I thought and thought, feeling responsible, taking the blame, until I had convinced myself that I had been the cause of this disaster. SAVAK must have hoped I'd go back. They must have found more reason to want me back, maybe they thought I had information on Shireen, knew things they didn't know. Maybe they were just maniacs torturing innocent people. But who cared when nothing could bring back Reza?
My defeat went beyond the loss of an only brother. "Reza is lucky to have you" Pedar had said a lifetime ago. What did he think of me now? Feeling increasingly distanced from my father, I knew I had lost my last chance for returning to him.
Over the next year, the whole world seemed to change, but the changes in my country were too quick to grasp. Following the news, I pictured a book of history sitting in the wind, its pages flipping so quickly that not a word could be read. As much as we had dismissed the reports about the Shah's imminent defeat, it was now a reality. Iran had been ruled by monarchs for twenty-five centuries, but was now at the brink of a revolution to become an Islamic Republic. I wasn't sure what that entailed, except that the clergy would rule.
How quickly the world seemed to forget the glorious history of Persia! The clips of Iran on the evening news bore no resemblance to the place I had known and loved. There were more street demonstrations, except now they seemed to be more of a peaceful march in support of the revolution. On the other hand, those who had been pro-Shah and had not managed to get out of the country, faced imprisonment, torture and even execution. This included people in the religious minorities, who had enjoyed safety and a semblance of peace during the reign of the Shah. As if mourning for Reza wasn't bad enough, now I had a whole nation to grieve for.
It took me months to cope with my huge grief. The fact that I had not been there to witness any of the events that led to my brother's loss, and especially not having seen his funeral, made it hard to believe he was no longer there. "We buried him next to Maman," Mitra had said to Kyan. I tried hard to picture that, but somehow could not. What did they write on his stone? Which picture was now hanging on the wall of that tomb?
Just when I thought I had adjusted, Kyan advised I should reestablish regular contact with my family.
"What do we have to say to each other?" I asked bitterly, as if they were responsible for Reza's loss.
"You don't have to say very much, but it might help you to talk to them, hear their voices."
He dialed Mitra's number and gave me the phone.
At first, Mitra and I both cried. When we spoke of our grief, my sister sounded distant and unfeeling toward my share of it.
Auntie sounded more understanding. In fact, it was she who from that day on called me on a regular basis. In her soothing tone, she continued to deliver indirect messages from Pedar. "It's a relief to your father just to know you're safe." But I hung on to my deep guilt and deciphered Pedar's brief messages for their worst meaning. What does she care? She's safe! That's what he means. Neither my aunt nor I mentioned Reza.
Americans had changed, too. Neighbors and friends, who barely knew Iran, developed a sudden interest in what was happening to it. Having buried my head in textbooks, I'd never even heard of Khomeini before. But now even Americans knew who he was and they spoke of "The Shah" as if the word was his real name.
When I asked Mitra who he was or what changes he might bring to the country, her response was full of enthusiasm.
"We shall be the first Muslim nation to practice a modern Islam."
I chuckled. "Come on, those two words don't even belong together."
"And why not?" she said as if to shame me. "All religions were once old-fashioned and fanatic, except many of them have changed with times. Look at the European lifestyle of today. They're still Christians, but are they the same people as the crusaders? Or the ones portrayed in The Scarlet Letter?"
There was no point in arguing with my sister, so I switched the subject.
I wondered about the whereabouts of all those oppositionists now that the Shah had left. As much as I had detested his SAVAK, to watch the fall of a king was to see a monument demolished. Mobs filled the streets and I couldn't help thinking of all the sacrifice, just to reach such pandemonium. With each item of news concerning Iran I thought about Shireen. Would she be free once the regime had changed? Would she be happier in a country that no longer had a Shah, and where saying the daily prayers was now mandatory?
The media broadcast mainly the Islamic revolution's victory, but I also learned of the chaos and the hardship people, especially the women, faced on a daily basis.
