Sky of Red Poppies

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  At first, I thought it must be schoolboys borrowing their father's car to show off, but then three men dashed out and lunged into a group that was gathered on the sidewalk. I froze as one of the men grabbed a boy and slammed his face against the wall. Blood spilled out on the white brick and I was sure his whole face was smashed. The boy grabbed his nose with one hand while throwing punches in the air with the other. Dust rose as another of the men joined in, and together they dragged the boy on the unpaved sidewalk while he continued to kick.

  I took a few steps back and waited. It was too similar to the scene with Alieh. No one made any attempt to help the boy and most onlookers seemed to be as stunned as I was. Just before they reached the Jeep, a heavyset boy lunged forward as if to intervene, but he was pushed so violently that he lost his balance and fell into the irrigation stream along the sidewalk. Water splashed and I heard the rev of the engine. Only then did I taste blood and realize how deeply I had bitten my lip.

  Someone whispered, "SAVAK," but I wasn't sure which direction it came from. Pedestrians stopped and soon a sizable crowd had gathered around.

  "Hold my hand, son," an older gentleman said, reaching down for the boy. Water dripped from the boy's soaked suit and his chubby face had lost all color. He bent his head, avoiding the curious gaze of spectators.

  "Go about your own business," the man said, dismissing the crowd.

  The policeman at the junction of Jaam Street gave up his post and walked over. He blew his whistle and shouted, "Scatter everyone!" But no one paid attention.

  He glared at me. "What are you waiting for, girl?" And he waved his baton. "Shoo! Go to your school." From the way he kept on staring, I knew he wanted to make an example out of me. Humiliated, I looked away and quietly left.

  In the schoolyard, I spotted Shireen among a group of students. As I got closer, I was surprised to find Nelly among them. I heard a girl saying, "He resigned."

  Someone's voice rose in fury, "Jenab would never do such a thing!"

  "But he did," the girl insisted.

  "Not true," Nelly jumped in and I thought she was in an exceptionally good mood. "He was fired," she went on, sounding happy about that. "Mind you, if it weren't for my father, he'd be sure to stay fired."

  Shireen turned to her with an expression of bitter resentment.

  "I'm not sure what's going to happen," Nelly continued. "They've been trying to resolve this problem all summer and Papa is still working on it."

  "You mean, Jenab may not teach this year?" I asked, unable to hide my anguish.

  "I don't think he's in town," Shireen said, doing her best to sound disinterested.

  "Oh, he's in town all right," Nelly said with disdain. "Though I seriously doubt he'll show his face around here just yet."

  Shireen and I exchanged our frustration in a sharp glance.

  "Papa is using all his power to get that man his job back."

  "He is?" I said with newfound hope. A lawyer, Nelly had convinced me her father had enough influence to do anything he set his mind to. Shireen wouldn't look at me.

  According to Nelly, there had been parents' meetings throughout summer to solve Jenab's problem, and her father had been at the center of it all.

  "Why fire our best teacher?" I asked Nelly.

  Nelly waved a hand in the air. "Jenab doesn't exactly follow the regulations, does he? Maybe that's why. I mean, maybe it's because he's such an eccentric."

  "Or maybe because he won't allow regulations to interfere with his principles," Shireen snapped back.

  Nelly rolled her eyes. "Papa says Mr. Elmi is a phony."

  "He does?" Shireen asked. "So why's he trying to keep such a phony around?"

  "Because of the upcoming university. Mr. Elmi's help will get me through if I decide to take the entrance exams."

  "Couldn't your Papa hire him as a private tutor?"

  Nelly seemed to have missed Shireen's bitter sarcasm. "He couldn't," she said and, to my amazement, she blushed. "I mean, Jenab refused."

  This was the first time Nelly had ever called him Jenab. Shireen smiled broadly and I had a feeling that if she liked Jenab before, she worshipped him now.

  Someone called Nelly from across the yard and as she left, I thought she was saved from being torn to pieces.

  "Oh, those rich people and their power struggle," Shireen said. "They make me sick!"

