Sky of Red Poppies

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  Halfway there, where the asphalt ended, a tanker kicked up clouds of dirt, the sun reflecting on its chrome body. I could taste the dust through the opening of the side window.

  Akbar honked.

  "Let him go," my aunt said. "It isn't safe to pass right now."

  "It's never safe on these roads, ma'am. Hundreds get killed every year, but the Road Ministry doesn't care." He looked around the vast desert where a few curving lines suggested beaten paths of horses and mules. "None of these are going to be paved, unless His Majesty happens to pass this way."

  "A little at a time, Akbar," Auntie said. "No country is developed in a day."

  "They're not developing anything, ma'am. They just take the money and pretend the job's getting done."

  Was that how things worked? I wondered if my father's foreman cheated in the same way. Maybe Pedar didn't even know the level of poverty among his villagers.

  "His Majesty's smarter than you think," Auntie said. "Look how much he has accomplished in just decades."

  "Accomplished indeed," Mitra sneered. "Other countries are putting a man on the moon and we are dreaming of paved roads for our donkeys."

  Reza and I laughed.

  Akbar shook his head. "The Shah has good intentions, I'm sure, but he's just not his father - God bless Reza Shah's soul." He sighed as if he had known the late king personally. "They say he went around in disguise just to make sure things got done."

  Mitra said, "Unlike this one with his dozens of bodyguards."

  The glass on the side window felt hot against my forehead. All that talk about roads reminded me of a long ago conversation with Zahra. "Is it true that the streets in town are as smooth as the edge of your pool?" she had asked. At this rate, Zahra wouldn't live long enough to see a paved road in her part of the world.

  I looked through the back window. With each kilometer, my school would move farther and farther away and I imagined it being somewhere on the other side of the Earth, a blob on one of Miss Bahador's maps.

  My aunt reached over and dialed in the news on the radio.

  "...new Symphony Hall, His Majesty, king of kings, love of Arians, personally cut the ribbon with golden scissors. However, students demonstrating outside made the—"

  Auntie turned it off.

  "No! Let's hear about the students," Mitra said and sat up with newfound energy.

  Auntie shook her head. "Students! Their bark doesn't mean a thing. Those youngsters are provoked by the enemy."

  "Who's the enemy?" Mitra said, sounding ready for another one of her debates. "All we hear about is the Shah and his golden this and bejeweled that. Who cares about him when the majority of this nation remains hungry and illiterate?"

  The mention of "golden scissors" had taken me back to Zahra's loom and her old rusty scissors, frayed rags wrapped around their handle. Just how many pairs of new scissors would the Shah's gold ones buy for the likes of Zahra?

  "It's His Majesty to you, miss," Auntie said.

  "But of course." Mitra made a face. "His Maaajesteee!"

  What would Pedar say to that? "Nothing happens for no reason," he had said. Alieh must have spoken as carelessly as Mitra did.

  Auntie changed the station and for the rest of the trip, we listened to music and snacked on roasted watermelon seeds.

  Soon after our arrival, the caretaker and his wife served a simple lunch by the shallow pool. In the shade of an old willow, wooden platforms created a makeshift deck, now covered by several tribal rugs. The gardener's little girl sprinkled water on the ground, making sure no dust rose. The earthy aroma of dampened hay particles revived me and I sat down to my favorite meal: Hot bread, churned butter, goat cheese, and fresh herbs. Skillets of sizzling fried eggs followed as we ate with a hearty appetite.

  The next weeks could not have passed by any slower. Reza went to check the farms with Pedar, and he sometimes told me about his little adventures. Disinterested in the village life, I stayed in with nothing to do. Each time someone came from the city, I rushed to check if there was a letter. There never was.

  Finally, I wrote to Shireen. "Thoughts of that last day trouble me and unless I hear otherwise, I'll continue to imagine the worst." I also told her about our monotonous life. It was a brief letter, but she'd know why. I would ask Reza to deliver it when he went to town on an errand for Pedar.

  The next day, I took the letter with me and looked around for my brother. I spotted the car down the narrow road and, judging by those weird swerves, it had to be Reza practicing his driving. I waved at him.

