by Ramita Navai
‘Mummy, look what I found. It was under the door.’ They run around, frantically fumbling to turn the music off, collecting the bottles of alcohol. Manuchehr has already crept to the door and back. ‘There’s nobody there, I checked,’ he is whispering. Shahla’s best friend takes Amir upstairs. Shahla holds the note. She has still not opened it.
‘What does it say, what does it say?’ Their voices are urgent. She reads out loud, in a sober, matter-of-fact voice: WE’RE COMING TO GET YOU.
Jomhouri Street, downtown Tehran, March 2013
It was dark by the time Amir got home. Without turning on the lights, he slumped on his sofa and stared at the shadows flickering on the wall.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all afternoon, I was so worried.’ Bahar’s gentle voice on his mobile.
‘I’m sorry darling. Something came up. I’ll tell you when I see you.’
She did not press him for more details. She was careful of what she said on the phone, especially since his meeting with ettela’at.
Amir fell in love with Bahar the instant he saw her. Within days they were making love. Within a month she was the only outsider who knew Amir’s secret. The only person who knew his lies.
Bahar Azimi wore no make-up, which made her all the more striking. She was short and curvy with glossy black curly hair. A warm, round face; big brown eyes, big mouth, big smile and big laugh. She read books; devoured them, one after another. She lived for the arts – theatre, films and music. She worked hard. Money and class did not impress her. She could be evasive but found it hard to lie. She loved to party and get drunk with her friends, she loved Metallica, Radiohead, Zero 7 and Zedbazi, an underground Iranian band that sang about drugs and sex (and who had all left the country). Her friends were relatively new, students she had met at the Islamic Azad University where she had studied art. At first her fellow students suspected she was a shahrestaan girl, small-town girl, who had left everything behind for the big smoke; her polite manner and humility did not seem to belong in the city. But soon they realized that she was too proud to be the kind of girl who was ashamed of her roots. And shahrestaan girls usually went one of two ways – either wild at their new-found freedom or creeping like mice across this frightening, vast landscape, fearful of stepping into its traps. Bahar Azimi was neither wild nor fearful. She was unexpectedly independent, which made some fearful of her. But the arts faculty attracted free spirits and beatniks, the kind of people who embraced Bahar and were intrigued by her individualism. For the first time, Bahar felt she belonged.
Bahar had grown up in a different world from the one which she now inhabited. To be precise, just over five miles farther south of the most southerly end of Vali Asr, on the very outskirts of the city. Shahr-e Rey was already a city when Tehran was just a collection of villages. Parts of it still look the same as they did hundreds of years ago. It is a poor and fiercely conserv-ative place that has been gobbled up by south Tehran. Bahar’s parents were strict namaaz roozeh-ee, ‘prayer and fasting’ types, observant Muslims with traditional values. Nearly everyone in Bahar’s school came from families who wore the chador; Bahar’s parents expected her to wear it. But she refused. She battled with them for the smallest liberties: to sit in a coffee shop, which they deemed unbefitting of a young woman; to not wear hejab in front of her male relatives; to chat with ease with local boys. Her parents argued back with even more force: she was jeopardizing the family’s honour; what would the neighbours think? Her home life was miserable. A couple of other girls at school felt the same as she: none of them was sure where this defiance and independence came from; they were all too poor to have satellite televisions and laptops. It was just the way they had been born. And maybe Bahar would have been forced to conform, if it had not been for a liberal-minded teacher who, recognizing her spark, encouraged her, giving her books to read that revealed the world outside. Gabriel García Márquez’s A Hundred Years of Solitude; George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. Bahar had two dreams: to get out of Shahr-e Rey and to be financially independent so she would not have to depend on her parents and be forced to live by their rules. Bahar Azimi was a rare, strange creature in Tehran.
