Sky of Red Poppies

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  The driver glanced back. Mrs. Arfa pushed an elbow into my side, but I wasn't sure Mrs. Payan cared any more. She exhaled in frustration and said to me, "As if that wasn't bad enough, she made me promise we wouldn't borrow what we can't pay back."

  I had more questions, but decided to save them for another time. I asked the driver to drop me off a block away from my uncle's.

  "I'm sorry it didn't work out," Mrs. Payan said. "You have every right to be disappointed."

  "It wasn't meant to be," I said and forced a smile. "Thank you for trying."

  The dry afternoon heat felt like an oven. As I passed by a parked car, a man leaning against it eyed me with curiosity, his brown suit too heavy for such weather.

  Would everyone at my uncle's still be asleep? And if not, had any of them noticed my absence? I stopped at the corner store and bought a few bunches of green grapes, a pack of gum, and a women's magazine. When I left the shop, the man in the brown suit was still there. As I walked by, he looked at me again and the sun shone on a round scar on his forehead, its pallor contrasting his dark skin, its round shape resembling a large button. I wondered if he was going to follow me.

  Turning into the alley, I ducked into a doorway and looked back. The car was still parked where it had been, now less visible through the traffic. The man had gone. I proceeded to my uncle's, taking hurried steps.

  The cool air of the basement was welcome on my heat-stricken cheeks. Everyone seemed to be positioned as when I'd left. Pedar lay on a mattress, a white sheet covering half of him. With the back of one hand across his face, I couldn't tell if he was asleep or watching me. The lazy fan turned round and around, blowing a breeze, humming a lullaby.

  I put down the bag of fruit, took off my shoes, and grabbed a pillow.

  On the first day back at school, I rushed to the mailroom to collect my letters. There were three blue envelopes with US stamps on them.

  Kyan's first letter had an awkward tone, as if he had made an effort to report every detail of his days. I didn't know what I had expected, but felt disappointed that this first wasn't exactly a love letter. In fact, the only words of affection came at the very end.

  "Wisconsin is cold and gloomy, even this time of the year, but thoughts of you help me to feel warm inside."

  His second letter was longer, more casual. Number three came in a thick manila envelope that contained his university scarf in shades of purple and navy blue. He wrote on the attached card, "Some of the boys give their university scarf to the one they love."

  It surprised me to find Kyan could be so shy. Maybe I hadn't noticed that in him because when it came to anatomy or politics, he had done all the talking. That he seemed so lost for words, and struggled to express his emotions, helped me to overlook the shortcomings in his letters.

  That afternoon I wrote back and thanked him for the scarf. As for the matters at home, I only hinted, "Everything here is the same. University Avenue continues to have regular visitors and I haven't done anything out of the ordinary to report."

  I had to admit that my letter had turned out equally inexpressive, but it was hard to break the trend Kyan had set. Responding to his brief letters, I couldn't tell him about my lonely walks, or how school had turned into nothing but heavy volumes of books. His absence reminded me of Shireen's world after Eemon had enlisted in the army. Someone who had been a focal point in my daily life had vanished from sight. It was as though the whole world around me had changed.

  In my solitude, I kept on telling myself that, despite Pedar's tough rules and my seemingly restricted lifestyle, the fact that I was not in prison was something. Besides, as long as Kyan went on living somewhere out there, I could hang on to my hopes. How did Shireen endure a world without the prospect of a future?

  Sixteen

  MITRA RETURNED FROM ENGLAND with an impressive diploma, a glamorous wardrobe, and a job awaiting her at the university. Although she had gained a little weight -which she blamed on the English chocolate - she looked as good as a fashion model. Fine black eyeliner framed her almond-shaped eyes. She had tweezed her eyebrows, an exception among unmarried girls, save for those who had studied abroad.

  With both of us now adults, our age difference became insignificant. She enjoyed teaching at the university and seemed to have lost her drive for heated debates. Occasionally, tired of the cafeteria food, we went out for lunch. It was on one of those lunch dates that she brought up Jenab.

