A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Who is this?” he barked into the receiver. “Why are you calling us?”

  Anna quietly carried their glasses into the kitchen. It had to be Deutsch from the Swiss Embassy. Had he talked to her father? She was desperate to find out. She wanted to beg for the phone.

  Nouri’s face darkened. “She does not want to talk to you. She has no interest in communicating with her parents.” He spun around and focused on Anna. The rage in his eyes assaulted her like a spray of bullets. “No, you may not. And do not call here again or I will report you to the authorities for harassing my wife.” He slammed down the phone.

  Anna’s stomach clenched.

  Nouri took a step toward her. “That was someone from the Foreign Interests Section of the Swiss Embassy. Why did they call here, Anna? What have you done?”

  Anger shot up her spine, but she couldn’t deny it. Nouri had stepped over the line. She remembered the old adage about a good offense. “Where is my passport?”

  “Why? Are you thinking of going someplace?”

  “You didn’t tell me that Iran doesn’t honor dual citizenship. Not a word. You kept it a secret and surrendered my passport to the authorities when we got married, didn’t you?”

  “And if I did?”

  “You told me I was going to be a Muslim. I accepted that. I wanted to honor your traditions. But you never said that in the process I would lose my rights as an American.”

  “You should have known.” He shrugged. “You are not only disobedient, but stupid.” Then something shifted in his expression. It was subtle, but Anna saw it.

  “You didn’t know either, did you?”

  Nouri drew himself up. “What…what are you talking about?” he sputtered. “Of course I did.”

  His posturing gave him away. “No, you didn’t. You had no idea. It was Baba-joon, wasn’t it? He knew. He was the one who handled it. He took my passport.”

  Nouri tried to argue, but Anna knew she was right. Her anger mounted and she was about to tell him what she thought of his family’s duplicity when an idea occurred to her. She smoothed her hands down her slacks.

  “Nouri, listen to me. If you let me leave Iran, I’ll make sure you save face. You can divorce me. Tell everyone it was my fault. That I was a bad wife. That you don’t love me anymore. Whatever you want. Just let me go.”

  “You are a bad wife. But divorce is out of the question. It is a disgrace to divorce in Iran. Instead I will take a second wife. Islam permits it, you know.” He paused, then inclined his head as if considering the notion. “Yes, that is exactly what I will do. Then you will realize how little you matter. Surely Roya will be interested. Or maybe a young girl. I can marry a girl as young as thirteen if I choose.”

  Anna seethed and her hands curled into fists. She wanted to hit, strike out, as if that would knock some sense into him. She was about to retort when something dawned on her. Suddenly, Anna understood why her father had wanted her to get married in the States. If Nouri wouldn’t divorce her, she would divorce him when she got home. Which was something she desperately wanted to do, she now realized. She mentally blessed her father for his wisdom. At the same time, she wouldn’t rise to Nouri’s bait. “Maybe you should marry again. Then you won’t care about me, and you’ll let me go home.”

  Nouri threw her a withering look. “You will never leave as long as I am alive.”

  Anna glared at him. He should only know what she was thinking.

  “In fact,” he went on, oblivious, “since it is clear I can no longer trust you to be out by yourself…,” he went to the front door, slammed it shut, and locked it, “…from now on, you will not leave the house alone. Someone must go with you. Either me, or someone of whom I approve.”

  Anna’s jaw dropped. “You couldn’t be that cruel.”

  “Americans are deceitful. Untrustworthy. Everyone knows that.”

  “You didn’t think so when you lived there.”

  “I was taken in by your trickery. But I learned. You will be punished. Maybe then you will learn.”

  *****

  Nouri called his parents and told Laleh to come over. Anna started to cry, ran upstairs, and locked herself in the bedroom. Half an hour later she heard someone at the door. A deep male voice called out. It was Baba-joon, not Laleh. He and Nouri exchanged harsh words. A moment later, the door slammed, and for the first time in days the house was quiet.

  Still, Anna stayed in the bedroom. Although she’d been visiting Baba and Maman-joon regularly, she didn’t want to see him now that she knew he’d surrendered her passport without her knowledge. He’d duped her. She no longer trusted him. She wasn’t sure what to do, all she knew was that she wanted to get out of Iran.