Amir had met Bahar at a film club. It was a weekly event held by a friend who had a projector and a dazzling collection of DVDs. They were delivered to him every month by a middle-aged film-fanatic hawker. He would turn up in a suit carrying a large black holdall stuffed with hundreds of films. Most Tehranis wanted comedy, but he had everything, from forties film noir to French art house. He always carried a stash of his two bestsellers that old and young alike requested: The Godfather and Dai Jan Napelon – ‘My Uncle Napoleon’ – a classic Iranian television series from the s that had been adapted from a book and was banned after the revolution. The premise of the story is a suspicious fart, and lines from the book and the series had worked their way into everyday vernacular, a favourite being ‘going to San Francisco’ – a euphemism for having sex. All the hawker’s films were 3,000 tomans – one dollar – each. He also sold the latest Hollywood releases, sometimes before they even made it to the cinemas in America and Europe. The copies came from China and Malaysia and were perfect, apart from those that had a FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION message that occasionally flicked up on the screen.
The first thing Bahar noticed about Amir was his smiling eyes above a big, strong nose. His face was soft and delicate, something he tried to disguise with a goatee beard. That night, Amir and Bahar learnt that they seemed to agree on everything, even sharing their favourite film, The Double Life of Véronique. They thought Iranian films were overrated and pretentious, apart from Asghar Farhadi’s A Separation, a gritty, realistic portrait of a disintegrating marriage and class conflicts in Tehran; they laughed at how Western critics were seduced by the heavy-handed symbolism in art house Iranian films.
For their first date they went to the Ta’atr-e Shahr, Tehran City Theatre, on Vali Asr and saw David Mamet’s Oleanna. It was a special place for Amir; it was one of the few clear memories he had of his father, and his first memory of Tehran. He was five years old and they had walked up Vali Asr, Amir in awe of its enormity. It was the most beautiful road Amir had ever seen, trees like giant soldiers standing to attention. Now the spines of the trees were crooked with age but Amir still felt small under their branches. After the theatre, Amir drove them to a coffee shop owned by the son of a Pole, one of over 100,000 starving Poles released from Soviet captivity and granted sanctuary in Iran during the Second World War. They had laughed when his white Pride, the country’s cheapest and best-selling car, would not start. They drank cappuccinos, ate cake and talked for hours. Tentatively they began to share simple truths about each other’s lives. They held hands and stared into each other’s eyes, unable to do more in public. Afterwards they drove into a dark side street where they kissed for hours.
Little had changed between them since then, even though life had not been easy. Amir had struggled to find a job after university. When times got hard, he worked as a taxi driver, relentlessly chugging through stagnant traffic for little more than blackened snot, aching lungs and a few dollars a day. He finally got a job as a photographer’s assistant. The pay was just enough to get by. Bahar worked as a graphic designer and freelanced as an English translator. She had moved straight from university halls of residence to her own apartment, which was unusual for a girl in her early twenties, especially for a girl from Shahr-e Rey. Her parents had been devastated, because women who live on their own have reputations. Few landlords would rent to a young, unmarried woman. Many advertisements in the newspapers specified: Will not rent to single women. She hated turning up to viewings, in case the landlord was male and would try his luck, which happened often. Some thought she must be a working girl. She now paid 700,000 tomans, just over 200 US dollars a month, for a one-bedroom flat near where Amir lived, in the centre of the city, just where Jomhouri Street is bisected by Vali Asr. Over time, Bahar’s parents came to accept their daughter had different
ideas for her life; they visited, packing her fridge with never-ending supplies of food. Amir had tried to convince her to live together, but it would have been too risky and a secret too difficult to keep from her parents; they had discussed marriage but Bahar said she was not ready.
Amir did not turn the lights on until Bahar arrived. He wanted to postpone reality for as long as he could. His mouth still felt dry. The old man’s face kept appearing in his head. He needed to tell Bahar everything, the only person he could talk to.
She stood at the door beaming. Her smile had a life of its own, as though it were about to burst off her face, her beautiful lips stretched from ear to ear.
‘I got it, I got it!’ she was squealing with joy.
‘Got what?’
‘The scholarship!’ Amir’s throat tightened.
‘You’re not even smiling.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s amazing.’ The scholarship to an American university had hung over them like a cloud for the past year.
‘Just…what does that mean for us?’
