My Part of Her

by Javad Djavahery

  And so years later, as a defenseless torture victim, I heard the desperate cries of the fallen officer reverberate in my head. The disgrace of a soldier who, unable to fight, had given up his weapon, to a scrawny novice and a turbaned mullah wearing babouches. A real tragedy!

  So Niloufar hadn’t destroyed it, that weapon, as she had claimed. For, yes, I’m the one who had given it to her, declaring with a theatrical seriousness that, when the moment came, the people would have to take power by force, because the capital would never abdicate without violence. Or something of the sort. I had hoped that, if we weren’t able to liberate the people, or bring about the triumph of the working class, the Beretta would at least solidify my place in the heart of Nilou, my beloved Nilou.

  Shit, we’re fucked, I said to myself, that’s how she got herself arrested. Then I heard Sardar Saleh’s voice.

  “This weapon doesn’t belong to you either?”

  He repeated his question several times, as if to assure himself that I had understood. In truth, I didn’t know how to respond. With that weapon found on her, we no longer had a chance.

  Sardar Saleh stared at me intensely. He glared at me from behind the lenses of his glasses, in which I saw the reflection of the room, Niloufar’s face a luminous spot. The man seemed to be fixed on my lips, awaiting my response in the countdown of his breath. I felt a huge drop of sweat pearl on my temple and drip down my face. I turned toward Niloufar. Tears were clouding her eyes, without falling. She must have felt the weight of my gaze, for she turned toward me, too. She did it slowly. We observed each other for a moment. She guessed what I was going to say. Sardar Saleh was still awaiting my response, but with increasing impatience, tapping on his arm. I looked at the weapon again. Then I raised my eyes, I couldn’t keep silent for much longer. And I shook my head in denial. There. It was over. Nothing was different from the moment before. My cowardice, my lie, my betrayal hadn’t modified the course of time. The clock hands kept turning, like the earth.

  §

  Yes, my friend. That’s the story I came here to tell you. You and no one else. You are, whether you like it or not, its guardian. It belongs to you now, you can do with it what you want. Tell it to others. To whoever wants to hear it. To whoever can pass it on. Why did I do it? To survive? I don’t know. I’ve certainly thought about it every day since. I still don’t know. But it is what it is. I did it.

  “Do you mean to say that this weapon does not belong to you?” the officer said.

  I shook my head once more, this time lowering my gaze.

  “So you deny any relation with this woman,” he said again, his voice suddenly vibrating with anger. “You mean to say that you have nothing to do with, with… ”

  He was seething, and I didn’t know why.

  “Do you know the danger you’re putting her in?” he continued, in a higher voice.

  He had addressed me informally. There was now no more room for manners, for decorum.

  “Do you know the danger you’re putting her in?” he repeated.

  Of course I knew: I could be sending her to the gallows.

  “And you, mademoiselle?” he said, turning toward Niloufar, who still seemed just as absent.

  “Mademoiselle!” he shouted again.

  That’s when he grabbed her arm. It was an inconceivable gesture for a fervent Muslim, a high-level Pasdar on top of it. You never touch a woman! Then he grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently.

  “Answer me, Ni-ni-ni-ni… ” he cried out in a broken voice, as if he were out of breath. Like a pierced tire. My God! In a fraction of a second, the veil was lifted before my eyes. That stammering… the accent that only inhabitants of the North have, revealed… It was Mohamad-Réza! My childhood friend, the Majnun of Chamkhaleh, my eternal punching bag, the bashful and crazed lover of Niloufar, the worshiper who had written the name of his beloved on his chest with the edge of a broken glass, the phantom of the night, the stammering singer… It was him, there was no doubt, reemerging from oblivion. How had I not recognized him earlier?

  “Nilou,” he managed to say, finally, shaking his head with despair, and “my beloved,” in a final exhale, audible only to my ears. The large sardar was stammering again; he who had stared down the barrel of a gun, gone up against bombs and shellfire, was flailing pitifully before a woman’s name.

  Niloufar had recognized him, too. She had buried her face in her hands and was crying. Like me, she had finally understood why we were there, why a general of the Pasdaran army was wasting time on two unimportant prisoners. Later, I learned that he had always been following me, since the night he had been caught in front of Villa Rose. When the gendarmes took him away, hopping ridiculously with his pants down, he had seen me, crouching in the shadows, squatting behind the property gate. From the beginning, he knew his Judas. He knew that it was me who had sold him out. And he had never forgotten for all of those years. He had stayed abreast of everything I had done. There was nothing he didn’t know. My semi-clandestine activities at the end of the shah’s reign, my involvement in my town’s revolutionary committee, my role as troublemaker, as revolt leader, my Marxist-Leninist ideology courses, my collusion with the dissident organization in Tehran, my trips to Rasht, to the Doctor’s house, my flight. Everything, he knew everything. After my arrest, he was the one who had made sure I stayed alive. He was awaiting his moment. It was Niloufar’s arrest that had brought him out of the shadows. He was there to finally settle the score.

