Sky of Red Poppies

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  I had the urge to climb to the roof and scream for the whole world to hear, "A punishment far greater than the crime!" Jenab should have saved his fancy words for such a time and I wanted to know, just whose crime was this? In a just world, those lashes would have come down on his bare back; he and his brilliant philosophy; he and the dead-end roads he illuminated; he and the promises he could not, or would not, keep.

  I put the notes safely away, wiped my tears, and turned off my light. "She wants you to read these," Nasrin had said. I could read and re-read every word, I could guard the pages for as long as she wished, but what did Shireen want me to do with all the gruesome knowledge she had bestowed?

  I closed my eyes and welcomed the night's blanket over me.

  Three months into her new job, my family received Mitra's good news. Much to everyone's delight, my sister accepted the marriage proposal of a young colleague.

  Pedar had started to show signs of aging. He often misplaced his glasses and lost his temper with the slightest irritation. On our occasional walks around the garden, he held my arm and leaned a little heavier than before. Many nights, as I stayed up to study, I saw his light on and heard him cough. His asthma attacks had become more frequent, making him more dependent on his inhaler. Although the smell of opium still lingered around his room, he no longer entertained guests. Once a good player of the tar, he wouldn't touch it for months, and rarely listened to any music at all. So the fact that Mitra's news had brought back his smile was something.

  One day, when Pedar's doctor stopped by for a house call, I decided to listen to what he had to say. Dr. Ghareeb was among the friends who had enjoyed an "occasional puff" with Pedar - a fact that had surprised me, until I learned about opium's therapeutic effects if, and when, used in moderation.

  Standing outside Pedar's room, I could hear Dr. Ghareeb's voice. "Rafi-khan, if you don't stop smoking this stuff, I'll refuse to be your doctor."

  Pedar laughed. "It soothes my nerves and you know it."

  "I'm not joking," the old doctor said. "This is going to kill you."

  I knocked and entered before Pedar could stop me.

  My father let go of the pipe he was holding and it fell in the brazier. Seeming annoyed, he said to the doctor, "Let's hear what your novice colleague thinks."

  "Come, Roya," Dr. Ghareeb said, "help me to reason with this stubborn man."

  "Me?" I laughed. "I'm the last person Pedar would listen to."

  He took a serious tone. "Tell him about some of the cases you've seen."

  I recalled the black lungs in the anatomy lab. The tar collected over years of cigarette smoking gave those delicate lung tissues the look of a mesh filled with charcoal. I had no idea what opium did to lungs, but imagined it to be the same, if not worse. I wanted to tell Dr. Ghareeb about those horrendous coughs I heard at night, but Pedar's glare prevented me. The 'white' of his eyes was now permanently bloodshot.

  "Pedar is a smart man," I said. "I bet he hears you more than he's willing to let on." I turned to Pedar. "I can't play doctor for my own family," I said, "but, if I were you, I'd listen to the best doctor in town." I nodded in Dr. Ghareeb's direction.

  That night, as I continued to study, I heard Pedar cough again in long chains. When it turned quiet, I knew he had fallen asleep and went to turn off his light. I noticed he had moved my mother's photograph from the mantle to his nightstand.

  In a world filled with responsibilities, studies, and miserable news, Kyan's occasional letters were my only glimmer of promise. However, my aunt never asked about him and I knew she didn't expect me to mention his name either.

  As my workload increased, so did the frequency of my night shifts. Once in a while patients were brought in who had been savagely beaten. I never dared ask, and the chart most often stated the cause of injury as 'street fight.' Once I saw a gunshot victim, but we were all kept away while the attending doctor treated him. The fact that these victims were invariably admitted around midnight or close to dawn reminded me of what Kyan had said: "They clobber the poor guys." They were mostly boys and all too young to be out at such late hours. When no family members visited and a few disappeared without a formal discharge, it left me no doubt.

  Male students in my school outnumbered the girls and the boys took over the residents' room at night with their cigarettes, card games and dirty talk. Sometimes I managed to sneak a nap in the nurses' room. One night, as I lay down, I could overhear two student nurses gossiping.

  "I thought they were kept in a separate jail," one girl said.

