Sky of Red Poppies

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  "Oh, who knows?" She raised her eyebrows, acting arrogant, and smiled. "It's my heart, but something unique, all my own." "What are you doing about it?"

  "Doctors tell me I have the worst case of they-don't-know-what and are making me take shit pills." She laughed and when I didn't she added, "What do doctors know? They've recommended rest. So I rest."

  I smiled at the realization that even after what she had been through, Shireen had not changed her opinion about the field of medicine.

  "And, you know what?" She smiled again. "For the first time in my life I love being lazy. Who cares if the Devotees are still active or not?"

  Her voice regained its playful tone, her color improved and when she laughed, despite the fine wrinkles, I caught a glimpse of the young girl I used to know.

  "What did I just say?" she asked.

  "You said if they're still active."

  "Active? I guess you could call it that. But it's no longer the same. There will always be active parties. As long as there's injustice in the world, there will be crazy young minds thinking their party can fight it." She now sounded as if she had seen the world inside and out.

  I had one last question we had not even come close to and now it escaped my lips. "Did you ever see Eemon again?"

  When she closed her eyes again, I had a feeling she kept on doing that so she could take a good look at the pictures stored in her mind, each answer extracted from in a different file. After about a minute she whispered, "Just once."

  I waited.

  "Right after the trials, they gathered us all, men and women, in the meeting room: an empty space with cement floors and no windows."

  She fell silent and I could hear the humming of a prayer out in the shrine.

  "His hands were tied behind his back. He walked with a limp, which I thought was due to the surgery. Until I saw those feet." Her voice broke.

  I swallowed hard and, despite the knot in my stomach, I wasn't sure if I had come close to understanding the depth of her pain. "You don't have to tell me more," I pleaded.

  She lit another cigarette and fell silent.

  I could see that empty room. Someone had told me they lashed men's feet with barbed wire. Shireen had watched her husband as he struggled to steady himself on swollen feet. Eemon stood across the room from Shireen, unable to look at her. Once the shuffling of feet and the clanking of handcuffs and chains stopped, a deadly silence set in. The prisoners lined up against the wall, all of them faceless, except for Eemon with his sunken cheeks and those kind eyes that spoke to Shireen.

  "All I could hear was the blood pumping in my ears," Shireen said. When she paused, I heard that powerful sound in my own head.

  "I wondered why they wanted us there. To see how we interacted, I guess. He did look at me." She took a long drag from her cigarette, inhaled, and sent the smoke out with the next words, "Only once."

  "Oh, Shireen."

  "In that one look he said more than I could bear to hear, the hopelessness of what was to come. He told me he remembered the good days, that he missed me, and that he worried about Behrang and I. He asked me to be strong." She did not bother to wipe her tears. "And, to forgive him."

  As she rested her head against the wall, tears found their way down her neck, into her shirt. "And I looked back," she said, "to tell him that I did."

  For some time, we both wept in silence.

  "If time went back," I finally said, "do you think you would have done anything differently?"

  "You mean, do I feel remorse?" She shook her head. "Things look different when you look back through old eyes. The best part is that we learn to forgive our mistakes."

  She stopped and rested her head on her knees. For a while I thought she was so exhausted that she might fall asleep. But after a few minutes, she sat up. "Perhaps if I were young again, I'd do exactly as I had done, make the same mistakes. Only now, I see the resolution lay elsewhere. None of our passionate rage could have opened those locked doors; the key was in our teaching. It was there all along. We just didn't see it."

  She reached under her scarf for a lock of hair. As she twisted it, I smiled at the fact that despite the drastic changes in her, some old habits had remained.

  "As school teachers, we could have enlightened generations to come," she said and shook her head in sorrow. "For a democracy, one must first understand its meaning and that, my dear friend, requires a lot of education." She looked at me with the wisdom of a teacher.

  "Martyrdom is not a beginning, it is an end. The last thing this world needs is more martyrs." She sighed. "I feel as if my life has been a whirlwind, spinning, and destroying everything in its path."

  "Demolition is an essential part of good construction." I said. "Remember that law of physics you used to recite? 'One must take away from something, in order to add to another.' That's what a whirlwind does."

  She looked at me with a smile. "Well, well. We have grown up!"

  If it weren't for the echo of the last Azan announcing the evening prayers, I think Shireen and I would have stayed there all night. The melodic chant from the Minaret brought me deep sorrow in the name of Allah. "La elaha illalah..."

  Heartbreaking as the visit had been, I felt magically better. To know Shireen was alive and to have her by my side had eased some of my pain. I asked her to wait outside and give me a moment alone. After she had closed the door, I knelt down by my brother's grave. I wanted to talk to him, but found nothing to say. I tried to imagine him in a better place, but could not get rid of the horrible images in my head. So I turned to my mother.