"These guys just kill and kill. No court, no trials," a university professor, who had smuggled his family to Turkey under a shipment of pistachios, told us. "There's nothing in the stores. You're lucky to find any eggs, sugar or milk. Women suffer the most. It's boiling hot and they arrest them for not being covered head to toe." Or worse, "Guards raid homes in search of bottles of liquor and arrest anyone who has them. The damn Islamic 'sisters' wipe women's lipstick with a razorblade. And if you dare to paint your nails, they'll pull them out!"
After a few more such stories, I had a clear picture of the "Sisters"
in my mind: Fundamentalist women, armed with rifles and hearts as dark as the shroud they called hejab, policing the area alongside their bearded "Brothers." Rising from deprived families, their cruelty toward ordinary people might have helped them vent their hatred, but I was certain it did nothing for their deep-seeded resentments.
Each day, Kyan relayed more news he had heard at work. "The new Islamic secret police, SAVAMA, acts with such cruelty that they make SAVAK seem human," he said.
I just listened and felt numb, cared and didn't care, remembered and tried to forget. My past would remain a hidden pride, yet I wished to leave it behind.
My father had always said that his biggest dream was to hold his grandchild in his arms. Mitra did not plan on having children. So when my son was born two weeks after the Islamic Revolution, certain that Pedar would never have a chance to hold him, I insisted we name him Arman, "implausible dream."
Arman had Reza's eyes, a fact that pleased me, and a gift that I did not deserve.
Twenty—one
I FINISHED SPRINKLING THE BAG OF SALT over our frozen driveway just as the mailman greeted me with a stack of mail. My disbelieving eyes found a blue airmail letter sitting on top. No longer the familiar stamps of the Shah, the new ones featured one ayatollah after another. A neat print, all in capitals, spelled my address and under it was written in Persian, To Roya. I would know that handwriting anywhere. My heart overflowing with excitement, I sat on the icy front steps and tore Shireen's letter open.
Dear Roya,
I saw Mitra in town and she gave me your address and told me all about your relocation, marriage, and baby. Glad to know you're safe. Mitra said you still think about the past. I do too, but for me that's all there is to think about. I leave the future to my son, and yours. Behrang is my single excuse for life. I take each day for what it is: sunrise to sunset. No more, and no less. One could say, I no longer live in The Lagoon - I have now become it.
How we both had loved that poem without realizing that at some point, we too, would experience such a life. Shireen went on to thank me for visiting her parents. If I had not known about her life in prison, the letter would have told me nothing.
Mitra seems to think you're oblivious to what goes on here. But she's wrong. Maybe the big tides would come if we all made a tiny wave as you did. We chose the wrong stage, one that collapsed under so much weight. But there you stood, always with both feet on firm ground.
Here she goes again, I thought. Leave it to Shireen to provide the boost I so desperately need, helping me to live with myself.
Do you remember Tahereh Ahmadi? She is now the head-nurse at Central Hospital (Now called Imam's Hospital). I doubt she'd be there if it weren't for your help along the way. I'm also convinced that my quick recovery is owed to the special care she gave me during my hospitalization. So, you s
ee? You've helped us both.
The name, Tahereh Ahmadi, belonged to another life. I remembered my classmate with a face full of pimples and socks sewn in several places. I could still see her sitting at the edge of my bed, running her fingers along the satin cover.
What do you know? Tahereh Ahmadi is a head-nurse.
From her letter, it was clear Shireen had no knowledge of what I had attempted to do. Did Mitra also tell her about Reza? I prayed she hadn't. The last thing Shireen needed was more grief, guilt, and regrets. She ended her letter with:
Dearest Roya, The world is small and round. Wouldn't it be something if our paths crossed again?
I closed my eyes. Wouldn't it?
I don't know how many times I read that letter, but each time it made me feel better than the last. Shireen had forgiven me for who I had become.
I put a package of frozen chicken under running water to start dinner before Arman woke up. The phone rang and when I picked it up, the crackle on the line indicated a long-distance call.
