Three men walked in, two in civilian clothes, one in police uniform. The heavy-set civilian walked one step ahead. The other, a rather short and skinny man, pulled up a chair and placed it on the other side of the table. The fat man lowered his mass into it. The smaller one also took a seat, before reaching into his pocket for his notepad and pen. The policeman removed a file from several he had under his arm, placed it before the fat man and stood in the corner, half his face hidden beneath his cap.
Looking at me from under droopy eyelids, the fat man motioned to the chair I had been sitting on a moment ago. I took it just as my knees were about to fail.
"State your name, date of birth, and occupation," the small man demanded in a surprisingly strong voice. He didn't seem so short now that he was seated.
I did as told, but noticed he did not write anything down.
The fat man opened the file and on the first page I saw my picture, the one that had been taken for my student identification. The file had many pages and I wondered what they could possibly contain.
To divert my attention, I looked at the policeman. He turned his face my way and suddenly what little strength was left in me vanished. He had removed his hat to fan his flushed face, and when I saw the white scar on his forehead, it didn't take long to recall where I had seen it before. The vision of that man, leaning against the taxi a block away from my uncle's came back as if it had been only days before. I blinked. That was absurd, he couldn't possibly be the same man I saw the day I went to Evin. That man had been a civilian in Tehran, nearly a thousand kilometers away. Besides, SAVAK had no reason to follow me then, much less utilizing a policeman in disguise. Realistically though, there couldn't be too many dark-skinned people who bore such a button-shaped scar on the same spot.
"What is your relation to Shireen Payan?" The fat man's voice returned me to the small room. I hadn't prepared for such a direct remark, but in a way, it was a relief to know they were getting straight to the point.
"She's my friend from high school," I said, my voice emerging as a murmur.
"We know that," he said. "What is your connection with her at present?"
"Same," I said, stopping for fear I might cry.
"And that, I presume, was enough reason for you to think you should collaborate with a criminal and provide financial aid to terrorists."
I resented his choice ofwords, but said nothing. He put his elbows on the table and supported the folds under his chin with both fists.
"How long have you been a member of the Fadaiyan?"
"A member?" I exclaimed. "I am not a member," I said using a softer tone, and I immediately realized that might be my only salvation. Not that they would believe me, but I was not a member, not of them nor of any other opposition group. Considering they knew everything, they had to know that, too.
"In fact, I am not political at all," I stated with newfound courage.
"No?" he said with a sneer that made his flared nostrils seem even bigger. He reached into his pocket and took out the tiny scrap of paper the woman had taken from my purse. "Then what do you call this?"
I glanced at the verse and shrugged. "That's just a poem I like."
He chuckled and turned to the other man. "A poem she likes!" He hit the table so hard that even his colleague jumped. "You are not dealing with idiots, Miss Afshar! A lover of poetry, yet all you have on you is the pledge of Fadaiyan?"
That was their pledge?
"You might as well come clean, " he yelled. "I'm going to ask you this. One. Last. Time!" And he continued to hit the table as punctuation to each word, making me blink on every strike. "How. Long. Have. You. Been. Involved?"
I could sense a trap closing around me. If they could pin this on me, having stolen from my father would be the least of my problems.
"I'm not involved," I pleaded. "It's the truth."
The man paged through my file. "Let's see. Frequent visits to Payan residence, attempt to join demonstrations, impersonating a cousin for a visit at Evin," he closed the file with a loud tap. "The list goes on and on, Miss."
"I am just her friend," I said, now sounding as if I was about to cry. My mind raced back and forth in search of a proof, but I didn't know if they even needed one.
There was a knock on the door. The fat man looked up, surprised at the interruption. I felt my heart jump into my throat as the door opened, certain that Pedar would walk in next. Instead, it was a scrawny young man in a soldier's uniform, carrying a black phone in one hand with its long cord in the other.
"You have a call, sir," he said to the fat man. "It's urgent."
"This better be important," he snarled.