  What followed is not very important. I’m sure you believe I paid for everything I did? Yes, I paid, with interest. I was beaten until I couldn’t take it anymore, thrown in isolation, humiliated, deprived of sleep. But, unlike the others, I wasn’t able to cry injustice. Do you think the ordeal inspired remorse, repentance? No. And do you know why? Because I continued to betray. And my final betrayal is you.

  One day, the torture came to an end. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps they deemed that I had been punished enough for my crime. They transferred me to another prison, where I was to rot for many long years, until my death perhaps. That’s when you saw me arrive in your dark and humid cell. Remember, I was broken. I was nothing more than a clot of curdled blood and pus. I saw you emerge from your corner, creep up to me, fearful like a timid animal. You offered me the most precious thing that you had: your friendship. You took care of me, you bandaged my wounds, you fed me. Without your care, I probably wouldn’t have survived. But you offered me something more. Something indispensable. You showed me unconditional love, without limits, without holding back. But I didn’t reciprocate. I betrayed you with my distance, my coldness, my egotism. Why? Because deep down, I knew that I didn’t deserve your love. Not any more than I deserved Niloufar’s love, or the admiration of my peers.

  Remember the day when they came to announce your release? You welcomed that event, which you had been awaiting for so long, with no joy. You left reluctantly, almost despite yourself, dragging your feet, as if they were taking you to the gallows. You left me a prisoner’s most prized possessions: your clothes, your books, and your memories. I never forgot. Before leaving, you took me in your arms. You held me tight for a long time. Long enough that I could feel your interrupted breathing and your beating heart. You didn’t cry the tears shining in the corner of your eyes. You said nothing, for you knew that your voice would betray you. It was better that way. But I stole even that last moment from you by looking away. I was afraid you would discover what I really am—a traitor.

  §

  Niloufar married Mohamad-Réza. No one seemed very surprised. It’s true that there was no one left to remember the young girl who had turned the seashore upside down all by herself; the war and the repression had decimated the army and its followers. They got married after a pilgrimage to Mecca. The ceremony took place in our town. It was only at that moment that the inhabitants realized there was a person of influence among them, someone who belonged to the high spheres of power. That the stammering, timid child they had seen playing
in the dust of the streets, who had left one day hanging from the door of a bus to join the battlefields of a war already nearly forgotten, had become an important sardar. The city was jammed from one end to the other, taken over by official cars, carrying high-ranking members of the Pasdaran army in uniform or high dignitaries of the regime, wearing dark suits with extra-long sleeves and shirts without collars or ties, buttoned to the top, unshaven cheeks, their foreheads all stamped by the brownish mark of the prayer. The wedding was organized in the strict tradition of official ceremonies of the new bigwigs: simple, no obvious pomp, no music. Apparently, no one saw Niloufar for the entire ceremony, not even the women. She had demanded that the act of marriage take place behind closed doors, with just a few close relatives. She said “yes” to the first call of the mullah and not to the third, as is customary. Then, the next day, the newlyweds left for an unknown destination. Probably to one of those secure residential neighborhoods in the capital city where the nomenklatura live.

  As for me, I was eventually released. Do I owe it to Niloufar? Most likely. But, once out, I soon came up against invisible barriers. I had no more place in society: the doors of the university were closed to me, as were those of the administration. Even private companies refused to employ me. I went back to live with my parents. I spent my time smoking opium with Hossein—I held on thanks to that. Then, one day, I took the same road as my father had in the past, every morning. I walked along the river, then crossed the bridge, which was no longer made out of wood, but concrete. I passed in front of the windows of the jewelers, before reaching the row of tailors, approaching the door of my father’s former shop, turning the key in the lock. The old panel of oxidized wood creaked on its rusted hinges. I headed toward the back of the shop and sat in front of the patinaed leather of my father’s seat.

  I became a tailor, then a silkworm merchant. I buried my parents. My father first, and my mother soon after. I stayed in their house. I spent my days sewing in the shop or in the farms, listening to the sound of the silkworms. I slept on a pile of clothes that had been commissioned and never collected, but that I kept just in case. I continued the family tradition. Little by little, the clients returned. My pants were as comfortable as those of my father.

