A Persian Gem

by Jeff Isaacson

  “How did you know that I went to Harvard?” Key asked.

  “You have the look of the most handsome professor there,” I said.

  There was no visible change in his demeanor after I said that.

  “Really?” he said.

  “That and my dad and mom went there,” I said.

  “But you didn’t?” Key gasped.

  “No,” I shook my head.

  “Who were your dad and mom? Maybe I know them,” Key beamed.

  “I’m sure you don’t know them,” I laughed a nervous laugh. “That was a looong time ago.”

  “I’m not a spring chicken,” Key pointed out.

  “My mom was Priya Iyer. My dad is Winston Harrison,” I eventually said.

  “No shit? Winston Harrison is your father! Wow, you come from good genes! Yeah, I know Winston. Two years behind me.

  You know, I saw a list of the top fifty all time black scientists in any field, and your dad was on that list,” Key smiled.

  “Since when is anthropology a science?” I asked.

  “It’s a social science,” Key nodded. “Top fifty all time. God, what’s he doing these days?”

  “He’s a special assistant in the anthropology department at the University of Minnesota,” I replied.

  “Wow, well Minnesota is lucky to have him,” Key observed. “He’s one of just a handful of people in the world where if all they did was come to campus and put their feet up on their desk, sit there, and do nothing all day, they’d still be worth hiring just so you could brag that Winston f’n Harrison works there.”

  “Well, he does more than that,” I decided.

  “I’m sure he does,” Key nodded. “So did you go to the University of Minnesota then, since your dad was there?”

  “I did,” I agreed.

  “Well, I went to Harvard. See, this is me owning it,” Key chuckled.

  I smiled.

  “Everything that I have told you so far is context for the story that I’m about to tell. And this story leads directly to the delicate situation that we find ourselves in at this moment,” Key sighed.

  “I’m all ears,” I grinned a halfway grin.

  “In my first year at Harvard, I wrote a paper that advocated for decentralizing the role of the Shah in Iran. (Iran was still run by the Shah at that time.) And giving the people of Iran an opportunity to serve in a parliamentary system both so that the people of Iran would have a greater opportunity for autonomy, and, more importantly, as a democratic check on the Shah, who I knew from my Iranian friends was widely despised in Iran. My hope was that democratic participation would serve to channel an undercurrent of revolutionary politics away from factions that were very hostile to the Shah, the United States, and our allies.

  The faculty liked the paper so much that they submitted it on my behalf to some of the leading foreign policy journals. The paper was widely published and attracted a lot of attention internationally among serious foreign policy wonks.

  Because of that, I was able to secure a coveted fellowship with an Iranian academic organization in Tehran. I was only seventeen, and too young to actually accept the fellowship, but they never asked for my age. And I never told them.

  When I returned to Iran for the first time in many years, I realized that this internship was not completely safe, maybe even perilous. They wanted me to act as liaison between a powerful group that supported the Shah and a powerful, emerging group that was frankly close to outright revolt.

  I immediately realized that the situation in Iran was much worse than my friends in Tehran had reported or likely even known. And the paper that I had written from afar had been far too tepid and optimistic. Before I was even halfway through my internship I knew that revolution was probably inevitable.

  It’s a really hopeless feeling being an interlocutor and attending all of these meetings that you know won’t make a damn bit of difference. It was…Kafkaesque to say the least.

  The reason that a seventeen year old kid from Harvard had been dispatched to negotiate with revolutionaries was because I was American. I had credibility because of that. Certainly not because the revolutionaries liked America or me. I had credibility because almost the only thing that everyone agreed on in Iran was that the Shah was an American puppet. If the think tank had sent one of their Iranian scholars to negotiate, the man would’ve been dismissed out of hand. He would not have been seen as having any power to make sure that the revolutionary side’s demands led to actual policy changes.

  The revolutionary side hated me. But they tolerated me…I think merely to give the pretense of not acting rashly or hastily. They met with me to look reasonable in the hearts and minds of more moderate Iranians. I say this because they never agreed to anything other than more talks. I was unable to get them to agree to even a single compromise.

  But there was one person who would be in those meetings sometimes who didn’t hate me. She was the teenage or early twenties daughter of one of those revolutionaries. We often met at his house where she would serve us tea.

  And she had eyes like…I mean wow. I was transported. I believe that Persian women have an ability to communicate with their eyes that is unrivaled in the West. And she was so far beyond the other Persian women that she is beyond even that lofty comparison.

  Those brown eyes, so wise and sensual beyond their years. I can see them right now in my mind. Those were the eyes of Cleopatra, the eyes of Scheherazade come to life and standing right in front of me. They spoke of such peerless intelligence, such a clear and undisturbed mind, and such an absolute perfect love.

  And yes, I knew that she loved me when she looked at me with those brown eyes. And I looked back with as much mystery and reckless passion as I dare, while in the room with her revolutionary father who probably would’ve killed me if he knew that his daughter was in love with me.

  But the secret of our love made it stronger. When our furtive glances would meet, I felt all the ecstasy of a first kiss, all the mad fury of sexual delight, and the eternal happiness of marriage. Except that it was pure and unrefined. It was just a raw, shapeless, naked love made closer to its distilled essence by the lack of any kind of consummation.

