Sky of Red Poppies

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  She didn't laugh at my joke. "What do you know about Marx?"

  I shook my head. "Not much, but I was hoping the fish would teach me."

  She looked around to make sure we were alone before taking the book out of the newspaper wrapping. She paged through it and took her pen to scribble something before giving it back.

  She had underlined the part where the little fish faced danger. "Death can come at any moment, but... what matters is that my life, or death, should have a profound effect on the lives of others." She had also marked the ending, when, back at the stream, someone told the same story to a different school of fish. "All the baby fish went to sleep, except for one little goldfish who stayed up. All night long, he thought of the vast sea.

  "Okay," I said. "So those are pivotal points in the story, but dangerous? Taboo?" I laughed. "Now we're really reading things into this."

  She tried to remain calm, but I could sense her frustration.

  "Don't you get it? Had he been any clearer, the book would never go to print."

  All afternoon, I thought of that book and imagined daring to learn more about illicit topics. What would happen if I broke the rules and did everything that Pedar had prohibited? "They'll get you where it hurts. It could be anyone you care about," Reza had cautioned. But how would they know?

  Then I thought of SAVAK, watching a nation from behind those dark sunglasses. Their mysterious presence now a constant in our daily lives, they seemed to be everywhere: in a taxi, inside the telephone line, within the walls of our classrooms and even under the bed.

  Nine

  HAD I KNOWN THE VALUE in those last days of school, I might have stayed in the moment, but as it was, all I saw were long days, monstrous exams, and my endless worries. I could not wait to put them behind me.

  By the time the diplomas were handed out, most students had already dispersed. I realized I might never see some of my classmates again. Few would continue their education, while the rest planned to stay home, wait for suitors, and get married. On the last day, with no uniforms to blend us, our social differences became more noticeable.

  As I cleared my desk, I imagined that must be how people felt when they moved. Soon strangers' voices would echo in the hallway, others' hands would run over the worn wood of my desk, and someone else would look out the window on the landing. I was no longer a part of this place, yet even back then I knew it would forever be a part of me.

  On the far side of the schoolyard, the old custodian carried a pail and dragged his broom behind him. How ghost-like his presence had been! For six years, Baba had cleaned my classroom, brought charcoal for the fireplace, and watched over us. Yet I knew nothing about him, not even his real name.

  After high school, few would bother to go back for a visit and a 'reunion' was unheard of. I watched the sun's reflection on the green house and took one last look at the weeds on its roof, now shriveled. For all the springs to come, I would have to look elsewhere for my poppies.

  "There you are!" Shireen's voice interrupted my summation. She had come out of the building, Jenab by her side.

  "You wouldn't leave before I had a chance to thank you," Jenab said as they approached, and I knew he was referring to a painting I had left in the office for him. Not my best, but it showed a man, holding a little girl's hand, walking her through a dark forest. The attached note read, "Dear Mr. Elmi: Thank you for illuminating the way."

  True that Jenab had kept his distance throughout that year, but his class remained interesting. Some said his problems were political, that SAVAK continued to watch him. Others claimed Jenab had sold out, but none of us knew enough. What mattered was that we had him back and I would not say or do anything that might jeopardize that. My favorite teacher had stamped his name on all the good poems I was to read in the years to come and his voice would echo in many expressive words I might come across. In return, I hoped my painting would remind him of me.

  He shook my hand. "Good luck scholars. And, good-bye."

  The terminal implication in that phrase reminded me of Shireen's witty bypass. I returned his handshake, forced a smile and said, "See you later, Sir."

  That summer, we did not go to the village. Mitra's decision to continue her education in England and study European History came as a huge surprise. Tradition dictated that a girl leave her home only when married. How Mitra managed to get Pedar's consent to ignore the old custom was a mystery to me.

  Mitra's departure came faster than I was ready for. One day she was there and the next, my sister had gone away. Despite my newfound freedom, not to mention the bigger room I acquired, it surprised me to feel lonesome without her. My father's long absences became more noticeable, Reza was always out with his friends and Auntie spent her days on useless projects such as sewing bed sheets.