  I felt sick too. Sick to realize that, as much as I resented Nelly's arrogance, somewhere deep inside I had identified with a girl who relied on her father's power. No matter how I looked at it, everyone in my family was among the people Shireen despised.

  After registration, I told Shireen about the incident on Golestan Avenue. To my surprise, she seemed unmoved by it. I had barely finished when she interrupted me in her matter-of-fact tone. "Get used to it."

  Taken aback, her forewarning made every hair on my arm stand.

  My prediction of a school without Jenab couldn't have been more accurate. With a variety of substitute teachers, the emotional spirit was sucked out of literature class, and as I lost hope for his return, school days became more and more tiresome. Shireen and I read bits of poetry during recess, but unable to analyze some of the more complex verses, our little sessions lacked the needed passion.

  Nelly came up with more of her stories every day and I had conditioned myself to believe only what made sense. One day, she came to me in class and whispered, "Did you hear? SAVAK has officially summoned Mr. Elmi."

  "What for?" I asked.

  "Maybe to squeeze out information about students."

  The word 'squeeze' brought to mind all the gory images I had imagined following Alieh's abduction. The thought of any harm done to Jenab was inconceivable. I saw no point in sharing that piece of news with Shireen, as I could j ust see how she might react to anything coming from Nelly.

  At the start of fourth week, I was in class when a lot of noise rose below the windows: cheers, claps and even a loud whistle. I rushed to the window and looked into the schoolyard. Students were gathering, pushing and making their way to approach someone. When I finally got a glimpse, I could not believe my eyes. Jenab, who had just broken free from the crowd, was about to enter the building. That one glimpse was enough to know how much I had missed him. I rushed out to join the crowd, but was pushed back as classmates stormed into the room.

  I waited for Shireen, but she wasn't there. I asked someone what was happening, but nobody, not even the students who had seen Jenab downstairs, seemed to know if Jenab was back to stay or not. After what felt too long a wait, Jenab strode in and the entire class erupted in loud applause. He had on a suit and tie, and his face, though cleanshaven, seemed too pale and unwell. He put his briefcase on the desk and started to wipe the blackboard, as if the past few weeks hadn't happened at all. Before beginning his lesson, he hesitated and said, "For those of you who put curiosity before education, let me explain that I'm here to waste another year in this Godforsaken institute." He nodded in appreciation to our cheer and then wrote down the topic of his lesson. "The Significance of Solitude in Poetry."

  How I had missed my Jenab's intriguing presence and the way he conducted his class. I watched him with intent, trying to memorize every single move just in case he disappeared again. He seemed to have grown much older over the summer, but there was more. I noticed he no longer studied his audience and throughout the lesson, he made references to our textbook as if to make sure his talks were confined to their subject matter. Unsure if the long absence hadn't made me glorify his image, I tried to focus on the lesson and even took some notes on the differences between solitude and loneliness.

  Where was Shireen?

  "So you see," Jenab concluded, "Solitude is never lonely. It is rather a sanctuary where one learns to draw wisdom from the company of self." He turned to the blackboard and underlined the word. "That is precisely where Rumi stands when he writes, 'Dear heart, get used to your solitude...'"

  As soon as the bell rang, Jenab closed his book
and students began to shuffle out of their benches.

  "Miss Afshar?" He motioned me forward.

  I approached his desk, feeling anxious and excited that he had singled me out.

  "Your friend is not well," he said when everyone had left. "Nothing serious, I hope, but I suspect she won't be back for a few days."

  His voice lacking the care I had come to know, he now sounded more like a news reporter.

  "Yesterday, I went to meet with her father," he went on. "And I happened to run into Miss Payan. She requested that you keep her updated on homework."

  Baffled by his formality, I nodded. "I'll call her."

  He opened his briefcase to put the textbook away and I noticed the stretched leather had now collapsed into the almost empty compartment.

  "Maybe a phone call isn't the best way," he said.