‘That you’ll come with me, stupid.’ Bahar grabbed his face in her hands.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not ready.’
She dropped her arms by her sides. ‘What do you mean you’re not ready? I just don’t understand. You say you hate it here, but you’re too scared to leave.’
‘Bahar, what will I do there? How the hell am I going to get a visa?’
‘We can get married.’ Bahar’s voice was shrinking.
‘You’re living in a bubble. It’s impossible getting a visa these days. And I want to get married because we both want it, not for a visa.’
Bahar began to cry. ‘But I don’t want to lose you. I won’t go.’
‘No.’ He almost shouted it. Bahar was sobbing now. He held her tight.
‘This is your chance. What chance do we have here? I’ll come. I promise. I just need time, and I’ll save up and I’ll get a visa.’
The pizza deliveryman arrived. They barely ate. Bahar broke the silence.
‘You said you were going to tell me something…they haven’t called again have they?’ Amir paused. Bahar was already upset. His news would make her feel guilty. Anyway, what was the point? She was leaving.
‘No. Nothing happened. I went walking, up the mountains. I forgot my phone. I just needed to get away.’ It was the first time he had lied to Bahar.
Shiraz, June 1988, a month after the party
Amir is playing with Lego in his room when they come. He hears the bang on the door and his parents whispering to each other. He runs out of his bedroom and stands at the top of the stairs, straining to listen. He can hear men’s voices.
‘There’s no need to take them, I beg you, just take me,’ his father, determined and unbroken. Then silence, apart from his mother’s gentle sobs. When the crying stops, she comes upstairs.
‘Darling, put on your clothes, we’ve got to go somewhere.’
‘I don’t want to go.’ Amir is scared. Shahla tenderly strokes his hair, and takes off his pyjamas. ‘Where’s daddy?’
‘He’s coming with us, we’re all going together. Darling, you never have to be scared when you’re with mummy and daddy. You’re always safe. We won’t let anything bad happen, OK?’ Amir nods. The men with the guns march them out into a cool night. The electricity has gone in the street and Amir has never seen his road so dark. Nobody speaks as they climb into the back of the pick-up truck, Amir in his father’s arms. Behind curtains, neighbours are watching. Friends or enemies, who can tell?
They are driven straight to Shiraz prison.
Tehran, March 2013
It had been a week since Amir had met the old man; a week since Bahar had told him she was leaving. He had sunk into depression, grappling with it in his sleep. He dreamt of his parents: of being back in prison in Shahla’s arms. Of being on his father’s shoulders walking up Vali Asr, under the trees. He dreamt the old man was there too, begging Manuchehr for forgiveness. But Manuchehr could not talk, because now his neck was broken, snapped by the noose that hung round it, his feet swinging off the ground.
Shiraz prison, June 1988
The days are hot and the nights are cold. The sour smell of sweat and stale breath. Distant screaming and shrieking. Amir is too little to know that this is the sound of torture.
It has been two weeks since they were brought here. The guard tells them they are being taken to Evin prison in Tehran. Shahla looks shocked. Serious political cases are transferred to Evin. The prisoners here in Shiraz talk about it often enough. Rumours collect in prison like nowhere else she has been; like scarab beetles rolling ever-growing balls of dung, each inmate brings new speculation that swells and feeds them for weeks. They’re going to kill all the prisoners in Evin, says a monarchist who heard it from his mother’s cousin’s husband, who works with a man whose son is in the Prime Minister’s office. The statement is treated in the same way as all the other rumours, with a mixture of terror and sceptical disbelief. But one thing everyone knows for sure: only serious cases are transferred to Evin prison.
Shahla does not understand how it has come to this. It is all the more galling considering that they had started on the same side; that Manuchehr and Shahla had initially embraced the revolution with passion. They had thought that no one could be worse than the Shah and it was under the Shah’s regime that Shahla and Manuchehr had first discovered the political underground and taken solace in subterfuge. The Shah had embarked on eliminating communists and leftists, ever desperate to please the Americans and with a genuine fear of the Soviet Union’s threats to Afghanistan. Between 1971 and 1977, over 130 guerrillas and members of armed political groups were executed or tortured to death. Some said over 3,000 political opponents were killed during his reign. The minute the Shah was deposed the leftists and communists surfaced, confident.
