by Dina Nayeri
She slides off the scooter as Gui slows in front of a bodega. Four years in Amsterdam have trained her in jumping on and off the back of moving bikes and scooters. “Are you sure you don’t want to pick up a pizza or something?” Gui asks.
“No!” says Niloo. “We can’t be extravagant about our food. The people in there are dirt poor.” Gui puts up two hands. Looking him over, she cringes. He’s wearing a tailored suit and summer riding gloves (who wears riding gloves on a scooter?) when she’s purposely chosen a T-shirt with a rip at the hem and her oldest jeans, the ones with the unidentifiable bluish stain just below the knee and a small hole in the crotch—when they can afford it, Iranians value the chic and the flashy, and so it satisfies them to see an American Iranian, someone who has had everything they wish for, in tattered clothes. It gives them something to tease her about and it allows her to tell them about Yale while still joining them in complaining about rents or the price of the euro. It feels fair, balancing their circumstances a little. Inside the bodega, she picks out two broodjes, unenviable young cheese and butter on stale bread wrapped in plastic, and two cans of peas.
“Canned peas? Again?” Gui says, horrified—he has caught her eating them before, in the middle of the night with soy sauce, and each time he gags. “Why?”
“Canned peas are amazing,” she says, which is true. She’s loved them since she first tasted them at the refugee hostel outside Rome, where she ate them warmed and salted, or smashed into a piece of bread from lunch, every Saturday afternoon in the courtyard while reading her first English storybooks. Canned peas taste like Europe and no amount of prosperity will change that for her. “Don’t worry,” she says, lifting her backpack, “I brought a can opener.” Gui pretends to bang his forehead on the handlebars but says nothing. She peers into her grocery bag, then nods at the briefcase tucked between his legs. “Do you have salt in there?”
He pulls up the kickstand with the top of his foot. “You know, I usually do take a salt shaker to work,” he says, “but no, not today, sorry . . .”
“I meant from lunch,” she says. “It’s fine. I’ll find some there.”
“I really should pack for a people’s revolution every time I leave the house,” he says. “I mean, here I am routinely without my passports, my desktop speakers . . .”
“Yeah yeah.” She climbs on and wraps an arm around his waist.
“Birth certificate, a security blanket,” he rattles on as he pulls onto the street.
“You’re just jealous of my super prepared ways,” she mutters into his neck.
“. . . iodine water . . . gorp!”
At Zakhmeh, Gui’s clothing becomes impossible to ignore and Niloo starts to worry. What if Karim and Mam’mad think she’s showing off her European husband? She knows it would shame Karim to meet Guillaume, and she hopes he isn’t here.
At the donation plate, Gui takes a twenty from his pocket. Niloo grabs his wrist, drops in two euros, and pulls him inside. She chooses a lumpy sage pillow from the pile and places it in a far corner, and they sit. Gui looks around the room taking in the aging rugs, the dreadlocks, the cauldron of stew. “I like this,” he says.
She pulls out her grocery bag and the can opener but Gui opts for the yellow split peas. By the time he returns from the soup line (where three nosy mothers accost him about who he is and where he lives and why he’s here), Mam’mad is situating himself beside her. He jumps up for Gui, an eager gesture that saddens her; she wants Gui to respect this man she has come to admire.
“Niloo joon, you finally brought your husband. We’re honored,” he says, thrusting his open hand at Gui. His cheeks and eyebrows have lifted, making his face young, cheerful. Watching Mam’mad take Gui’s hand in both of his, she recalls his longing for an invitation from a Dutch neighbor, and for a moment she’s glad Gui came. “But I warn you, here you must sing for your soup,” says Mam’mad. “What do you think, Khanom Cosmonaut?” He turns to Niloo, rubbing his hands. “Shall we make your husband tell a story?” He gives her a preview of the story he’s planning. Finally, he was invited to the home of a Dutch neighbor for tea, and she brought out a single mini chocolate balanced on each saucer. “I thought, Fuck Wilders, Niloo was right about the cookie situation.” He takes her hand, patting it like dough, making her giggle. She catches a look of sudden pleasure (was that an inside joke?), then an encouraging grin, on Gui’s face, as if he’s nudging along an awkward child.
