by Terence Ward
“Our Town,” mused my father. “Donna helping backstage and selling tickets, you kids racing about. Terry, you were onstage. It was a four-week run. Magical!”
“And, Pat,” my mother said, “it was so universal. Grover’s Corners could just as easily have been Tudeshk.”
“That’s why I chose it,” Dad said. “The final scene with Emily in the graveyard looking back at her family and calling out to them, ‘Each moment of life is so precious! Can’t they see it? Don’t they know?’ But of course none of them can hear her.” He whispered, “It all passes by too fast.”
Wanting to say one last thing, he turned to us, opening his arms. He laughed, but with tears in his eyes. No words came.
* * *
Even if our Tehrani past had been paved over, America’s pop culture was curiously alive in the streets. A reincarnation of Colonel Sanders, but with a curly black beard and a dark cloak, was posted in front of a fast-food joint advertising “Kabooky Fried Chicken.” At the checkout counter of a supermarket, I thumbed through a magazine listing banned American films, such as George Lucas’s Return of the Jedi. To my right, a girl in a chador had her magazine opened to a frightening bald Demi Moore as G.I. Jane. A passing car boomed out Madonna tunes.
There were music cassettes of my favorite Latin artists, Santana and Paco de Lucía. Another tape, called Strains of Andalucia, featured Spanish guitarists jamming with Persian tar players. Then I saw his face: the inexplicable New Age phenomenon Yanni in front of the blazing Acropolis. How did he get here? I turned and another mustachioed man stared at me, the Qajar dynasty ruler Naser al-Din Shah in full regalia. He was everywhere, painted ubiquitously on pink porcelain teapots. Was pop monarchical imagery now chic?
Driving past the Samad building, one of the first luxury high-rises built during the pre-Revolution boom, I saw spray-painted graffiti: Run-DMC, Mötley Crüe, NBA Techno and Jason Kevins. Who in the world, I wondered, was Jason Kevins?
Around the lively University of Tehran campus, sipping a cold Coolack cola, I wandered past bookstores that were doing a booming business. I perused a few English-language titles: Sons and Lovers, The Secret Agent, Animal Farm, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Godfather.
This country, I decided, was anything but bottled up.
For a fleeting glance, Hussein slowed down in front of the former American embassy. We stared out at the brick wall of the “Den of Spies.” It now housed a computer training center for the Revolutionary Guards, Hussein told us. Chris recalled the fireworks that exploded in the night skies on the Fourth of July, and Kevin remembered our touch football games on the back lawn.
Hussein reminded us that half of Iran’s population was born after the landmark date of 1979, the year of the hostages. “Many sons and daughters of the Revolution,” he said, “watch bootleg videos and disco at home.”
“And some,” my father added, “are soccer fanatics.”
* * *
In the balmy twilight of April 21, sixty thousand passionate fans swarmed into Azadi Stadium to cheer for Iran’s national team. Skydivers parachuted onto the field; red-hued smoke bombs burned in the stands. My father nimbly raced through the crowd, bobbing left, dashing right, into the midfield stands, where he found our seats. He felt at home here. We all straggled down the steps while he was already busily clapping, cheering and shaking hands with his neighbors.
“So, your dad’s been here before,” Vaz observed.
“Go Iran!” my father howled, the consummate fan.
Iran’s resurgence as a soccer power began in 1990 with the Asian Games victory. Most rabid fans, I was told, were divided between Tehran’s two top clubs, one of which had a very non-Islamic name, Persepolis. Positioned for the World Cup in June 1998, Team Iran had only six months before miraculously squeezing by as the final qualifier in the thirty-two-nation tournament. In Europe, no embargo was in place for footballers. Three Iranian stars played in the German Bundesliga: Karim Bagheri, Ali Daei and Khodadad Azizi.
Soccer passion terrified the authorities. On November 29, 1997, when Iran tied Australia with two late goals to qualify for the World Cup, excitement spilled into the streets. At midnight, millions joined in exuberant celebrations, teenagers danced on their cars, music blared from car stereos, police joined in cheering, some women took off their scarves. It was by far the biggest demonstration since the Revolution. The country quite simply spiraled into collective hysteria.
“It was spontaneous joy, like Carnival in Brazil,” our new friend in the stands, a young man named Mahmoud, said. “We cried and laughed and danced all night long. Wheeew!”