  Niloufar had two children. Then she disappeared, during a trip to Europe. She asked for political asylum in Sweden. She’s lived in Malmö for five years, without her children, who she left in Iran. I heard she was working as a waitress in a bar in Södergatan, near the port. It’s called the Seeburg. You see? It’s the bar over there, at the end of that street, overlooking the sea. This is where my trip comes to an end. My trip, but not my story. For now that you’ve listened to me, now that you know the story of my life, I’d like to ask you to accompany me to the bar. Come on! It’s cold, we’ll warm up. There! Look, on the other side of the window, that woman with the faded hair and the overly made-up lips, with her low-cut blouse, standing behind the counter, under the neon lights. You see? That’s her! That’s Niloufar! My siren! Come on, let’s go inside! She saw us. I’m sure she recognized me. I’ve finally found her again. Here she is. A few breaststrokes away from me. One last wave, and I’ll be at her side. She’ll take my hand and we’ll dive together, into the ever darker blue of the depths.

  ‌Notes

  1 The traditional festival for the Iranian people who celebrate the Persian New Year on the day of the spring equinox; date varies from March 20 to March 22.

  2 A Muslim who has made the pilgrimage, also known as the hajj, to Mecca.

  3 A well-known prison, located near Karaj, twelve and a half miles from Tehran, where many political prisoners have been held, tortured, and executed since 1979.

  4 The second Iranian communist party, founded in 1941. It maintained close relationships with the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. It was a major political party in Iran, banned under the shah after the American coup d’état in 1953, then active again beginning in 1979, until the purges under the Islamic Republic.

  5 National hero of modern Persian history. He was the founder of a revolutionary movement based in the forests of Gilan, in Northern Iran, known as the “Jangal Movement.” This uprising began in 1914 and continued until 1921, when the movement was dismantled, and Mirza Koochak Khan was assassinated following an agreement between Lenin and Reza Khan, the future Persian monarch.

  6 The first republic, proclaimed by Mirza Koochak Khan in Rasht, the capital city of Gilan, in 1920 and overthrown in 1921.

  7 The 28 Mordad (August 19) coup d’état took place at the culmination of secret operation “Ajax” led by the United Kingdom and the United States, and executed by the CIA. Its aim was to restore the shah to his throne, in order to preserve Western interests in the exploitation of Iranian oil deposits by chasing out Mosaddegh, the Iranian Prime Minister, who had nationalized oil.

  8 Remote and mountainous region of Gilan.

  9 Literally “men of the woods.”

  10 Ayat al-Kursi is the 225th verse of the second surah of the Quran. It’s reputed to calm all sentiments: fear, anger, and sexual desire.

  11 September 8th, 1978.

  12 February 13th, the day of the Iranian Revolution’s victory. 22nd of the month of Bahman, according to the Iranian calendar.

  13 Hossein Fatemi. An Iranian politician (1919–54). He was named Minister of Foreign Affairs in the government of Mohammad Mosaddegh, to whom he would be an ally. He was arrested after the fall of Mosaddegh, condemned to death, and executed.

  14 A mountain overlooking the city of Langerood in Gilan.

  15 The Iranian border point nearest to Basra, which was one of the main targets of Iraqi attacks and subject to heavy human losses.

  16 One of the branches of Fadayiane Khalg, an extreme-left guerrilla movement.

  ‌About the Author

  Javad Djavahery was forced to leave Iran at the age of twenty, escaping to France as a political refugee. He has never returned to Iran and now lives in Paris. In addition to writing screenplays and producing films, he has written two short-story collections in Persian and two novels in French. My Part of Her is his English-language debut.

  About the Translator

  Emma Ramadan is a literary translator based in Providence, RI, where she is the co-owner of Riffraff, a bookstore and bar. She is the recipient of an NEA Translation Fellowship, a PEN/Heim grant, and a Fulbright scholarship.

  About the Introducer

  Dina Nayeri is the author of The Ungrateful Refugee, a finalist for the 2019 Kirkus Prize. Her debut novel, A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea (2013), was translated into fourteen languages. Her second novel, Refuge (2017), was a New York Times editor’s choice. She holds a BA from Princeton, an MBA from Harvard, and an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where she was a Truman Capote Fellow and Teaching Writing Fellow. She lives in Paris, where she is a fellow at the Columbia Institute for Ideas and Imagination.

  Restless Books is an independent, nonprofit publisher devoted to championing essential voices from around the world whose stories speak to us across linguistic and cultural borders. We seek extraordinary international literature for adults and young readers that feeds our restlessness: our hunger for new perspectives, passion for other cultures and languages, and eagerness to explore beyond the confines of the familiar.

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  Copyright © 2017 Editions Gallimard

  Translation copyright © 2020 Emma Ramadan

  Preface copyright © 2020 Dina Nayeri

  First published as Ma part d’elle by Editions Gallimard, Paris, 2017

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without the prior written permissi
on of the publisher.

  This book is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

  This work received the French Voices Award for excellence in publication and translation. French Voices is a program created and funded by the French Embassy in the United States and FACE Foundation.

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  Cet ouvrage a bénéficié du soutien des Programmes d’aide à la publication de l’Institut français.

  First Restless Books paperback edition February 2020

  Paperback ISBN: 9781632062437

  eISBN: 9781632062444