A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Oh, I love them, too. In fact, they play a lot of Steely Dan at the disco I go to. You and Nouri must come with me. Maybe tonight, eh? After you rest, of course.” Laleh scooped up half a dozen tapes, one of them with a black, white, and red cover bearing the word “Aja.” She pulled out her wallet, fished out a few bills, and handed them to the bazaari. He slid the 8-tracks into a bag and passed them back to Laleh, who thrust them into Anna’s hands. “Now when your stereo arrives, you will have something to play.”

  “Laleh, this is too much. I can’t accept these. Keep them for yourself.”

  “No, no. These are for your new home. A house warming, isn’t that the American expression?”

  “I can’t…I…” Anna stopped her protest. Laleh would think she was practicing a form of ta’arof and just keep going. She resigned herself to the irony, thanked Laleh, and tucked the bag under her arm. Laleh took Anna’s other arm, and guided her out of the bazaar. Anna marveled at their shopping spree; she’d never had a friend who spent so freely. Then again, she’d never had many friends at all.

  Twelve

  Tehran’s traffic was chaos in motion—four or five lanes of autos surged forward, switched lanes, suddenly braked. There were few traffic lights, and Anna gripped the edge of her seat, wondering how the driver could navigate through the mess. Within a mile, traffic was so congested they were forced to stop. Horns blasted, taxi drivers shook their fists and, despite the air conditioning in the Mercedes, sweat pasted Anna’s t-shirt to her back.

  A siren blared, in the shrill European sing-song tone Anna had heard in films, the ones that foreshadow the Gestapo’s arrival in the middle of the night. She shivered. Flashing lights passed the Mercedes. Ahead on the right was a park in which a mass of people were chanting. Many were young and looked like students. Some of the men were bearded. The crowd did not appear to be moving but, like some giant amoeba, it mysteriously swelled. Many waved sticks. Some held up placards. One said, in English, “Down with the shah!”

  Laleh rolled down the window. “Oh, no.” Her tone was scornful.

  “What?” Anna squinted through the front windshield.

  Laleh shook her head, clearly irritated. “Why don’t they just go home? Don’t they realize they’re blocking traffic?”

  Anna didn’t say anything. A police van threaded its way through the traffic and swerved to a stop at the edge of the park. Uniformed officers spilled out, waving pistols. They hauled off a few protestors, but many remained, yelling and punching their fists in the air. Then army troops, brandishing rifles and bayonets, arrived. The soldiers, dressed in green fatigues, hit more of the protestors and dragged them away.

  Anna recoiled at the violence. She’d seen it before, but it never lost its power to shock. Still, most of the pedestrians seemed oblivious to the demonstration, and casually jaywalked between the blocked cars. On one side of the road was bedlam; on the other, apparent normalcy. It was unnerving. “What do you think of all this? Why do some people ignore it?” she asked.

  Laleh shrugged. “Someone is always demonstrating these days.”

  Anna recalled Nouri’s activities back in Chicago. “So you—and the people crossing the street—don’t have a problem with the shah?”

  “The shah is not perfect, but he’s better than the people who complain about him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You see how crowded Tehran is? Especially in the southern part of the city? Most of them come from small villages. They’re illiterate, and they have no skills. They have nothing to do but make trouble.” Laleh’s lip curled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were Arabs.”

  Anna remembered the joke Nouri told her early in their relationship. She’d looked up the derivation of his name and found that it came from the Arabic word for “light.” Arabic, not Persian. Nouri laughed and said, “Forty percent of all Persians have Arab blood, but a hundred percent of them will deny it.”

  Laleh went on. “Most of them are strict Muslims and think anything modern is decadent. The women wear chadors, even though the shah has banned them. Hijab, it’s called. They smell bad too.”

  Anna motioned toward the park. “Some of the demonstrators looked like students.”

  “They’re playing at politics.” Laleh sniffed. “Imagining some kind of alliance with the masses. Baba-joon says it is all theatrics. It is against the law to be a Communist, you know.”