The young man nodded several times. "It is, sir. It's General Nazemi," he said and knelt down to plug in the cord.
At the mention of the chief of Mashad's secret police, the room submerged into silence. The fat man grabbed the receiver and sprang out of his chair, as if respecting the arrival of a senior. "Good morning, your Excellency," he said with a small bow.
He listened intently and I might not have paid much attention if it weren't for the fact that he kept glancing at me.
"Yes, sir. We are." He looked at me again. "No, sir, routine procedure."
The call couldn't have anything to do with me. They must be seeing such cases every day. SAVAK had to have more important things to do, especially lately.
"Yes, sir," he said again, his brief replies and stern expression indicating his displeasure. "Of course. It has been an honor, sir." And he put the receiver on its cradle.
A few seconds went by in silence. He did not sit down and would now not look at me. Someone laughed in the hallway and I wondered if I would ever laugh again. I had a bitter taste in my mouth. Was that phone call my death sentence, an order to quietly dispose of me?
The other civilian looked up, as if he too waited for an order, an explanation. The fat man bit his lower lip, thought for a moment, then marched to the door.
"In my office," he said.
The two followed. The policeman was the last one to leave. He put his hat back on and shut the door behind him. I didn't hear the key.
Sitting under the fluorescent light, I listened to the buzz and imagined it to be the cry of all the insects trapped in that long tube of light. Any minute the men would be back for more questions, but maybe this time they'd have torture instruments, too. The level of one's involvement didn't seem to matter. To them, anyone who knew Shireen was a member of Fadaiyan, and I had given them ample reason to see me as a suspect. I had no way to prove my innocence and they must be convinced that I knew more than I admitted to. Gruesome scenes of torture from the movies flashed before me.
Staring at my hands, I thought of the tiny finger Shireen had found in that bloody napkin. I had seen Behrang with all his fingers intact, but what did Shireen know at the time? Reza's words now sounded too close to reality. They'll get you where it hurts...
Had Shireen broken down and cried, too? Had she felt as weak and helpless as I did, or would she have been more prepared for such encounters?
Hours later, when the door opened, I had no energy to get out of my chair and was ready to receive the worst.
The same woman who had searched me at the security desk entered the room. Her face now blank, she threw my handbag on my lap. "You can go."
It took me a while to realize she really meant it. What was next? This could not be so simple and I had nothing left in me to figure out their trick.
"How?" I asked, and although that one word could signify any number of things, she took it for its simplest meaning.
"There are taxis out in the alley," she said and pointed to the half-open door.
Like a captive bird that had seen an opening in its cage, I wanted nothing more than to fly out, but by now I could not trust anything to be what it seemed.
"Get going," she said with contempt and nodded to the door.
I clutched my handbag and ran out before she could change her mind. I knew they had kept the mon
ey, and at that point I would have given them nearly anything just to be free. The sound of my steps echoed in the hallway and I dashed straight for the rectangle of sunlight at the end of that tunnel of fear.
Outside, the policeman with the scar stood at the door. Would he grab my wrist before I had stepped into the alley? I circled him, trying not to be within reach, and he acted as if he didn't see me.
Two orange taxis were parked in the shade of the brick wall and... oh, God! Behind them was my father's Land Rover, Akbar standing next to it.
Out of the pit and into a well.
Pieces of the whole strange puzzle began to fit together, and I grasped the complete picture. Sometime in the past, maybe a year or two previously, my father had mentioned a poker game with General Nazemi. At the time, the name had meant nothing to me, but now I had to ask myself, just how well did my father know the head of SAVAK?
From across the room, I could hear Pedar's asthmatic breathing. I tried to look away at the pale sky, but there was no escape from the weight of his stare.
"So you had to put your nose in shit after all, didn't you?"
I didn't need to look at him to see the rage in his eyes.
"I'm talking to you!" His voice came out so loud that everyone in the house must have heard him.