Shahla and Manuchehr, with their unshakeable sense of justice, had been full of hope and mesmerized by Khomeini’s anti-imperialist, egalitarian talk. Khomeini, the softly spoken, handsome man with modesty as his signature tune. After the shrill fanfare of the Shah and his wife’s glaring ostentation, this new tune was a hit. His plain words, calmly preached from underneath thunderous eyebrows, stirred the nation. His slogans daubed on the walls of Tehran had spread, like ivy, across the walls of the nation:
ISLAM REPRESENTS THE SLUM-DWELLERS, NOT THE PALACE-DWELLERS!
THE OPPRESSED OF THE WORLD UNITE!
One by one, for pragmatism, faith or expediency, protesters jumped onto his Islamic bandwagon as it rattled to victory. But memories are short. Iran’s tricky relationship with the left had really taken hold in 1960 when the Iraqi Shia cleric and Khomeini’s mentor, Ayatollah Hakim, had issued a fatwa forbidding any Shia from joining the Communist Party. Still, the communists and the leftists thought they had a chance. As it turned out, they would have less than a year before being beaten back down. Fear of communism was something that the Islamic dissidents and the Shah had in common.
Shahla and Manuchehr threw themselves into the revolution. Shahla joined Khomeini’s literacy campaign, a bedrock of revolutionary zeal (and the foundations of which had been laid down by the Shah). She advanced into the hinterland armed with books, pencils and the thirty-two letters of the Persian alphabet. Some of the villages were eerily quiet. Illiterate village boys make excellent cannon fodder and thousands were sent to the front line to fight in the war with Iraq. Shahla’s patience and kindness were not enough. After four years she was sacked, swallowed up by the wave of suspicion that was casually sweeping the country. Manuchehr also fell victim to it, first during the Cultural Revolution when universities were closed for two years and the country was purged of all Western, un-Islamic influences, and then again when he lost his job, accused of being a communist. So their lives continued to unravel.
Jomhouri Street, Tehran, April 2013
In the middle of an afternoon slumber ‘private number’ flashed up on Amir’s phone. He thought it must be them, ettela’
at, on top of everything else. But it was the old man.
‘I need to see you. I want to explain.’
Amir hung up. The phone rang again. And again.
‘Just leave me alone,’ he said listlessly.
Over the next few days the old man called many times, from many different numbers. He even called the home line. Ghassem rang so many times that Amir stopped answering his phone. But the calls continued. So Amir changed his mobile.
He had always longed to know every minute detail of his parents’ deaths. He had tried to investigate several times, but the trail had always gone cold, or he had been warned to leave it alone. He was already marked, why draw attention to it? And suddenly here it was, in front of him for the taking. Yet he was not ready to deal with the truth behind his parents’ deaths. Amir was also scared. Not just of the truth, but of the old man. He shuddered to think how he had tracked him down.
Within a week, Ghassem was calling Amir’s new number. Bahar had noticed the mysterious calls. She thought it was from ettela’at and, wanting to protect Amir, she started spending nearly every night at his. They watched films together, in each other’s arms, smoking a joint. For Amir, it was painful to have her warm body next to his, knowing that he would soon lose it. They made love with the same intensity as during their courtship – with the hungry longing that time and familiarity mercilessly erode.
On a night when Bahar was staying at her own place, Amir’s entryphone buzzed. It was late, past eleven o’clock. He looked out of his front window. It was the old man, hunched and lit up orange by the street light. He was carrying something in his hands. The old man buzzed again. He looked up to Amir’s window and Amir was too late to duck his head.
‘Just let me in. I won’t be long.’ He was craning his slack neck, his soft voice struggling against gravity and the pane of glass.
Amir threw the window open.
‘Can’t you take a hint? You’ve done enough harm already.’ He did not realize it, but he was shouting. ‘Aren’t you satisfied that you said your piece? Just go.’
