Divided Loyalties

by Nilofar Shidmehr

  “I’m sorry I can’t show you the bathroom,” she’d say. “My aunt is visiting and she is in there.” She couldn’t believe how many people walked away just because they couldn’t see the bathroom.

  Parvaaneh waited for months for someone to make an offer. It was from a family with five children, two of them intellectually disabled. The father, who had come to see the house, didn’t mind that he couldn’t see the bathroom. He also didn’t mind the cancellation clause.

  They started planning Navid’s trip as soon as the offer was made. First they thought of traveling west to find someone who would take Navid to Turkey through the mountains. But that was the route that everybody took, including those affiliated with outlawed political groups. There were rumors that every day more and more of those who did take it were arrested. Also, the route itself was dangerous and difficult. The journey took several days on horseback, by mule, or on foot through the mountains. And even when the fugitives made it to the other side, the Turkish police were a threat. They could send the runaways back to rot in jail or be executed.

  Later, Parvaaneh found out about smugglers in the south who took people by boat to Dubai from Bandar Abbas or other coastal places. She paid the first instalment to a smuggler’s contact in Tehran with the money she’d saved for her dowry. But when the departure date arrived, she didn’t let Navid go. News was spreading about those who had drowned in the Persian Gulf when their boats overturned, or when they were pushed into the dark ocean in the middle of the night by the smugglers themselves when they heard the roaring of the Revolutionary Guards’ boat engines in the distance, or when they were shot dead by the United Arab Emirates Coast Guard.

  The Aras River, which separated Iran and Azerbaijan, was the last route of escape. With luck, the Soviets would not turn Navid back. Nasser told Navid that he should give his name to the police when he made it to Soviet soil and ask them to send him to East Germany. From there, he would be able to sneak into West Germany, where Nasser lived, and claim refugee status. Parvaaneh used the deposit on the sale to pay for another smuggler who promised to drive Navid to an unguarded shore of the Aras where he could safely cross to the other side. To ease her feelings about having to move out of their childhood home, she thought about herself as a parvaaneh, as a metaphor for self-sacrifice. It was surprising how much she resembled the woman on that awful TV program.

  * * *

  Thinking about the bride of the wheelchair man featured in the TV show, Parvaaneh recalls the woman’s recitation of the Koran: “God created for you wives from among yourselves, that you many find repose in them, and He has put between you affection and mercy. Verily, in that are indeed signs for a people who reflect.” Bowing her head to the amputee, the woman had concluded that, following the teaching in this verse, she believed her only purpose in life was to submit to and serve her husband, and try as best as she could to create a home that would give him repose. As a result, God had created affection between her and this man. Love before marriage was not necessary, she said. Women needed only to obey God’s order and love would follow.

  The recollection makes Parvaaneh re-examine her own idea of self-sacrifice. Were women created to take care of men’s needs and give them peace of mind? Yes, she had devoted herself for the last little while to saving her brother’s life. And she was known for her legendary, Job-like patience with her little brother. But none of that meant she must forget about her own life or continue to devote herself to the same task for the rest of it. She also had a place in creation.

  Parvaaneh turns away from watching the patrols along Revolution Street. The bus has filled with new passengers and is now packed on both sides. A fat woman donned in black from head to toe is standing by Parvaaneh’s seat and holds the bar above her. Her sleeve has slipped back, and a small portion of her forearm is exposed to sight. She is wearing several gold bracelets that knock against one another and jingle as the bus moves along.

  Good for her, Parvaaneh thinks. She has her marriage gold to sell when worse comes to worst, which is what is happening to Parvaaneh now. She has to move out of the house by the end of this month, when the new owner takes possession. Even though the money she will receive from the buyer in two weeks is enough to lease a room near Sima, most families do not accept single women as renters. What is she going to do if nobody accepts her? She cannot live with her uncle Reza and his family all her life. Nor can she live with Sima and her husband for longer than a short time. The only solution will be to rent a place north of Tehran, where people are more open-minded. But they’ll want monthly rent in addition to a large sum as the lease. Still, with her father’s pension that she receives every month and the small allowance Nasser sends her, she’ll at least be able to afford to pay the rent and her monthly expenses.

  Parvaaneh drops her eyes from the fat woman’s bracelets. As difficult as the situation is, selling the house is not the worst thing that has happened to her. And thanks to Navid, who’d insisted on the cancellation clause, there is still a chance to stop the sale and keep the house. No, the worst was losing her virginity to the sergeant. There is no way to cancel that. She can feel the scar between her legs as she restlessly shuffles in her seat. The fat woman moves aside and asks if she wants to get off at the next stop.

  “No,” Parvaaneh says with a raspy voice. She turns to the window and closes her eyes as the light bouncing off the woman’s wrist reflects on her face. Maybe it is shame that has made this lump in her throat. Having lost her virginity to the sergeant, she is no longer able to have a good long-term marriage in the future. No decent man wants to marry the sigheh of another man. A sigheh’s usefulness expires after she fulfils her role of providing pleasure during the short-term marital contract. This is especially unfortunate because now that she no longer needs to worry about Navid, she has been looking forward to being able to work on her own life and possibly settling down with a good man. At least she hopes that will be the case. In her mind, she constructs the scene that she hopes is about to be realized: Sima opens the door, embraces Parvaaneh at the threshold, her face wet with the tears of joy, and murmurs in her ear that her brother has already called, that he’s safely made it to the other shore of the Aras. This could happen in just a few minutes — if only the bus would move, for God’s sake!