  Reza seemed to look forward to being a senior at longlast. When he brought home his first impressive school report, Pedar wanted to know if he had cheated. "I didn't need to," Reza said and something in his tone told me my brother had finally matured.

  The whole world seemed to be preparing for the university exams, known as "concourse." Unlike school exams, which were dispersed over the year, this test covered all the subjects in one day. "Concourse fever," as everyone called it, spread everywhere. On some streets, boys studied under the streetlamps, reading aloud, buzzing like bees.

  "How can anyone concentrate with all the noise?" I said to Akbar as we drove by.

  "It isn't by choice, miss. They're out here either because they've got no electricity, or they live in a cramped space."

  "What about girls then?" I asked. "They can't study on the streets."

  "Most of these families won't allow their girls to continue. And, those who do will just have to study under a kerosene lamp."

  I imagined school children, small bodies on the floor around a single lamp, its flame casting long shadows on the wall, the air in the room filled with oily fumes.

  That night, I found it even harder to study. All of a sudden, Mitra's desk seemed much too big for one person and the room appeared to be ridiculously large. The next day, I called Tahereh Ahmadi.

  The only known fact about Tahereh was her poverty, something that even her old uniform could not mask. Her socks were sewn in several places, and she wore shoes that clicked and tapped from the nails used to repair and re-repair them. She hid her mound of frizzy hair under a wrinkled scarf and when she smiled, she covered her mouth with her worker's hands that had chapped and cracked all over.

  "Would you mind coming over to study with me?" I asked. We barely knew each other, but she seemed to be overwhelmed as she accepted my invitation.

  Night after night, her father gave her a ride to and from my house on his squeaky bicycle. I cleared part of my desk for her, but she preferred to sit on the floor. Not bothering with chitchat and hunched over her books, she studied the entire time. As her focus and determination rubbed off, I studied harder and the distinction of who was helping whom quickly disappeared.

  Tahereh's father worked longer hours on Fridays, so when Friday rolled around, I offered to pick her up.

  Akbar studied the address I had given him, then took a look at my outfit and said, "You better get yourself a chador, miss."

  Trusting his judgment, I ran back inside and found my only chador, and as we neared the south side, I draped it over my head and wrapped it around me.

  Fridays being a time for special prayers, the main street, Bala Khyaban, was at its busiest. Pilgrims crowded the sidewalks and vendors' displays spread along the messy pavement. Women gathered by the wide stream that ran along the street, using its smelly water to do their wash, rinse dishes, and even bathe their children. A man led his donkey across the street, impervious to traffic, transporting a heavy load of watermelon.

  With the windows down, I heard the melancholic recital of Quran at a nearby mosque. Something about this area of town always made me sad, and it had nothing to do with my mother being buried nearby. Pilgrims came from faraway p
laces to fulfill their dream of touching the shrine's golden doors. A nonbeliever, I felt like a stranger, utterly out of place.

  Akbar turned into a cobblestone alley where vendors had opened their carts on both sides. He honked and one woman grabbed the hand of her child and moved to make way, but when a few vendors refused to budge, he stopped.

  "I think you should walk the rest of the way, miss."

  I agreed. The alley could barely accommodate one car. What if someone drove in from the opposite direction?

  "I'll back up and wait for you on the main street," Akbar said. "Unless you want me to park the car and come along."

  "I'll be fine."

  Even with my chador on, people seemed to know I didn't belong. They stared and I sensed little respect. Maybe my chador was too short, showing bare ankles. Or could it be the clank-clank of my high heels on the stone that set me apart from other women in their thick socks and quiet galoshes?

  The alley had a sour smell and I could see urine stains on the whitewashed walls. The only time I came close to anything pleasant was when I asked a shopkeeper if he knew which was the Ahmadi's residence.