  Theatrics or not, Anna thought about the masses and the role they’d played throughout history. Especially when there was a big gap between rich and poor. What’s more, Laleh was exactly the type the masses would like to get their hands on.

  *****

  By the time they arrived back at the Samedis’ Anna was ready to lie down. But Nouri was in the living room drinking tea with a young woman. Anna stopped, taken aback. The young woman was tall and sturdy-looking. Her long, wavy auburn hair was tied back with a blue ribbon. She had clear brown eyes, thick eyebrows, and a spray of freckles across her nose. She looked pleasant, if not pretty, and if Anna mustered up one word to describe her, trustworthy. She wore a simple white blouse and a dark blue skirt that covered her knees.

  Laleh followed Anna into the room, and when Anna saw Laleh’s arched eyebrows, her stomach churned. She knew who the girl was. Nouri, who stood up and motioned her over, confirmed it.

  “Anna, I am so glad you are back. I want you to meet an old family friend, Roya Kalani.”

  Roya was the girl to whom Nouri was informally engaged until he met Anna. Anna stifled her discomfort and extended her hand. Roya took it and offered a weak, clammy shake. They eyed each other.

  Nouri seemed unaware of the subtle dynamics, but Laleh, who sat on the couch, watched with a knowing expression. “Roya’s parents and ours are good friends,” she said. “Her father runs the giant sports complex in Tehran.”

  Anna forced herself to smile and sat down. The tea tray was next to Roya, and she poured tea for Anna and Laleh as if she was the mistress of the house. Anna wanted to squirm. Shouldn’t she or Laleh be pouring?

  Roya passed her a glass. “What a long journey you have had,” she said. Her English was passable, but not as good as Nouri’s, or Laleh’s. “You have much courage to move here from America.” She pronounced it “Amreeka” with the emphasis on “Am.” “You must love Nouri very much.”

  Anna didn’t know how to reply. This was the girl who’d thought she was going to marry Nouri. She settled for a simple, “I do.”

  Roya smiled. Anna had no idea whether it was sincere. Was she full of jealousy and disappointment? Hiding behind a veil of calm?

  Nouri spoke to Roya in Farsi and then translated. He was asking after her family, but his tone sounded slightly patronizing, as if he was playing the role of family chief. As if by dint of being engaged, he had risen to a new level of adulthood. Anna wondered if Roya sensed it.

  They muddled along for a few minutes in broken English and Farsi until the door opened and Baba-joon came in. When he saw Roya, he flashed the same arched eyebrow expression as Laleh, then suppressed it with a polite smile. He grasped her arms in a kind of half-hug, and asked, in English, after her family. She replied in Farsi. For the first time Roya seemed animated.

  Anna felt a stab of jealousy. She couldn’t compete with decades-old family ties.

  Baba-joon and Roya continued their conversation, as Nouri translated. “Roya is going on Hajj with her grandmother.”

  “Hajj?” Anna asked.

  “A pilgrimage to Mecca. Roya is looking forward to it.”

  Anna knew Muslims were required to go to Mecca at least once in their lifetime. It was one of the five pillars of Islam. Roya and her grandmother would spend three or four days in a variety of activities, all designed to cleanse them of their sins and deepen their submission to Allah.

  “Roya’s grandmother has been on Hajj before, but not Roya,” Nouri explained.

  “Have you?” Anna asked.

  “Not yet.” Nouri winced. Just a bit.
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  Roya said something in Farsi, then motioned to Nouri. She wanted him to translate.

  “She says her grandmother is very observant. For example, despite the shah’s edict to wear Western clothes, her grandmother wears a chador—at least in the house—and seems a bit…confused…by modern life. And yet she has the purest, most spiritual soul of anyone Roya knows. Roya hopes by going on Hajj, she will learn her grandmother’s secrets.”

  Anna had never met her own grandparents. As far as she knew, none of them were alive. But Nouri’s lineage was long and deep, and interwoven with other families. She might not have liked it, but together the family formed a bond, a shield against outsiders. And despite the difficulty of assimilating, she would become a part of it. She would be protected.