  Ours was a forbidden love, but it burned bright in our eyes. We took a vacation to Venice together arm and arm as the gondolier sang a barcarole while the blood orange sun sank. I took our daughter into my arms as she looked on with doting kindness. And we walked through the streets of Tehran, through the empty streets of a city. Everyone else had disappeared in the presence of our overpowering love.

  It may sound crazy to you, but I saw all of these things in her eyes, and, in her way, she made it obvious to me that she also saw them in mine. To us, we went to all of these places. We really did all of these things…”

  “You don’t sound crazy to me,” I said.

  “I don’t?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “So one day I was over at her house. As usual, my negotiations had failed. This daughter, I don’t even know her name. Her dad didn’t feel that she was important enough to even introduce. She came up to me. Again I smelled her unique perfume, rosewater, just a hint of sandalwood, and some mystery flower that I’ve never smelled on anyone but her. Maybe it’s a flower that can only grow in her radiance.

  She came up to me and said in a very low voice, ‘Get to Qom.’

  I looked wildly around. It could mean my life, maybe hers too if our love was uncovered. No one had seen us. Then I realized why she had risked talking to me. It was happening!

  The Iranian revolution was starting! And, as an American, I had to get the hell out of Iran ASAP.

  So I said that I’d come back to the group after another round of negotiating with the Shah’s group. I left.

  I got on my little motorcycle, stopped by my place to get a few essential things, and I headed to Qom. Things happened quickly.

  I had to get through three checkpoints. Fortunately, I had been wise enough to pack my old Vietnamese
passport along with my United States one. They were surprised to see a Vietnamese passport at every checkpoint and commented on it. But they let me through.

  I heard gunshots and explosions in the background as I made my way out of Tehran. But I encountered no obstacles after I left Tehran and made good time to Qom. I got directions to the airport and presented my Vietnamese passport again. This was more of a gamble. My Vietnamese passport was from before the new Vietnamese government had taken over and issued new passports. My passport had not expired, but it was no longer current. Fortunately, they didn’t notice. And I bought a one way ticket to Cairo. From Cairo, I bought a one way ticket to London. From London, I bought a one way ticket to New York. And I spent every dollar that I had made from that internship escaping the revolution.

  But some were much less fortunate.

  I didn’t think about the Shah, the Iranian revolution, and the rest of the internship much after it was all behind me, except for that bewitching woman. I think of her all the time. Perhaps it’s why I never married. Maybe I was hoping that she’d just call me out of the blue and say let’s get married. I swear that even today, if she called me and said to meet her somewhere in five minutes because we’re getting married, I’d do it.

  But I never thought that I’d ever really hear from her again. But then lo and behold this strange letter, covered in the scent of her perfume, written in Farsi arrives one day. She asked me if I would do her a favor. She didn’t say what it was. She just told me that if my answer was yes, I should find a certain account on a certain encrypted app and we would talk further.

  Well, I was in love. And she saved my life.

  So anyway, eventually she tells me that what she wants me to do is to take ten different ATM cards that were going to mysteriously show up in my mailbox some Sunday, withdraw two hundred dollars every week with each one of those cards for ten weeks, put the money in a briefcase, sit at the far end of this South Seas bar at a specific time, and just leave the briefcases behind and get out of there.

  That’s literally all I knew. Now from what you said, I surmise that what I did was pay off that BASE jumper distraction, which likely means that my true love is a cutout and ringleader for the Iranian government’s effort to reclaim the Turquoise Egg by means fair or foul,” Key sighed.

  “So you think that this is an official Iranian government project,” I stated.

  “Officially unofficial,” Key nodded. “They’re using my love as a cutout so that if she goes down, she’s close, but not officially connected to the government. They’re probably not using any of their own people. I’m guessing that they hired a team of highly skilled international jewel thieves. Such people aren’t that hard to find, if you know where to look. But my guess is that the leader of the theft was someone that the Iranian government trusts more than they trust mercenary jewel thieves. My guess is that the person who led the theft is an Iranian American with local knowledge who wouldn’t look out of place on the island, who may even be lukewarm at best toward the revolution and progressive in a lot of ways, but who certainly believes that Iran has been cheated out of one of its classic treasures and is willing to do something to right that perceived wrong even if it requires stealing. It’s probably a pretty strange but effective group of bedfellows.”

  “Would the people involved in this care if that Iranian American was gay…in your opinion?” I wondered.

  “There’s a lot that can be overlooked in things that aren’t official. There’s probably nothing too egregious to them if the person is competent,” Key nodded. “In my opinion.”

  “Do you think that the woman, your long distance lover, was in Sanibel or Captiva? Maybe still is?” I asked.

  “Of course I’ve thought about it, dreamed about it, longed for it, but it’s impossible. If she’s the cutout, then it would be careless if she left Iran. And I believe that a lot of Americans think of the Iranian government as religious crackpot fanatics, but the Iranians are very calculating. Unfortunately for me, the Iranians are not careless,” Key sighed.

  I took a drink of my terrible iced coffee.