  "There's something I need to tell you," Mitra said as soon as our server had disappeared. I couldn't remember the last time she had used that tone, and sensed an impending lecture.

  "Have you been in touch with your old teacher?" She studied me. "Mr. Elmi?"

  I liked the fact that she used his proper name. Somehow the name, "His Excellency" no longer suited Jenab's shattered image.

  I shook my head. "Not for some time. Why?"

  "Did you ever give him any gifts?"

  "Not that I recall." Then I remembered the painting I had given him. "Except that painting," I said and my voice reflected the sentimental girl I used to be. "I gave him one of my works for a keepsake." That entire segment of life, the aspiring artist who idolized her favorite teacher, now seemed unreal.

  "And I'll bet you signed it," Mitra said.

  "He's not auctioning the masterpiece, is he?" I said, laughing.

  Mitra seemed uncomfortable. "He told one of my colleagues at the university that you had a crush on him."

  "Ha!" I laughed. The older couple sitting at the next table turned.

  Mitra wasn't amused. She went on, "To prove it, he showed him your painting." She looked into my eyes. "Did you?"

  "Crush doesn't begin to describe it." I crossed my hands over my chest. "I worshipped that man!"

  "You know what I mean."

  "That's crazy! Go look at it. It's an old man and a little girl. For Heaven's sake, that's how I loved him. To me, he wasn't a man; I thought he was God."

  "Apparently, you still do," she said, and this time I felt the sting.

  "Excuse me?"

  "He also boasted about your recent visit to the language academy."

  "Argh!" It became clear where all this was leading. Oh that pitiful lowlife! Such stories would more than explain my visit to whoever may have seen me there.

  "Okay, think what you want. Let's say it was puppy love way back then, but when I went to that damn academy, I was already in love with somebody else," I said in my own defense, before realizing that my secret was now out.

  The server came back with more iced coffee. When he left, I went on to tell my sister everything, down to Kyan's marriage proposal.

  "Why didn't you tell me this?" She sounded as hurt as I had been when Shireen told me about Eemon.

  "I didn't even want to bring it up now. Kyan is far, far away and Auntie thinks I might as well forget about him. So what's the use?"

  But Mitra was too excited to drop the subject, and for the rest of our lunchtime she seemed to overlook Jenab, only returning to him before paying the bill.

  "Someone should have stopped Mr. Elmi before he could do more damage."

  "What damage? Who cares about silly rumors?"

  "Not now. I'm talking about back then, when they fired him for messing with his students' minds."

  "In my case he did no harm, whereas..." I stopped, but I had already found the dark place that I'd tried so hard to steer clear of.

  "So, you've thought about that, too," Mitra said.

  I didn't want to say another word.

  "Many people suspect that he may actually have had a part in all the." she hesitated, ". arrests."

  "Sometimes I do, too." Jenab's voice rang in my head. Nothing to explain. Not a thing. "Maybe it's just a gut feeling, but there was something about him I could never figure out." I didn't tell Mitra the reason I had visited Mr. Elmi, nor would I mention his close association with the Payans. Words seemed to complicate matters and at some point I had decided to keep things to myself.

&nb
sp; "I never liked him," Mitra said. "Especially after I heard how he had changed, and whatever it was they did to him to make him change."

  "I never quite understood it either."

  "I heard his big mouth sent him to SAVAK, and word got to the Ministry of Education."

  "I felt bad for him," I said. "He seemed so different after he came back."

  "It's his son you should feel bad for, they got him, too."

  "His son?" My loud voice made a woman at the next table turn around. Mr. Elmi, being such a legendary figure, I had not thought about his family.

  Mitra nodded. "His son was one of them."

  "SAVAK?" I mouthed the word.

  "No, silly." She leaned closer and whispered, "Fadaiyan." All of a sudden it was as if the curtain had lifted, enabling me to see the stage, with all the players in place. "How do you know all this?"

  "One of my students told me." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I did some after-class tutoring as a favor and, in return, she filled me in on what I've missed."

