Every summer, my mother and I spent about two months at the cottage, but my father couldn’t take such a long time off work and only stayed with us for a couple of weeks. Then, he came up every other weekend or so. For years, I spent my days at the cottage biking, building sand castles, swimming, chasing ducks, and playing with local kids. Free to do whatever I wished all day, I would only go home for dinner and to sleep. As years went by and I grew, my summer days remained the same with the exception that my daily adventures covered more ground and took me farther from home. At the age of twelve, I could explore the town on my bike in half a day. Following the old, narrow streets lined with small white houses, I would go to the market. The rice cookies and koloocheh s—ground walnut-and sugar-filled cookies—I bought from the bakery sustained me on the many days I skipped lunch. The fish markets were filled with the loud voices of vendors, the strong smell of fish, and the fragrance of fresh herbs.
One of my favorite spots was a bridge that connected the two sides of the harbor. Standing on the bridge, I watched the boats and ships go by. The blue waters stretched to the horizon, heavy ships tore the surface of the sea into a white foam, and saltwater air filled my lungs. I especially loved the fog; it made the harbor seem dreamy and unreal. Not able to see much through the mist, I could hear the paddles of a boat slicing the water, and then the boat would emerge, appearing as if from another world.
When I was about ten years old, my mother’s eldest sister, Zenia, bought a cottage about four miles outside of Ghazian in a recently developed subdivision complete with tennis and basketball courts, restaurants, and swimming pools. Here, expensive houses, which were surrounded by perfect lawns and waist-high white metal fencing, gleamed with fresh paint and kids rode their bikes on clean streets.
Aunt Zenia didn’t look like the rest of the family. She was blond with blue eyes, and everything about her was big. She had a very big house in Tehran, a big car, and even a big chauffeur. Her husband, who had been killed in a car accident two years after Grandma’s death, had owned a meat-processing factory in the city of Rasht about twenty-two miles from our cottage. After his death, my aunt had taken over the business and had done quite well. Her daughter, whose name was also Marina but whom everyone called Marie, was my mother’s favorite. She was twenty years older than I, a petite woman who always seemed tense when her mother was around. They were both stubborn and strong-headed and argued constantly about everything.
In 1978, when I was thirteen, Marie and her husband spent all of the summer at my aunt’s cottage, and my mother and I visited them almost every day. Aunt Zenia was rarely at her cottage and spent most of her time at her factory, where she had a small but comfortable apartment, or at her house in Tehran.
During my daily excursions on my bike, I noticed that teenagers were hanging out at one of the basketball courts. Each day, they showed up at about five in the evening. Boys played basketball, and girls sat in the shade, chatting and cheering them on. Finally one day, I decided to approach them. In small groups of two or three, about fifteen girls were sitting on the grass. I left my bike by a tree and walked to them. No one seemed to have noticed me. I spotted a girl sitting by herself on top of a picnic table and sat next to her. She looked at me and smiled. Her straight light brown hair reached her waist, and she was wearing white shorts and a white T-shirt. She looked familiar. I introduced myself, and her eyes widened with recognition. We realized we went to the same school, but she was a couple of years older than I, and we had never talked. Like me, her aunt owned a cottage nearby, and she and her family were staying with her aunt for awhile. Her name was Gita.
One of the boys scored, and the girls clapped and cheered. He turned around and called out to a girl who was sitting close to us, “Neda, will you get me a Coke? I’m dying of thirst.”
He was about five feet nine with large dark eyes that sat above strong cheek bones. His straight black hair bounced as he ran. Neda reluctantly stood up and shook the grass clippings from her white shorts. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tucked behind her ears.
“Who’s coming with me?” she called out to the girls, and a few joined her. They walked to the other side of the narrow street to a fast-food restaurant called Moby Dick.
Whispering to me, Gita pointed out a young man standing on the other side of the court. He was about six feet two, two hundred pounds, and looked at least twenty. The petite blond girl standing next to him didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Gita said his name was Ramin and that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.
