Afraid that we might wake up the old nanny, we spoke softly for some time. My big brother, who in our childhood would beat up my cousin for making me cry, was there once again to comfort his sister. With that unexpected visit he charged me enough to endure the gloomy days ahead.
Before Reza had gone, I begged, "Please come again soon."
He shook his head. "We mustn't upset Pedar."
Only after Reza left did I realize that at no point had he shamed me for breaking my long-ago promise to him about becoming involved with Shireen and her family. Nor had he criticized me.
From time to time I wondered if Kyan had written any new letters, but even if he had, there would be no chance for me to pick up my mail. And even if I read any of his letters, what was I to write back? That I had ignored his one request, and that by doing so I may have ruined our chances?
Three times a day, Rajab brought me a tray of food. He greeted me with a simple hello and took away the previous meal's tray without another word. Sometimes Auntie joined me for lunch, and we seemed to mutually avoid mention of my father. One day, I finally gathered enough courage to ask, "Was Maman's death a choice?"
Auntie looked up in shock. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
Her cheeks lost their peachy tone.
"Come on, Auntie. You know what I'm talking about. Pedar already told me this much. I only want to know if he made it up or not. You know? If he lied."
My aunt glared at me. "I expect you to show more respect for your father."
"Okay, did my Lord and Master speak the truth?"
My joke seemed to make her angrier. "Why don't you ask him that?"
What Auntie didn't say suggested enough. I decided not to probe any deeper. What would stirring such a painful memory serve? Pedar had already said enough and knowing how much he had loved my mother, I wouldn't be surprised if he had resented my existence even before all this.
As the reality of my situation sank in, it became harder to fall asleep at night. I imagined how different my family would have been if she'd decided to do what her doctor had advised. What a happy foursome they would have been! Would my father need the comfort of opium if he had a wife to keep him happy? If it weren't for the help Dr. Ghareeb's medication offered, I doubt I would have slept on any of those nights.
My father did not come to see me for two weeks. By then, my tangle of thoughts had reached a point where I could picture him with savak. A prison was a prison and, lucky me, mine happened to be first class. By the end of the second week, it wouldn't have surprised me if he'd shown up with the executioner.
Finally one day I heard his familiar knock on my door: one-one two-one. I didn't respond, but Pedar entered anyway. He stood at the door, saw me reading in bed, then walked over to Auntie's chair and sat down. I observed all this from the corner of my eye while pretending to be absorbed in my book. Rajab came in with a tray of tea and an ashtray, pulled up a small table and set the tray on it.
"I've decided to spare you," Pedar said, though his harsh tone told me otherwise.
I kept my eyes on the book.
"I am sending you away."
I looked up and opened my mouth, but he raised a hand.
"Nobody's interested in your thoughts. You will listen, and you will do exactly as told, or else I'll have to send you right back to them." He pointed to the door, as if SAVAK was waiting behind it. "You've proven yourself unworthy of my trust on all accounts." Reaching for his cigarettes, he shook one out of the package. I heard the click of his silver lighter and I smelled the fresh smoke of that first puff.
"It'll be a shame about your school," he said. "Another year, and you might have become somebody." He shook his head as if to pity the 'nobody' I had turned out to be.
I thought of all the long nights I had stayed up to study, Kyan's lessons on how to tell the dumb nerves from arteries on a stinking cadaver, memorizing thousands of facts I couldn't care less about. Six years. Six whole years of my life.
I shot him a look. "You can't do that," I said, feeling as though he had stabbed me.
He glared back, his dark green eyes overflowing with disappointment. Not even bothering with a response, he got up and left.
When Rajab came back to take the cold tea away, he did not say a word, but I heard his tsk-tsk as he picked up the tray and shook his head.
"Tell Auntie we need to talk," I said.