  “So are you going to turn me in?” Key asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t dare put someone with your boyish good lucks in prison,” I smiled my most charming smile.

  At that point, his phone rang. He fished it out of his pants pocket. He looked at it and scowled.

  “I have to take this,” he sighed.

  Key listened for a long time before he just said, “Ok,” and hung up.

  “I have to go,” he insisted. “You’re sure we’re cool.”

  “Yes, but we could be even cooler,” I leaned toward him.

  “That’ll have to wait for another time,” he insisted.

  I don’t know what came over me, but I attacked that man. I jumped up, and I almost violently kissed him.

  His eyes were wide. He took a step back with a stagger. It was obvious that he hadn’t realized that I was romantically interested in him until that moment, and that he had never considered me until then.

  “What, you don’t like?” I asked.

  “N-n-n-ooo,” he sputtered. “I like very much. You’re…you’re like a-a sexier version of Norah Jones-not that Norah’s not sexy, but I really have to go.

  If-if you’re in town for a while. I can I can get your number. I don’t really even have time for that, but I’ll make time. Hopefully this business uh finishes quickly.

  But I have to catch a plane.”

  I gave him my number. He was so cute when he was nervous. He was like a shy schoolboy. I didn’t think that it was possible to be any more attracted to him, but I was.

  I set out to walk back to Farhad’s. It was dark. And I mean dark. There are no lights in Sanibel, at least none that I could see. I didn’t dare walk on the street. So I walked along Key’s lawn. And then! I saw it!

  It was a person! It looked like an old woman bent over like the old crone in the young girl/old crone picture where you can see two different people in the same image. It was her! It was that mysterious Iranian woman! Was she here for Key? Was she here to warn me? Or was she here to harm me?

  Or was she a mailbox?

  She was a mailbox.

  I almost walked into it.

  11

  I found everyone in the lounge when I got back to Farhad’s place.

  “There are leftovers in the fridge,” Farhad told me. “Or, if you just want a drink, you can sneak behind the bar and take whatever you want. I know I’m a terrible host, but I’m in the middle of a snooker tournament right now. I do hope that you will join us for the second round. We would love to have you, and it would give us an even number of players.”

  I didn’t feel like eating anything. My stomach was still full of ecstatic butterflies from attacking Key with a kiss. I believed that I could still taste his lips on mine. Food would just wash that away. But a beer…

  I went behind the bar. I eventually found what I was pretty sure was a beer. I found a bottle opener and popped the top to a chorus of bubbles and a slight exhale of steam.

  Thad was already sitting at the bar by the time I got back around to the pink and white bar stools on the other side.

  “I’m a terrible snooker player,” Thad confessed.

  By which I guess he meant that he was first loser in their tournament? Well, he was playing Farhad, and it’s his table.

  “I have a question for you,” I said.

  “Which is?” Thad perked up.

  “I’m no Islamic scholar, but this can’t possibly be halal can it?” I asked turning the label of my beer bottle toward Thad.

  “That isn’t Arabic,” Thad studied the label. “That’s Farsi. I know that much.”

  “Yes, but the Iranian Republic is an Islamic Republic isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Yeah, duh,” Thad studied the bottle. “Maybe it only looks like beer, and it’s some kind of soda.”

  I took a drink.

  “I’m pretty sure that it’s technically b
eer, Thad,” I declared.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have taken that. Maybe that was like some black market Iranian beer that Farhad had to trade two brand new pairs of jeans and a Michael Jackson album for,” Thad decided.

  “He said anything. I just wanted a beer. I would’ve even settled for cheap, mass market domestic. This seemed to be the only beer that he had,” I said.

  “Well, enjoy it, and just hope he wasn’t saving his black market Persian home brew for the wedding,” Thad shook his head.

  “Where’s that guy you were with?” I asked.

  “He just wanted to sugar,” Thad sighed.

  “Everyone wants sugar,” I replied.

  “No, see, you don’t know what I’m talking about because you’re not a total bitch...”

  “I’m going to put that on my tombstone. ‘Thad said she wasn’t a total bitch’,” I laughed.

  “Sugaring is when you only give affection to someone after they give you a large gift, or take you on a fancy vacation, or something like that. It’s basically high class prostitution, and I wouldn’t pay it on principle,” Thad announced.

  I took another drink of my black market beer.

  “Well, maybe if I had like a lot of money,” Thad hedged. “But where’s your little daddy issue.”

  “Please don’t say that Thad. He didn’t get the hint and kept insisting on finding out when my dad went to Harvard. And guess what?” I shook my head.

  “What?” Thad leaned toward me.

  “He did know my dad when he was in college. In fact, he was actually two years ahead of my dad. However, my boy started at sixteen, which means that they’re basically the same age.

  But that didn’t stop me, Thad. I attacked that man. Like a cougar,” I confessed.

  “If anyone is a cougar in all of this it’s him,” Thad declared. “So what happened? Give me all the juicy details.”

  “His phone rang. He said he had to take it. After the phone call, he said he had to leave immediately. Then I jumped on him and kissed him. He has my number. Hopefully he’ll be back in Sanibel by the wedding.