Sky of Red Poppies

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  "Thank you, dear Akbar. Wish I had some of your confidence."

  The guards checked my admission papers before letting me in. The demonstrators had moved farther, their chants now fading down the street.

  By the time I left the examination hall, there was no one in the courtyard. The police were also gone, except for one patrol car with no one in it. Akbar had not yet arrived. I moved to the shade of a tree, and as I leaned my tired back against its trunk, my hand touched something wet on its bark. I turned to look. A shiny smear in dark red ran down the trunk and I prayed for it to be paint. I brought my hand closer to my face. With the smell of blood, horrible images rushed into my head. What had happened here while we were in the exam hall? I saw no sign of the demonstrators on the street. I craned my neck and looked for Akbar. Where was he?

  Stepping back, I instinctively leaned against the wall as if to make sure no one could attack me from behind. A few other students came out and passed by, discussing the questions. Finally, I saw my father's car and ran to it, breathless.

  "What happened to you, Miss Roya?"

  I looked at my white shirt, where I must have wiped my bloody hand. "There," I said, gasping for air and pointing to the tree. "I think somebody was killed!"

  He turned off the engine. "You stay right here," he said, and jumped out. Curled up in the corner of the car, I watched him, rubbing the tree trunk, and then bringing his finger to his nose. He looked in the direction of the car and took a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his hand. He went around the other side of the tree and examined the ground. When he finally came back, I thought he looked panicked. Without a word, he started the car and drove away.

  "Well?" I said.

  He studied me in the rear-view mirror and gave me an unconvincing smile. "I don't think there's anything to worry about," he said, but sounded hesitant.

  "What do you mean 'nothing to worry about?'? There's blood. I saw you smell it, too."

  He didn't look at me. "Come on, Miss Roya," he said and shrugged. "They probably sacrificed a lamb. People have a ghorbani all the time."

  "Here? In front of the medical school?"

  "Yes, in front of school." He shook his head. "In front of any damn place they please. You've seen them do it."

  I leaned back and exhaled. I pictured men, holding down a lamb as a fountain of blood rose into the air. "Yes, I've seen it."

  Maybe Akbar was right. All worked up over this exam, I must be imagining things. "I thought it was the demonstrators," I said. "It scared me."

  Akbar now managed a hearty laugh. "The daughter of Rafi khan is scared?" He chuckled. "Wait till your Pedar hears about this." He studied me in the mirror again. "Look at your face, khanoum! You look like you've seen a jinni!"

  Weeks later, the concourse nightmare was behind us as Shireen and I were both admitted to our schools of choice and Tahereh Ahmadi scored second best in the School of Nursing.

  Pedar could not stop bragging about my triumph. The minute my name showed up in the newspaper among other first year students, he picked up the phone and called his friends. "Have you seen the papers?" The way he spoke of my success sounded as if I had already graduated medical school.

  That evening, Pedar cancelled his poker game and took the family out for chelow-kebab. After dinner, he presented me with a gold coin in a red velvet box. "When you graduate, the biggest gold coin in the country will join this one," he said and gave me such a tight hug I thought he'd break a rib. His smile had widened and there was a new bounce to his step.

  Mashad University, though one of the best in the country, lacked a real campus. It had started with an old house and by now had expanded through the entire neighborhood. Each school started in whatever large building became available. The Medical School sat a few blocks away from the School of Science. Despite the proximity, I did not see Shireen. Sometimes I passed her at the main library, but we seldom had a chance to talk.

  A few months into the academic year, Shireen called and told me about her wedding plans.

  "We'll only have a private ceremony to sign the documents, a small gathering of just the family," she said.

  Not knowing her family, I understood, but it did feel strange to imagine not being at my best friend's wedding.

  "Have you decided on a gown?"

  "Just a simple white dress," she said. "I don't want a bridal gown, it's such a waste of money."

  "Oh, but you must," I objected. "What's a wedding without a pretty dress, a veil, a lovely bouquet? Oh, and a good photographer to take lots of pictures."