  The man's face lit up with a smile, showing his few remaining teeth. "Of course, ma'am," he said. "Everybody knows the Ahmadi family." And from his endearing tone, I gathered they were well liked. He pointed to an old door that still had traces of a fading blue paint. There were two brick platforms on either side of it. I didn't see a doorbell and as I hit the heavy brass knocker, its sound echoed in the dome above the door. I heard hurried steps and soon Tahereh's head peeked through.

  She opened the door wider and motioned me in. "My mother is eager to meet you. She's made some tea." Tahereh, now more at ease, seemed much happier, even animated.

  Afraid that refusing the invitation might offend her, I stepped into a courtyard surrounded by rooms. A few curious heads peeked through half-opened doors, a woman sitting by the tiled pond pointed to me and whispered something to the child on her lap. In the shade of the east wall, a man was asleep on the ground, using his turban for a pillow.

  Tahereh, perhaps noticing my stare, whispered, "Those are our neighbors. We all share the courtyard."

  "Nice," I said and didn't know what else I could add.

  A door facing the entrance opened and a small woman came out to greet me. She had on a black chador and, like Tahereh, she covered her mouth with one hand as she smiled. "Come on in, it's your own home," she said.

  I was ashamed at feeling far from being at home. She ushered me into a single room, separated from whatever was beyond it by a blanket nailed to the wall.

  No sooner had I sat down on the rug than they both disappeared behind the makeshift curtain. The room was bare, with the exception of a pair of cushions in bright colors, a machine-made rug, and a folded blanket alongside the wall. On the single built-in shelf sat a portrait of Imam Ali next to a brass vase containing two faded plastic flowers. I checked the ceiling, hoping to find a light fixture. There were none.

  Tahereh returned with a tray of tea, an unopened box of cookies, and some cube sugar. Her mother followed with a half a watermelon on a plate and two forks stuck in it.

  "You shouldn't have gone to all the trouble," I said.

  "No trouble at all," Mrs. Ahmadi said in a deep Mashadi accent. "I have been looking forward to meeting Tahereh's good friend." She smiled a genuine smile. I pitied my friend for not inheriting her mother's glowing charm.

  While I drank my tea, Mrs. Ahmadi told me about her dream for Tahereh to become a nurse. "Not only will she be in an all girls' school," she reasoned, "but she'll also live in comfort and make a little money right from the start." She smiled at the prospect. "In the end, she'll have a job that'll pay enough to put my other two through school." She shook her head. "Her father can't work all his life, you know."

  I wondered if anyone ever asked Tahereh what she liked to do, or if that girl had a chance to harbor any dreams of her own.

  Two days before the exams, Shireen called and asked me to go shopping with her. I thought it was meant as a joke, but she sounded serious.

  "Are you out of your mind?"

  "I can't do it alone," she whispered into the receiver.

  "This better be awfully important."

  We met on Pahlavi Avenue. Apart from the bazaar, Mashad had only one other shopping area. Pahlavi Avenue, lined with poplar trees, formed a T-junction with a narrower street whose real name no one bothered to use. With the T not being at a right angle, it had gained the nickname Crooked Street. A variety of shops lined both sides of the two streets, turning the area into the upper town's main shopping center.

  I waited by the fabric section, a row of small cubicles with just a countertop separating the vendor from the sidewalk.

  At first, I wasn't sure it was Shireen who got out of a taxi. She had pulled her chador all the way down on her forehead, holding part of it over her mouth.

  "Thank you for coming," she said when she had reached me. Out ofbreath with excitement, she pointed across the street. "See that book store? It's his friend's. He's in there." She held my hand and aimed to cross. "Let's pretend you need to buy a book."

  So I would finally meet Eemon, but still didn't understand what she needed me for.

  We zigzagged across the street through rows of honking cars and swerving bikes. I followed her into the shop. There were three men inside, including the vendor. One of the two shoppers was thin and tall and had a pleasant face and the other was a redhead, a little on the heavy side. If I had to guess, I would have picked the more handsome one to be Eemon.