As the crowd settles into clusters, towers of empty bowls rising alongside them, Siavash, the other American, takes the microphone, his foot resting on the lower rung of the stool. He leads a discussion about the Green Movement and about the treatment of refugees in Holland. Now and then, people interject with stories or arguments. Siavash speaks elegant university English, sharing what he knows about displaced scholars, artists, doctors, activists. A stout-legged Dutch woman with shoulder-length hair and loose jeans hanging far too low interrupts. “Holland is very good to immigrants,” she says. “Yes, it’s our duty to help, but it can be frightening. You hear about protests, riots. And some of these runaways who come here . . .”
The crowd murmurs. Niloo wonders about the woman, recalling that this space is open to Dutch artists too. A sneer blooms on Siavash’s lips. “The frightening ones don’t run, mevrouw.” His tone is sharp, but he drops his volume in an affected way that Gui will surely notice. “They stay. They’re the ones we’re running from.”
“We?” On cue, Gui whispers in her ear. “Isn’t he American born?” That he finds Siavash grating is no surprise. Gui is an accomplished lawyer; he can smell a politician and he despises hipsters, overeducated bums with their meticulous squalor. At least he’s honest about his upbringing and the price of his clothes.
Siavash has a young face. Everything else about him is gritty and worn, from the long hair often in a loose topknot, to his graying T-shirt with constellations of tiny holes around the neck, to the shadows under his eyes and that vicious splash of white, a scar like a smear of cream, which he once explained as a chemical burn that happened on a trip to Iran. (“I don’t believe he’s ever been to Iran,” says Gui during a break.) An angry knife scar protrudes like a caterpillar perched on his neck and a spatter of pockmarks, like chunks gnawed out by an animal mouth, ominously appear on one cheek only. His girlfriend, Mala, a watchful, angular former dancer from a wealthy part of Tehran, lingers nearby. She’s in her forties and it is known that she pays Siavash’s expenses. She wears flowing skirts over her bone-hard body, all knees and elbows, keeps her sloping tanned shoulders bare, and speaks awful English. Her arms are always crossed over her chest, in display of her naked distaste for sharing Siavash, especially with other Iranians.
When Siavash starts describing a protest in Tehran where he saw a woman beaten and dragged to Evin, Gui leans in again and whispers, “Jesus, this guy! And his story couldn’t be more generic . . . ‘saw a woman get beaten.’ You don’t say.”
“Hush!” she says. “We’re guests here.”
Now and then, as Siavash takes questions, Gui leans in to point out the insufficiency or poor logic in his responses. But Niloo likes Sy. He has big white teeth, gleaming and uniform like marble tiles. Like her father, Niloo venerates village life while quietly judging people on the perfection of their smile. (“He couldn’t loosen his fist for some veneers?” Baba would say. “Better to walk around with holes in your shoes than lowly teeth.”) How recklessly can Siavash have lived when he has artful teeth like these? Besides, he is selfless. Karim told her that, since Ahmadinejad’s people stole the election earlier in the summer, Siavash spends his days organizing protests and writing letters and op-eds.
“We have to organize demonstrations here,” says Siavash. “And we need to get European citizens involved. Friends, you owe your fellow man your voice in this.” He nods to the Dutch faces around the room, says their names, then turns to Niloo and Gui. “And even more than our Dutch fr
iends, Iranians who’ve enjoyed the privilege of Western lives, like Niloo, like me. We need to be out there every day.”
Now a soft voice rises up from a cluster of men in the back. She recognizes Karim immediately. He clears his throat twice and even so, he’s barely audible. He speaks in Farsi and a man beside him translates to English. “Do you really believe anything will change?” Karim says, almost moaning. “Every time I go to a protest, I think, what if a newspaper snaps my picture and I never see my wife again? And then when a long time passes and nothing happens, or another asylum petition gets rejected, I think, I’ll be roaming these streets without her forever. I’ve been here for ten years, agha. Not like your friend Mala’s ten years. Most of that time I’ve been illegal. Room to room, or on the streets. I have children I barely know.”