"You'd better sit down," Pedar's voice tugged at my heart. This being the first time he had rung me himself, I had already reached for the nearest chair to support my shaking knees. Feeling short of breath with excitement, I said, "How are you, Pedar-jan?" The chirp in my voice reminded me of a time when I used that tone to ask for a favor.
"I'm all right," he said. "Considering..." He took a deep breath and it sounded as though he was beginning to wheeze. Then it sounded as if he had covered the mouthpiece and for a few seconds I wasn't sure if he was still there.
"Considering what?"
He cleared his throat. "I thought this might be easier if it came from me."
I braced myself for the grim news he was delivering bit by bit.
"We've lost your good aunt," he said at last and the feeling of numbness told me I had known it from the minute I heard his voice.
Did it really make a difference how or from whom I would hear this? Nothing in the world could have prepared me enough. Auntie was years younger than Pedar, and except for her rheumatism, I didn't remember her having any medical problems. Oh, how I had dreamed of the day Pedar would finally call, but not this, dear God, not this! Like leaves in an autumn from hell, I saw the people I loved fall off the tree of life one by one.
I don't know how long I sat there after our sad conversation. Arman had sleepily toddled out of his room and now found me crouched on the kitchen floor. Startled, he began to cry. That was just what I needed for I now joined in his loud infant-like bawling.
When, hours later, Kyan stepped into the semi dark house, Arman and I were still crying and water from the tap had flooded the counter. I don't know what words I used, but I somehow managed to tell him what had happened.
For the next days, nothing Kyan did or said could help my devastated mind. The bizarre chain of events had left too many gaps, making it impossible to grieve in the normal fashion. Just as I had counted on Reza to live his full life, in secret I had pictured Auntie growing old, needing me to give back some of the care I had received. Sometimes in the middle of the night Kyan would find me weeping silent tears. Other times he had to wake me amid a nightmare. In the end, he suggested it was time to go to Iran for a visit.
"Aren't you forgetting my one-way ticket?"
"Honey, that was back then, I'm talking about now."
"I still have a record with the secret police."
"Oh, that," he said. "Times have changed. Not only is there no SAVAK, I'll bet the Islamic secret police loves those who rebelled against the old regime."
"There's more," I said, and my voice dropped. "Pedar doesn't want me."
"Sure, he does. He called, didn't he?" He smiled a sad smile. "From what your aunt told me, that man misses you more than you can imagine. Besides, it'll be good for him to see you, see Arman and have his family around him." He placed a hand on my back as if to give me the push I needed. "Anyway, don't you think it's about time our families met?"
All that night I thought about his suggestion and by morning, I let myself be excited over the idea.
Kyan requested a leave of absence from the university and, knowing our old passports with the Royal emblem were no longer valid, he applied for new Islamic passports. I felt ridiculous covering my hair for a passport photo. Iran no longer a US ally, we had to send our documents to the one room rented by the Islamic Republic of Iran in the Algerian embassy.
While we waited for our documents, a friend who had recently gone back helped me to buy black clothes and items that would be appropriate to wear in the new Iran. Despite the heat, she recommended buying a long raincoat for everyday wear.
I had mixed emotions about this reunion. For years, my father had deprived me from being with my aunt or seeing more of my brother. Neither of them had seen my Arman. Now it was I who found it hard to forgive Pedar. Four years had passed since I last had seen him. How ridiculous it seemed to realize I feared facing my father. Oh, what I wouldn't do to have the good days back.
With all the news articles and the books that I had read, I knew enough about recent changes. Still, as we neared Tehran, it shocked me to see the German hostesses of Lufthansa put on their version of hejab, covering their hair under a scarf.
"We will have to clear customs here," Kyan told me as we joined the passport line. "There are a couple of days before our flight to Mashad."
As if the entire nation also mourned Auntie's loss, there were many people in black, men unshaven, and women wearing no makeup. A man, too young to hold a j ob, asked why my passport had never been stamped. I told him I lived in the United States.
"Welcome home, sister."
The strange new way they addressed women shocked me the first time, but in a matter of days, I grew accustomed to being everyone's sister and a few vendors' mother.