  "Not any more," another replied. "There's no room." She lowered her voice. "I hear the guards rape them, too."

  The thought had crossed my mind, but to hear it out loud sounded so much worse. Could Shireen's mind and frail body handle such aggression? Had the Payans really given up on bail, and, how much was it anyway?

  The next evening, I was at the movies when I felt an elbow being pushed into my side. In the dark I recognized Nasrin's profile next to me. She reached to the floor and shoved a stack of papers into my purse. The rest of the film could not finish fast enough for me.

  By this time, I had become accustomed to reading about people I didn't know, events I could not understand, and a pain that was hard to fathom. All that mattered was to hear more from Shireen and know that she continued to survive. She sounded miraculously sane and nowhere in those notes did I see signs of a breakdown.

  "The closest I come to bravery is not to whimper. I tell myself this isn't my body, that the pain I feel isn't mine. I have to remind myself that if I scream, they'll hurt my baby. I'll die before I let them see my tears."

  Nowhere in those notes did I read anything that might validate what I had heard in the nurses' room. Or could it be that Shireen found such assaults unmentionable? As I read more, her tone seemed to indicate some form of adjustment. Did prisoners get used to the walls of their cells? In the next pages, for the first time, she mentioned her son.

  "Sometimes I look at Behrang and think he is somebody else's child. He clings to his grandmother and won't even look at me. It breaks my heart to think of how close we could have been. But, broken heart aside, maybe it's better this way."

  Her last sentence tore at me, and I wanted to reach out and tell her it wasn't so. Behrang would never pick anyone over her. He would want to hold on to whatever was left of his real mother. This I knew.

  Mitra's modern wedding - with an open bar, candles in the garden and even bridesmaids - went off uneventfully. Auntie let her have her way, though I knew she would have preferred a more traditional ceremony. Following the reception, a line of cars trailed behind the bride and groom's flower-decorated Mercedes, caravanning from our house to their new apartment, and blowing their horns in unison. Auntie, who had worked hard and was tired, stayed home to wrap things up.

  Pedar told Akbar he wouldn't need the car. "I'll let my son drive me there," he said and his voice burst with such unforeseen pride, I wished Reza had heard him, too. Pedar sat in front with my brother. "Soon it'll be your turn to find a nice girl and settle down."

  "Not too soon, I hope," Reza said and laughed. "I'm much too young."

  "Too young? At your age, I was already the father of two!"

  Despite the pleasant small talk, I sensed a deep sorrow in Pedar. On the way home, he took the back seat next to me.

  "Never mind me," Reza said, "I'll just be the cab driver. Who knows when the practice may come in handy?"

  Pedar did not join our laughter. He remained silent all the way home and when I leaned closer, I noticed his tears. "A girl needs her mother to send her away," he said, staring into the dark.

  Leaning on Pedar's bony shoulder, I wondered if he had ever regretted having me. Everyone knew that Maman's pregnancy with me had complicated her existing heart condition. But something about the way Pedar hugged me now, said that he had forgotten that long ago.

  "Didn't you feel you mother's presence tonight?" he said.

  I nodded, kissed his hand
and rested it on my cheek.

  Reza looked at us in his mirror. "It wasn't just tonight," he said. "I feel her presence all the time."

  Pedar gave the mirror a look of surprise. I, too, finally realized how we had all neglected the strong connection between mother and son. The way that full-grown man mentioned his mom made me love him even more.

  Pedar reached over and patted Reza's shoulder, but he did not say another word.

  The house was dark and Rajab had left for the night. I accompanied Pedar to his room and helped him get ready for bed. I hung his tuxedo in his closet while he changed into pajamas.

  "Can you put these in my iron box?" he said, handing me a pair of turquoise cufflinks. Rajab had left the safe under the nightstand, knowing Pedar would need it. I used Pedar's key and opened the box. "Ding!" it rang. Inside, it held the musty odor of old documents mixed with the more subtle scent of opium. Shiny rolls of the stuff in different shades of brown were held together by a rubber band. The rest of the box was full of documents, coins, and stacks of money. When it came to emergencies, Pedar trusted no one to move fast enough, not even the bank. I couldn't help thinking what a world we lived in. My father kept all this money locked up, while the Payans would have sold everything they owned in exchange for Shireen's freedom.