Karim seems always ashamed, like a beaten person, exhausted in mind and body, as if at any moment he might throw his hands up and announce he’s finished, then immediately disintegrate into ashes. Niloo senses that no Westerner has ever wanted to be involved in Karim’s life. The state provided shelter for a time, bureaucrats gave legal advice, charities gave clothes, but the hands that delivered these institutional offerings kept a cold distance. Maybe they know that, once invited in, refugees need a lot of favors.
Mala exchanges a meaningful look with Siavash. How many uncomfortable glances has Karim pretended not to see? He shrinks back down and gulps a beer, and a man beside him touches his shoulder. Niloo remembers a time when she too thought she’d never have a home. In those early days without Baba, she thought she’d never have another happy day. Every morning she asked Maman when he’d join them. When did she accept that he never would?
“What if we do win,” says Mam’mad, in a half-drunk mix of Farsi and English, “and Mousavi is made president and there are a few human rights improvements and a point made, et cetera? But our daughters are still under hijab. Our oil is still lubricating mullah pockets. Our sons are still addicted. Then won’t you wish the hard-liners had won and provoked some foreign power to oust them?”
“That’s why we organize,” says Sy, “to get our European friends involved.”
Mam’mad gesticulates toward the front of the room. “You talk about change, Agha Siavash,” he almost shouts, the respectful Agha laced with sarcasm, “but you came here to help us with immigration papers. I ask you, what is the status of that? Has there been progress? Would a trip to The Hague be more useful than protests?”
“This isn’t the place for that discussion.” Sy’s voice takes on a warning tone. “Another time in private, I’m happy to answer your questions.”
“It’s been years,” says Mam’mad, eyes roaming as if to incite a rebellion. “Is enough being done? What’s the trouble that it’s become so complicated?” Niloo can sense Mam’mad’s paranoia about to spill out. She wills him to drop it, and it seems he might. “None of it matters anyway,” he mutters softly, but with such bitterness that people whisper and gasp. “I’m not a refugee. I should be a knowledge worker.”
The room is silent; the very air seems to change, as if someone opened a door and let out all the warmth. Niloo’s breath catches like a fish bone at the top of her chest. Now Mam’mad and Siavash are speaking as if they’ve forgotten the crowd. “Knowledge worker?” Sy snaps at the older man. “Mam’mad agha, do you know what that takes? You need to find someone to hire you, a real organization. And not just hire you for a month, but pay you more than fifty thousand a year. Do you have that? Do you have enough Dutch or English even to hope for that? What, you don’t believe me?” He pulls out his smartphone and begins searching for proof.
“Fuck you and your informations,” says a scarlet Mam’mad in failing English. He starts to walk away and stumbles on Niloo’s pillow. Gui puts out a hand in front of her and Mam’mad excuses himself, then continues, “With your terrible American manners and your stupid phone. Have some respect for people who’ve earned it.”
Niloo reaches for Mam’mad’s arm, but he yanks it away. People are staring and murmuring, some crying. “Fuck me?” shouts Siavash. “Do you know how many hours I’ve spent on your papers? Do you think this is Iran where every younger person is your hired servant? We all have to deal with the same insane bureaucracy in this country. You’re no more special than every other miserable fuck here. And if you haven’t had every local agency up your ass for documents, it’s because of me.”
In the back, Karim is resting his head in his hands. Siavash’s neck flushes and his breath seems to slow, as if he’s waiting to catch the leaked words on his tongue and swallow them up again. He looks embarrassed before the hushed crowd. Now and then someone whispers, a spoon thumps against a plastic bowl.
“Damn, is this normal?” asks Gui, gripping her hand, pulling her to her feet, “Like you fighting with your mom? Or are they about to kill each other for real?”
Though Niloo’s fingers have gone numb and her chest and throat are burning, a parched sensation like trying to ingest a woolen skein, she stops on the way out to speak with Karim. She feels dirty, sticky-shoed, coated in hoppy sweat and weed smoke. “I’m sorry the night’s ruined,” she says, unable to think of anything else.