“I’ll get him one day; he’s mine,” she said.
My girlfriends had always been my age, and my experience with boys was quite limited. I had never considered “getting” a boy.
“Hello there,” someone said from behind us. “Gita, who’s your new friend?”
It was Neda. Gita introduced us. I discovered that Neda had a cousin who went to our school and whom I knew quite well. At the end of our conversation, Neda invited me to her birthday party the next day.
I had the perfect dress to wear to Neda’s party. A few months earlier, my mother had decided to order some clothes for herself from a German catalogue, and she had offered to order something for me as well. I chose a white dress. It wasn’t too expensive but was beautiful. It had an open neckline, and its fabric was lacy and light. For Neda’s party, the plan was to go swimming first and then to her place for dinner and dancing. Gita had told me to wear my bathing suit under my regular clothes and to bring my dress along.
On the day of the party, I woke up even earlier than usual and spent hours in the bathroom. I tried on all my bathing suits and, each time, stared at my reflection in the mirror, devastated by every flaw I saw: my arms were too thin, my hips too big, and my chest too flat. Finally, I decided to wear the white bikini Marie had given me. She had recently taken a trip to Europe, had bought herself new bathing suits, and had given me her old ones. I wrapped my white sandals in a plastic bag, folded my dress, and put everything in a canvas beach bag. It was ten o’clock in the morning. On most days, we left for Marie’s at around ten-thirty. My mother didn’t drive, and we always took a cab when my father was not around. I could hear my mother rattling around in the kitchen, which was odd; she was never in the kitchen at this time of day.
“Maman, I’m ready,” I said, beach bag in hand, standing in the kitchen doorway.
The air smelled of fish. She was washing a large cutting board and looked at me from the corner of her eye.
“Ready for what? We aren’t going anywhere today.”
The kitchen counters were covered with bowls of different sizes and pots and pans.
“But…”
“There are no ‘buts’! Your Uncle Ismael and his wife are here from Tehran to visit Marie. Your Aunt Zenia is here, too. They’re all coming over for lunch and dinner today, and we’ll be playing cards. They’ll probably sleep over tonight.”
“But I’m invited to a birthday party tonight!”
“Well, you can’t go.”
“But—”
She turned around to face me. I could feel her anger fill the kitchen.
“Don’t you understand the meaning of the word ‘no?’”
I turned around, went to my room, and plopped down on my bed. I could take a cab myself; I had enough money. But my mother wouldn’t let me. Maybe I could sneak out. But then I had to be home before dark, which was my curfew unless I had told my mother where I was going. I heard a car pull into our driveway, its tires scrunching against the wet sand. Looking out the window, I saw Aunt Zenia’s chauffeur, Mortezah, a polite man in his late twenties, open the back door of her brand-new Chevrolet. My mother rushed out of the front door and down the steps and embraced her sister. Mortezah opened the trunk and took out a small suitcase. Then they all walked into the house. I remained by the window, my heart pounding with frustration.
“Roohi, get me a glass of cold water!” I heard Aunt Zenia call out to my mother with her sharp, demandin
g voice. “Marie has taken Ismael and Kahmi to town for something. They’ll be here soon. Where’s Marina? I have something for her.”
“She’s around. Probably sulking in her room.”
The door of my bedroom burst open.
“What’s going on, Marina? You don’t even say hello to your aunt anymore?”
I stepped forward, embraced her, kissing her on the cheeks. Although her skin was damp and sweaty, she smelled of Chanel No. 5. She squeezed me, and I found myself drowning in her large bosom. She finally let go, took a delicate bracelet out of her purse, and put it on my wrist. It was lovely. Aunt Zenia always gave me beautiful things. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
“You’ve been crying? What for?”
“I’m invited to a party tonight, and I can’t go.”
She laughed. “And why can’t you go?”
“Well—”
“Because I’m here?”
“Yes.” I looked down.