  He made a turn, drove toward me and stopped just short of hitting a tree.

  "Could you please deliver this to Shireen?" I gave him the letter. As he glanced at the envelope with no address, I added, "Akbar knows where she lives."

  He studied my face. "Are you okay?"

  I nodded, but he killed the engine and got out. "What's wrong, sis?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing."

  "The truth."

  "It's not about me," I said. "It's everything else."

  "Like what?"

  I threw my hands in the air. "Look at us. We live on a different planet. Thousands of students are trying to voice their discontent and here we are, safely tucked away."

  "Oh, that," he said, scratching his chin.

  He sat under a tree and clasped his knees in both hands. "So, my little sister is turning into a mushhead. I bet that Mr. Elmi had a lot to do with this."

  I shot him an angry look. "This isn't about Jen... I mean, Mr. Elmi."

  "No?"

  "No! Anyway, he's no longer my teacher. I heard he resigned."

  "You're joking!"

  I shook my head.

  "Good," he said.

  "Why good? What did he ever do to you?"

  "I've been to a couple of his classes back when he used to teach at my school. I don't like his influence on students. I bet he's behind some of the voices."

  "Well, maybe what this country needs is more voices."

  He held my arm a little too tight. "Don't you even think of getting mixed up in what's going on," he said, sounding just like my father.

  "And how am I going to do that?" I chuckled. "Oh, yes. Why don't Zahra and I take a couple of brooms and march in protest around the village?"

  "I'm serious, Roya."

  I pulled my arm away and frowned. "Did Pedar put you up to this?"

  He shook his head. "I haven't even mentioned the latest riots to him." He shrugged. "You know how worked-up he gets about these matters." His brown eyes were filled with care. "I'm out there, Roya-jan. I see what's going on. It isn't about voicing your opinion. One wrong move and your name will be on SAVAK'S list."

  Who was he to patronize me? He may be older, but Reza was still the same boy who needed my help to do his math homework.

  "They wouldn't dare touch Pedar's children," I said, "and even if they would-"

  "Oh, grow up, Roya. Where the Shah is concerned, his own children wouldn't be safe." He got up, brushed the dust from the seat of his pants and walked back to the car.

  I trotted after him. "So what? Is my blood redder than others'?"

  Reza stopped and faced me. "The way you're acting, we'll soon find out, won't we?" I wanted to move away, but he didn't let me. "When did you become so damned selfish? This isn't just about you." He shook his head. "They'll hit you where it hurts. It could be anyone you care about: your father, your best friend, anyone at all." Reza spoke as if his words described dark images from his mind. "Cigarette burns, rape, and whatever torture they can think of. That's what Pedar is trying to spare you."

  My job is to make sure my own children don't disappear, he had said.

  Reza put my letter in his pocket. "I'll deliver this. But you have to promise you won't get mixed up with the likes of Shireen Payan."

  "I'm sick of people treating me like a child."

  "Then start acting more grownup." He gave my cheek a peck and got in the car. I stayed by the willow trees and watched him
drive back to the orchard. Soon, Akbar came out and they traded seats. As they drove to town, the dust behind the old Land Rover blended into the desert.

  Shireen Payan.

  My whole body felt ice cold and off balance. It was as if I was standing at the edge of a cliff with the earth being pulled from under me. How did Reza know her name? They were never introduced, I had not mentioned her last name, and it wasn't written on the envelope. Where had my brother heard the name, Payan?

  The summer could have been a total waste, but when Zahra informed me of her imminent arranged marriage, it gave purpose to my useless days in Golsara. That evening, after I announced the news to my family, it seemed to put Pedar in his best mood.

  "Let's have a real celebration," he said to my aunt. "That girl grew up with us and she has been Roya's playmate and companion. I'll subsidize the cost and we could add a few guests from town, too."

  Mitra raised her eyebrows, "Unbelievable! A real ball?"

  I regretted ever having doubted my father's compassion. This would give Zahra the wedding of her dreams, and me a chance to make sure she had everything she needed. Other village weddings had been fun in the past, but Zahra's meant so much more.