  I didn't know what he meant, but thought I'd look for her sister, now a freshman at our school, and give her the assignments. Trailing behind him as we walked to the door, I noticed he dragged his right foot a little. Nelly had spoken of SAVAK'S tortures on many occasions. So far I had attempted to ignore her horrific accounts, pretend they couldn't be true, but my confidence was wavering and I felt closer to the brink of fear. Then again, maybe I was just looking for signs, reading too much into things.

  "Sir?"

  Jenab turned and gave me a sideways glance. For an instant, his eyes met mine and I thought I saw panic in them, as if he dreaded my next question.

  "It's good to have you back," I said.

  He tilted his head, gave me a crooked smile, and left.

  Eight

  BY THE TIME SHIREEN CAME BACK, the initial energy had died down, our uniforms no longer looked crisp and school had settled into its routine. I had called her house many times without any success. Whenever I gave a homework assignment to Shireen's sister, I asked about her and, "She's okay," was all the answer I got out of Nasrin. It didn't take much to figure that something had happened, something dreadful enough to take away her phone privileges.

  Shireen arrived a few seconds after our Geography lesson had started. As soon as she sat down, I took out a sketch I had drawn on a card for her and put it on the desk. It showed a woman in a floral chador, holding a bunch of flowers. Under it I had written, "She's Baaaack!"

  She smiled, her calm expression unyielding. I nodded to the Phillips diary, hoping she'd write something in it for me, but she just tucked it away and stared at the teacher. It wasn't until later, during recess, when we went to the prayer hall that she told me what had hap -pened to her.

  "My parents locked me up," she said. "Three whole damn weeks!"

  Despite the warm sun outside, the room felt chilly. Pedar had once locked Reza's door for a day, but three weeks?

  "I don't know enough words to describe what I've been through," she said in a hurried tone, as if she could no longer hold it inside. "A couple of weeks ago, I went home to find Maman busy in the kitchen. She said she needed help with dinner because Ali was home, visiting. Then, as if reading my mind, she added, 'Eemon, as well."

  "Great!" I said, but Shireen's grim expression stopped me.

  "Maman wagged her paring knife at me and said, 'Don't you dare do anything to shame your father or me, you hear?'" Shireen sighed and leaned against the wall. "So, I gave her my word."

  I found that hard to believe. The Shireen I had come to know seldom made promises, and for her to give up the chance to see Eemon was out of character.

  "I helped Maman prepare the food while thinking of a plan. Finally, when she turned all the burners down to simmer and went to take a shower, I dialed Eemon's number. To hear his voice after all those long months, I thought I'd explode with happiness, but all I said was, 'tomorrow at eight, Goharshad Mosque,' and I hung up."

  Shireen had become animated at the remembrance and her face was flushed with excitement.

  "He has changed, Roya, aged even. He's not the type to complain, but I could tell the army's been too hard on him. We sat in the crowded courtyard of the mosque and talked until noon." Her lips parted into a faint smile. "That talk alone was worth every minute of being caged."

  "How did they find out?"

  "Ali told on us."

  "Your own brother?" Not to mention Eemon's best friend.

  She nodded. "After dinner, we had gathered for tea when Ali just came out and told Agha-jan that I had spent most of the day with Eemon. With no time to prepare a response, I just told them the truth. I guess I must have felt like a trapped animal because I remember shouting back, 'What do you want from me? It's my damn life.' And that was when his hand came down and slapped me." She looked as if the remembrance hurt more than the actual blow to her face. "He hit me, Roya. My father actually hit me!"

  Instinctively, I reached up and gave her cheek a gentle stroke.

  "Maman just stood there, her piercing eyes a reminder that I had been forewarned. Though later she dismissed it as 'just one little slap,' that single slap was enough to break the barrier of respect and annul all the rules my father had set over a lifetime."

  With each word she said, I found a million new questions, but her breathless, hurried recount prevented me from interrupting.