  She huffed with disgust. "All that frill is nothing but an imitation of Western fashion. Can you imagine what that kind of money can do elsewhere?"

  "Well, if I ever get married, a dress is at the top of my list. I don't care who the groom may be, but you can bet the dress is going to be stunning," I said and laughed.

  Shireen was so quiet that I feared she might have taken me seriously.

  As the year progressed, I noticed more changes in my friend. On the sporadic occasions when we did talk, she spoke less of her own life and more about society in general. Much to my embarrassment, she became ever more passionate in her criticism of the wealthy, though none of her remarks seemed to include me. It was as if by knowing me, she made an exception and put my family on neutral ground.

  "In a society with so much poverty, what right do those useless people have to indulge in luxuries they neither need, nor deserve?" she said.

  "Do you ever stop to think that I'm one of those useless people?"

  "That's not true," she said apologetically. "Let's say you don't belong there."

  Her own lifestyle, though comfortable, was not grand. The Payans lived in an average three-bedroom house and got along without a car. Her father owned a shop in the bazaar selling hand-made rugs, while Mrs. Payan did all the housework. If they needed more, they didn't show it. In fact, I knew of one student in Reza's class whose educational expenses were subsidized by Mr. Payan.

  I tried hard to push away my inner thoughts. Why did Pedar own two cars if he had only one driver? Servants cost little and many were happy to work for room and board, but did we need so many?

  Wishing to diminish the guilt, I reminded myself of the stories Pedar had told us about his youth, how he started by working for his uncle. "I only had the shirt on my back and a few coins in my pocket," he said time and again. On the other hand, he came from a well-known family and God only knew how many doors had opened for him just because people knew the name, Afshar. Pedar took pride in what we had. "Don't you ever forget that you're really somebody," he said to Mitra.

  "And what's a somebody if you take the money away?" Mitra asked. "What's the difference between us and them?" She pointed to the basement, where the servants lived.

  "It isn't as if I stole the money. I've worked hard to get here." He chuckled. "As for them," he imitated Mitra, pointing to the basement. "They're not slaves. They're free to go. If God wanted them to earn more, he'd give them bigger brains."

  They're not slaves. Just how different were they? Most farmers worked for room and board. Where was the justice in that? Sometimes I wondered if behind the praise, behind the polite smiles, there was also resentment.

  In an adult world, time flew by. Gone were the days when I saw a long distance between breakfast and dinner. As I spent my entire day at school, came home at dusk, and dealt with a larger volume ofwork, my measure of time changed from hours to weeks, months to semesters.

  'Ten

  I STAYED AT THE ANATOMY LAB during my lunch break to study for a mid-term exam. The strong smell of formaldehyde reminded me of the disinfectants used at hospitals. Alone with a corpse, it surprised me that I no longer feared the brown mass on the table. In fact, it now looked more like a dummy made of leather.

  As I finished my work and prepared to leave, the door opened and sunlight framed a tall figure. Judging by his lab coat, he was also a student.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked, as i
f I had trespassed.

  "Studying. What's it to you?"

  "Ah! A child prodigy, are we?"

  I glared at him. "I'm nineteen."

  He chuckled. "Sure you are." Walking to the table next to me, he gathered some papers and waved them in the air. "Came for these," he explained, and stood there as if expecting me to talk.

  I walked away and left without a word, making sure I slammed the door. Hard.

  A few days later, the guy showed up again, this time at the ping-pong tables. "Is there room for one more player?" he asked the group.

  I jumped at the chance. "Are you sure you want to play with children?"

  "Ah, there you are," he said sounding pleased. "I've been looking all over, trying to find you."

  I ignored him.

  "I believe I owe you an apology." He walked over to me. "But you can't blame me. You do look too young to be in med. school."

  I was tired of comments about my childlike looks. If that was his way of apologizing, he'd better forget it. I turned away and watched the end of the game.