“And the big game against America?” I asked.
“That will be even bigger if Iran wins. But America is very good.”
“So is Iran,” my father screamed. “Get ready, Mahmoud, baby. Put on your dancing shoes.”
Young Mahmoud translated Dad’s words for his friends, which spread through the stands. Within minutes, Dad was the most popular fan in Deck D. Hands reached down to shake his, students flashed thumbs-up signs, bearded hulks grinned childishly with flaring eyes. Our sports ambassador had scored big on this most delicate of diplomatic missions.
Like a fervid New York Mets fan who memorizes every conceivable statistic, Mahmoud methodically described each player on the field, finishing with his favorite: “… And our prize goalie is called the Eagle of Asia.”
A minute later, the ball shot past the Eagle and into the net of Iran. The deafening, throbbing roar quieted to dead silence. A wounded look settled over Mahmoud’s face.
By the end, the Eagle had laid a goose egg. Iran lost to Hungary, 2–0. Chris, himself a goalie, began mocking the easy goals and demoted the Eagle with a new name—the Turkey of Tabriz, he called him. Dad was enraged. Iran’s Croatian coach was openly cursed for his conservative defensive style. “Bring back the Brazilian!” the fans cried.
“Outta here. Let’s breeze,” Dad said.
As we left, we saw angry fans burning their programs in protest. My father took off like a bolt of lightning. For him, there was a definite Darwinian survival chain among international soccer fans. Those who found great seats and then left the stadium quickest were clearly among the fittest. So, living up to his reputation, he made his way through the crowd, seeking out Hussein’s van among dozens of blue buses in an endless jammed parking lot with policemen posted at the exits.
We found Hussein standing under a solitary tree. Unscathed by the home team’s loss, he had an uncommonly wild look in his eyes. My father yelled to him as we jumped into the van: “Come on, let’s go, quick!”
Hussein turned aggressor, weaving amid the cast of thousands, gunning through a narrow opening between columns of parked buses. Seeing two armed guards at the nearest exit, he accelerated. No choice, they jumped out of the way. We cheered as he screeched the tires and peeled off ahead of the madding crowd.
“Now we know why he drove ambulances during the war,” Vaz said. “He has to have his excitement.”
* * *
To ski or not to ski, that was the question. To exorcise the collective sense of loss, we knew we had to do something drastic and fun. The morning after the match, we left Mom and Dad plotting the rescue of the two lamed statues in our former grotto, and Hussein drove us into the snowy Elburz Mountains along steep, razor-carved river valleys, climbing on switchback roads.
Dizin, the French-designed ski resort built by the Shah after we left, was empty on a sparkling day. The treeless mountain bowls were blanketed in brilliant spring snow. Strapping on our rented skis and wearing our lift tickets—total cost, $4—we boarded the gondola and spotted our first wildlife: a snow bunny. Her long light brown hair flowed out of her cap as she slalomed gracefully down the slope sporting a flashy pink jumpsuit.
“So, do you have any last words?” I asked Kev.
“Baba,” he said. “I haven’t fallen in years.”
It was a familiar refrain from our childhood days. Hans, our Austrian ski i
nstructor in Tehran, repeated his sacred mantra until it was ingrained in Kevin’s mind: “Lean back, skis always together.” Kev always looked so elegant gliding over the moguls at top speed. But, from old ski haunts at Ab Ali and Shemshak in Iran to Heavenly resort at Lake Tahoe, he had sometimes paid the price. Over the years, his obsession with style over common sense had led to frightening wipeouts.
“I have no plans of falling today,” Kev proclaimed.
“Famous last words,” Chris said.
In truth, my brothers skied better than I did. They had learned to schuss and wedel in that “winter of Hans”—whose father had been an Olympian ski jumper—while I stayed at home because of a ripped cartilage in my knee. It had happened the first week of skiing at the Noor Club, an exclusive ski resort, also built by the Shah, on a blinding glary afternoon. My Bahai friend Ahmad and I had raced all day without a break, and we had just started our last run. Flying down the slope, I remember the silver horizon and the sky melting together. The shimmering light left me sightless, with no contrast, no focus. I was going much too fast. And then I blacked out. Evidently, my left ski went into a hole created earlier by a hill-climbing woman in high heels chasing her son on his sled. My right ski flew over my left. And my bindings did not release.
