"I'm waiting for an explanation," he said in an uncompromising tone.
Auntie took my hand in hers. "Roya, dear, the time to tell us is now." She put her arm around my shoulders. "Did you know about any of this?"
I shook my head, unable to utter a word.
"Roya is too sensible to get involved in anything like that," Reza said. But no one seemed to pay attention.
"Stop your crying," Pedar commanded. "What happens to these felons isn't any of your damn concern. Just be grateful you weren't among them."
My father's unfair judgment made me feel protective of Shireen and for just a moment, it helped me to get past my anger. I was still mad at Shireen, but I knew she was no felon. She may have been disloyal to me, but she was not a terrorist. The only possible conclusion was that the whole story had been fabricated to mask something else, something bigger. But what?
Pedar dropped his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back without having touched his food. He came so close to me that I had to lean away. Poking a finger into my shoulder, he whispered, "Listen, and listen well. If I so much as hear of you making a suspicious move, I'll deal with you in a way that'll make the secret police seem like angels."
He left the room and no one said a word until the sound of his heavy footsteps had faded down the front stairs. For a few seconds, I only heard the chime of the big clock in the hallway.
My aunt offered me a tissue and gently stroked the back of my hand. Her next words told me just how little she knew of what went on in my world.
"This is where I'd like to see this friendship end," she said.
Having no response to that, I excused myself and left for school.
I walked along Golestan Avenue. The images that were brought to mind by the article were all foreign. Funny how the only vision that was clear had nothing to do with the report, yet I found that one the hardest one to push away: Behrang's tiny hand wrapped around Shireen's finger, holding on for dear life.
My own mother's face on our last day together had started to fade behind the thickness of time, her pale face lost in a huge pink bed, the pear-shaped charm on her neck chain rising and falling. She had left me long before other memories could be built. I wondered if she ever felt well enough to enjoy her baby Roya, and if she had been the one teaching me my first words. On that last day, I had stood on my tiptoes, hanging on to her bedpost, watching her neck chain and that pear-shaped pendant go up and down, up and down with every breath she took. She gave me a wan smile. "Go away and play," she had said. What were Shireen's last words to her little boy?
A man sat at the crossroads. "Extra, extra! Bank robbery in Tehran," he shouted. I stopped and bought two different newspapers.
On University Avenue, there were four police cars. The sidewalk was covered with pieces of torn paper and pamphlets with large print.
Where had the demonstrators gone?
Skipping class, I headed straight for the coffee shop and spread my newspapers on a table. Now paying more attention to details, what I read was shocking. The report gave an evil, dangerous portrayal of Eemon and Shireen, and what a monster they had made out of Ali! Now, with no one hovering over me, I could at least concentrate on what I read. Shireen was charged for being an accessory to a crime. Posing as the lady of the house, she had taken care of what the newspaper called "the terrorists." Their apartment was referred to as a "team house." Ali had been shot during the raid and was pronounced dead. Others, including Eemon, and Shireen's younger brother, Ahmad, were critically wounded.
"According to a SAVAK'S spokesman, the government is working on a plan of action that will tighten the national security. "
"May I borrow your newspaper?" someone asked.
I looked up at three first-year students. For years, I had identified SAVAK by their dark suits and large sunglasses. Now I no longer knew what to look for. Unsure, I handed the paper to one of the students. When the three gathered to read the article with occasional exclamations of surprise, I decided they were as confused as I was.
The reaction around campus proved to be far from what the newspapers had hoped for. Not only did most students refuse to call them criminals, they seemed to view the Fadaiyan with deep respect. A few claimed they knew those boys. One proclaimed he lived next to Eemon's parents. There had been a time when she was my best friend. But I no longer knew who she really was. I pushed the tears away. I would not let my heart break again. She was no friend of mine.
"They can call it robbery, or anything else they want," a boy sitting at the next table said under his breath. "Where else would they get the money to buy ammunition?"
"Imagine that," his friend responded. "They came that close..." And he sounded as if his favorite team had just lost.
I got up and went to my class.
Throughout the day, the incident was talked about on campus. At noon, someone said they heard on the radio that Eemon had been taken to the military hospital for surgery. I could no longer guess how Shireen would react. "Sacrifices are what this society needs," she had said. How silly of me to think she had meant charity.
Shallow.
That evening, my family did their best to avoid mentioning the news.
"You didn't talk to anyone about your friendship, right?" My aunt said casually.
I only shot her a look.
Pedar, disenchanted as he may have been with the land reforms, continued to be a loyal subject and saw the country and the king as one. His patriotism seemed to blind him to the point that he would not allow himself to even consider anything that might jeopardize the security of the throne.
After dinner, I went to the basement in search of my Phillips diary. Hiding it inside an old magazine, I took it to my room. I lay down on my bed and read some of what Shireen had written, especially the parts that had previously seemed obscure. Maybe the news had influenced me, but now I found a whole different connotation in her words and could not fathom how I had missed it before.
On one page, Shireen had written a quotation from Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra.