  As my friends started the next round, he extended a hand to me. "Kyan Ameri," he said, but when I pretended to give all my attention to the current game, he wiggled his fingers adding, "Or not!"

  I did my best not to smile. He stepped closer and whispered, "What if I get down on my knees in front of all these people and beg? Will you then forgive me?"

  I stole a look at him. In the bright light he looked better than I remembered. A protruding chin and his Roman nose gave him a serious look, but under the bushy eyebrows his eyes showed a playful twinkle.

  "What's there to forgive?" I said and shrugged. "People make similar stupid remarks all the time." "Shame on people." He smiled.

  "How old or young I seem shouldn't matter, but I suppose some people's brains are in their eyes."

  He nodded. "In that case, let me tell you. I think you have beautiful brains."

  I smiled, but tried to focus on the game.

  "So how's the anatomy lab going?" he said, standing closer.

  "Don't even ask!"

  "That bad?"

  "It was bad enough to study the blue veins, red arteries and yellow nerves in the textbook, who knew they'd all turn brown on a pickled cadaver?"

  "Oh, but there's a trick," he said. When I did not respond, he added, "I'll be glad to teach it to you and make up for my 'stupid remark,' as you put it."

  I smiled at the idea of having my very own tutor.

  Kyan proved to be the anatomy guru. During the following weeks, we met in the lab a couple of times and the way he explained things made it much easier to study. Each time, he made sure we ended our meetings with a tea at the cafeteria, and I enjoyed having my classmates watch me walk in with an attractive student two years my senior.

  One day, as I was about to leave the library, Shireen came out the door.

  "Is that you, Roya?" She sounded surprised.

  I gave her a big hug and thought she looked tired. "Good to see you," I said. "I've been meaning to call. How's the married lady?"

  She touched her belly. "You mean the 'Mama'."

  "Oh, my God!" I shouted and then, remembering the library, lowered my voice. "You mean I'm going to be an aunt?"

  She nodded and her smile had radiance.

  "When?"

  "Oh, I'm only into my third month."

  She started to go down the hallway. "I'm late for my doctor's appointment," she said. "See you around."

  I wanted to tell her about Kyan, but she had already left. I stood there and watched the glass door as it swung in diminishing arcs, until it came to a stop.

  Summer had just begun, but the mercury on the thermometer outside my window had already climbed close to a hundred. Here and there on the street I had seen the ice vendors selling huge blocks of ice and knew that soon the heat would keep me indoors for most days.

  Many students had already gone back to their hometowns. Kyan said he'd be somewhere up north near the Caspian. I enrolled in an English literature class at the British Council Library and also planned to spend some time on my artwork, but deep down knew it would be a long, boring three months.

  "I'm going to Golsara one last time before I let it go," Pedar announced at breakfast.

  "Let it go?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

  He did not respond.

  Reza looked up and motioned for me to shut my mouth. So preoccupied with school for months, I had not even thought about my father's share of land reform issues. The Shah's so-called "white revolution" was now in full motion. Every day the television showed farmers bending their turbaned heads to kiss the royal hand, and receiving the deed to their own piece of farm.

  "Golsara is such a lovely little place," Auntie said. "I hope they'll keep it up."

  Pedar grunted. "Unlikely. That village was on its way to ruins as it were. Between us, if not for the orchard and the big house, I would gladly have let it go years before."

  I opened my mouth to say something, but Reza glared at me.

  Unfair as some considered this new takeover, the Shah's decisions and any amendments he added to the constitution, were indisputable. Pedar seemed so outraged about the whole matter that none of us had dared discuss the details with him. We knew he would keep Ahmad Abad, better known as 'the upper village.' The money generated from its crop of sugar beet had always been Pedar's main income. All the same, his choice for Golsara to be the first to go came as a surprise.

  "We'll need to clear the big house," he said.

  "One of us needs to be with you to pack our things," Auntie said, "but I couldn't possibly make it on such short notice."