  Roya said something and Nouri translated. “Roya hopes Allah will bless us with long, healthy lives. And many children.”

  Baba-joon kissed Roya’s cheek and said, “It has been a pleasure to see you again, my dear. I hope you will visit us again soon. Now I must go and listen to the news.”

  Anna beamed. Maybe Roya wasn’t so bad.

  A few minutes later Nouri walked Roya to the door. Anna wanted to ask him how Roya came to be at the house. Was it an unexpected visit or was it planned? Liking Roya didn’t necessarily take away her twinge of jealousy. Before she could ask, though, Laleh jumped in.

  “Roya and I were never best friends. She’s your age, you know. But she’s changed.”

  “How?” Anna asked.

  “She’s getting too religious. Like the people I was telling you about before.”

  “What people?” Nouri asked.

  Anna told him about the demonstration they’d passed and Laleh’s reaction to it.

  Nouri frowned. “You shouldn’t be so irritated, Laleh. The protestors have real issues.”

  Laleh’s voice dripped acid. “How would you know? You haven’t had to deal with them. You’ve been in America, having a fine time.”

  Anna jumped in. “People change. Surely, there’s room enough for all of us on this earth.” She tried to steer the conversation back to Roya. “Even Roya.”

  “I’m telling you. Roya…well, it’s strange…I’m not even sure it’s genuine.” Laleh shrugged.

  Anna was about to reply, but Nouri put his arm around Anna, effectively ending the conversation. “I don’t understand Roya, either. But then I don’t have to. I have you.”

  The doorbell chimed. “That must be Shaheen,” Laleh said, scurrying toward the door.

  “Who’s Shaheen?” Nouri asked.

  “Shaheen Khandil. My boyfriend.”

  “I thought you were to become engaged to Jangi, the son of Maman and Baba’s friends.”

  “Have you seen him recently?” Laleh sniffed. “He’s fat and smelly and his teeth are bad. I could never touch him, much less marry him.”

  “But it has been arranged.”

  “If you can break the rules, so can I,” Laleh said petulantly.

  Anna was surprised. She thought Nouri already knew about Shaheen. Before she could ask, though, Laleh opened the door and ushered a young man into the living room. She clutched his arm and wore a triumphant smile.

  “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” Shaheen said, after Laleh introduced him. Like most of the other Iranians Anna had met, his English was excellent, spoken with a British accent. “Laleh has not stopped talking about you since you arrived.”

  Anna smiled. Shaheen was handsome and tall, with light brown hair and deep brown eyes. He wore tailored clothes that looked expensive, and carried an air of confidence that made Anna think there was nothing he couldn’t do. No wonder Laleh was smitten.

  Shaheen turned to Nouri. “And so nice to meet you finally, Nouri. Laleh talks about you as well. So much, in fact, that I would be jealous if I didn’t know you were her brother.”

  Nouri’s weak smile said he wasn’t so sure about Shaheen.

  *****

  That night Anna said to Nouri, “Shaheen is charming, isn’t he?”

  Nouri grunted. “Laleh met him just a few months ago. And yes, he is charming. In fact, he’s known to be a playboy.”

  “Really?” She perched on the couch.

  “He travels to London and Geneva. One of the jet set. Laleh says she’s in love, but Maman and Baba disapprove.”

  “Because he’s so much older?”

  “No, not at all. Girls marry quite young in Iran.” A frown flitted across Nouri’s face. “But Laleh was promised to someone else.”

  “So were you.”

  “Yes, but I am a man.”

  Anna stiffened.

  Nouri seemed to realize he’d said the wrong thing and covered himself. “And Shaheen…he’s—what do you call it in English?—nouveau riche. His parents were basically peasants. Very poor. Shaheen made a killing in foreign real estate and now he thinks he’s royalty. Maman thinks he’s using Laleh.”

  “For what?”

  “Respectability.”

  “He seems to care for her.”

  Nouri made a derisive sound.

  “What does your father think?”

  Nouri hesitated. “Baba cannot say no to Laleh. He spoils her.”

