People danced, and joy erupted from the crowds that pushed into every corner of the street. I recognized that something significant, something hopeful, was taking place. I could read it on people’s faces. I saw it on Baba’s face.
The Shah had fled Iran; the fifty-four years of the “modern” Pahlavi dynasty was over. For the first time, a religious leader, a Shi’a Muslim, an Ayatollah, the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, would also be the “Supreme Leader,” the head of government. There would no longer be a Shah. Power would be delegated to a range of clerics – including religious leaders akin to archbishops. At that moment, no one seemed to consider how dangerous that absolute power might be. No one foresaw that the end of one bloodbath would only be the beginning of another.
Maman was happy, too. And shortsighted: all she foresaw was that this would be the end of the two boys in Room 314. Law, order, and religious principles would be restored.
Across the courtyard, at the Rose Hotel, the boys’ short-term stay stretched to sixty-five days. Ayatollah Khomeini was in Iran; changes were taking place. There were ad hoc tribunals and revolutionary courts, and despite the favor asked of him, Baba was done. It was time for the two boys to finally check out.
I saw Maman relax at last as he made the final call and said: “I can no longer keep the boys in my hotel. It is not a prison.” Someone on the other end agreed to remand them to custody.
Before Baba took our family on a ten-day pilgrimage to Mecca – his way of thanking Maman for her patience and dedication to the children – Baba left the manager and Abdollah in charge of the hotel and released the boys to Ayatollah Shahami. As the revolution gave way to something resembling normalcy and the new regime established itself, the two boys were now being held in a real jail cell, without a bathroom or the service of a hotel. At last, Baba believed, they’d receive justice. And they were no longer his problem.
He was wrong on both counts.
If only… If only Baba had never allowed the Ayatollah to turn his hotel into a prison; if only Maman had not relented…
Holding the door open with one hand, and flipping through the prayer beads of his tasbeeh, the hotel manager was waiting for Baba the day we returned from Mecca. “I need to report something.” He didn’t meet Baba’s eyes.
“What?”
“Haji, the government has released the two boys.”
“When?” Baba looked out the hotel entrance’s glass doors.
The manager followed Baba’s gaze. “Three days after you left.”
“You didn’t inform me?”
“I tried to get a message to your hotel in Mecca. International calls were impossible to make with all the turmoil here.” The manager twirled his beads. “Haji, they’ve been here, at the hotel.”
“What?”
“I warned everyone to keep their distance. They were talking to the staff, especially the cook.”
“That can’t be possible.” Baba slammed his hand on the reception counter.
“They’re claiming they are innocent and that’s why they were freed, and that you wrongfully imprisoned them. They blame you for their inability to find work.”
“This is not happening.”
“They’ve told everyone you ruined their reputations.”
“Reputations? What reputations? But why are they free? I must talk to Ayatollah Shahami.” Baba turned and entered his office, slamming the door behind him.
He spoke loudly to Ayatollah Shahami and then slowly his voice quieted. He opened the door and called out to the manager.
“The next time you see those boys, bring them to me.”
The manager looked at Baba and then at the floor.
Baba hit his hand on the table. “What now?”
“It’s probably nothing, but I’ve seen them talking to Abdollah.”
That night before dinner, Baba confronted Abdollah and asked him to go outside with him in the garden. We watched as Baba trailed behind Abdollah in the yard, circling him and raising his hands and screaming.
“It was nothing, Baba. They came to me asking for a job. I felt sorry for them. They say they’re innocent, and their families threatened to disown them.”
“Sorry for them? I told you never to talk to them. Never!”
As Baba dropped his arms to his sides and came to a halt, raindrops spattered his glasses. “Listen to me. This is important. You need to make promise me that you will stay away from those boys. You don’t know who they are or what they’ve done.”
“Well then, tell me about them, Baba.”
“You don’t need to know anything more. Just promise me, if you see them, don’t talk to them. Can you promise me?”
Rain was streaming down Abdollah’s cheeks as he faced Baba. “How would I see them? They won’t come around now that you’re back.”