  As I mingled among the locals and helped Bibi with her preparations, I noticed a drastic change in the atmosphere of this calm village. The news of upcoming land reforms imposed by the Shah seemed to have made the farmers' behavior toward the landlords less submissive. I didn't know the details of the Shah's "White Revolution," but understood it promised a better future for the workers and a reduction of the existing social gaps. As part of the plan, farm owners could maintain only one plantation and, as dictated by the Shah, any additional land they owned would be divided among the farm workers.

  Shortly after the news about land reform, Pedar stopped calling the king "His Majesty" and instead, like everyone else, he referred to him as "shah" - king. It shocked me when one evening, during a TV interview with the royal family, he yelled at Reza, "Turn that thing off!"

  Reza did as told and later asked Pedar, "What will happen to our farms after the land reform?"

  "No more Golsara," Pedar had said. "You and I may have new problems dealing with farm workers who feel equal to us."

  "Why?"

  "Because the ignorant perform best under a dictatorship."

  The morning of Zahra's wedding, a few women from the village took her to the bathhouse for the henna ceremony. When I joined them later at her house, for the first time I saw my friend in crisp, new clothes. Her hair smelled of soap and rosewater and it had a new reddish hue from the henna, as did the palms of her hands. Bibi had sewn a new thinner scarf for her, which she secured on her head with a colorful silk headband. I helped her put on a new jacket - an added luxury despite the heat. She rubbed a hand over its smooth velvet and smiled.

  How plain the city bride's white gown would be next to Zahra's red jacket and colorful ruffled skirt. A woman carried a brazier on a tray, filling the air with smoke and spreading the aroma of burning wild rue over the bride's head to ward off the evil eye. Guests put money on her tray. Children sat on the walls or climbed trees to view the festivities.

  "Here come the doholi," someone called out and people pointed at the small band approaching, consisting of a kettle drummer and two oboists.

  Women formed a circle for their tribal dance. Even the old grandmothers looked graceful as they swayed to the beat of the drum and clapped their hands this way and that. Dust rose under their light feet. Twirling and turning, their long skirts swayed and the assembly resembled flower petals in a whirlwind.

  There goes my Zahra, I thought. In my mind, I could see her with a baby tied to her back, working in the fields beside her man, never questioning destiny.

  We arrived in Mashad late in the afternoon. As soon as the gate opened, I sensed trouble. The grass had grown tall, the flowers looked wilted, and many had dried out. Weeds grew between the driveway bricks. A layer of dust over the trees and rosebushes gave the place the look of an abandoned garden.

  At the sight of Hassan, the cook, opening the gate, my father rolled down his window. "Where is Mammad?" he asked.

  Hassan hesitated, as if afraid to respond, but he was rescued as Auntie's voice responded from farther down the driveway. "I gave Mammad a few days off," she said, descending the stairs to greet us. "He's having some problems at home."

  Pedar nibbled on his mustache, but said nothing.

  "Mammad's problem has to do with his son," my aunt explained when we were in the family room.

  "Is something wrong with the boy?" Pedar said, sounding disinterested.

  "Not exactly... SAVAK took him," she said softly. The news came as such a shock, she might as well have said he was sucked into a black hole.

  Pedar stood up. "What in heaven's name would SAVAK want with a gardener boy?" he roared. Then without touching the tea my aunt had offered him, he opened the window and called out, "Akbar! Turn the car around."

  After my father left, I asked Auntie what had happened.

  "You know how it is," she said and sounded vague. "Naive kids thinking they can hold the world on their shoulders." When I continued to sit there, she added, "I'm sure your father will sort it out. There's nothing you or I could do."

  I thought of Mammad's son, pushing a wheelbarrow, helping around the garden. How could that meek boy do anything that would concern the secret police?

  It wasn't until much later when I recalled Shireen's reaction to him, the shock on her face, and... oh, no! My heart skipped a beat as I thought of her words. "Ali's friend," she had said.