  "Thank you, Maman. I did have a good life waiting for me, and I love you more for letting me see it through." I kissed the cold stone mounted on the wall. Running my hand across the marble, I traced her name. "I hear you and Reza have another guest." The thought, peaceful as it was, brought tears to my eyes. "Take care of each other."

  Outside, the gray pigeons were gathering over the gold dome for their night's rest. Shireen stood in the middle of the courtyard and extended her hand, inviting them. None came to her. She smiled at me and shrugged.

  Pilgrims had formed their lines, facing the shrine in preparation for another group prayer. The sky had turned dark and I felt the weight of Mashad's gloomy sunset.

  Soon we reached the street. I called a taxi and offered to share the ride.

  Shireen shook her head and said she had things to do around the bazaar.

  "Do you think you'll ever visit me in America?"

  "America? It's at the top of my list." She laughed and that fleeting happiness made her look years younger. "I bet your doctors in America can cure my unnamable, incurable disease." The sound that came out of her throat was somewhere between a cry and a chuckle. "I hear they can make us younger, too." She smiled. "Imagine that!"

  Even in the dimmed light of dusk I could see her resigned expression. I wrapped my arms around the best friend I had ever known and held her tight, and for a fleeting second wished we could stay in that moment for eternity. When I finally let go, we looked at each other, knowing this would be our last time together. My voice sounded distant and strange. "Good-bye, my Shireen."

  And she smiled a crooked smile. "See you later, my friend."

  The day I left Iran, my father insisted on coming to Tehran to see me off. Before my departure, he held me by my shoulders and said, "Promise me you won't come back when it's my turn."

  "Pedar! What kind of talk is this?"

  He tightened his grip and shook me. "Promise!"

  I pushed the tears back and nodded.

  "Had a talk with your good husband, too," he said, then lowered his voice to a near whisper. "This land is doomed. Stay where you are and build yourself a new life."

  Perhaps that would be best. The country I had just re-visited bore no resemblance to the land I used to know and love. Regardless of the media reports or the tales told by frequent travelers, I had hung on to memories and hoped to find my home intact. But the entire trip had been a forced pilgri
mage, a religious procession, and a never-ending funeral.

  The last image I took with me was that of Pedar, standing among the crowd on the balcony of Mehrabad airport, waving his fedora as my plane taxied for takeoff.

  Six months later, my father died ofwhat his doctors believed to be complications of asthma.

  "He wouldn't give up his opium, not for a day, not even when the doctor said it was killing him," Mitra reported amid sobs.

  That's science for you, never giving grief its full credit.

  Holding on tight to the receiver as if it would help me keep my balance, I felt silly asking, "Why would he do that?"

  "He said it was the only thing that helped him to forget."

  I looked out the window and into Chicago's heavy rain. Somewhere in the distance I could see Pedar across the veranda. He blew a cloud of gray smoke my way and let it slowly spread between us, dissolving his features.

  For all I cared, the entire country might as well have died. With Pedar gone, the cord connecting me to the motherland was severed, leaving no magnetism to pull me back. Too old to admit it, deep down the fact that I was no longer anyone's "little girl" hurt the most.

  From time to time over the years, I did dream of a return. In my dreams I saw the plane over Mount Damavand with its shades of purple and blue, its snow-covered peak. When the plane had landed and as soon as the door opened, I stood at the top of the stairs and spotted the tall figure standing on the balcony. Taking his felt hat off, he waved it at me. I ran to him, a child full of trust for the mountain of a man who forever protected her.

  But I always woke up just before reaching his arms.

  Epilogue

  YEARS LATER, I took Arman, then fifteen, back to Iran for a visit. My signature was required on the sale documents of my father's house, and since Kyan's job would not allow him to accompany me, Arman and I decided to make a vacation out of it.

  At this point, I considered Mashad nothing but a discarded oyster-shell that once had held my precious pearls. Unable to come to terms with so much loss, I hung on to the memories of our home and envisioned my family just as it had been. I would not visit Mashad and change that lovely image.

  Within a week, we finalized the sale of our father's house with what must have resembled the emotions of an organ-donor. While Mitra used the remaining time to take Arman around Tehran's museums, palaces and parks, I spent my days in bookstores and libraries. Having been deprived of such literary sources, especially where it concerned Persian poetry, I tried to absorb what I could. It was in Tehran's Central library that I finally came across the poppy poem. Longer than I remembered it, the words now meant so much more. Some verses were all new to me and I wasn't sure if I had ever read them before. Their meaning and how it tied to her fate gave me goose bumps:

  Rejoice oh ye thirsty, in the arid domain

  Dark clouds above bring tidings of rain

  See the blossoms of hope we grew in our hearts?

  Times crushed their frail stems in vain!

  I read the poem over and over, wondering if Shireen ever had another chance to read them later and if so, did she feel as eerie as I did about their prophecy?