I waited all day for my aunt. Naneh came in with her sewing sack, sat on the floor without a word and worked. I saw she was mending a pair of socks, watching me between stitches. Did I now need a babysitter? Once in a while, I heard voices outside to remind me this was still a family; my aunt in the hallway talking on the phone, the clanking of dishes in the dining room over the hum of a conversation, and finally Pedar calling for his car. I had never been happier to see him leave the house. When my aunt came in at last, my questions poured out before she had a chance to sit down.
"Sending me away? Away to where? Why is he doing this, Auntie? Are you going to let him? Why?"
She watched me pace the floor and talk and talk.
"Are you done?" she said the second I paused.
I just looked at her.
"He made a deal with the secret police. They agreed to let you go, provided they'd never hear from you again."
No matter how many more questions I asked, Auntie's response came back as something along the lines of, 'You need to talk to him,' in all the varieties of the phrase. Three days later, a photographer made a house call and took my passport pictures. Over the following weeks, my aunt and Naneh alternated their shifts, guarding me with diligence.
I had already memorized every corner of my room, arranged and rearranged my bookshelves, and knew there were exactly nineteen pushpins and six holes on my walls. From the muffled sounds in the hallway, I tried to picture what went on; the ringing phone, the chime of the grandfather clock, the sound of Rajab's squeaky shoes taking hurried steps. But after a while I gave up guessing.
As the silence grew, I started to feel lonesome even when someone was present. Auntie mostly read her newspaper or brought in a knitting project that seemed to need all her attention. Neither of us found much to say. Naneh talked incessantly, but hers was mostly the neighborhood gossip and she only stopped when she was about to fall asleep. Just when I was convinced I would die of seclusion, my door opened one evening and the whole family poured in.
Mitra ran to put her arms around me. "You've lost so much weight!" She sounded terrified.
Reza stood to the side and watched us, but the look in his eyes told me he was still on my side, whatever that might be.
Pedar entered the room last. In his elegant navy-blue suit, he looked like an executive about to attend a business meeting. He stood behind Auntie, rested his hands on the back of her chair and surveyed my room as if seeing it for the first time.
When everyone had settled down, Pedar cleared his throat. "I've arranged for you to go to America," he announced in a casual tone, as though suggesting a trip to the farm.
"My lawyer has prepared the necessary documents," he went on, ignoring my stare. "And I have spoken to a good friend, Mr. Farhang, in New York. He and his wife will meet your plane. You'll stay with them until further arrangements are made."
I looked around for a reaction, but everyone's calm told me they already knew. I told myself I'd only be across the globe and could always come back and visit. But the morbid look on their faces indicated Pedar was shipping me to another planet.
"Your ticket is one-way," he said at last. He looked at everyone but me. "And it shall remain that way so long as I'm alive." And, just when I thought he had delivered his hardest blow, he added, "You leave tomorrow."
The heavy silence that followed was interrupted by a distant cry of a street vendor. I'd never know what the man was selling. I'd never be out on those streets again, would never see the man mending china dishes, polishing copper pots or fluffing the cotton stuffing of old pillows and quilts.
A
mong all the visions that flashed before me, one came so clear, it was as if I were standing at the far corner of the orchard, watching men drag a lamb to be slaughtered. Two village men held the struggling animal while someone pushed a sugar lump into its mouth. That seemed to be a necessity in the gruesome ritual before putting a sharp knife to the throat of sacrifice. Hassan the cook used to call it The Last Treat. "If he dies happy, his meat will taste better," he had reasoned.
This gathering must be my "last treat."
After close to a month of isolation, I had no trouble sitting there in absolute silence. How hard I had tried to picture the worst punishment, but once again Pedar had outsmarted me by coming up with the unimaginable. Bad news didn't kill, after all. Judging by everyone else's faces, they had a much harder time accepting what sounded like my life sentence. Reza looked the worst, and he seemed on the verge of tears.
One by one, they all said good night and left while I continued to stare at the rug. Auntie stayed behind.
"I'll be here tonight to help you pack."