“I might be old now, but I used to be young, you know. Young and beautiful. And, believe it or not, I remember what it was like.”
I held my breath.
“Mortezah will take you to this party and pick you up.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Cinderella. You can go. But be home by midnight.”
I thanked Mortezah when he dropped me off in front of Neda’s house, promised to be waiting for him right there at midnight, and waved as he drove away. I followed the gray stepping-stones that poked through the grass in Neda’s front yard. She was standing on the porch, which encircled the one-story cottage, chatting with two girls. The back of the building faced the sea, and I could hear the waves gurgling against the sandy shore. Soon everyone arrived. All the girls left their bags in Neda’s bedroom and the boys in her brother’s, and we ran to the beach. We played tag and water polo until everyone was starving, and then we headed back to the house. In Neda’s room, when I opened my beach bag to get my dress, I realized I had forgotten to put in a bra or underwear. I had to keep my bathing suit on, which was okay; although a little wet, it was white and wasn’t going to show.
After a dinner of cold cuts, fresh bread, and different kinds of salads, we pushed all the furniture in the living room aside and the sound of the Bee Gees filled the air. Neda danced with Aram, the handsome basketball player who had asked her to get him a Coke when I had first met her. Neda’s perfectly tanned body looked beautiful against her white dress, and I noticed Aram whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. Most people were soon paired off, and I found myself standing alone in a corner, sipping a bottle of Coke. When it was finished, I busied myself by opening another bottle and filling a plate with potato chips. Song after song was played, and I ate so many chips my stomach hurt, but no one asked me to dance. Gita danced with Ramin, the big guy from the basketball court. His hands moved up and down her back. She was blushing. I glanced at my watch: ten o’clock. I had been standing there for an hour, and for all this time, no one had said a word to me. Feeling out of place, embarrassed, awkward, and sad all at once, I just wanted to get out of the room.
The door to the back porch was only a step away from me. I opened it and took another glance around the room—no one reacted. I stepped outside. The half moon had spread its silver light over the sea, and the air was calm. I had to do something. Maybe I could go for a swim. Swimming always made me feel better. I had swum at night many times before. In the moonlight, the sea became one with the sky and turned into a warm, silver body of darkness. I stepped down the few steps that connected the porch to the yard and started to unzip my dress, but as I let it slide to the ground, a voice startled me: “What are you doing?”
By a lawn chair in a corner of the yard, stood a young man with his hands covering his eyes.
“You scared me!” I said, and my heart struggled to regain its normal rhythm. “What’re you doing hiding there?”
“I wasn’t hiding! I was sitting here, on this chair, getting some fresh air. Then, along comes a girl who undresses right in front of me!” He seemed more scared than I was, which was amusing. He looked no more than sixteen and was still covering his eyes.
“Have you put your dress back on?”
“What’s wrong with you? I’m not naked. I have my bathing suit on. I’m going for a swim.”
“Are you crazy?” he said, taking his hands off his eyes. “You’re going swimming in the middle of the night in those dark waters?”
“It isn’t too dark; the moon is out.”
“No, no! You’re going to drown, and I’ll never forgive myself!”
“I won’t drown.”
“I won’t let you go.”
He had stepped closer to me, now standing about two feet away.
“Okay, okay, I give up. I won’t go,” I said, pulling my dress back on.
His large dark eyes looked at me from above slightly raised cheekbones. His small, somehow childlike mouth contrasted with his otherwise strong-featured face. He was about two inches taller than I and had very short brown hair. What caught me by surprise was the look in his eyes, which made me feel unique, special, and beautiful. His name was Arash.
Now that I couldn’t go for a swim, I decided to sit outside. I sank into a comfortable lawn chair but was too aware of Arash. I could hear him breathe. After about ten minutes, he stood up, and I jumped.
“Do you enjoy scaring me?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. Have to go. Don’t go swimming, okay?”
“Okay.”