When I looked, he opened both his fists and showed me what was in them. In one, he had his tiny Colt revolver, the one with the mother-of-pearl handle that we jokingly called his ladies' gun, and in the other, half a stick of opium.
"Take your pick," he said and his eyes showed no mercy.
He hurled them at me. The revolver hit my chest before falling to the floor and I was amazed at how heavy it was for such a small object.
"I could kill you with my own two hands and no one would blame me for it!" he spat out the words.
This, I realized in horror, would have been true.
He stepped closer and grabbed my arm. "But you will never understand what your life means to me, or what it cost to let you live!"
Before that day, I had never dared respond to Pedar's anger, but that day had been too much, and now I yelled back, "Cost?" I laughed. "Is money all you ever care about?"
He moved too quickly and his heavy hand came down before I had a chance to even blink. The blow to my mouth sent me staggering back. I tasted blood and heard him growl, "You don't even deserve to live, much less live her life!"
I stared at him. Whose life was he talking about?
Pedar turned away and reached over to his nightstand, where he kept my mother's picture. He picked up the frame and thrust his arm forward as if to push the picture into my face, making sure I took a good look at Maman.
"Money?" he said through a foaming mouth. "No amount of money could bring her back, you pathetic, worthless piece of shit!" He dropped the frame on his bed and stared at me from behind a shield of tears. "Oh how I pleaded with her, begged her to listen to the doctor's advice and let you go to hell. But no! You had to have an angel for a mother, one who would not harm her unborn child even when it could save her own life." He started to pace the small space between the wall and his bed. "She believed in you. You were meant to have the greatest life, fulfill her dream of being a doctor, enjoy the chances she never had." Pedar's chin quivered and his face was covered with tears he did not bother to wipe. "Look what you've done to me!" he said and slapped his forehead. "She made me swear I'd never tell." His voice became a mere whisper. "There goes my word of honor."
My head spinning, I saw my mother in bed, a pear shaped pendant on her chest, going up and down, up and down . until it stopped.
"That's not fair, not fair," I heard the scream and knew the shrieking voice couldn't be mine. I ran out with my hands over my ears, but the scream followed. Its horrible sound hit the walls of the garden and came back to me, now the flowers were screaming, the crows, even the trees. And I screamed with them, emptying my lungs, pushing out all my trapped breaths in one long howl. I screamed for all the times Pedar had hushed me, for the losses I had endured, and for the child who had not asked to live a motherless life. And when there was no voice left, I cried for my mother and for the tyranny that, like a black chador, covered our souls.
The quiet, obedient child had finally found a voice to shout her buried emotions, and if Pedar wanted to shut her up, he'd better put his ornate revolver to good use.
Nineteen
THE BRASS RINGS OF MY BEDROOM CURTAINS jingled against the rod as someone pushed them open. Warm sun spilled on my closed eyelids and I heard my aunt's soft voice. "Time to get up, Roya-jan. The doctor's here to see you."
I opened my eyes. What was Dr. Ghareeb doing in my room? My father's doctor smiled and taking his stethoscope from around his neck, he brought it to his ears. "Don't move, dear." He placed the cold metal on my chest, closed his eyes and listened. Then he took my pulse, blood pressure, and finally removed his penlight from his pocket and shone it in my eyes.
As he wrote on his notepad, I tried to figure out why I needed such a thorough health check. Little by little, the events that had put me there started to come back to me. For a brief moment, I hoped they were the remnants of a nightmare, but my swollen lower lip and the sore inside my cheek suggested otherwise.
"Did I have a nervous breakdown?" I asked him, colleague to colleague, as if I referred to a mutual patient.
Auntie prepared to leave. "I'll get some more ice for your lip," she said.
I asked the doctor again, "Did I?"
He nodded. "Close. Very close."
He took a bottle of pills from my nightstand and said, "You won't be needing these any more, I'll give you something milder." Picking up his black leather bag, he added, "But as you know, the medicine only helps a little. The actual healing should come from within, especially where nerves are concerned."