"Thank you," I whispered without looking up.
She sat at the edge of my bed. "This is no longer just about you, sweetheart." She reached for my hand. Her crooked fingers felt ice-cold. "It is breaking all of our hearts." I said nothing.
"Your father told me what happened with the... authorities," she said. "You were lucky he knew people who could help." She tapped the back of my hand and her loving tone changed to one of warning. "Use your freedom wisely."
"Freedom?" I laughed.
"Look around you, my dear. How many people get a second chance these days?"
"You don't think I know? That's exactly what I wished to give Shireen." I swallowed hard. "A second chance."
"Let's not talk about that," she said. "Life is full of unfairness; it's up to you to find the good when the bad happens."
"So, which is this?" I grunted. "The good, or the bad?"
"I see this as your break. Take it and put it to good use." She put one arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. "For those of us who love you, this is far better than the alternative."
In need of a good hug, I put my arms around the woman who had done her best to be mother to me. I held her a long time, sniffing the scent of her hair, memorizing the warmth of her embrace to hold for all the lonely years to come.
I left Mashad on a cloudy Saturday afternoon.
Before I left for the airport, Reza came to me. "I want to say my good-bye right here," he said and handed me a square package, wrapped in blue paper. Noticing my surprise, he added, "Airports depress me."
I unwrapped the gift to find a pocket camera, the new kind I had seen around.
"This is the newest instamatic, the easiest to work with. Just click here." He pointed to a button. "Send me lots of pictures. I want to know all the places you visit."
I broke into a soft sob.
When we hugged, he stood so much taller than me that I had to wrap my arms around his waist and let him hug my head. I felt him trembling, but knew he didn't want me to see his tears.
"Promise you'll come to America," I managed to say.
"Sure," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll be the next."
The rest of my family saw me off at the airport. Pedar was the last one to say goodbye. I saw him standing a few steps away, his dark suit hanging loosely around his thin body, his fedora pulled down to shade half his face, and I noticed he carried a walking cane, too.
I went to him and extended my hand for a civilized handshake when all of a sudden he pulled me into his arms and held so tight it cut my breath. "I loved you the most," he whispered into my ear.
Taking a deep breath, I did my best to pull in the mild scent of his Aramis cologne, making sure it would stay with me for a long, long time.
At Tehran's Mehrabad airport, I checked in for my connecting flight. Only when I was on board Iran Air flight 829 to New York did I think of all the people I had not said goodbye to. Eleven hours later I would be tossed into a country of cowboys and Indians. I imagined a city of skyscrapers where everyone carried a gun. Not a pretty picture, not my choice, but what did choice have to do with my life?
I thought of Kyan, living somewhere in America. In another existence, this could have been the most joyful moment of my life. But now things had changed. He planned to return and work in Tehran, while I was being sent on a trip with no return. Exile.
"Would you please make your dinner selection?" a hostess asked in clear British English.
I shook my head and asked for an extra blanket and some water.
After taking two of Dr. Ghareeb's tablets, I pulled the blanket over my head, had a good cry, and finally fell asleep.
In and out of broken nightmares, I knew the night had ended as one by one, window shades went up and hostesses pushed coffee up and down the aisles. When the captain announced the local time, someone behind me said, "We've gained a day." How ironic that I had to lose a life in order to gain a day. When other passengers began to admire the view below, I craned my neck, but all I saw was a vast body of water extending to the horizon. Someone mentioned the Statue of Liberty and all heads were now turned to the left. I smiled bitterly at how quickly the word 'liberty' had lost its significance.
Kennedy airport made Mehrabad seem like a bus stop and I saw no sign of the raggedy porters. Although there were a few uniformed men and women helping the elderly, most people pulled their own carts. Speakers blasted with announcements, but despite my fluent English, I hardly understood any of their rolled words.