  "So what happened to him?"

  "Who?"

  "Jenab's son!"

  Mitra took a sip of her iced coffee. "They set him free." She did not sound too happy about that.

  "I'm confused," I said. "On one hand you tell me Jenab put ideas in our heads, then you suspect he was an informer. Which is he?"

  She hesitated. "What makes you think he couldn't be both? Some people think the switch came when he was going to be fired." She leaned closer and whispered, "But that's false. It appears it was his son's arrest that forced him to join SAVAK."

  "No, he didn't!" I said without conviction.

  "Despicable as it sounds, I wouldn't put it past him." Mitra's face took on a more severe expression. "To think that he would sacrifice so many lives just so he could save his own snotty son." She shook her head in sorrow.

  The spoon fell out of my hand and it clanked against the plate. "What are you trying to tell me?"

  Mitra motioned to an approaching waiter. We let the man fill our glasses. When he had gone, Mitra continued, "I don't think he started off that way. He may have even believed most of the garbage he fed to others. In a way, his words encouraged young people to do what a gutless old man could only dream of."

  "Okay, I'll accept that he stirred the students, but his own son?"

  Mitra nodded again. "Especially his son. Think about it. If a few hours talk could brainwash his students, what would a lifetime of such words do to a young mind?"

  I studied Mitra, the rational and calm lady that she had become. "What happened to all your radical views?"

  She smiled. "I saw the world, and guess what? It's much bigger than Mashad."

  I shrugged. "Anyway, it's over now."

  "But is it?" She sat back. "Teachers like Mr. Elmi have done their damage. It may be too late to prevent the seeds they have sown from growing."

  I was in the library, searching for a text on biochemistry, when Nasrin touched my shoulder. Alarmed to find Shireen's sister looking for me, I thought something dreadful must have happened.

  "Can we talk?" she said in a hushed voice.

  "What's wrong?" I asked, a little louder than I meant to.

  "Shhh!" The librarian shot us an angry look.

  Nasrin shook her head. "Nothing's wrong."

  We walked out of the library and into the hallway. Taller than I remembered, she seemed otherwise the same as when I'd last seen her - at Ali's memorial service.

  "Is Shireen okay?"

  "She's fine. It's me who needs a favor. I have something of Shireen's that I can only trust to your care."

  Not understanding, I waited for more.

  "I've been keeping a diary for her. On each visit, Shireen either tells me things, or gives me the notes she has written." She stopped talking and fearfully glanced behind her. "Our house isn't exactly safe. Besides, Shireen wants you to read them."

  Two boys from my class came through the revolving doors. As they gave Nasrin's figure an approving look, I became conscious of her missing scarf.

  "Can I bring them to you?"

  I thought for a moment. Honored to be trusted with such precious notes, I would have held them safe for Shireen regardless of the risks involved. At my house, no one ever went through my things, much less the boxes of books I kept in the basement.

  "Of course. I'll be glad to keep them."

  She exhaled hard. "I'll come to your school tomorrow at four. I can leave them on the backseat of the cab and let you take the same taxi home." She thought for a moment and said, "I bring them a little at a time, just in case."

  It felt as if I had been asked to play a part in a spy movie.

  The next day, when Nasrin's taxi pulled to the curb, I was standing so close to the street that it could have run me over. Nasrin got out and, ignoring me, walked away while I climbed into the backseat and gave my address to the driver. I found the manila envelope on the worn leather, it had a few old stamps and the return address was scratched.

  At home, I hid the envelope behind the bookshelf and could not wait for dinnertime to come and go so I could read Shireen's notes.

  Late that night, I emptied the contents of the envelope over my desk. At first glance, except for one folded paper, the rest looked like the trash one finds while cleaning a purse: scraps of paper, some wrinkled or torn, matchbook covers, unraveled cigarette boxes. Then I recognized Shireen's handwriting on them.

  Mrs. Payan had mentioned how Nasrin sometimes memorized Shireen's words, and wrote her report after each meeting. The typewritten pages had to be those, and I read them first to get a general idea.