  Presently, she heard someone’s tread on the stairs followed by a light tap on the door. “Anna, it is Bijan. Can we talk?”

  He had called himself Bijan, not Baba-joon. What did that mean? She mulled it over. Nouri and Baba-joon had argued. It was Nouri who’d stomped out of the house. She opened the door a crack.

  When he saw her, Bijan’s lips tightened, and he looked embarrassed. “Will you come downstairs? We will make tea.”

  She was somewhat surprised, but not much. Anna had always liked Baba-joon. She thought the feeling was mutual. She could only imagine what she must look like, her eyes rimmed in red, her skin blotchy and pale. She nodded.

  By the time she’d washed her face and come downstairs, he’d found a tray, a sugar bowl and glasses, and was heating water. A hand-painted teapot sat nearby. A wedding gift.

  She watched him spoon sugar into the glasses. “I am sorry your life has come to this, Anna.”

  Anna didn’t respond. She needed to be careful. How much did he know?

  He continued, as if he hadn’t expected an answer. “This country is on a path to destruction. It’s difficult to imagine anything surviving.”

  “Including my marriage,” she said.

  He turned around, his back against the kitchen counter. “There is something you need to understand about Nouri. Maybe you already do. We raised our children—well, as you Americans say, we spoiled them. But it is part of our culture. We treasure our children. Nouri has always been taken care of, petted and spoiled, almost like one of the peacocks the shah used to raise. He was a beautiful child. Proud, confident, handsome. Afraid of nothing.”

  “I know.” Anna almost smiled. She remembered that Nouri. The one who swept her off her feet, who read poetry to her in Chicago, who made love to her with such tenderness. She remembered how perfect he seemed. How sensual, how sensitive, infallible. How happy she was when she first moved to Iran. How joyful she was to become his wife.

  “Like the peacocks, he struts, beautiful and proud,” Baba-joon went on. Then he stopped. “But the reality is that he is dependent on others—usually us—for everything. He has no inner compass. And if the world collapses around him, as it is doing now, he is lost. That is what is happening to my family. They are all trying to withstand the assault, but none of them are armed with the right tools.”

  Anna swallowed. Somewhere deep inside she’d known this from the start. In Chicago, Nouri had moved into her apartment, let her take care of him. She was the one who encouraged him to write his thesis, to reach out to other Iranian students, to become politically active. He depended on her.

  “Nouri thought that he would study at a fine American school,” Baba-joon said, “and then he would come home as an engineer, and play the role of a young businessman in the elite, privileged class.”

  Bijan was right. Once they moved back to Iran, Nouri shifted his reliance from Anna back to his father. Baba-joon would find him a job. Pay for his house. Solve his problems.

  “But then, this revolution, this chaos, descended, and now there is a new order. A new elite. Nouri’s dreams have been ravaged and he doesn’t know what to do with his anger and frustration. So he takes it out on you. It is not right—not at all—but it is, perhaps, understandable.”

  Anna thought about it. Ba
ba-joon was right. Since the revolution began Nouri had transferred his dependence yet again, this time from Baba-joon to Hassan. He was trying to survive. To play a role that someone else had carved out for him.

  “It is my fault, of course,” Bijan said. “Parvin and I should have raised them to be more independent.”

  Anna frowned. “Why are you telling me this? Why now?”

  “Because I want you to understand. Nouri is not a bad person. But he is immature and he is afraid. You are more centered. Indeed, I think you are—and have been—the perfect wife for him. I know it is not easy, but perhaps—you can wait it out? I know you were happy at one time. And I do believe all this…,” he waved a hand, “…is just temporary. This…chaos…cannot last forever.”

  Anna leaned over and gently kissed him on the cheek. “You are a good father.”

  Bijan grasped her hand. He looked like he might tear up.

  “I have a question.”

  He blinked.

  “Did you confiscate my passport? And if you did, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t know?” His expression was one of concern. She tried to detect any duplicity in it. She couldn’t find it.