"Learning to look away from oneself is necessary in order to see many things: this is needed by every mountain climber. He, however, who is obtrusive with his eyes as a discerner, how can he ever see more of anything than its foreground?"
Wow! I needed a dictionary to grasp the full meaning, and yet, she had been barely eighteen when she copied that. While I was fascinated with the obvious, "its foreground," she had seen deeper - much deeper. How long had Shireen been a mountain climber, a revolutionary?
On another page, she had paraphrased Antoine de Saint-Exupery.
"To love is not looking at one another, but together looking in the same direction."
The word 'love' now took on a whole new meaning. I saw Shireen and Eemon, standing side-by-side, fighting for what they believed. As if peeling an onion, with each page I read another layer lifted, helping me to reach the core. Eemon was not just a husband. Their love began with "looking in the same direction," their marriage uniting them to the point of being one and the same.
I fell asleep with the Phillips still in my hand and I dreamt of a dark road. A group of people, all in black, marched toward me. They carried two coffins. Closer, I recognized the faces of Shireen's parents among the pallbearers, followed by Nasrin and Jenab. Shireen walked alone between the two caskets. She had on an elaborate wedding gown that glittered with rhinestones, and her long hair was adorned with jasmines. All I could see of Jenab was the top of his head. Passing by, he raised his gaze to look at me, but his face was gone, leaving a huge black hole in his skull.
I awoke with a start. The night was quiet except for the occasional screeching of cats on the neighbor's roof. I had no idea what time it was. Outside, no moon illuminated the pitch-dark garden. I turned on the bedside lamp.
The Phillips diary in my hand brought me back to reality. Shireen's neat handwriting, tiny letters so close together, reminded me of the notes I had destroyed. How I wished I had them now t
o help me understand better. Still, one phrase was seared in my mind and I did not need the diary to remember the words. "I've learned my lesson: In pursuit of freedom I will have to lie, even to my own father."
I had thought of those words many times, though now they made more sense than ever before. Maybe I had failed to grasp their message because I never read them with such care. I had seen the world through my father's eyes, but why? He belonged to another time. His time. As much as I loved Pedar, he didn't have the right to control my mind and worse, not allow the true me to emerge. As the meaning of Shireen's words sank in, I felt the warm excitement of sin. "I will have to lie, even to my own father."
Over the next few days, the atmosphere around campus changed. Many students skipped class and gathered in the cafeteria to exchange news.
"They've captured three more," Kyan whispered as we stood outside the Chemistry lab.
I maintained calm. "Three more what?"
He laughed good-naturedly. "No need to be cautious around me, little lady."
"Did you know anything about the Fadaiyan?" I asked, immediately regretting it. Wouldn't it be better if I knew nothing at all?
He gave me a surprised look. Then, as if unsure where to start, he asked, "Do you remember the incident at Siahkal?"
I shook my head.
He opened his mouth, but seemed to change his mind. "Some other time. This isn't the right place and is certainly the wrong time." After a long pause he added, "Let's just say that the Fadaiyan may be our best hope for the future."
"Are you one of them?"
He shook his head. "I'm not selfless enough."
I noticed many students were leaving. "Where are they going?" I asked.
"It's a silent protest. No classes."
I smiled at the realization that by skipping lab, I had unknowingly joined my first protest. "Do not abandon your friend at a time like this," Jenab had said a long time ago. The loss Shireen had endured put her at so much of a disadvantage that I could forgive her. In pursuit of what felt right, I too, would lie to my own father if I had to.
Mrs. Payan couldn't mask her surprise at my visit. She craned her neck out the door and looked into the alley before letting me in. When the door was shut, she wrapped her strong arms around me and held me tight. "You smell of my Shireen."
She led me to the living room and took the faded bed-sheets off the couch.
"Please accept my deepest sympathy for..."
"Don't!" she said and held up one hand as if to push my words away. "I'll have none of that. This family does not condone such acts of terrorism," she said loudly. "There will be no grieving around here."
I opened my mouth, but she put a finger to her lips and shook her head in sorrow. "Not another word," she said. Her eyes pleaded with me and that look of resignation on her face was in contrast to her strong voice. She motioned to the couch and I lowered myself to it.
"The government has granted us permission to give Ali a proper burial." She looked at me intensely to make sure I understood. "Most families of insurgents aren't even allowed a line in the obituaries." I took that in. "They've made an exception for the Payans because our family set an example by publicly condemning the actions of our disloyal members."
Looking at her crestfallen eyes, I wished she would go ahead and cry.
"The loss of a terrorist is no loss at all," she said loud enough to be overheard, her eyes disagreeing with every word. "It... " Her voice broke. "...Will be done tomorrow," she finished in a whisper. She slumped on the floor, held her head in both hands and began rocking side to side.
Respecting her anguish, I submerged into the deep silence of my own grief. On a side table sat a black-and-white family portrait in a silver frame - Mr. and Mrs. Payan were seated in separate armchairs while the four children stood behind them: Ali and the younger brother, Ahmad, on either side of Shireen and Nasrin. It must have been taken before I knew Shireen. They were all young and none of them smiled. I saw no other pictures around. Next to the silver frame, a vase held three withered roses.
