience in being fired. For instance, in my last job I was supposed to hold the marker for a surveyor, but I couldn’t read his hand signals from a distance. It was the type of a job where you don’t get dumb, but you get something. You know what I mean? Anyway, I was fired there too.”

  After all the confusion, I was secretly relieved. With each passing day, it became increasingly clear that our Inspector Clouseau’s hard drive had limited storage capacity. He had probably already forgotten about our search for Hassan.

  Back in Nasrollah’s van, we began to explore the architectural treasures of Yazd. The fourteenth-century Masjid-e Jame, or Friday Mosque, boasted the highest arched portal in the Islamic world, a lofty Timurid design topped with a pair of slender, soaring minarets. Here, Kufic script fired into the toffee clay brickwork blended with multicolored geometric designs and stunning faience that predated the Safavid floral turquoise. This was the raw elegance, the explosive creativity that Robert Byron saluted. In 1934, he was astonished to find no mention of the mosque in any travel book. “Are travelers blind?” he ranted. The spectacular tapered arch stood more than one hundred feet high.

  * * *

  In Yazd’s bazaar, we wended our way past coppersmiths and goldsmiths under cool vaulted ceilings pierced with circular holes that let the sun slip through. The dizzying maze of whitewashed corridors was splashed with light. With all the negative news about Iran that we had heard in America, we had not expected pristine highways, clean streets and, above all, these immaculate paths in the bazaars.

  “What’s going on? You can literally eat off the floor.” Kev expressed the same astonishment that he first voiced in Shiraz’s Vakil bazaar.

  “Where are the beggars?” my mother asked. “Where is the glaucoma, the rickets and polio?” And where was the hopelessness that stripped all dignity away? Where was the despair we had seen in the Shah’s day, when crippled children crawled up to a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, beseeching, “My sacrifice, sir. A slave of yours. Forgive me, kindly throw me a blessing.” When the oil boom of the seventies flooded the country with petrodollars, beggars swarmed the streets of the Shah’s capital. Since we had returned, we had seen neither extreme—neither dejected poverty nor obscene wealth.

  Throughout the bazaar, a quiet dignity was palpable. Rarely did anyone approach us. A glance or a respectful look our way in passing, but the shoppers seemed more interested in their own business than in a group of six rather odd-looking foreigners. We wandered past textile merchants selling silk brocade and delicate white lace.

  Two young women walked by with lofty hairstyles under elevated gray scarves.

  “They must be from Tehran,” sniffed Vaz. “We call those five stories high.”

  Cosmetic creams and oils sold well at pharmacy stalls. Cotton and silk shirts in discreetly patterned earth tones attracted Chris. Fashionable vanity, an Iranian trademark, was alive and well. By ostracizing foreigners and the immensely wealthy Westernized class, perhaps Iran had finally reached a balance: the irresponsible rich and the hopeless beggar had truly disappeared.

  * * *

  Leaving the bazaar, my parents had made a new acquaintance, Mr. Jamshid, a schoolteacher whose broadly lined forehead, bushy white hair and rotund belly projected a winning charm.

  “He’s invited us to come to his home,” my mother said. “We can’t refuse.”

  “Excessive hospitality—I was warned about it,” Kev whispered to me.

  We agreed to come along, and soon we sat in a quaint two-room house, on Mr. Jamshid’s carpeted floor, studying a detailed architectural plan of the bazaar that he had painstakingly mapped out for the city. His precocious daughter, Masumeh, brought us pastries and tea. Yazd’s medieval shopping mall, which had swallowed us in three hours of erratic navigation, from goldsmiths’ shops to the café and back out to our van parked in bright sunlight, was all there, meticulously drawn on rolled sepia-colored paper. The labyrinth had a distinct form and obvious limits.

  The design seemed organic. Straight lines curved like rivulets. No city planner’s grid had been imposed on this marketplace. It had evolved naturally. Each pathway had been carved out not by an architect but by random walkers.