After he had left, I tried to sit up.
"Don't move," Auntie said on her way back in. "Try to relax, dear. You've had a tough night." She walked over with a bag of ice, which she wrapped in a washcloth and placed over my chin. "Hold that on your lip. I'll put on some Vaseline later."
Closing my eyes, I tried to revisit the events of the night before, but the only thing I recalled, was people coming in and out of my room. At one point, I had heard Mitra cry, but it must have been the effect of the sleeping pills. Had my father really hit me? I reached up and touched my mouth and Auntie must have noticed because she said, "This should never have happened." Her voice was filled with remorse.
I looked at her. "Many things shouldn't have happened, Auntie. My mother..." I said and knew that I wasn't strong enough to talk about it yet. Pushing my tears back, I pointed out the window. "That whole mess out there shouldn't have happened, Shireen shouldn't have suffered the way she did," and I started to cry. "The way she still does."
My aunt sat at the edge of my bed. I wasn't sure whose side she was on. Would she back my father, or did she understand me now? Hard to even believe there was such a division among us. Just when did my father and I start being on opposite sides?
She patted the back of my hand. "Hassan is going to send up some soup for you. I want you to eat, and then rest."
Auntie got up to leave.
"Please don't go! Talk to me," I said to her back.
She stopped and pointed her walking cane to the corner where her armchair had been placed. She took her time to reach it, sat down, and gave me a pale smile.
"I'm not going anywhere. Try to rest now. There will be plenty of time to talk."
For three days, all I did was sleep, eat, and sleep again. My aunt stayed with me most of the day, and at night Naneh brought her bedroll and slept on the floor. When she locked the door on the first night, I asked her why.
"It's your Aunt's orders, I guess it's so no one will disturb you."
Only once did my aunt mention Pedar. "Your father called earlier to make sure you're safe."
"Safe?" I said and laughed. "That's interesting coming from a man who offered me the choice of death b
y a bullet over opium poisoning."
"Someday you'll understand a parent's concerns. He has always had your safety in mind." She sighed. "That man lives for his children."
I wondered about that. Here I was, twenty-three years old, about to become a doctor, locked up in my room with no connection to the outside world. Did he plan to keep me "safe" 'til my hair turned as white as my teeth? Or had he made a deal with his poker buddy? You just give her to me, General Nazemi, and I'll make her wish you'd kept her here!
I tried to push guilt out of my mind, falling back on every psychological trick I had learned. I would not be victim to Pedar's devious plan. Surely that whole performance - the story he made up about my mother - had to be his idea of unbearable punishment. If that were true, Naneh, Auntie, or somebody would have said something before. Then again, what was the secret Auntie wouldn't reveal? Could that be what she meant by not breaking her promise? Whenever I reached a point where my father's story came close to being believable, I had the urge to start screaming again.
When I asked my aunt if Mitra had come to see me, she shook her head. Neither Reza, nor any of the servants were allowed in my room. During the day, Auntie kept me company, but at night, when Naneh's snoring made it hard to sleep, the reality of my situation confronted me. I didn't ask my aunt for an explanation, and she never offered one.
One night, as I was about to fall asleep, I heard the latch on my door. When it opened, I saw Reza's tall silhouette in the doorway.
"What—?"
"Shhhh," he whispered, pointing to the floor where the old nanny, fast asleep, was warming up to her nightly snoring.
"You're not the only one who can steal a key," Reza said and I heard his soft chuckle before he closed the door behind him.
So, everyone knows.
His presence was a ray of light in my dark cave. I held on to him for a few minutes, afraid that if I let go, he might disappear.
"Okay, sis, time to close the juice factory," his sad voice contrasted the light-hearted comment. "You've got to take these things as they are," he said, wiping my tears with his pajama sleeve. "Pedar has his ways and we have ours. That's how it's been for generations, and that is how it is always going to be."
Sky of Red Poppies Page 21