"That is where Ali Payan's family stands," Mrs. Payan said. "The burial will be small and private, with only the immediate family attending. We shall have a memorial service next week." She offered me a box of tissues. "You may attend, if you wish."
"Will you go to visit Shireen?"
"My sister and I will visit her regularly."
Another silence briefly fell. "I'll be in Tehran in a couple of months. Can I go too?"
She glared at me and said, "Why would you do such a thing?"
I didn't blink. Instead, I stared right back. "Because that's what friends do."
She nodded, but I wasn't sure what that meant. Did she just agree with my statement, or would she take me with her to Evin prison?
Changing the subject, she talked about Eemon's approaching surgery. "They'll want him to be on his feet when he attends the trial. Or maybe the firing squad."
Her words made me shiver, but she maintained a calm tone -finally imprinting on me that their home was surely wired.
"What happened to Behrang?"
At the mention of her grandson's name, Mrs. Payan smiled and for the first time, I saw a resemblance to Shireen.
"At the time, he was with a neighbor," she said. But she did not elaborate. "He'll live with his other grandmother. They'll keep him away from his parent's harm."
Mrs. Payan's sad eyes conveyed much more than the words coming from her mouth. "With the child having their last name, we couldn't claim custody." She paused in thought. "They may want to change his first name, you know? He doesn't need such connection to his parent's idol."
Another missed clue. Now that Shireen was caught among the little black fish in search of the free ocean, I deeply regretted having questioned Behrang's name.
Mrs. Payan stood. "It was good of you to stop by. And I'm proud of you for having the common sense not to ever get involved in their mess."
She spoke those words exclusively for the "bugs." She embraced me again just before I was out the door and whispered, "Be careful, my dear."Across the street, a man sat in the shade of a tree with his back leaning against the trunk and his cap pulled down. Chewing on a twig, he looked up at me. A window at the neighbor's squeaked as it was slowly shut. I walked faster. Around the corner, a blind panhandler raised his cup and asked for money. As my feet picked up speed, a young boy on a bicycle swerved by.
Which one was there to watch me?
Twelve
THE ENORMITY OF THE POLITICAL EVENTS overwhelmed me. It was as if I had stepped from absolute darkness into blazing sunlight and needed time to adjust to the shock. My father and aunt continued to avoid discussing the news and Reza, despite his deep respect for the Fadaiyan, refused to share what he knew. I had to find Jenab because if anyone could answer some of my nagging questions, it would be him.
More than two years had passed since the last time I had seen my good teacher. Having left his job at my school the year we graduated, he now taught French at a private academy across town from the university.
The taxi dropped me off in front of a two-story brick building. A brown and beige sign above the entrance read Arya Language Academy. There were doorbells on the wall next to a column of names displayed under clear plastic. I found Jenab's, Mahmood Elmi, Ph.D., hand written in that familiar calligraphy of his, and pressed the button for 26B. A few seconds later, there was a faint buzz and I pushed the door open.
The small lobby was bare, with no reception desk and it had a moldy odor. I climbed the stairs, found 26B down the hallway, and knocked.
"Enter."
At the sound of that warm voice, I became sixteen again and my heart filled with joyful anticipation. Would Jenab be half as excited to see his old student?
I stepped into a room that was neither an office, nor a classroom, yet it resembled both. There were six chairs arranged in a semi-circle, facing a small blackboard and to the side sat a desk facing them. Jenab sprang out of his chair and at fi
rst, I took that as pure chivalry, a show of respect for a female visitor, but looking at his face, I saw panic.
"What a surprise, Miss Afshar!" he said in a high-pitched voice and offered a clammy hand to shake. "How are you?"
Back to being called Miss Afshar, I didn't know how to respond.
"So nice to see you again, sir."
Except for a little extra weight and more gray hair, he looked exactly as I remembered him. He found a pencil on his cluttered desk and began tapping the cover of the book closest to him. Above the small blackboard hung an oversized portrait of the Shah and Queen Farah and next to it a smaller picture of the young crown prince, whom I guessed was about six years old.
Jenab opened the window and looked at the traffic below. When he spoke again, his voice was smothered in street noise.
"How is the University treating you?" he asked.
"It's okay. Hard work, but okay."
He paused for a few seconds. "Devastating what happened to your friend, isn't it?" he said, still not looking at me.
He knows why I'm here.
"Yes, devastating," I said. "And quite a shock."
"You weren't aware of her activities, were you?" he asked, and now looked at me, his inquisitive eyes searching mine.
I shook my head. "You know how Shireen was. She kept things to herself. I had a feeling you knew her more than anyone else did."
He sat back in his chair. "No, actually I can't say I knew her all that well."
Sure that I had misunderstood him, I said, "I don't think she trusted anyone. At least, not in the way she trusted you."
"Oh? But I was only a teacher." He raised his shoulders and assumed a naive look. "However, it was clear that the two of you were very close."
What was his game?
"That's not entirely true," I said, unable to mask my surprise. "Maybe she understood my limitations, but whatever her reasons may have been, she kept me in the dark."
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