  “Nouri was supposed to tell you. I told him before the wedding. It is the law. Whenever a couple weds, if the wife is not Iranian, she must surrender her passport.”

  “I was not told. I thought my passport was in the safe upstairs, here at the house.”

  Baba-joon sighed and shook his head. “I am so sorry, Anna.” He looked off into the distance. “I kept waiting for you to apply for an Iranian passport. I should have realized you didn’t know.” A deep sadness came into his eyes.

  Anna believed him. It was Nouri who’d failed to follow through. Always Nouri. Baba-joon apologized again, then gathered his things. She walked him to the door and saw him out. She understood his motivation. A father had to defend his son. And he was right about Nouri: he might seem bossy and temperamental, but it was all bluster. Nouri was panicked. He was struggling to stay afloat in uncharted waters, and the only way he could navigate them was through rage.

  Perversely, that knowledge gave Anna a sliver of hope. If he was that malleable, maybe she could persuade him to her point of view. Because what she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, tell Baba-joon was that she would be leaving Iran soon. She had to. Somehow.

  *****

  Hassan came to the house that night, which was unusual for him. He’d made himself scarce recently. Anna suspected he’d been embarrassed to visit, given how he’d brainwashed Nouri. Not that she saw him when he arrived. She’d been banished to the bedroom and told repeatedly not to come downstairs.

  At first she was happy to be alone. Nouri’s continuous humiliation of her grated. She picked up a book and tried to read, but her mind wandered. She wanted to know if Deutsch had contacted her father. Her father had government connections. There must be something he could do to get her out. The alternative—to be trapped in Iran for the rest of her life—was unacceptable.

  She tried to go back to her book, but the murmur of conversation downstairs aroused her curiosity. Nouri never told her where he went or what he was doing when he went out. For all she knew, he was drinking, carousing, maybe even seducing other women. Aside from Hassan, Nouri didn’t have many friends. His associates at the Metro were gone. If she knew where he was going, what he was doing, it might help her to convince him to let her leave. She crept out of the bedroom.

  Hassan and Nouri were talking in Farsi. For a while their chatter sailed over her head. They might have been speaking in tongues. Then she scolded herself. She’d been hearing Farsi for over a year. She should be able to understand if she concentrated. She closed her eyes and homed in. She managed to pick up a phrase here and there, but it was largely meaningless until Nouri mentioned her name. Then the word “Deutsch.” And “Switzerland.” She leaned forward.

  She couldn’t quite make out Hassan’s reply, but his tone was clipped. Curt.

  Nouri’s reply sounded defensive. Anna was puzzled. Didn’t Nouri sense Hassan’s arrogance? Or did he choose not to? Hassan was probably telling Nouri how to handle her. How to humiliate her even more, show her how little she mattered. She blinked back tears, some of Bijan’s sorrow washing over her. All that wasted talent and energy.

  Hassan’s voice grew slower, more distinct, and Anna began to understand his words. When Baba-joon’s name was mentioned, Anna stiffened. Her pulse shouted in her ears. They were talking about doing something to Baba-joon. And the house.

  “They need to know you are with them,” Hassan said.

  Nouri’s reply was emphatic. Was he refusing to do it?

  Hassan’s voice grew sympathetic. “Nouri, I understand that you must provide for your loved ones. But never forget that today’s blessing can become tomorrow’s curse.”

  Nouri said he didn’t have the energy. “I can’t fight any more. All the hate and anger and cries for revenge. It’s exhausting.”

  Good for Nouri, Anna thought.

  But Hassan’s reply was honey sweet. Anna couldn’t quite catch it, but she thought he was saying that Nouri must focus more. “As I said, the right choice is critical.” He paused. “I am sure you will be a good Brother.”

  *****

  Anna couldn’t sleep. Nouri was downstairs. Drawers opened and closed; the kitchen door squeaked. Finally, she heard his tread on the stairs. He went up to the third floor and opened the door to the roof. Or was it the closet? She heard a thump as the door closed. Then he came into the bedroom and undressed, making no effort to be quiet. The mattress sagged as he fell into bed. He rolled first in one direction, then the other. The sheets whispered as he pulled them up to his chin.