Two days later, we were on a plane to Mashad. Looking down from the plane I realized I had never looked at my hometown with such interest before, oh how green it looked, with all the orchards and the tree-lined streets.
The small airport seemed unchanged, but the flag above the roof had lost its crest of a golden lion and sun.
Pedar's embrace felt weightless, just a gentle touch of fragile arms. He let his tears run down the side of my face and, as we walked, he held my arm and leaned on me.
"I'm so sorry," he said.
Too late for regrets, I cried along and knew all was forgiven.
On the drive home, I sat in the back seat next to my father, with Arman on my lap. Pedar couldn't take his eyes off him. Arman grabbed his silk tie and tugged at it. The city had not awakened yet and most shops were closed. An iron barricade guarded most windows. Except for a few other cars, or a stray dog here and there, the streets were empty. At one of the main intersections, I noticed a Toyota truck, a gun barrel sticking out its window.
"Islamic guards," Pedar explained.
"I know," I said. "The Kommiteh."
"Hmm, you've kept up with our hideous changes."
I smiled sadly. Reza would have been sure to crack a joke at that.
Most streets had new names and that made me wonder if I'd be able to find my way around. Huge banners across the road showing pictures of clergymen seemed out of place. Most stores displayed black flags with Arabic prayers written on them. The few cars we passed seemed beat-up and in need of repair and I saw no sign of the fancy sedans or even yellow taxis. It felt creepy to find my town so unfamiliar.
I slid one arm behind Pedar. "How are you?"
"Ay," he exhaled his sorrow and stared into the dark without a word. We passed a few more streets before he spoke, still facing the window. "The last thing I imagined was for that fine woman to go before I would." His breathing sounded painful. "Where she got her strength from, I'll never know." He rocked gently, as if to calm himself. "That crippled leg of hers never slowed her down. May her grave be showered with light." Then rolling his prayer beads, he whispered a few Arabic verses.
I pressed my cheek against his back.
He turned around and held me tight.
I woke up to Naneh's voice, "How's my girl?" My old nanny seemed busy, tying the curtain to its hook on the wall, sounding pleased to have me back in my room.
I surveyed the pink walls, the curtains with tiny daisies, my bookshelf and the Monet poster next to it. For a few sleepy seconds, I was living my old life. Naneh gave me a hearty embrace and kissed me on both cheeks, leaving spit marks as always. "My little girl is worth a hundred-thousand tumans!" she chanted. As a child, that amount had impressed me. Now, with the decline of the new tuman, I smiled at my current value of a hundred dollars.
"Everyone else has had their breakfast, but Master said not to disturb you. Mr. Kyan took the baby and said to let you sleep."
Sad at being reminded my reason for being there, I buried my head under the pillows and mumbled, "Good idea."
"Ay, Miss Roya, it's almost lunchtime. If you sleep any more, you'll be up all night." She took the pillows away and pulled a small table close to my bed. Picking up a tray from the floor, she placed it on the table within my reach.
The smell of hot bread made me realize how hungry I was. While I ate, Naneh started her report. "Everybody is here: your uncles, cousins, even a few friends." She sat on the bench by my dresser. "But this household isn't the same without that lady."
"This household isn't the same without my Reza, either," I said and thought of how people had already put his loss behind them.
Naneh gave a deep sigh. "God sure picks the finest flowers." A distant look fell on her wrinkled face, as if she could see God's garden.
"How was it, Naneh?" I asked, "I mean, how did Auntie go?"
"Like an angel," she said. "One morning, she wasn't by the samovar and when I went to her room, there she was, lying on her bed, eyes closed and with an angelic smile." She wiped her tears with a corner of her white scarf and went to get my clothes.
The next hours were no different than a funeral. People greeted me with tears and expressed their sympathy for the loss of my aunt. No one even mentioned Reza's name. When the last of the callers had left, Kyan stayed with Pedar and Naneh took Arman so I could go to the shrine.
Sky of Red Poppies Page 24