  For days to come, I went around town unable to get rid of the image of many poppies on the ground, their petals scattered, their stems crushed, and their blood painting every sidewalk in Tehran.

  "How about a day trip north?" Mitra suggested a few days before our departure. "What's a visit to Iran without seeing the Caspian?"

  I agreed. This would give Arman a glimpse of those plush forests and green mountains he'd never see on American television.

  Two days later, we rented a car and headed north. As though visiting a friend in a foreign land, I let Mitra lead the way and show us her country.

  Along the way, we stopped at a cozy teahouse for breakfast. Wooden platforms were placed at the riverbank, with Persian rugs spread over them and colorful cushions provided to lean on. Arman kept taking pictures of the clear river, shining gravel, and the pale green moss.

  A young man in a shabby coat approached us. He carried a cage in one hand and a box of cards in the other. "Let the canary tell your fortune," he said.

  Years ago, I had seen these trained birds. Once, the day before an exam, Shireen and I had stopped by such a man on the street and the canary had picked me a card. It read, "Your troubles will soon be over." When the man asked Shireen if she'd like to have her fortune told, she had laughed and said, "No, thank you. But if you want, I could tell you about the poor bird's destiny." Receiving great scores the next day made me a believer of the bird's divine connections, which in turn gave my friend another excuse to tease me.

  I paid the man a little money and waved him away. "Shireen would know the bird's future," I said under my breath. Overcome with memories of another life, I could feel my friend's presence as if she stood there by me. I realized Shireen had never left me, not even after I heard that she had left this world. I would always remember our laughter and tears on that last good-bye. But at that moment, I was convinced that if I looked up, there she'd be. Over the gurgling sound of the river, I heard her laughter with its hint of sorrow. Unable to resist the temptation, I turned and looked, but all I saw was the willow under whose shade we sat, the branch closest to me bobbing, as if to nod.

  On the way back, we drove faster to beat the evening rush. The bright sunlight had become milder in preparation for sunset. Mountains reflected all shades of green, and the river parallel to the road assumed orange shades of the darkening sky.

  "Do you ever see Behrang?" I asked Mitra, trying to sound calm. I had avoided talking about my friend this entire time, so I added, "Shireen's son."

  "I know who you mean. I've seen him here and there. He's a professional photographer." She smiled. "I've seen his exhibits, and he's quite remarkable."

  Remarkable! Shireen would have loved to hear that.

  Sitting in front, Arman continued to click his camera. He would need pictures to remember this, unlike me, the living camera, holding millions of pictures inside.

  The driver glanced in his mirror. "Ladies, don't miss that sunset," he said, and nodded to the view behind.

  Mitra and I both turned to look out the back window. In the distance, a copper sun made its way into the heart of the purple mountains. Rice patties reflected the darkening sky in their standing water. As Arman aimed for a last picture, the driver slowed the car down to a near stop.

  That was when I saw it: One bright red dot among all the roadside green. With the light now fading and the car taking us farther away, I wasn't sure of what I had seen. This was deep into the summer. There were no poppies left, just as there could never be another Shireen. That was a fact I had to accept.

  Then again, stranger things had happened. In a world full of mysteries and divine connections, and as long as one could dream, anything was possible. Anything. Even the endurance of a single, fragile, red poppy.

  A NOTE ABOUT POETRY

  IRANIANS’ LOVE OF POETRY develops throughout childhood; it begins with the poetic lullabies and verses sung to us in our youth and evolves in the classroom, where memorizing poems is mandatory. Therefore, poetry is a common denominator for us, an integral part of our culture. In conversation, all Iranians make poetic references, even the illiterate.

  This novel begins in the setting of a literature classroom. As such, the references throughout the story to existing poetry are intended as a commentary on its uniquely powerful role in Iranian life and as a reference point for the passions budding within the central characters of this tale. I would like to take a moment to raise your awareness of the poets who have touched my life as well as the destiny of our heroines. Here are the names of a few masters whose beautiful poetry enhances the emotions in this story. Please know that all descriptions, analysis, or translations into English are mine; any mistakes are my fault alone. Only those who have attempted to translate - literally or critically - the magnificence of Persian poetry into another language woul
d know what a challenging task this is.

  IT is WITH GRATITUDE that I acknowledge the following poems in the order they are mentioned in my novel:

  MANOUCHEHR NEYESTANI: "Coins In The Fountain", sekkeh-ha dar cheshmeh. Courtesy of Mana Neyestani.

  SOHRAB SEPEHRI: "The Lagoon", Mordab.

  RUMI: "One Heart", Hamdeli.

  MASSIH KASHI: Untitled - in reference to "Portals of Being", Darvazeh hasti.

  HAKIM NEZAMI: From Makhzan al Asrar.

  HAMID MOSADDEGH: "Blue, Gray, Black", Abee, khakestari, siah.

  HAFEZ: Untitled, ghazal.