  Over many years, a consensus of Yazdi footprints established the twists and turns, the right angles, blocked crossings, squares and basements. The bazaar was a living thing. Its interwoven links within the city were as fluid and vital as blood vessels.

  “Why does he do all this work?” asked Vaz, staring at Mr. Jamshid’s map. None of us reacted. “I guess because he’s into it,” Vaz muttered to himself.

  “When you look at the form of the bazaar,” Mr. Jamshid explained, “it’s like a dastgah, or collection of musical notes. You see, each store and shop on the route is a note of the melody. And when you come upon an opening, it’s like a pause in the musical score. Listen …”

  He hummed a gay dastgah mahur as he moved his index finger from shop to shop. “This dastgah,” he said, “is ideal for the twilight hour.” Then he paused, pointing at a courtyard, and, still singing, he circled the covered spaces. “You see?”

  “Bah, bah, wow!” Rich was amazed.

  Mr. Jamshid had deciphered his own unique hermetic blueprint. Intuitively, he had unified the city’s medieval brick and mortar, its myriad walking paths, with classical melodies, all connected by an invisible thread. Masumeh too looked just as surprised, before breaking into a nervous giggle.

  Could Mr. Jamshid be a Sufi? His upturned generous mustache offered a clue. While the others were devouring homemade ginger biscuits, I sat down next to him.

  “Pardon me,” I said quietly. “Mr. Jamshid, may I ask you, are you a mystic?”

  He answered with a diagonal upward nod of the head and a slight wink. I nodded back as he offered me a ginger cookie. He twirled his curling white mustache tips and snapped his head back. A fire came to his eye. Something had just discharged in his memory. A broad, pleasing grin raised his cheeks like balloons, and he offered us all another surprise.

  “Tonight there is zoor khaneh, the house of strength,” he declared. “Special champions. Be my guests! Come, you must not miss this.”

  All of us agreed immediately.

  “Kheli khub! Very good!” He rubbed his chubby hands with delight.

  As he rose and went to tell his wife to bring out more biscuits, his words began to sink in. Would this be a trip to the local gym? A stroll down to some hot, smoky men’s club to watch heavyweights work out? We debated in hushed tones whether to go.

  “Mr. Ward,” whispered Vaz. “If it’s OK with you guys, I think I’ll stay at the hotel tonight. I’m not really a big fan of zoor khanehs.”

  “Who is?” moaned Chris.

  For centuries, zoor khanehs have been places where the Iranian martial
arts are performed by heavily muscled men, named pahlevan, after renowned Sassanian warriors. In short, these were Iran’s sumo wrestlers. Dad wondered aloud whether zoor khanehs hadn’t turned into premier recruiting stations for revolutionary toughs, a natural breeding ground for zealots.

  “Brawn over brains, like football players,” he said.

  “Bravery over intelligence,” Chris agreed.

  “With a heavy dose of patriotic fervor.”

  “A place where emotions run high,” Kev added.

  “If there’s any setting that might be unwelcome for Yanks,” said Chris, “this is it.”

  “So, I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” said Vaz.

  “But Mr. Jamshid has been so kind,” Mom said.

  “So you’re really going?” Vaz asked.

  “I’m afraid so.” My father looked us all in the eye.

  Hearing Dad’s decision, Chris coughed out his tea. His eyes pleaded no. My father’s head nodded yes.

  Back in the old days, Hassan used to exercise regularly outside his rooms by our cherry orchard. Stocky with strong arms, he had built up his burgeoning chest over years of devoted workouts. With a quick swan swoop, he would lift up two wooden clubs shaped like huge bowling pins the size of tree trunks. No problem. In one continuous motion, he would swing the two behind his shoulders, then twirl them around his head to complete a figure eight. Enthralled, my brothers and I tried to mimic him using smaller branches. When he was finished, he would leave the clubs standing and grab a towel to wipe off his sweat. Red-faced, huffing and puffing, we each tried to pick up the clubs, but they wouldn’t budge. Panting, Hassan would smile. “In time, boys, in time.”