Karim nods at Gui. He extends an uncertain hand. Instead of hello, he says, “Much obliged,” as if Gui has done him a favor. He smiles wide but keeps his mouth closed, straining to hide his yellow and missing teeth. Though she expected this, though she knew that Iranian manners would cause Karim to treat Gui with a kind of cloying respect reserved for whiter men, she blames her husband for making him squirm. If Gui were pulling at a rope around Karim’s feet, she wouldn’t be much angrier. Now Karim thanks Gui in bad English for allowing his wife to help him. Probably whatever kinship she had begun with him is finished; they will never again talk of Iran over an easy drink.
Gui’s face looks drawn. “I can try to get you someone from my firm,” he offers Karim, as if he can simply lift Niloo out of this circumstance and insert someone else. “Niloo doesn’t know the law.” Karim nods at his shoes, at yet another Westerner who wants to help but is afraid to get too close.
“Don’t listen to him, Karim joon,” Niloo breaks in, in angry Farsi. “I’m the one who will help you. I’ll do it myself. Nothing’s changed. Don’t worry.”
• • •
At home, they dress for bed in silence. Niloo has another email from Baba.
Subject: DOUBAI? YES? PACKAGE?
Niloojoon, yek package barat ferestadam, gerefti? What about Doubai? dad
(Niloojoon, I sent you a package, did you get it? What about Dubai? dad)
She moves the message out of sight. Because if tonight has taught her one lesson, it is this: Baba’s matchless spirit wouldn’t survive the refugee life, and she doesn’t want to tempt or confuse him by relenting to another visit. Would she send an innocent like Gui (however arrogant) into the bowels of Green Movement Tehran to be singled out and arrested? In the same way, Baba doesn’t belong here, his bare feet, cradled for decades by warm grasses, soft Ardestooni riverbanks, and silky rugs, landing suddenly on this chilly, inhospitable soil. In exile, Baba’s feral laugh would die in his throat. His sour cherry pockets would dry up. He would forget the boyish clapping of his heart, as Mam’mad and Karim have done. As Niloo did, long ago.
THE SECOND VISIT
LONDON, 2001
Find the antidote in the venom. Come to the root of the root of yourself.
—JALAL AD-DIN RUMI
Our second visit with Baba happened in London in late August 2001. I was twenty-two and fresh out of Yale and a little afraid of stepping off American soil. But it was fortunate that I went, since Baba would be denied every subsequent request for a British or American visa.
Kian and I arrived at Heathrow airport in a daze of exhaustion. Jetlagged and nauseated, I was at my crankiest, but Kian had reached new heights of bad temper. Having just finished his first year of classist, racist American
undergraduate work-study, he was so fundamentally sleep-deprived that his every word was a bark. And now he was being forced to use his summer holiday and meager wages to see his crazy, overindulged Iranian father in the most expensive city in Europe.
All through the flight he brooded, headphones glued on, arms over his face, hugging himself against the aisle. “I smell cigarettes,” he muttered. “That shit kills the taste buds.” Kian isn’t an easy excavation. I’ve found that the way to enjoy his company is to accept that we’ll have one spectacular talk or sidesplitting hour for every six or seven of his mood swings, ill-timed political rants, and cruel asides. This goes for the entire family—yes, he judges us when we fumble and disgrace ourselves, but that’s mitigated by the fact that he also judges us when we’re witty.
Over the years, Maman and I have come across three situations in which he’s not judging: when we keep our (always unwanted) emails short, when we’re kind to service people, and when we cook something truly original. He also likes it when we nod vigorously at art, poems, cuisine, and other crafted works, because the artist may be watching—an oddly specific situation, but it happens to us often. “Nod for the sauce, Niloo!” he commanded in Farsi the last time we ate in New York. “That’s the man’s art you’re shoving in your face, and he’s behind that glass pane wondering what he’s doing with his life. Nod like you’re affected by the sauce, at least.”