  Pedar called to say he wouldn't be home for dinner, so there went my chance to learn more about the fate of the gardener's son. Later that night, restless and worried, I went down to the kitchen for a glass of milk. The floor was still damp from a wash and stacks of copper pots sat beside of the stove. No one seemed to be around. On the way back to my room, I overheard the cook talking to other servants in the basement. They seemed to be having their tea and, with the well windows open, I could hear him clearly.

  "Must have been lunchtime," Hassan said. "Three men in a jeep. Mammad's wife says the boy ran behind the house and hid in the tool shed. One man held a gun to his mother's head and ordered her to hand him over."

  "Oh, the poor woman!" our old nanny said.

  When it became quiet, I moved a little closer.

  Someone whispered, "And, did she?"

  "She didn't have to. When she started crying, the boy came out all by himself, and they grabbed him." Someone gasped.

  Hassan went on. "She pulled at her hair and begged them to wait for her husband. They hit the boy with a gunstock and dragged him to the Jeep. By the time Mammad came home, it was too late."

  Thoughts of Mammad's family and their hopelessness stayed with me for hours into the night. Now I was curious about the boy's connection with Shireen's brother. When I finally went to sleep, I had a dream about being in a large square, somewhere familiar, yet I didn't know the surrounding alleys. People with flashlights ran down the cobblestone alleys, their screams drowned out by the crackling noise of machine guns. I saw flashes of explosion and heard heavy boots chasing me. My knees turned soft and I could not take a single step. My body folded onto the stones of the alley and I tried to crawl on all fours. That was when I saw Auntie, her good leg severed, blood gushing. She waved her walking cane in the air and opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  Covered in sweat, I woke up with a cry, my heart was beating so fast that I thought my chest would explode.

  Mammad returned the next morning. He looked tired and had the stubble of a beard. He walked with his back bent. His tiny eyes were red and now seemed even smaller.

  From my window, I watched him move about the garden like a sleepwalker. His steps lacked vigor, as if his mind were somewhere far away. When he picked up his shears and started to trim the overgrown grass, I went to him. "Want some help?" As a child, I used to remove the clippings for him, bu
t it had been years since he had let me help.

  "No, thank you, Miss Roya," he said.

  To my surprise, he sounded calm, almost resigned.

  I sat in the shade and watched him cut the tall grass by hand. The snip-snip echoed off the high walls and the hot sun made his face turn red.

  "It should have never happened, Miss," he said at last. "I work hard and all I expect of him is to finish school, get a desk job, and live a better life than mine." He looked at me apologetically. "You get my meaning, Miss. Job security."

  I nodded.

  "He keeps bad company, Miss," he said, and began to recite a verse from an old poem, "A shrewd enemy, though he will cause you pain

  Is better than any ignorant friend you may gain." I smiled at his wisdom. An illiterate, he probably used his fingerprint in lieu of a signature, yet he had memorized verses, and what a brilliant line he had selected. Even Jenab couldn't have done better.

  Mammad finished the main lawn area, put his tools in his rusty wheelbarrow, and let it squeak all the way to the greenhouse.

  Whispers and signals continued throughout the day, but none of us mentioned the gardener boy out loud. I had a feeling Pedar had told my aunt what followed, but unsure if this fell into the none-of-your-business category, I did not dare ask questions.

  The next day, on the way back from school, Akbar gave me the good news. "They let the boy go. Your father sent me there to pick him up this morning. He's home with his mother."

  "Is he okay?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "I'm not sure what they did to that poor boy, but he sure walks funny now."

  I never saw the boy again and for the rest of that summer, Mammad hired a new helper.

  Seven

  ON REGISTRATION DAY, we showed up in our street clothes and treated it as the social gathering we never had. I asked my aunt's permission and walked to school.

  A few maple trees had already changed color, the bright sun enhancing their golden glow. Mashad's gloomy fall weighed heavily on my heart, still, I welcomed the rustle of a few leaves under my shoes as a pleasant reminder of the school days ahead. I had only walked a couple of blocks, when the sudden screech of car brakes ended my calm. A dusty green Jeep came to a stop a few paces ahead of me.