“Just do as I say. Nothing. Not even a conversation.”
Abdollah lowered his head. “Yes, Baba.”
Walking through puddles, they headed back to the house to dry off and join the rest of us for a dinner of Khoresht-e Karafs, Abdollah’s favorite celery lamb stew with cilantro, parsley, saffron. During dinner, no one spoke of the boys. Baba felt confident that his son grasped the gravity of the situation and that he could count on Abdollah to heed his warning.
Baba paced back and forth in his office. Could it be true? The Ayatollah told him that the boys had repented. Could it be true? Should Baba give them a chance? He was torn between the memory of the crime scene – the bloodied clothes, the poor woman’s wounds. Can anyone repent from such viciousness? His mind said “no,” but his faith in God decreed that anyone, especially young boys, could repent and begin again.
The two boys stood with their hands folded in front of them, their heads bowed.
Adjusting his glasses and taking a sip of water, Baba took in their bouffant hair and gold chains. “I’ve talked to Ayatollah Shahami. He says you’ve repented.”
“Yes sir, we have. We’ve learned a new way to be.” The taller boy was tidying his long fluffy hair, trying to flatten it with the palm of his hand.
The other boy nodded. “We’ve learned our lesson. Grand Ayatollah Shahami has been teaching us, and we want to change our lives.”
“How often are you praying?”
The tall boy with extra medallions hanging from his neck spoke for both: “We’ve been making all five prayers, every day, three times a day, sir. We want to live a good life and make something of ourselves, sir.”
“Are you ready to abide by God’s laws and give up everything else?”
Both boys nodded.
Baba stood. “Prayer starts at 5:00 a.m. Arrive on time, cut your hair, throw out your medallions, and button up your shirts.” Baba waved his arm toward the mosque. “You’re to pray three times a day and meet with Ayatollah Shahami regularly. I want to see the crease in the front of your pants, and for now, you’ll work here five hours a day. The manager is your direct supervisor. I’ll fire you if you’re caught glancing at a woman, even if her entire face is covered in a neghab. And, you’re only to work in the restaurant, nowhere else. You are forbidden to go near the lobby or towers of the hotel. You don’t cross the parking lot. And you keep away from my family.”
When Baba got home, Maman was waiting for him. “Are you crazy? You’ve hired those boys to work in our hotel? We just got rid of them!”
Maman was incredulous – and furious. She dismissed all of Baba’s rationales that ”this way” he could be sure they were not around Abdollah or loose on the streets of Mashhad.
“What are you thinking? They will be around Abdollah all the time!”
Baba protested that he believed, “Their religious studies can pave a new path for them. And maybe I can do my part to make them change.”
Maman took a step back and shook her head.
“You can’t make anybody change. Why are you putting us all at risk again, Haji? You’re going to regret this.”
“It’s not me, it’s God. They will follow t
he right path; we will make sure of it.” This decision shook Baba to the core of his basic faith: that everyone could repent. To be a “Good Muslim,” Baba had to allow that belief in reform. Maman would have none of it.
“I want them out of here. The children haven’t been able to go to the hotel for the two months they were locked up there. Now they’re free and we’re in prison? You don’t see how crazy this is? Is Shahami pressuring you?”
Then Maman did something she never did. She walked away. The door to the kitchen slammed.
My brother Zain, who had watched, began to shake his leg against the table leg, and he put down his tangerine.
By the next morning, Maman was letting Baba sweeten her tea for her. And the last part of Baba’s decision was set into action: the boys worked at the hotel. They were in and out, and Maman’s predictions proved terribly correct.
FROZEN SNAKES
As Abdollah entered the living room a few weeks later, I felt a strange shiver at the back of my neck. Something had changed and I had a premonition of trouble.
A button. How strange that a single button could signal oncoming catastrophe. But to Baba, good Muslim men and boys do not leave their shirts unbuttoned – not even a single button.
Abdollah was wearing one of his tight polyester shirts. The top button was open exposing a gold chain on a few dark chest hairs.