  And what if when she gets there Sima shakes her head and says Navid has not called yet? What if he never calls? This last question pops Parvaaneh’s eyes open again. The bus is still stuck in traffic and she is stuck in it, feeling even more anxious than the day she and Navid were in the smuggler’s car, moving down the curvy road toward Namin.

  * * *

  The smuggler had said they were close to the Aras, but the short drive seemed to drag on forever. The mountains on the Soviet side were gray with a purplish hue around their peaks. Parvaaneh took her purse and slung it across her body.

  “We’re getting there,” the smuggler said when he noticed her restlessness.

  She was the first one out of the car when they finally arrived.

  “You see that trail?” The man pointed to a clearing on the left side of the road. “It takes you down to the river.” He stared straight ahead and kept the engine running.

  “Okay.” Navid nodded his head. “Thank you.”

  “Good luck,” the driver replied. “I’ll take your sister back to the town.”

  But Parvaaneh didn’t get back into the car. Instead, she stayed with her brother. Navid was pale. Parvaaneh embraced him, pursing her lips, holding back a cry that was welling up in her throat.

  “Call Sima, okay?” she gasped.

  �
�I will.” Navid rubbed his forehead against hers.

  “Get back in the car, lady,” the smuggler shouted impatiently. “I need to get some cigarettes.”

  She didn’t budge.

  “Hey, you! Didn’t I tell you it’s dangerous to stay here?” the man shouted again.

  “You should leave now,” Parvaaneh told Navid.

  She embraced him once more before dropping her arms.

  As she was about to turn, Navid grabbed her arm. “Promise me you’ll go and stay with Uncle Reza or with Sima after you’ve turned the house over to the buyer,” Navid murmured into her ears, “at least until you find a place to lease. Okay?”

  “Tell your sister to get in or I’ll go,” the man shouted. “Like you, I also don’t want to die.”

  “Okay, we heard you,” Navid yelled toward the driver and then hugged his sister one last time. “I’ll bring you to the other side when I am settled. You know that, don’t you? Yes?”

  Parvaaneh was silent.

  “It won’t take long. I promise.”

  Parvaaneh shook her head. “Don’t worry about me. I am a woman, I’ll survive.”

  She straightened the collar of the brown waterproof jacket she’d bought for him. “Take care of yourself, and don’t forget to call,” she said before returning to the car and closing the passenger door.

  Parvaaneh looked back as soon as the car started moving away. Navid ran up an embankment toward the woods and disappeared into the trees.

  She hesitated, then turned around and looked at the road ahead. The driver was going full speed, taking her farther and farther from her brother. She suddenly started shivering and bent over to ease a sharp pain in her stomach.

  “Are you all right?” The driver stopped the car.

  It was as if a million butterflies, all black, were beating their wings in her head, smothering her. She could hardly breathe. And deep inside, a voice was telling her that something bad was going to happen to Navid; that he was in danger; that she should immediately go back and help him. She held her head between her hands.

  The driver got out and opened the passenger door for her. “What’s wrong, lady?” he said. “Lanat bar Sheytaan.”

  She only regained her composure when the driver pulled her out of the car. He went around to his side of the vehicle, brought out a thermos he kept under the driver’s seat, and offered her a sip. Parvaaneh took a gulp. The water was stale and hot.

  “Now say God’s name and get back inside.”

  Instead, she turned and ran back the way they had come. Her feet carried her along the road; her body flew as if her previous panic had doubled her strength.

  “Wait!” the man shouted after her. “What are you doing? Are you crazy? I am not going to wait here for you.”

  She could not have cared less about the man’s shouting, or the sound of the car starting and then driving away.

  The cool air refreshed her. She inhaled deeply as her arms swung by her side and her feet propelled her forward at full steam. She veered off the road and along the short trail through the woods. With each breath, she felt the nasty black butterflies fly free, turn to colored ones, and fly with her out toward the Aras.

  When Parvaaneh, out of breath, reached the riverbank, she saw that Navid had made it only to the middle of the river. His black head bobbing on the water was all she could see from that distance. She made her way to the river’s edge to watch his progress, but the sound of traffic from the road drew her attention: it was an engine, one that sounded as if it belonged to a vehicle much bigger than the smuggler’s worn-out car.

  When she heard the car come to a stop, she turned back and scrambled up the muddy rise. If she could intercept whoever was approaching, maybe she could keep them busy long enough for Navid to make his way to safety. Before stepping out toward the road, she stopped and glanced through the trees one more time to see if Navid had made any more progress.

  Stepping out of the woods, she saw — too late — two armed men in khaki desert military fatigues. They ran toward Parvaaneh, their guns trained on her. Fortunately, as the color of their uniforms indicated, they belonged to the army. The Revolutionary Guards’ fatigues were green.