An hour passed before I had finished re-packing what the woman at customs had jumbled. The busy hallways smelled of perfumes, tobacco and coffee. People were dressed in the brightest colors and even those who were overweight or elderly didn't seem bothered about being seen in their shorts and mini-skirts.
Out in the lobby, I looked for my father's friends. What if they never showed up? Pedar had been so sure, that he hadn't even bothered to give me their number. With the insecurity of a lost child, I scanned the crowd of mostly tall people and felt a little like Alice in Wonderland. And then I spotted a rather plump woman with highlighted hair, carrying a heavy shoulder bag and waving frantically at me.
The Farhangs had lived in the US for ten years, though I wouldn't have known that from their deep accent and broken English.
"You vait for verry much?" Mrs. Farhang asked me.
"Nah, alan resi&am," I answered in Persian, encouraging her to switch.
So I had finally arrived. This crazy, colorful, and loud place would be my home for the foreseeable future. No matter how optimistic I tried to be, my mind would freeze at the mere thought of it, the uncertainty paralyzing me.
My detachment from home proved much harder than I had imagined. The only life I had ever known was in the comfort and safety of my father's house. I was used to having a family, friends, and people who took care of my daily needs. Familiar with every corner of my hometown, I had enjoyed knowing people on the street. Now hurled across the globe, I was at a total loss where no one seemed to know anyone. I sometimes wondered if my isolation was any better than a prison term. After all, prisoners did have visiting hours while I had abandoned hope I'd ever see my loved ones again.
The Farhangs were a nice couple and it surprised me that, despite having lived in America for a decade, their Persian-ness remained intact. In the beginning, especially whenever I spent a day on the busy streets of New York, I welcomed the familiarity of their home. It would put me back in Iran, eating rice and lamb, listening to Googoosh, even reading Iranian magazines. But as time went by, it became clear that in order to adjust, I had to learn more about the American way of life.
To my disappointment, New York had no cowboys and its tall buildings were clustered in the middle of the city, far from where the Farhangs lived. When I had learned how to use public transportation, Manhattan lured me with its impressive vertical dimensions, magnificent parks and museums. Here, the crowd seemed to be in a terrible rush regar
dless of the time of the day. Two weeks into my arrival, I signed up for an advanced English class, but it took me a good month to make any friends.
Some nights, hours after my hosts had gone to sleep, I stayed up in my room and tried to imagine what went on at home. My night would be their daytime and I pictured life as it had been just a short while ago. At times, I could swear I heard the snip-snip of the gardener's shears trimming the lawn. I wrote long letters to Mitra, Reza, and my aunt, but never mailed them for fear SAVAK would track me down. My sole communication with the family came through our phone calls, but we tried to keep the conversations brief. Pedar sent his messages through Auntie and those were mostly in regard to money matters. Auntie wanted to make sure I ate right and had everything I needed. Reza's message surprised me the most. "I hate phone calls," he had said. And I knew that meant he missed me the most. I kept my promise and sent him stacks of pictures via travelers to Iran. Mitra was the most talkative and my news of Reza came solely through her.
Wan-Fong, a girl from Malaysia, was the only classmate whose conservative demeanor indicated we had grown up with similar standards. I think I was also drawn to her because something about her reminded me of Shireen, though I couldn't decide what. One day, while we had gone for coffee after class, our conversation shifted to world politics. How strange it felt to learn that she had never heard of the recent riots in Iran. In fact, most people had not. The West associated Iran with rugs, oil, caviar and a few had heard of the Shah, but as far as I could tell, no one knew more. Then again, considering how little I had known of this country, I couldn't blame them. The world seemed to be divided by more than mere distances.
Thoughts of Shireen rarely left me and I prayed she'd never hear of my foolish act. The last thing she needed was more guilt. I also prayed that the Payans had found a way to buy her prison term. I searched my limited sources of international news for a topic even remotely related to Shireen's party, but found nothing about Iran, let alone its opposition groups. If my family had any news of her, they never mentioned it.
Sky of Red Poppies Page 22