  * * *

  In Yazd’s glimmering twilight, our time had come. Feeling self-conscious, we followed Mr. Jamshid in single file down a narrow, dusty alley. A mother and daughter in chadors scurried past. Two dogs growled in a doorway. Soon we heard the sound of muffled drumming and the ringing of a bell. My mother gripped my arm.

  “We’re close.”

  Our host led us around a corner into a small square and stopped before a green wooden door. Obediently, we lined up in back of him when we heard a loud exultation from a crowd: “Aaaaaahhhh!”

  Mr. Jamshid swung the bronze door latch open, and before us lay a hundred pairs of shoes. Bending our heads to pass under the low doorframe, we quickly added our own shoes to the pile. The air was thick, warm and pungent. Perhaps a hundred men sat in a small theater with ten circular rows that looked down onto a sunken stage.

  On the wooden floor, six young athletes moved through their exercises. Perched to our right, a handsome musician sang and drummed into a microphone. Rapid-fire thumping and chants, synchronized motion and sweaty bodies rocked the walls. The charismatic drummer directed events like an orchestra conductor. The crowd was in his hand. On the beat, the assembly responded, “Yaaaah Ali!” My mother took Dad’s arm and walked inside to find a seat with Mr. Jamshid.

  Since medieval times, athletes have trained publicly in zoor khanehs. Part calisthenics, part gymnastics, part dance, the exercises were meant to prepare men for battle. The drum, the bell and the cantor’s voice set the pace. Group performances were tests of speed, nimble footwork, strength, dexterity, endurance and artistry.

  My mother slid onto the bench between Dad and Mr. Jamshid. It was not hard to notice she was the only woman here. This was surely the most private bastion of the country’s male-dominated world. Undaunted, Mom gazed on intently. Dad, an ardent athlete himself, was captivated.

  The intense crowd, pressed together, raised the temperature. The boys below were in their teens, not heavyset potbellied brutes. Gazelles instead of rhinos, these nimble warriors represented the flower of youth, defenders of the land. The crowd followed every move.

  Their exercises had already begun. I could see that pride filled the older spectators’ eyes. The old men were no doubt looking nostalgically into some mirror of yesteryear when they had once swung their clubs in the night, when they possessed youth’s fire. A fierce bond connected the spectators and athletes. Chanting throbbed through the warriors’ circle. The air was teeming with martial spirit.

  Rich reached down to pull out his movie camera.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said, jabbing him with my elbow.

  “We’ll never get another chance,” Rich said.

  “Not here.”

  Over the loudspeaker, the drummer made an announcement: “Our guests this evening have arrived from …”

  Silence.

  “Am-ri-ka.”

  As Rich put his camera away, all eyes turned toward us. A murmur rose from the crowd. One man nodded at me, then another. A bearded man winked. I nodded back. Then, from the floor, a mahogany-haired athlete tilted his head and quickly raised his eyebrows. Even the drummer turned to toss me a quick grin. With great respect, I nodded and bowed my head slightly at any eyes that met mine.

  “Signs of welcome,” said Rich.

  “Thank God,” said Chris.

  Meanwhile, some spectators—father, uncle, cousin or friend—seemed lost in their own thoughts, carefully studying the dexterity shown by each athlete. Chris’s eyes were bulging as the drum cadence thumped faster and faster. Soon the bleachers were shaking as the drummer chanted poetry from Ferdowsi’s Book of Kings to a martial beat. His staccato delivery built up charged emotion. His drums danced. Dom do dom … ppiiinggg. Dom do dom … ppiiiing. Slap … riing. Slappedy slap!