  Reza nodded to me.

  Picking up on my cue, I said, "What if I go?"

  That seemed to please Pedar and so it was decided.

  As much as I had resented our long stays at Golsara during the past couple of years, the prospect of never seeing it again was more than I was prepared for.

  "That was good of you to offer," Reza said later, as if it had been my idea. "I think we all need to be more supportive." Worry crept into his eyes. "Sometimes I fear Pedar may have a nervous breakdown over this."

  "Why don't you come with us?"

  He shook his head. "No, not me. Pedar needs someone who can calm him down, someone he really likes, you know? Lately, my presence seems only to agitate him."

  Though I disagreed, deep down I knew he was right. For some peculiar reason, Pedar showed no patience for his only son. Did he have any idea how deeply Reza cared?

  If anyone could understand my grief over letting go, it would be Shireen. But when I called her, she sounded so excited about her preparations for the baby that I decided not to spoil her mood. "Does one little baby need all this?" she asked. "I think we've made enough clothes for me to have quadruplets."

  "I wish I could come over and help," I said. "But Pedar and I are going to the country for a few days."

  A man's voice called Shireen.

  "I have to go," she said in a hurried voice. "Have a great time," she added before hanging up.

  I put down the receiver. "Yes, a great time," I said into the thin air. "I'll have the greatest time saying goodbye to Zahra and to my childhood memories. It'll be a blast knowing I'll never see that place again!"

  When I looked up, my frustrated reflection stared back in the hallway mirror. What was wrong with me? Was I turning into an old maid, jealous of my happily married friend? Or, could I be angry with myself? I had taken that orchard, the old village and all those wonderful people for granted. As long as I remembered, they had been a constant presence. I felt something break inside me.

  We arrived at Golsara in the early afternoon. More than a year had passed since the last time I'd seen the place. Judging by the neglected garden, I thought my father must have given up on Golsara months before. The trees seemed thirsty and Pedar feared the village's single stream would soon dry up.

  "Why not dig a new well here?" I asked.

  He shook his head
. "It won't be cost effective. Golsara has very little farmland and its soil lacks quality."

  "Then, what will the natives do?"

  "Very few plan to stay. I've provided housing for most of them in the upper village." He pointed to a dying willow. "Those hard working people deserve better than this."

  Zahra and her family had already moved to Ahmad Abad, but I took a walk to her neighborhood anyway. The place had already assumed the appearance of an abandoned village. The wide-open doors to several huts resembled big holes in the wall, no smoke rose to show any sign of life and there was no livestock around. Hard to believe that these dilapidated mud houses had recently been a happy community. In the orchard, many trees and half of the vineyard had dried up. Even the pool looked mossy.

  The drastic change in the attitude of the few remaining servants was hard to miss. While they seemed to be going about their jobs, I saw no sign of the old courtesy. The gardener's little girl showed no interest in our comings and goings. Abolishing her old attire of a long denim skirt and colorful headbands, she now dressed "city style" in a shirt and pants. When I passed by, she just stared without showing the slightest sign of recognition.

  During the first two days, I followed Auntie's instructions and went down the list of our personal effects to be packed. Pedar spent most of his time in the room by the entrance, using it as a makeshift office to talk to workers. The day he went to say his good-byes to the remaining natives, he was in such a bad mood that we barely spoke. Late at night, I could smell his opium down the hallway.

  My packing was done around the same time as the crows began to circle the orchard. With pictures removed from walls and my father's books packed in boxes, the place looked as though no one had lived there.

  Akbar drove the Land Rover with Pedar in the passenger seat and me riding in the back. My father's voice carried a resigned tone. Except for a word here and there, none of us said much along the way, but I sensed a shared grief among us.

  Like a camera, the small rectangle of the rear window zoomed out on the playfield of my childhood. With each mile, the village shrank smaller and smaller until the cluster of trees disappeared into a cloud of dust behind us.