  "You want the box back in the big closet?" I asked him.

  "No, don't bother. Rajab will do it tomorrow."

  I locked the box and pulled the covers up to Pedar's shoulders.

  PART THREE

  The Paint

  Seventeen

  WHEN I HAD FINISHED MY LAST EXAM, I called Shireen's mother to let her know I'd be visiting later. She sounded as if she had a cold and despite her concern that I might catch it, I was there the next afternoon. This time Mr. Payan opened the door. Having lost most of his eyesight, he looked in my general direction and waited for me to introduce myself.

  "Miss Afshar! Please come in." He closed the door behind me and led the way. "My wife speaks so fondly of you, I feel as if a part of Shireen is here."

  "Thank you, and please call me Roya."

  "Yes, Roya khanoom."

  His warm welcome wasn't the only surprise. Despite his poor eyesight, he seemed to be in charge, or was that only during his wife's recovery?

  Mr. Payan opened the door to Shireen's room, where I found a sick Mrs. Payan in bed, propped up against multiple pillows. "Look who I brought you," he said.

  "Ahh, Roya-joon," Mrs. Payan said and opened her arms. "Sorry I can't get up. The damn rheumatism has me nailed down, so I spend the daytime in this bed." She gave me a tight hug and motioned to the edge of the bed. "Sit down, dear."

  As if time had frozen inside the Payans' home, everything remained exactly where it had been two years before. As I stared at the pile of science books next to Shireen's bed, Mrs. Payan said, "This is how they'll remember the place. If I keep the same order, their spirits won't have any trouble finding their way around."

  I swallowed hard.

  Suddenly conscious of having my shoes on, I started to unbuckle them.

  "Not to worry, Roya-joon." Mrs. Payan smiled. "Keep them on. None of us are saying our namaz any more, and the rugs can take it."

  In my mind, I could still see the angelic Shireen in the prayer hall. What had they done to the strong faith of this pious family?

  Mr. Payan brought me a wooden chair from the hallway and I was glad to take it and not cramp Mrs. Payan's space. When she beckoned, Mr. Payan bent over and brought his ear closer. She whispered something and he left the room without a word.

  "Shireen is still up there, you know," Mrs. Payan said, nodding to the ceiling as if Evin prison were upstairs.

  An awkward silence followed the mention of my friend's name as we each fell into our own thoughts.

  Moments later, Mr. Payan returned with a tray of tea, beaming a curious smile. I saw right away what the smile was about. Next to the cookies was a tiny glass of water and in it, two little flowers. Red poppies.

  I gasped, as if he had brought me a lock of his daughter's hair.

  Mrs. Payan chuckled and seemed pleased with her surprise. "I asked him to get those," she said, her broad smile revealing a gold tooth in the back. "Shireen made me promise that if you ever came by in spring, I'd show you these."

  "But where did you find them?"

  "Oh, we have them every year. A long time ago, Shireen spread some seeds in the vacant lot next door. They return every spring." The memory of the mud roof was so vivid that I could almost taste the rain. You are not there, and... She sure wasn't, yet her poetic spirit had brought me "those mirthful gems".

  "It's okay," Mrs. Payan said, offering me a tissue. "God knows I've shed my own share of tears. But no more." She motioned to the tray. "Have some tea before it gets cold." She picked up her glass of tea and took a couple of sips. "Ever since my knees make it hard to move, I've learned to enjoy Payan's half-brewed tea." She took another sip. "Though I give him credit for trying."

  Mrs. Payan calling her husband by his last name sounded as strange as when Shireen had referred to him as 'Agha-jan.' Did this small man with poor eyesight, who barely knew how to brew tea, possibly expect such formalities?

  "I'd love to hear more about Shireen."

  A deep sigh escaped Mrs. Payan's throat. "What can I tell you, my dear? How can I even begin to describe what you've neither seen, nor could possibly picture?"

  "We're so cut off. Whatever you tell me is better than being in the dark."

