by Marina Nemat
The next morning his grandmother waved to us from the porch of the cottage.
“She’s driving me crazy. She still thinks you’re my girlfriend and wants you to come over for lunch today.”
“I’d love to come, if it’s fine with you.”
He looked at me with questioning eyes.
“I mean, if inviting me was only your grandma’s idea, and you don’t want me to come, you can tell me.”
“Of course I want you to come.”
“That’s good, because I want to hear you play your flute again.”
We walked to a quiet, secluded part of the beach. In the distance, I could see a few people lying on the sand and a few swimming. Foamy white waves curved, folded, and broke against the shore. I took off my sandals and let the sea seep between my toes. The water was soft and cool. I asked him to tell me about his family. He told me his father was a businessman and his mother was a homemaker. His parents went to Europe every summer, and he, his brother, and his grandmother came to stay with his aunt at her cottage. He mentioned that his brother, who was two years younger than he was, was named Aram.
“You must be kidding me! Aram is your brother?” I said, surprised.
“Yeah, do you know him?”
“Well, I’ve met him. He seems to be very outgoing. He’s always hanging out with the other kids, but I’d never seen you before Neda’s party. Where were you hiding?”
He told me that he was not as outgoing as his brother and preferred to read a book or play his flute. He had come to Neda’s party only because Neda was his neighbor in Tehran and was his brother’s girlfriend.
Arash had been a top student in high school and had just finished his first year of studying medicine at the University of Tehran. I told him I was a good student, too, and, like him, wanted to study medicine. I invited him to come for a swim with me, but he said he’d rather sit on the beach and read.
His grandmother, Irena, had prepared a feast for lunch. It was a beautiful day, so she had set the table in the backyard under the weeping willow. The table was covered with a perfectly ironed white tablecloth. I watched her as she poured lemonade in my glass, strands of her silver hair dancing in the sea breeze. She filled my plate with long-grain rice, barbecued fish, and salad, dismissing my protests.
“You should eat more, Marina; you’re too thin. Your mother is not feeding you properly.”
Since Irena had discovered that I spoke Russian, she had not said a word to me in Persian. Like my grandmother, she was a proud woman, and although she knew how to speak Persian, she refused to use it unless it was absolutely necessary. My Russian had become rusty. My parents spoke Russian at home, but since Grandma’s death, I had refused to use it, because I believed it was something special my grandmother and I had shared and I didn’t want to share it with anyone else. Arash’s language skills weren’t much better than mine, so I wasn’t too embarrassed. It felt good to speak Russian again with Irena, who reminded me of my childhood days.
After lunch, Irena went to lie down, and Arash and I went to the kitchen to clean up. I filled the sink with dirty dishes while Arash put the leftovers in Tupperware containers and organized them in the fridge. He knew his way around the kitchen. When he was finished with the leftovers, he stood next to me with a dishcloth, and as I handed him the first rinsed plate, our eyes met, and I fought the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his face.
“I have to say my prayers before sunset,” Arash told me that evening as we sat in his backyard.
“Can I watch you?”
“You come up with strange ideas,” he said. But he agreed, and I watched him without saying a word. He stood toward Mecca and went through the different stages of namaz. He closed his eyes, whispered prayers in Arabic, knelt, stood, and touched his prayer stone with his forehead.
“Why are you a Muslim?” I asked him after he was finished.
“You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met,” he said, laughing, but he explained to me that he was a Muslim because he believed Islam could save the world.
“What about your soul?” I asked.
My question had surprised him. “I’m sure it will save my soul, too. Are you a Christian?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because your parents are Christians?”
I explained that my parents were not practicing Christians.
“Then, why?” he insisted.
I realized I didn’t exactly know the answer. I said that I had studied Islam and that it wasn’t for me, and I didn’t know why I felt that way. I probably knew more about Mohammad than I knew about Jesus. I had read the Koran more than I had read the Bible, but Jesus was somehow much closer to my heart; he felt like home. Arash was smiling at me. I guessed he had expected a strong argument, and I didn’t have one to offer. For me it was a matter of the heart.
I asked him if his parents were religious, and he said that his father was from a Muslim family and believed in God, but he didn’t believe in Mohammad, Jesus, or any other prophets. His grandmother, Irena, was from a Christian family, but she wasn’t religious at all, and Irena’s husband, his mother’s father, who had passed away years earlier, had never believed in God. Arash’s mother was a Christian, and although she never went to church, she always prayed at home. I wanted to know what his family thought about his religious beliefs, and he said he had never missed even one of his daily prayers since he had turned thirteen, and they still thought he was going through a phase that would pass.