When I came to in the lodge, Ahmad was leaning over me. “Terry,” he said breathlessly, “the Shah was skiing behind you and saw the whole accident. He ordered people from the lodge to pull you out and carry you down here. You’re so lucky. A helicopter is coming.” I was never able to thank the Shah for his gesture. It was the closest I had ever come to meeting him. My brother Richard, on the other hand, had come much closer.
It was a year later when Rich, hurtling in his usual downhill-racer tuck position, lost control, then dug in the edges of his skis and veered sharply right, hoping to slow down. Chris and I watched from the Noor Club summit in horror. He was headed straight for His Royal Highness, who was wedeling slowly down the bowl flanked by his usual two skiing bodyguards. Missing full impact only by inches, miraculously Rich raced over the back of the Shah’s skis. Instinctively, the bodyguards swerved off in tandem after the little cannonball. When they saw Rich vaporize in a snowbank in a glorious white puff, they gave up pursuit.
Now, at Dizin, the four brothers would push the alpine envelope one more time. And despite Kev’s self-assurance, he did fall. It was an outstanding double twister on our second run that left him digging deep to find his skis. An ethereal halo of snow topped his head. We laughed uncontrollably.
Down at the lodge, we met some classic ski bums and three ski patrollers who spoke French, German and some English. Having the mountain to ourselves, we felt uncharacteristically relaxed. We decided to get in a few more runs. Later that afternoon, as we stepped off the highest gondola, the bundled-up lift operator pointed straight at me. “Telephone,” he yelled.
Impossible, I thought. He yelled again as I slipped off my skis. Who the devil is it? I crunched through the snow toward him. A bulky headset that belonged on a World War II aircraft carrier was handed to me.
“Hello, hello,” I said. The earpiece was ice-cold.
“Hullo.” A crisp British accent. “Kasra Naji here, old boy. CNN.”
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“This morning at the Laleh I heard about four American brothers skiing up in Dizin. Then I met your father, and he confirmed it. So here I am. It’s for a piece on the New Iran. What do you say?”
“Well, you better get up here soon. My brothers won’t wait for anyone, especially when they’re skiing.”
“Camera and soundman will be up there in a jiffy. I’m staying down here where it’s warm. See you back in Tehran. Dinner tonight, the Ali Qapu, eight o’clock. Bring the whole family.”
“Let’s go, Ter!” Kevin bellowed. His skis were on and he was furious.
“Yeah, quit wasting time,” Richard yelled.
“I’m on the phone!” I shouted back.
“Phone? Who is it?”
“CNN.”
“Really? CNN? Where?”
I was wrong. They could wait. My brothers’ demeanor changed radically. They began sprucing up, combing their hair, eagerly scanning the arriving gondola cars. We were moments away from Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame.
Soon, a huffing two-man camera crew was seated on a platform with their equipment. Akbar, the soundman, stomped through the snow and immediately told us why he had come.
“Americans skiing. We heard about you at the Laleh Hotel.” Akbar giggled, finding it all a little surreal.
The Elburz peaks stretched east to west, a panorama of white shark’s teeth. Clouds steamed in the valley underneath us. A crisp wind blew. The sun and sky glinted off the ice and spray. We went down the slope in synchronized fashion for the camera, kicking up snow crystals as we slalomed back and forth. On what started out as a Jean-Claude Killy–type wedel run, Kevin shortly picked up speed, whirled artfully over moguls and wiped out one more time.
That evening, we all met at Ali Qapu restaurant, a high-priced Tehran dining spot decorated in traditional style. Our host, Kasra Naji, intrepid war reporter and TV producer, kept his camera rolling. The suave and handsome British-educated CNN correspondent wanted more footage for his special on the “New Iran,” and we were a “story.”
Grinning, Kasra faced our patriarch with his first pointed questions. He was uninterested in our story about Hassan. There were more important points to discuss, he said.
“Did you feel safe in Iran during your stay, Mr. Ward?”
“Are you kidding?” Dad said. “Kasra, old buddy, it’s safer than the streets of New York.”
“Really?”
“Tell me, Kasra,” Dad asked. “Do you feel safe?”