  Anna jiggled her foot. She was thinking about fathers and daughters and loyalty. Baba-joon—she’d started to think of him that way, she realized—hadn’t asked about her father. Given what she’d told Nouri about his history, she was surprised. She wondered if—along with their wedding in Virginia—Nouri had forgotten to mention it.

  Thirteen

  One afternoon, two weeks later, Anna was reading in the living room with Maman-joon, when Nouri returned from a trip downtown. “You are looking at the newest engineer for the Metro project!” he announced proudly.

  Anna looked up. “You got the job?”

  “I start next week.”

  Anna cried out, jumped up, and wrapped him in a big hug. Nouri picked her up and twirled her around. It had been a long, arduous process—three interviews, intense briefings, as well as studying for the exam that would make him a member of the Iran Society of Engineers.

  “So,” she cried breathlessly, once he set her down, “now you can finish your thesis and get your master’s degree.”

  Nouri had been given an extension of six months, but still hadn’t completed his thesis. Now, though, he shrugged. “They’re a French company, and they don’t care about a thesis from an American school. Only that I pass the exam, which they’re helping me study for. One of the other recent hires just took it. He said it’s easy.”

  Anna bent her head as if she wanted to say something, but Nouri turned to his mother and repeated what he’d told Anna in Farsi. His mother flashed a broad smile and hugged him as well. “We must celebrate,” she said.

  “I’d like that, Maman. Oh, and Hassan will be joining us for dinner.”

  “Wonderful.” His mother headed into the kitchen.

  Nouri twisted back to Anna. “We are on our way, Anna!”

  “Congratulations, again.” She started up the stairs. “I should change for dinner.”

  Nouri stretched his arms contentedly. His life in Iran was turning out just the way he’d hoped. His beautiful American fiancée was settling in well with his family, his career was beginning to take off, and he would be moving into a new home in Shemiran. It was a good life.

  He followed Anna up to the guest room. Anna was taking off her t-shirt. At the sound of the door closing, she spun around, automatically covering her breasts with the shirt. When she saw that it was him, she let the shirt fall to the floor. He gazed at her bare breasts, her tousled blonde hair. He wanted her. He went to her and cupped her breasts in his hands.

  She giggled. “Nouri, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck. Her arms encircled him. He unsnapped her jeans. He breathed in her smell—sweat, mingled with the essential essence of Anna. She had become part of him now. He was no longer sure where his body e
nded and hers began. Together they moved to the bed.

  *****

  By the time they pulled themselves together, it was evening. They intended to make a casual entrance, although Nouri suspected his family would know exactly what they had been doing. He’d prepared an excuse, but when they snuck down, his mother and sister ignored them. They were staring at the television. His father, who had just come home, watched with a worried expression.

  “What is it?” Nouri asked, as he glanced at the TV.

  Laleh answered. “There’s been a horrible fire. At the Cinema Rex, in Abadan. Over four hundred people were inside. They all died.”

  Anna gasped. Nouri reared back. Abadan was in the south of Iran, hundreds of miles from Tehran. Still.

  “They are saying Islamic terrorists set the fire, but the police were the ones who locked the gate so no one could get out.”

  “That makes no sense.” Nouri frowned. “Why?”

  “Some are saying the shah and SAVAK are behind it,” Baba said.

  “No!” Anna cried softly.

  “The film that was playing was Gavaznha, ‘The Deer,’” Baba explained. “It is critical of the shah. Some people claim the firemen—intentionally—waited too long before going to the theater because they knew the audience would be anti-shah.”

  They peered at scenes of fire trucks, crowds gathered outside the theater, the faces and cries of grief.

  “Police believe the terrorists set a small fire in the theater, intending to escape with the rest of the audience,” the TV announcer reported. “So police closed the gates to prevent that from happening. But the fire quickly burned out of control.”

  Nouri sucked in a breath.

  “There are rumors that most of the bodies were still in their seats,” the announcer continued, “which indicates they were unable for some reason to get to the doors. Obviously, many questions remain. What isn’t at dispute, though, is that this deliberate arson is the worst terrorist attack ever recorded in Iran—or anywhere else.”