  Like a jazz concert, each athlete had his chance to improvise and jam. Each worked the stage, flaunting his own moves, strutting his stuff. It was a combination of collective harmonics and solo riffs. Windmill motions of twirling heavy wooden clubs overhead drew spontaneous rounds of applause. The real crowd-pleaser was a frantic spin-like-a-dervish maneuver. I had never seen this as a boy, but here in Yazd, these teenagers had nothing to stop them. With the flick of the drum and bell, their feet launched into a frenetic whirl. Rhythm quickened to rapid-fire. Dom … do … dom, slap … slapppp … ring … be-rinng! Heads swung back. Arms flung out. Rapturous acceleration grew into a dizzying blur. Around and around they went until thunderous clapping and stomping erupted from all sides. And the human propeller spun back down. Prolonged cheers signaled this as the favorite riff.

  On the bright green walls overhead hung the Valhalla of the Yazdis. I studied their shrine of heroes, portraits of sportsmen, past champions and martyrs. I spotted a black-and-white photo of the handsome folk hero and beloved Olympic wrestler Gholamreza Takhti, a silver medal winner in Helsinki. In the sixties, Takhti had been a leader in the National Front Party of Mossadegh, the Shah’s rival. After winning the world wrestling championship in Yokohama, Takhti shocked his countrymen by snubbing the Shah when he refused to shake his hand. Soon after, he was found murdered. It was rumored that the Shah’s secret police, SAVAK, had murdered him.

  Like the mythical warrior Rustam, Takhti and these champions before us embodied chivalry and tradition. Looked up to as role models, they represented patriotism of a powerful and humble sort, and a moral code: strength with generosity. Only a month after Khatami’s historic overture, the Tehran Times saluted five U.S. wrestlers who arrived to compete in the Takhti Cup, an international wrestling tournament. Twelve thousand fans attended the event, whistling and cheering. Significantly, after two decades the first official hand-to-hand contact between Iran and its archenemy America involved athletes.

  The drummer had stopped beating his drum, and now he quietly brought us down. All chanted softly, “Yaahhh Ali,” and the session ended with a prayer for Imam Ali, the patron saint of zoor khanehs. We got up to leave. Hands reached out to shake ours.

  “Yazdi bebop, like wild jazz,” said Kevin as we searched in the pile of shoes for our own before going out into the dusty street again.

  “I loved it,” declared Mom.

  Smiles greeted us as we followed Mr. Jamshid back through the town’s streets in the dim light of hanging bulbs. Our ears still ra
ng with “Yaaaaahhh Ali!”

  9. Appointment in Tudeshk

  She is very aware of her looks, so she wears a little makeup, not when she goes out in public but in private social gatherings like this. We like to say that God is beautiful and appreciates beauty.

  —MARYAM SADEGHI, DESCRIBING MRS. SAKINEH ZIAI, MOTHER OF PRESIDENT KHATAMI (NEW YORK TIMES, JANUARY 15, 1998)

  Clearing his throat, Kevin addressed us all at breakfast. “You know, I had no dreams at the Apadana Hotel in Shiraz, but here …”

  “Did you expect it to be this gentle?” my mother asked.

  “The hotel or Iran?”

  “Iran.”

  “I had no idea what to expect.”

  “I didn’t either. I was … well, a bit afraid.”

  “I wasn’t scared,” Kev said. “These people are amazing. I mean, the aura I’m getting.”

  “Nasrollah’s a peach,” said Mom. “And Inspector Clouseau is growing on me.”

  “Oh, totally,” Kev agreed. “Once you get what he can do and can’t, he’s totally amusing.”

  “We know what he can’t do,” Mom said. “He’s terrified because of his lack of self-confidence.”

  “You know what I feared the most?” asked Kev. “Long drives in incredibly hot and dusty vans, dirty and smelly …”

  My father nodded. He had endured many such journeys in his treks to the oilfields years ago.

  “… And mean police,” added Chris.

  “I read in the New York Times that President Khatami’s family is from Ardakan. That’s nearby, isn’t it?” Mom asked.

  “About twenty miles.”

  “I’d love to visit his mother. What do you think? Is there any way we can do that?”

  “We’ll put Vaz on the case.”

  “Yes, he’ll have to pick up where Akbar left off.”