  “What were you up to down there by the river, lady?” one of them, a bearded corporal, asked in a thick Azeri accent. The private, a lanky, pimple-faced man, stood some steps behind him, still aiming his gun at her. He looked down at the hem of Parvaaneh’s black coat, dirty with mud.

  She answered in Azeri, her mother’s tongue, in an effort to appear as a local, to look less suspicious. She was aware of her Farsi accent. “I went down to see the river, I was on my way —”

  “Really?” The corporal didn’t let Parvaaneh finish. He turned to the private. “Go and check down there. I’ll take her to the station.”

  “I . . . you know . . . ” — Parvaaneh blocked the private’s way and continued — “wanted to go to the village. I paid a driver to take me there but . . . ” She left her sentence unfinished and looked up the road, as if after a departing car. “Didn’t you see it?”

  “No,” the private said, sizing her up. “What kind of car was it?”

  “I don’t know about the brand, but it wasn’t a Paykan.”

  “Maybe he went that way. We came from Astara,” the private said, trying to push his way past Parvaaneh to reach the trail.

  Parvaaneh stopped him again. “It was my fault. I told him I wanted to see the river. I didn’t think he would be so impatient.” She forced herself to cry. “He left without me. Who is going to take me to the village now?”

  “Which village?”

  “Namin. I came to buy free-range eggs and dairy from local farmers.” She sat on her knees and started wailing, knowing that her answer was so bizarre that even a child would know she was lying.

  The private shouted at her to compose herself, and then shook his head. Lowering his tone, as if talking to himself, he added, “Only Tehrani people would do such a strange thing.” Even though her story made no sense, the private seemed to believe it.

  The corporal did not look convinced; his expression, however, indicated confusion. Good! Parvaaneh continued to moan, rocking her body back and forth. “What should I do now? Can you take me to the village? Please.”

  “We’ll take you to Astara and you can get the bus home from there,” the private said.

  “But I want to go to the village! My aunt won’t accept me if I don’t have what she sent me to get. Last night, the old woman craved free-run eggs and local butter and cheese badly. She said, ‘Don’t come back before you get them.’ Now what can I tell her?” Parvaaneh was amazed at herself, instantly making up an entire story this way. Her great-aunt, who could hardly hear a thing, would probably just shake her head in amazement if asked to confirm Parvaaneh’s story.

  “You can find a new driver in Astara.”

  “But I don’t have any money left. I already gave it to the other driver. Couldn’t you take me to the village? Please!” she said in a theatrical way.

  The private turned to his superior for an answer.

  “Leave the woman to me — she’s lying,” the corporal shouted. “I told you to go and see if anyone is down by the river.”

  “Yes, sir.” This time, the private passed Parvaaneh before she could get in his way.

  “I’ll send somebody to pick you up,” the corporal shouted after the private. Then he turned to Parvaaneh. “Pull yourself together and get in.”

  She got up and climbed into the Jeep, beside the corporal. The private had just reached the aspens marking the edge of the trail. The co
rporal shouted after him. “If you see anyone swimming, shoot him before he reaches the other side. Shoot the bastard.” Then he sat back and cranked up the engine.

  * * *

  Parvaaneh sat alone in an office. With its almost empty walls and minimal furniture, including a rusty metal table and one chair with a black vinyl seat, the space looked like a teenage boy’s room. Like Nasser’s room before he left Iran. “I can’t let you go until you’ve answered some questions,” the corporal had said before he left. “Wait here. The sergeant will be with you soon.”

  The police station was outside Astara in a protected area fenced by barbed wire, overlooking the mountains. At each corner, a guard post stood over the yard. As Parvaaneh had gotten out of the car, a military convoy passed by. The corporal waved at the soldiers crammed inside before guiding Parvaaneh into the building. He took Parvaaneh to the main office, to the left of the corridor. Parvaaneh sat herself on the only chair, wondering where the sergeant was going to sit. The paint on the walls was dirty and already peeling. Pictures of Imam Khomeini and his future heir, Ayatollah Montazeri, hung side by side above the desk. They loomed over Parvaaneh.

  There was a smaller room just off of this one, separated by a half-open sliding door. As soon as the corporal left, Parvaaneh crossed the room and peeked through. There was a foldable aluminium bed set by the wall, with a thin gray blanket on top. On a coat rack facing the bed hung some men’s clothing — pajamas and a sleeveless sweatshirt. A small window on the wall to the left overlooked the back of the building. It was closed. After this quick inspection, Parvaaneh returned to her chair and sat straight and still, waiting for the sergeant to show up.

  After a while, Parvaaneh laid her head on the metal table. Its cool surface gave her a chill. The minutes passed and again she felt a surge of anxiety in her stomach with every breath. The black butterflies were back in her head, and they’d brought with them a throbbing urge to get out, to go back to the river and make sure Navid wasn’t dead. It was silent outside except for the occasional sound of a car passing by. She got up again and paced the room. Had they arrested Navid? If so, would they bring him here or send him somewhere else? If she stayed here, she might be able to find out. She decided she shouldn’t leave.