“Well … yes.”
“There, you see?”
The microphone turned to my mother. “And, Mrs. Ward, will you come back to Iran again?”
“In a heartbeat,” she said.
In retrospect, Kasra seemed a bit bored with our rosy picture. I think he, like most everyone, would have preferred to hear the usual horror stories: close calls and police raids. Born in Iran, he had spent many years in Britain before joining CNN as a freelancer. A courageous and rather sympathetic fellow, Kasra spoke to me about the “good old days” covering the ten-year Soviet-Afghan conflict and the Tajikistan civil war. He deplored the victory of the Taliban. Overnight, they had cut him off from his favorite post by banning decadent TV cameras from Kabul. Once every three months, he was able to visit his English wife, posted in Bangladesh with the BBC.
While he lamented to me how much he missed combat reporting, three musicians began playing and singing classical Persian music, which continued through the long meal. Then, at dessert time, we heard a familiar tune.
“My God, do you hear that?” Kasra asked me. “O Sole Mio” rose over the women’s headscarves and the hanging lanterns. “I don’t believe it. This is so radical,” he murmured. “Times are really changing.”
As he stared in disbelief at the singer, a Mediterranean sun-splash from the Bay of Naples slowly filled our smoky cavern.
* * *
We should have known better. “New Iran” indeed. Some things do not change, especially CNN. “Go for the jugular” has always been their motto. And, back in London, the editors did just that. In typical fashion, they spliced our images—four brothers rollicking on the ski slopes, Kevin’s spectacular wipeout, my father’s blanket denial of any fears and my mother’s fresh, reassuring humane words—between footage of rumbling tanks, screeching jet fighters and stomping heels of soldiers parading on Iranian Armed Forces Day. The parade’s highlight this year, Kasra reported: “The American flag wasn’t burned.”
For the average viewer, snug at home in Europe or North America, the underlying message was loud and clear. Tourism in Iran? Fugeddaboudit! Those lunatics are outta their minds. Don’t even think about it.
Friends called my wife, Idanna, from Athens, Jakarta and
Oslo to tell her they were shocked to see her Terenzio on CNN, slaloming with his brothers in Iran’s mountains. Their next question was “Are they okay?”
* * *
That evening, on the occasion of Vaz’s birthday, a friend of his offered him a gift, claiming Scotland as its source: a bottle of whisky called Black Five Millionaires. “Extra Special,” the label said. No doubt the local Tehran liquor cartel did a booming business, employing creative directors with a sense of humor. The bold ebony-and-gold label featured five tuxedoed men hamming it up on a stage. The silhouettes looked like the Las Vegas Rat Pack—Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Joey Bishop, Peter Lawford and Sammy Davis, Jr. Close inspection revealed the bottling date: 1977, two years before the Islamic Revolution.
“Good Scotch, no?” Vaz said. “It’s from Scotland.”
“Really?” I was dubious.
“It does say Scotland. Look, Black Five Millionaires, blended and bottled in Dundee.”
“A clever name.”
“Yes, baba.”
“Tehrani chic.”
“Don’t say such things. You hurt me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You know, my friend paid imported price for this bottle.”
We raised our glasses to Vaz. Kevin, in his usual style, made a toast thanking our Armenian friend for his unique insights and continuous wise use of the “baba system.” His closing words were “Never has so much been done to so many by so few.”
Vaz looked ecstatic as my three brothers gulped down his Scotch. Then Rich coughed. Kev gagged. And Chris faked a mild seizure, falling on the carpet. Dad and I did not drink; we flicked ours into the flower vase on the table. “Happy birthday, Vaz!” my mom said, sipping her Zam Zam.
Black Five Millionaires: an odd name for a Scotch, perhaps, but an apt one for the five oil republics—Azerbaijan, Iran, Russia, Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan—poised to divide up the black gold beneath the Caspian Sea. Their treasure hunt rekindled the flames of the “Great Game,” the nineteenth-century power struggle for central Asia. Just that week another headline about the Caspian republics asked, Where was the new pipeline going? An estimated two hundred billion barrels of oil were at stake. As the North Sea wells were running dry, the new oilfields acted like magnets for global corporate leaders and war strategists. Would this be the site of the twenty-first century’s Desert Storm? Black Five Millionaires indeed.