I watched him walk away and enter the cottage. A minute later, Neda came out, called my name, and asked me to go inside; she was going to cut her cake.
A few days after the party, I was riding my bike to the beach to meet Gita. There was some sand on the road due to construction, and I turned too fast. My bike slid to one side, and I fell. I managed to get up, but one of my knees and one of my elbows were bleeding. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon and far too hot, so the street was deserted. At least no one had seen me fall like that. As I was trying to get my bike off the road, I felt someone standing behind me. I turned. It was Arash, and he looked as surprised as I was.
“Do you always appear out of thin air?” I asked.
“Are you a daredevil?” He laughed and examined my scratches. “We have to clean you up. That’s my aunt’s cottage,” he said, pointing to the cottage at the corner.
He carried my bike, and I followed him. My scratches were stinging. I had tears in my eyes but took a deep breath and didn’t complain. I didn’t want him to think of me as a weak little girl.
“I was sitting on the porch, watching the street, and there you came at a hundred miles per hour and crash! You’re lucky your neck isn’t broken,” he said.
Blue hydrangeas and pink roses had taken over the white walls of the cottage, and the silver-green branches of an enormous weeping willow brushed against the red shingles covering its roof.
Arash held the door open, and I stepped in. The scent of freshly baked cookies wafted in the air.
“Grandma, I have a guest!” he called.
A handsome old woman with silver-gray hair came into the room from the kitchen. She was wearing a blue dress, wiping her wet hands on her white apron. She looked very much like my grandmother.
“What happened?” she asked in Russian as she looked at me and noticed the blood. I couldn’t believe it; she spoke like my grandmother. Grasping my arm, she led me to the kitchen as Arash explained what had happened. She even fussed the way Grandma used to, and before I knew it, I was cleaned up, disinfected, and bandaged. Soon, a cup of tea and a homemade cookie appeared on the table in front of me.
“Please, help yourself,” she said in Persian but with a strong Russian accent.
“Thank you,” I answered in Russian.
Her eyes twinkled with surprise. “A Russian girl!” she said with a big smile. “How nice! Now you have a girlfriend! Not even an ordinary girlfriend, but a nice Russian one!”
&nb
sp; Arash’s face turned scarlet.
“Grandma, that’s enough! She isn’t my girlfriend!”
I laughed.
“You can say whatever you want, but it’s so nice. Good for you. I’ll leave you young people alone,” his grandmother said and walked out of the kitchen calling “How wonderful,” over and over again.
“You have to excuse my grandmother,” said Arash. “She’s very old and sometimes gets confused.”
“Have you shown her your flute?” yelled his grandma from another room.
Arash changed color again.
“What flute?”
“It’s not important. I play the flute for fun. It’s not a big deal.”
“I’ve never known anyone who could play the flute. Will you play for me?”
“Sure,” he answered, not sounding very enthusiastic.
I followed him to his room, where he took a silver flute out of a long, black box and ran his fingers along the body of the sleek instrument. Soon, a sad song filled the room. I sat on his bed and leaned against the wall. He stood in front of me, his body moving with the music as if it were a part of him, as if he had thought it into existence. His eyes stared ahead as if dreaming, seeing what no one else could see. The white cotton curtain danced in front of the open window, catching swirls of sunlight and shade. I had never known music to be so beautiful. His eyes searched mine when he finished playing, but I was left speechless. I found out that he had written the piece himself, but he was very modest about it. He asked me if I played any musical instruments, and I said I didn’t. Then he asked me about my age and was shocked when I told him I was thirteen; he thought I was at least sixteen. And I was surprised to find out he was eighteen.
I liked the way he looked at me when I talked to him. He sat back in his chair, rested an elbow on the armrest, put his hand under his chin, and smiled, his eyes giving me all their attention. The way he paused a few seconds before answering my questions made me feel that our conversation mattered to him. I asked him if he wanted to come for a walk with me the next morning, and he said he did.
Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) Page 7