  A tormented look came into her eyes, as if the remembrance itself gave her physical pain. "The Shireen you knew is gone. Those bastards have ruined her." Watching me look around, she said, "Don't worry, no wires in this room, no phone line either. That's why we like it in here."

  I thought of the notes trusted to my care and wondered if there might be more. "Does Nasrin still keep a diary?"

  Dead silence. Mr. Payan, who was about to leave the room, stopped halfway and turned around. I didn't like the look they exchanged and the suspense lasted longer than I could bear.

  Mr. Payan cleared his throat and after a long, unnatural pause said, "I'm afraid Nasrin is gone." His voice broke with the last word, but he somehow managed to add, "Suicide."

  Mrs. Payan covered her face with both hands and began to rock.

  I just waited, hoping, willing her to tell me it wasn't so. I had so many images of her that I couldn't just give them up for dead. The horrible news seemed to be delivered faster than my mind could process it. In only seconds, I had been asked to picture that her serene smile and those caring eyes were just ... gone. Funny how, of all the images that came to me, the clearest was one I hadn't actually seen. I had depicted the scene from Shireen's notes with such clarity that by now it was like a personal memory: Shireen alone in her room, the little sister bringing her meals, worried eyes glancing long enough to know she was okay, then leaving without a word. The door was shut. Gone.

  "She had no choice," Mr. Payan continued. He sounded so dry that I wondered if the repetition of this phrase had immunized him to the pain. "When they knocked on our door in the dead of night, she knew."

  "Why was there no mention of it in the news? Or anywhere, for that matter?"

  "I didn't allow it. This time, we wished for our grief to be ours alone."

  "Payan!" Shireen's mother protested.

  Mr. Payan wrapped and unwrapped his green prayer beads around his wrinkled fingers. "Nasrin wasn't just an accessory to some common crime. She was a leader. Her activities put her in a much more serious position." Reaching under his glasses, he wiped his eyes. "If they'd taken her in..." He finished his sentence with a loud exhale.

  Mrs. Payan raised a hand. "Enough! Is it any wonder no one comes around any more? Poor Roya-joon is here to visit, not to listen to your rowzeh." She turned to me. "Would you like another glass of tea?"

  At Ali's memorial service, it had been Nasrin offering me tea. Was life nothing but a game of chess - pawns moving forward, changing place
s, and being taken away? I imagined that the whole family must have been taken in for questioning at some point, but unable to ask about something so personal, I steered the conversation in a different direction.

  "How do you get your news of Shireen now?" I asked.

  Mrs. Payan, perhaps relieved to change the subject, said, "You remember Behrang's other grandparents are my cousins? They now have custody of Behrang, which in turn gives them rights to unlimited visits."

  She beamed a smile. "You should see him. A handsome little devil, and so smart, too."

  I recalled Shireen's last note. "How does he interact with Shireen?"

  "He likes seeing her, and obviously enjoys the attention. We've told him it's a hospital." She laughed. "What does a toddler know about hospitals?"

  "And Shireen?"

  "She can be calm, but God forbid Behrang should cry, suddenly she covers her ears and starts to shake violently. Sometimes they have to come and tie her down."

  The lump was back in my throat.

  "What did they do to her?" I finally got out, knowing full well that I was overstepping my boundaries, as if concern for my friend left no room for good manners. Something told me this time whatever they had done to Shireen was far worse than cigarette burns or sexual assault.

  Mrs. Payan wiped her eyes. "They used her love for the baby to make her talk. Clever, no? They played tapes of Behrang down the hall and hearing him cry, even scream, Shireen believed they were torturing her baby." She shook her head. "When they told her that they would cut off the boy's fingers, one by one, she didn't believe them. Then one day, they showed her the bloody content of a crumpled napkin..."

  "Beasts!" I screamed and instinctively covered my mouth with one hand.

  "It's okay, Roya. She's fine now."

  "Fine?" I knew that came out rude, but couldn't find my voice to apologize.

  "I mean, she's seen Behrang and knows it was a trick. They moved her to some ward for mental patients and, for a few weeks, none of us could see her. After being discharged, she turned quiet. Not in a good way."

  Unable to focus, I did my best to take all this in.