  Contrary to my expectation, Shireen walked straight to the redhead. Was that who I had seen at her house talking to Jenab? He seemed a few years older than Shireen. Tall and slightly overweight, his red curls had already started thinning.

  I busied myself with the book display to avoid looking in their direction. How opposite they seemed, this robust man standing next to tiny Shireen. At the sound of soft laughter, I looked up. Unaware of their surroundings, Shireen's chador had slipped to her shoulders and he seemed utterly absorbed in what she was telling him. Despite their physical disparity, at that moment they seemed in perfect harmony.

  I picked up a gaudy postcard and wished she would hurry. The vendor seemed to know I wasn't there to shop, as he didn't bother to ask if I needed help. Minutes later, Shireen came away and we left.

  Shireen turned into a side street and stopped to catch her breath.

  "Thank you for being my safety net in there," she said. "I had to see him, but since you're with me, if any report gets out, I can always say it was a coincidence."

  "Don't even mention it," I said, happy to see her enthusiasm back, and happier to find a face for the infamous Eemon.

  "I want you to be the first to know," she said, sweetly, sincerely. "My parents have finally set the date for a wedding."

  "Hey!" My loud reaction made a few pedestrians look. "How did that happen?" I said, my voice still a bit too high.

  "Jenab had a big part in this," she said. "By now, my father is such a fan, he would consult Jenab on just about anything."

  "I wonder what he said to turn things around."

  A dark look crossed her face. "It wasn't only him. Maman helped, too." She smiled sadly. "Though not in a nice way. She thinks that after the last fiasco I am such a 'marked girl' that no other suitors will come forward." She gave an angry laugh. "She must have convinced Agha-jan that marrying Eemon would save the family honor and get rid of me all at the same time."

  "Oh, you're being silly. A marked girl?" I said, as if the insult had been intended for me. "All you did was walk with him. That hardly deserves such a slur."

  She waved her hand to dismiss the matter. "In my mother's mind, walking with a boy is bad enough, and spending a half a day with him is even worse."

  "So, tell me, when is it going to be?"

  "Not for a while," she said. "After several meetings, my father decided we could get married when, and if, my
first year of training is successfully done."

  "Then why the secrecy in seeing him?"

  "Oh, there's another condition," she said and shook her head. "This time, his exact words were, 'Don't you go thinking this is your permit to play around!' Which, as translated by Maman, means I'm not to see Eemon unless one of them is present."

  In a society that forbade gender mix, an engagement was nothing but such a permit. I would never be able to grasp the Payan family dynamics.

  When Shireen took a taxi and left, I found myself standing there, smiling. I had finally done something positive for my best friend.

  The night before the exams, Tahereh Ahmadi agreed to sleep over. I went to bed at midnight, thinking no matter how hard I studied, my brain had reached its full capacity.

  I woke at dawn to the sound of my alarm clock. Tahereh's bedspread was untouched.

  "You didn't sleep at all?"

  She looked up from her notes and shook her head. "Plenty of time to sleep tomorrow."

  Auntie offered us a big breakfast, and for good measure, passed us under the old family Quran. Akbar made a stop at Jorjani School of Nursing to drop off Tahereh.

  Four blocks away from Medical School, we could see a crowd in front of it. At first, I presumed they were also there for the exam, but as we neared, I saw them marching along University Avenue, carrying a banner in bold letters that read, JUSTICE, SOLIDARITY, and VICTORY.

  Most of the demonstrators were dressed in dark clothes, two girls wore scarves and a few boys had black armbands. One man carried a photograph of a young boy, whom I did not recognize. Each time the banner rose higher, they all chanted, "Freedom and solidarity."

  "They're at it again," Akbar said and shook his head.

  "You think they may disrupt the exam?"

  "Nah," he said and nodded to an armed guard near the gate. "With so many of those and all the police around, there won't be a problem."

  The demonstrators moved past the guard, who watched them, disinterested.

  "Miss Roya," Akbar said before I left the car. He turned to face me and I noticed his hair had already turned gray. He smiled and said, "If anyone passes this exam, I bet it's going to be you."