  "Ali came to my room in the evening to explain that he had done so for my own protection, that he did it only because he loves me. What in the hell kind of love is that?" She sighed. "For weeks, all I did was cry. Nasrin brought in my meals and left without saying one single word. I had no phone, no books, not even a watch. And all that homework you sent wasn't delivered until just two days ago."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Why should you be? I don't regret it one bit," she said firmly and I noticed she had remained dry-eyed, as if isolation had made a stronger Shireen out of her. One learns to draw wisdom from the company of 'self. Weren't those exact words Jenab's interpretation of solitude?

  "I'm no longer fighting my father alone," Shireen continued in a calmer voice. "Ever since that day, Ali's attitude has changed, as if he's lost respect or at least sees fault. The other day, Agha-jan was shouting, 'In my time soldiers wouldn't dream of a protest against their Commander in Chief.' I don't know how my brother got away with it, but I heard him say, 'maybe times have changed.'"

  "Good for Ali," I blurted out.

  Shireen smiled. "Better yet, he went on to finish with this verse, 'If I shall rise, and if you would rise, everyone will.'"

  I knew that poem, though I couldn't remember the poet's name. "What did your father say to that?"

  "The same thing he always says when he doesn't have a better answer. He just told Ali to shut up!"

  I wanted to ask what had prompted them to let her go, but her next words gave me my answer. Her parents had threatened her with what my father used as a bribe: Freedom, and love, the lack of which provided them with enough ammunition to make Shireen break down and do the unthinkable. She apologized.

  "When Maman brought me to him and said go and kiss his hand, Agha-jan wouldn't even look at me. He kept staring at the television screen while I bent down and kissed those cold, stiff fingers. I said, 'I'm sorry,' my voice betraying me. He just pulled his hand away and said, 'Let's hope you've learned your lesson.'"

  I thought of Pedar's melancholic eyes after each outburst and thought if I ever did that, it might make him cry.

  "I sure did learn a lesson," Shireen said in a bitter tone. "In pursuit of freedom, I will have to lie, even to my own father."

  After a long silence, I asked her, "What about Eemon now?"

  "Nothing!" she said. "He is back at the base with no plans for another visit."

  Before I left for lunch, Shireen gave me something wrapped in a newspaper. It had the feel of a notebook.

  "What's this?" I asked.

  "You'll see."

  I figured it must be another diary, maybe some notes about her horrendous experience. Still, curiosity made me peek. Halfway across the street I had a glimpse of what it was and the shock stopped me right there. Someone cursed as
a car swerved by. I tucked the thin book inside my notebook and ran to the other side. For the rest of the way, as if carrying an explosive, I held my books away from my body. Shireen had given me a copy of The Little Black Fish.

  In my room, I hid the tiny book under my mattress and went to join the family for lunch. Too preoccupied to enjoy the meal, I hurried through it and asked to be excused to go and study. Having locked my door, finally I sat down to read.

  The story began with a few baby fish, listening to a bedtime story about the vast ocean. When they all went to sleep, a little black fish continued to think of the ocean and decided to find it. His adventures were sometimes a challenge and many times scary, even funny, but at no time did the story strike me as extraordinary.

  I enjoyed reading it and had to agree with Jenab on the power of its simple prose, but like Nelly, I was unimpressed. Nowhere in the entire twenty pages did I find a suspicious message. What had I missed? The little fish was motivated by sheer curiosity. A careless little character, he broke some rules, yet he wasn't even brave enough to cross simple barriers. He never found followers, did not start anything that resembled a movement, and at times his character annoyed me.

  I read the book twice more in search of something that might justify its ban, not to mention the possible assassination of the author. There was none.

  That afternoon, as soon as Shireen had arrived, I returned her book.

  "Finished already?" she asked.

  "Yes, and I don't see a reason for all the fuss."

  Shireen seemed neither offended nor surprised. She only continued to give me an inquisitive look.

  "So what if a fish goes to the ocean?" I said. "Am I too dumb to get the message?"

  "Maybe you're looking for the wrong message," she said in her calm voice.

  "You're right." I laughed. "I expected to find Karl Marx going fishing and taking all of Tehran University with him."