As if this was not rebellious enough, he carried a pair of black three-inch platform boots. They were like the ones we had seen in his Western magazines.
The evidence, which had not seemed serious until now, added up: Abdollah was acting more and more like other teenagers in Mashhad, boys who didn’t follow the strict traditions observed inside our family’s walls. Before, he had only a few contraband magazines hidden under his rug, but now I heard Elvis songs coming from Abdollah’s room. The rug could no longer contain his collection, and vinyl records and stacks of Newsweek and Life magazines found their way to his closet, buried under his navy blue suit and work clothes.
When we heard the rattle of the front door handle, my eyes darted toward Abdollah. It was Baba returning to surprise us with fresh bread from the hotel.
I knew what must follow. In my head, I planned to save my big brother from Baba’s wrath and shield Baba from Abdollah’s rebellion. If I got on a chair and reached around Abdollah’s neck, I could button the shirt from behind. No one would notice. I glanced at Abdollah. The door was open. He could still get out. But he didn’t. Instead, we sat still and silent. The piece of buttered sangak I was about to give Iman grew cold in my hand.
Baba frowned and adjusted his glasses. “Abdollah, what’re you wearing? You’re not going to work like that.”
Abdollah lowered his head; he didn’t answer. I set the spoon I was holding back on the plate, trying not to clink the metal against the china.
“Button that collar,” Baba said. He brushed past Abdollah’s shoulder and moved toward the sofreh where we were sitting cross-legged eating breakfast. Baba dropped the fresh sangak flatbread onto the dishes of jam; the impact sent splatters of quince jam onto the sofreh.
“No man of respect dresses like this. You’re not an entertainer. You’re the son of a businessman.” Baba pointed his index finger at Abdollah. “Your name means ‘the Servant of God.”
Abdollah adjusted his shirt collar to hide the gold chain. “But Baba, this is the style everyone is wearing. It’s only a button.”
“What did you say?” Baba cocked his head at Abdollah.
Maman rose and waved Baba back. “Be patient, azizam. He just got out of the shower. Give him a few minutes.”
Turning his finger to Maman, Baba’s voice grew hoarse. “Time? This is the time to protect him. Just because all these young boys have been following the Shah, who is a puppet of the West and his Western shenanigans – men with their shirts open and girls with bare legs! – doesn’t mean I’m going to let my son disgrace himself. If we don’t protect him now, then when? When it’s too late?”
The new regime promised to forbid theater, music, dating, drinking alcohol, and dressing inappropriately. The Ayatollah would ensure the implementation of Islamic law. My father had always observed the traditions, and although he was a modern man in many ways, he knew which rules were too important to bend. To disobey essential teachings would bar one from heaven. Enforcing the rules was Baba’s way of protecting us and securing our afterlife.
Maman tilted her head, a sign to Baba that she was going to stand up for her children over him, just as her father had done with her mother. Her voice was soft. “I’m sure he’ll button it before he leaves home.” She nodded at Abdollah.
Baba’s face grew red with anger, growing so bright it overwhelmed the pink birthmark on his left cheek.
“Can’t you see what’s happening? Your son is strutting like a gigolo with his chest showing. I will not tolerate this in my family.” He was talking to Maman, but his eyes never left Abdollah’s.
The sunlight was beginning its climb up the living room wall and, out in the hall, a jangling of keys indicated that the maid had arrived. The morning routines of the Rose Hotel were beginning.
Abdollah broke eye contact with Baba and glanced toward the kitchen. “I’m late. I’ll be leaving now, Baba.”
The slap of Baba’s palm on Abdollah’s cheek made the hairs on my arms bristle. Abdollah dropped his boots with a thump on the carpet. As I knocked over a teacup with my knee, the brown puddle spread across the sofreh. I covered Iman’s eyes with my hand. Baba had never struck any of us before. Abdollah collected his shoes and bag and kissed Maman on both cheeks.