At home the next evening, I sat outside on the stone steps leading to our cottage to watch the sunset. The clouds in the horizon had turned into a wild shade of red as the sun brushed past them. Then the red changed into a dreamy purple as the night drew closer. I couldn’t stop thinking about Arash. I was simply happy when he was around; an exciting, warm happiness that rose above everything else, that made the rest of the world seem small and insignificant. I closed my eyes and listened to the night. I could hear the clapping sound of the wings of bats looking for their dinner and the horn of a ship from the harbor. Arash had read some poetry to me. His deep, gentle voice made the works of Hafez, Sadi, and Rumi sound even more magical than when I read them on my own. He read them with authority, as if they were his, as if he had composed every word like a perfect melody. Maybe this was love; maybe, I loved him.
I wanted Arash to see my Prayer Rock, so I invited him to our cottage one morning.
“Why do you call it the Prayer Rock?” he asked as we walked toward it from the gates.
“I prayed there once when I was a little kid, and it felt extra special, so I kept going back. It became my special place.”
We soon reached it. I had not shared it with anyone before. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I had done the right thing. After all, it was only an odd collection of moss-covered rocks.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked.
“No. I guess you’re as desperate as I am to find a way to get closer to God. My way is my flute and yours is praying on this rock.”
“Let’s pray together,” I offered, “and maybe you’ll be able to feel it. It’s like opening a window to heaven.”
We both climbed on the rock, raised our hands toward the sky, and I recited a part of the Twenty-third Psalm of David: “The Lord is my shepherd, there is nothing I shall want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul; he guides me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk in the valley of the shadow of darkness, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”
“Beautiful!” he said when I finished. “What was it?”
I explained to him that the Psalms of David were a part of the Bible. He had never heard of them. I told him that my grandma used to read them for me, and that one was my favorite.
We both sat on the rock. He stared far ahead.
“Have you ever wondered about what happens to us after we die?” he asked.
I said I had. He said that death was a mystery that could never be solved; it was the one place that if we ever visited, we would not be able to tell the tale. And no one could escape it.
“I hate it when people you love die. You never stop hurting,” I said.
“I’ve never really lost anyone. My grandfather passed away when I was little, but I don’t remember anything about it.”
“I remember my grandmother’s death.”
There were tears in his eyes. Once again, I wanted to touch his face, to trace every line with my fingers. I wanted to kiss him. Overwhelmed, I stood up. He jumped to his feet, facing me, and, for a brief moment, his lips touched mine. We moved away from each other as if struck by lightning.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why are you sorry?”
“It’s against God’s law for a man to touch a woman like that unless they’re married.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I want you to know that I care about you, and I respect you. I shouldn’t have done that. And you’re so much younger than me. We have to wait.”
“Are you saying that you love me?”
“Yes, I love you.”
I couldn’t exactly understand why he felt guilty about our kiss, but I knew it had something to do with his religious beliefs. That summer, I had spotted boys and girls kissing in quiet corners, and I had always wondered what it felt like. If it were up to me, I would have kissed him again, but I didn’t want to do anything wrong or to upset him. He was older and knew better, and I trusted him.
That night, my mother and I slept over at Aunt Zenia’s cottage. I woke up at six in the morning and tiptoed to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. With the cup in my hand, I walked into the living room and was startled to find my Aunt Zenia sitting at the dining table, almost completely concealed by piles of paper. I stepped a little closer. She wore a lacy pink cotton nightgown, which was more suitable for a young girl than for a very large woman in her sixties, and was busy writing something in a little notebook. I paused, wondering whether to say “good morning” or not, for she seemed so immersed in what she was doing.
“Why are you up so early, Marina? Are you in love or something?” she asked so loudly I almost spilled my tea.
“Good morning, Aunt Zenia,” I mumbled.
“Maybe this seems like a good morning to you.”
She had not stopped writing.
“Are you going out?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
My mother rarely asked me where I was going.
“Around.”
“Does your mother know that you go out so early?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at me with her pale blue eyes.
“It’s tough, but you’re tougher.”
She had lost me.
“You’re not stupid. Don’t look at me like that! You know what I mean. Your mother and my daughter are both made of the same clay. God wasn’t paying much attention to his work when He created the two of them. Go and get me a cup of tea.”
I turned around and did as I was told. With my hands slightly shaking, I put the tea on the table in front of her.
“Sit down,” she ordered, her eyes examining me from head to toe. “How old are you now?”
“Thirteen.”
“You haven’t lost your virginity, have you?”
“Pardon me?” I whispered.
“Good,” she said, smiling.
“I know you better than your mother does. I look and see, but she looks and refuses to see. I think today is the very first time ever I’ve seen you without a book. Do you want me to name them for you?”
“Name what?”
“The books you’ve read.”
I was sweating.
“Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Gone with the Wind, Little Women, Great Expectations, Doctor Zhivago, War and Peace, and many more. So, what have you learned from all this reading?” she said.