  "The front door caved in with such a rumble, I thought a crane had hit the building. The heavy wood hit a side window, sending shards of glass everywhere, even over our dinner spread. Two soldiers burst in through the cloud of dust, and they pointed their machine guns at us. Four more followed. I knew who they were even before I looked up.

  We all carried our cyanide capsules in our cheeks, but I had removed mine so I could eat. I reached for it sitting next to my plate, but a heavy boot pinned my wrist to the floor. Looking for help, my eyes found Mehdi against the wall. Something was pushed into his mouth to keep it open as the gunman's fingers searched his cheek. The man shouted, 'Give it up, you son-of-a-bitch!' And, when he pulled out his hand, blood ran down Mehdi's chin. The man grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face against the wall. 'You won't get off that easy, you bastard.' The owner of the boot on my hand brought his face closer. 'We have a plan for naughty little girls,' he whispered, his breath smelling of rotten onions. His other hand clutched my breast, hurting me.

  'Tie 'em up,' someone shouted from across the room.

  'I'll show you rebellion,' a nasal voice said.

  A man in a police uniform stepped on the dinner spread, crushing a plate under his shoes. He spat in my plate. 'I'll make you eat shit.'

  The last thing I saw before being blindfolded was Massoud on the floor, his arm bent at an awkward angle, his face colorless, motionless eyes staring at the ceiling. Onion breath whispered, 'We'll have fun, you and I.'"

  Here, the typing ended. Mrs. Payan had told me nothing. In Shireen's words, I saw details that no one else could describe and it was more than I was prepared for. Those notes put me at that horrific scene. I saw and felt the heavy boots, the grabbing, and the pushing. I started to shiver violently and had to lower my body to the floor. Still, my hands searched among the pile of paper on my bed, looking for more.

  The other notes were all in Shireen's handwriting, some barely legible. She had used a pencil, a pen, and one looked as if she had used a burned matchstick. There were parts where the words went in all directions. As if she had written them with her eyes closed, a few unfinished words indicated her hand had moved beyond the page.

  "The interrogators change, but the questions are the same. 'Where are the others?' How stupid is that? Do they think the comrades would stay put?

  A girl in the cell across th
e hall keeps shouting slogans, information for all. She says we are worthless, that the good ones are taken to another location. The rest of us are questioned, even lashed, right here. Sometimes guards get mad and I hear them striking her as she calls them names. Then she's quiet for a while."

  I wondered if that's how Shireen heard about Ali or Eemon, someone shouting the news across the hall. How long did it take before she knew they had killed her brother?

  The next note was written on the inside of a torn cigarette box.

  "My back is on fire, but it can't be half as bad as Meena's. In the middle of the night they brought her a doctor. No one tells me what's happened to the others. I pray they never went back to the house. With blindfolds it's always nighttime around me. Walking, I constantly picture there's a deep well in the next step."

  I shut my eyes and covered them with both hands, but it didn't help. I was safe, in my own room, a universe away from how Shireen had felt. The last note was written on a grocery bag, but it read like a continuation of the one on the cigarette box. Her neat print told me her blindfolds must have been removed.

  "There are no wells here, not even a ditch. The first thing I saw was a barred window high up, framing a patch of light, its glare hurting my eyes. My cell is smaller than I had imagined, and despite the stink, it isn't so messy. There's a dried bloodstain on my mattress and cotton sticks out of the hole on its side. Two guards took me along the hallway and into a large room. A bright lamp was aimed at my eyes before the questioning began. 'I don't know,' was all I said to each and every question. One of them tore off the back off my gown and when the first lash touched my flesh, it felt like a flexible blade, cutting across my back. A cry escaped my throat, but as more lashes came in regular intervals, the anticipation prepared me. The indignity of it hurt the most. I came to in the silence of my dark cell, the rough floor against my cheek. I rolled on my back and allowed the cool cement to soothe my pain."

  I turned the manila envelope upside down and shook it. Nothing more came out. So I went back to the beginning and read them again, and again.