“With your permission, Maman, I’ll be back soon.” Then his eyes traveled over us one by one before he pressed his palm to his chest and bowed to Baba. “Gorbanetoon – I sacrifice myself for you. Please excuse me.” Abdollah walked out as I tried to gather the spilled quince jam with my hands.
Baba’s voice shook as he called after his eldest son: “Don’t forget the meeting today. I’ve rehired most of the staff and I need you there. And change your clothes.” Not meeting our eyes, Baba put on his shoes and closed the door on his way out.
Looking back, I still feel that shiver. What appeared minor – an unbuttoned shirt, a slap on the face – was in fact, the sign of an outright war. I felt the danger. But I was a child and could do nothing to avert the future catastrophe.
Baba
More urgent matters were at hand. Although the two boys had checked out, the Rose Hotel’s most famous guest was about to check in.
That afternoon, Baba placed his palms on the reception counter and welcomed back the staff he had laid off during the Revolution. “We’re a top-notch hotel. Everything I’ve trained you for will be put to the test. We’ll be dedicating the two top floors to a secret guest and her family.”
He glanced at Abdollah. They hadn’t spoken since the morning, but Abdollah was now wearing a white shirt, the top button fastened.
“Her privacy is critical. Anyone who leaks the information will be fired on the spot. We won’t be using our regular waiters and bellboys. Abdollah, you and the manager will be in charge of making sure all her needs are met and that no one knows that they are staying here. There will be no bills or other charges to their rooms. They’re my guests.”
As the staff dispersed, Baba motioned Abdollah to remain behind. “You’re my son. I need you to make me proud, focus on your work, and remember to keep away from those boys.”
Abdollah kissed Baba on the cheeks. “Yes, Baba, I know.”
That afternoon, the wife of Ayatollah Khomeini and her daughters, grandchildren, and staff were greeted by Baba, the manager, and Abdollah. On the top floors, Baba segregated Mrs. Khomeini and her family from the public and the paparazzi who would pursue the Khomeinis like movie stars if they knew they were in Mashhad. The Supreme Leader’s wife and daughters had come on pilgrimage to the Haram of Imam Reza, the sacred holy shrine in Shi’a Islam, where they would be secretly taken each day to pray in private.
Every morning before Abdollah escorted the nine women into town, Baba whispered to him, “Treat Mrs. Khomeini like your mother.”
For the next three weeks, Maman prepared for Mrs. Khomeini and her party elaborate Persian stews and rice dishes, doogh – a yogurt soda – mast-o khiar – yogurt, cucumber with mint, dill, and rose petal– and sabzi – fresh garden-cut mixed greens of parsley, cilantro, mint and radishes for dinner. Sitting on the Persian rug around the sofreh, Mrs. Khomeini shared with Maman a new vision of Iran and a belief that prosperity, security, freedom, and faith would come to our country.
“Your son is fine example of what we hope for our youth. I can see he is smart, family-oriented, a man of God. Binazir – a truly unique young man. He will make a great husband someday,” Mrs. Khomeini told Maman over tea.
This was exactly Baba’s idea.
“Baba, I’m too young, please!”
The noise of Zain’s toy cars came to a standstill and Iman stopped sucking on his pacifier. We all looked up at the table where Baba and Abdollah were sitting.
“The greatest gift my parents gave me was finding your mother. She’s an angel. I only want the same for you.”
Since the day he had seen Abdollah’s unbuttoned shirt, it took Baba less than a month to find his fifteen-year-old son a wife. Bringing trays of imported bananas, local pomegranates, blood oranges, persimmons, zulbia bamie – sugared bread sticks – and ghotab – almond pastry – to the homes of several high profile clerics, my parents eventually hand-picked the daughter of an ayatollah for Abdollah. Abdollah would be married before he committed a sin.
Abdollah’s voice was calm. “I’m not ready, Baba.” In the week since my parents had chosen a fiancée for him, Abdollah had been making excuses not to visit her. “I want to study English and travel to Kuwait and live in Dubai and Lebanon. I want to see Rome and Madrid and London.”
The Rose Hotel Page 4