  Anna stayed very still. Then she said, “I’m still awake.”

  Nouri grunted.

  She reached across the bed for him. “Nouri, Azizam, I heard what you and Hassan were discussing downstairs. About Baba-joon.”

  Now it was Nouri who lay very still.

  “That was…just talk, right? You aren’t going to follow through with it.”

  “What?” Nouri asked

  “What you and Hassan talked about…the house. Baba-joon.”

  He pushed her arm away and rolled over on his side. He didn’t say anything for a moment. “You have the nerve to listen in on my conversation? To eavesdrop like a common thief?” When she didn’t answer, he rolled back and grabbed her shoulders.

  Anna winced. “That hurts.”

  “I hope it does,” he snarled. “Once again you have disobeyed me. You had no business listening. I am through with you. You are no more than a piece of trash.”

  She was about to utter a retort when she remembered her conver-sation with Baba-joon. She decided not to retaliate. Instead she said, “Nouri, I love you. I always will. But this isn’t working. I’m miserable, and so are you. We’ll both be happier if you let me go. Please.”

  Nouri stubbornly shook his head. “How many times do I have say it? I make the decisions. And I have decided you will never leave.”

  “Nouri, we’re drowning. You’re not working. I’m not working. If we don’t do something soon, we’ll run out of money. Then what?”

  Nouri’s eyes narrowed as if he suspected her of a crime. “Why do you care? Allah will provide.”

  “As long as his name is Baba-joon.”

  Nouri’s breathing grew more shallow. “You dare to criticize me? And Baba-joon? You were the one who went behind my back. Who deceived me. Your lies and treachery are a crime. Do you know I can report you? You could be arrested. You could be beaten, taken prisoner, maybe even stoned to death.”

  Anna tried to rein him in. “I know you don’t mean that, Azizam.”

  But Nouri was working himself up. His body went rigid, his voice raw. “I am not your Azizam. Never again.” The moonlight streamed in, sowing his eyes with beads of rage.

  Anna tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “I’m going to sleep downstairs on the couch.”


  “No. You won’t. Not unless I give my permission.” He rolled on top of her. His smell was a combination of rose water, smoke, and sweat. She used to crave it, but now she found it repugnant. She tried to push him off, but he was stronger, and her attempts only made him settle on her more firmly. He seemed heavier than usual. Anna struggled to breathe.

  “I should never have married you. I should have listened to my family,” he seethed. “They warned me.”

  Anna’s stomach twisted. Was he making that up just to be cruel? He started moving on top of her. To her shock, he was hard. She thrashed her legs and arms about, trying to shove him off, but he had her pinned.

  “Nouri. Please. Don’t.”

  He ignored her. He was behaving like a stranger. A rageful, vengeful stranger. How could he? She was Anna. He was Nouri. They were supposed to love each other. The gentle, intimate love that Rumi described so eloquently. Not this harsh, hurtful…act.

  He started to pant and bore down on her, forcing her to spread her legs. He rammed himself inside her, thrusting hard and deep and fast. The pain was intense, but she wasn’t strong enough to fight him off. He started to grunt like an animal.

  “Nouri, stop! You’re hurting me!”

  But it wasn’t the pain that made her cry out. For the first time, she thought she knew what hate really felt like, and the depth of his rage terrified her. What if he lost control altogether? What if, in the midst of some future outburst, he killed her?

  He kept going until he was finished.

  Afterwards, a tear rolled down her cheek. Nothing would ever be the same.

  Thirty-seven

  Nowruz, the Iranian New Year, began on March 21st and, for the first time, the Samedis did not host a party. The Ayatollah disapproved of secular celebrations, so festivities throughout the entire country were subdued.

  A few days later, Anna noticed a vial of Nouri’s pills in the bathroom wastebasket. When she asked him about it, he said he didn’t need them anymore. She fished through the trash and pulled them out. The label was written in Arabic, and she couldn’t understand anything on it, except Nouri’s name, which he’d taught her back in Chicago.