“Many things.”
“Don’t do anything stupid. You aren’t involved with this revolution, are you?”
“Aunt Zenia, what are you talking about? What revolution?”
“Are you trying to fool me?”
I shook my head. I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about.
“I’m happy that you’re hearing this from me, for I know a great deal about revolutions. Now listen carefully. Something terrible is happening in this country, I can smell it in the air, and it smells of blood and disaster. There have been protests and rallies against the shah. This ayatollah, I forget his name, has been opposing the government for years, and I’m telling you that he’s up to no good. One dictatorship will go, and a worse one will take its place, the same as in Russia, only this time with a different name, and it will be more dangerous, because this revolution is hiding behind the name of God. Well-educated people are now following this ayatollah. Even Marie and her husband like him. My own family. He’s in exile now, but this hasn’t stopped them. Stay away from him. He says that the shah is too rich. The shah is the shah. He’s not perfect, but who is? The ayatollah says that there are too many poor people in Iran. But there are poor people everywhere. Don’t forget what happened in Russia. They killed the tsar, and do you think that they’re better off now? Do you think that the people of Russia are all free, rich, and happy? Communism isn’t the answer to social problems, and neither is religion. Do you understand me?”
I nodded, confused and shocked, and she began writing in her notebook again.
Later that morning as Arash and I set out for our walk, Aram called to us from the porch and asked where we were going.
“Why do you want to know?” asked Arash.
Aram said he was bored and wanted to come with us. Arash told him to go back to bed, but he insisted on coming, and we finally gave in. As we walked toward the beach, Aram asked what Arash and I had been doing together all day, every day. This upset Arash, causing an argument between the two of them, which made me laugh.
At the beach, Aram came for a swim with me, but Arash didn’t like the water and always read while I swam. Watching him from the water, I could see that he wasn’t paying much attention to his book. He was watching Aram and me.
Arash was quiet for the rest of the day. In the evening, we went to his room, and I listened as he played his flute. I had closed my eyes. He suddenly stopped in the middle of his favorite piece. I opened my eyes and looked at him, surprised.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
He looked down, avoiding me.
“Arash, tell me. What is it?”
He sat on the bed next to me. “Do you really love me?”
“Yes, I do. Tell me, what’s wrong?”
“You looked so happy with my brother today. You were enjoying yourself, and I thought that maybe…I don’t know…”
“You thought I had feelings for him.”
“Do you?”
“You should know me better by now. He’s fun, but he isn’t my type.”
“And what do you mean by ‘your type’?”
“You’re my type, and he isn’t. That’s all. I don’t love your brother; I love you.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Aram has always been very popular. Girls like him. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t.”
He still didn’t look very happy. “You don’t believe me?” I asked.
“I do.”
He stood and went to the window. It was a rather windy day and the waves roared, muffling every other sound. He suddenly said that he had to tell me something very important. I had no idea what to expect. He told me that there was a big movement against the shah, that a revolution was in progress and that there had been many protests and many arrests. I told him that Aunt Zenia had told me about the revolution that very morning.
I asked him why there would be a revolution against the shah, and he explaine
d that the shah, his family, and the government were all corrupt. They had been becoming wealthier by the day when most of the Iranian people had been struggling against poverty. I told him that Aunt Zenia believed that the same thing that had happened in Russia would happen in Iran.
“The revolution in Russia didn’t have the right foundation; communism was the wrong answer to their problems. Their leaders didn’t believe in God and soon became corrupt themselves,” said Arash.
“So, how can you be sure that whoever replaces the shah will be better?”
He asked me if I had heard of Ayatollah Khomeini.
“My aunt told me about some ayatollah, but she couldn’t remember his name. Who’s Khomeini?”
He told me that Khomeini was a man of God and had been exiled by the shah. The ayatollah wanted the people of Iran to live according to the laws of Islam. He wanted the riches of the country to be shared by everyone and not only by a small group. He had been leading the movement against the shah for many years.
I told Arash that I had a bad feeling about this revolution. As far as I knew, neither my family nor his were rich. Our parents didn’t hold important positions in the government, but we led comfortable lives. We received a good education for free, and he was going to university to become a doctor. Why did we need a revolution?
“It isn’t only about us, Marina,” he said excitedly. “It’s about those who live in poverty. The government makes tons of money from selling oil, which belongs to the people of Iran, and a big part of this money ends up in the personal accounts of the shah and his government officials. And did you know that for years, people who have criticized the shah and his government have been arrested by SAVAK, the secret police, and have been tortured and even executed?”
“No.”
“Well, this is the truth.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’ve met a few of these political prisoners. They do terrible things to them in prison, things that just hearing them makes you sick.”
“This is terrible! I had no idea.”
