After Tehran (33 page)

He struggles to breathe. His chest rises and falls and then is still. The world moves around us, but we have been left behind, standing on different sides of an unforgiving divide. I want to reach beyond the dark depths of death and bring him back
.

The flashing lights of an ambulance … A sharp pain in my abdomen … And the world around me disappears into darkness
.

I sat on my bed and tried to take slow, deep breaths again. Ali was alive? Why would he do this? How dare he just disappear like that after all that happened? Pretend to be dead? But he
was
dead. I was there. I saw it. Could they have revived him after I passed out? After the shooting, I was taken to the hospital and then to the prison. For months, I didn’t have contact with anyone except his family. I was still a prisoner, and his family could keep me in the dark if they wanted to. But they mourned him. I watched them cry. I witnessed their pain and devastation. No one can fake that. No one.

I calmed down a little. But I needed to know the truth. The absolute truth. I had to email Setareh. I sat at my computer and wrote to her, asking for proof. How did her source know this? Did the person who had claimed Ali was alive know him personally? Did that individual have a recent photo of him? My chest began to tighten. I had to breathe slowly and wait. Should I call Andre
at work and tell him? No. That was crazy. Tell him what? I had to wait for proof.

The day advanced in slow motion. Even though the simplest chore overwhelmed me, I attended to my duties. I drove my son to school and listened to him tell me about his plans for the day. I had yoga that morning, the first class of the fall session. I visited my father at noon—I had promised. I had been away the week before and not seen him in ten days.

Back at home, I checked my emails again. Nothing. My heart raced. I needed to talk to someone, but I couldn’t talk to my family until I had proof—why upset them over a claim that could be entirely false? Who could I call? Steve. I had to call Steve. I knew he was usually very busy at work, so I emailed him, briefly telling him about the claim and asking him to call me. He phoned early in the afternoon.

“Marina,” he said, sounding concerned.

“I can’t believe I’m even considering this, Steve, but what if he’s alive?”

“Marina, let’s deal with the facts. You were there when he died. Journalists do this sometimes. Not all of them, but some of them jump at things before corroborating the facts because it’s a good story. She should have phoned you. She shouldn’t have posted it on Facebook. It’s so irresponsible.”

“What if they revived him after I passed out, and he went into hiding because there were people who wanted to kill him?”

“Okay. But wouldn’t he have contacted you? He loved you, Marina. Do you really think he could have stayed away for so long?”

“No.”

“What’s the worst thing that can happen if he’s alive?”

“I don’t know … nothing, I guess.”

“Write to the journalist and insist that she reveal her source. She owes you that.”

“I have written to her. I’ll write again. But if he’s alive … Steve, do you realize what it would mean? That I have two husbands! What would I tell Andre? I have put him through so much. He’s been so good …”

“Marina, you don’t have two husbands. You didn’t give your consent. You were coerced. Your marriage to Ali was illegal.”

“I know … I know … But he believed I was his legal wife … According to Iranian law I was his legal wife …”

“Is Andre the jealous type?”

“Yes. Very much. Steve, put yourself in his shoes. How would you feel if you discovered your wife had another husband?”

“If she went through the hell you went through, I would support her.”

“I’m going to wait until there’s proof. I have to protect Andre.”

“But would he think you were hiding it from him? As a man I would rather know the truth.”

“I can’t do this to him now. He gets paranoid sometimes. He might think Ali is hiding in the neighbour’s shed to come and get me or something.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Call the journalist. Her information is probably hearsay. You need to verify her source.”

“If Ali’s alive, should I talk to him?”

“Absolutely not!”

“No, I shouldn’t. But there are so many things I have to ask him. Why did he do the things he did?”

I told Steve about my ponytail flashbacks. I needed Ali to know how he made me feel. Still, could I bear being in the same room with him? No. Could I bear hearing his voice on the phone? No.

“Steve, if this is true,” I said, “I will become a nun. You know,
one of those cloistered nuns in one of those distant convents on a mountaintop or something …”

He laughed.

“Marina, hang on to your logic. I know what-ifs are unavoidable and there’s always a conspiracy theory. But you saw what you saw.”

“Yes. I saw what I saw.”

Steve was right. I had to hang on to my logic. Except, I had emotions, too. All is well when logic and emotion coexist. However, when they go at each other, they create an explosion. The truth is that what happened to me in Iran had nothing to do with logic, so why should the aftermath be logical? I wrote to Setareh again; if she had a “solid source,” I needed to see proof immediately.

I began making dinner, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Ali. I never wanted him to die. Never. I have never wished death upon another human being. But his death was a fact that I accepted, a fact I could not change. I returned to the possibility I had mentioned to Steve: what if medics had revived him after the shooting? Maybe he then decided to take the opportunity to let me go. He knew he made me miserable. He knew I didn’t love him. He had believed that I would eventually get used to him, even fall in love with him, but what if, after facing death, he realized that this would never happen, and he chose to do the right thing?

If this was true, it would mean that he truly loved me—more than I had ever imagined.

I felt panic rise in my chest. A terrible scream was forming in my throat. I ran to the bathroom, turned on the shower, covered my face with a towel, and screamed. Thomas was in his room, playing video games, and he could not hear me.

Once my screams ebbed to sobs, I took off my clothes and stepped under the shower. Ali would never have let me go. He was a torturer … But he, too, had been a victim.

“Ali is dead.” I said. “He died in my arms.”

Warm water mixed with tears filled my mouth. I spit it out. I couldn’t bear the thought that he might have sacrificed so much for me. He didn’t have the right to be so good. Where would this leave me? I was terrified that Ali might have been a better man than I had believed him to be, and this broke my heart. Had I been cruel to him? Why was I losing my sanity over mere possibilities? Why was I feeling so guilty?

My hair dripping wet, I sat in front of my computer and stared at the screen. A few minutes later, Setareh finally wrote to me:

Dear Marina: I only sent you the message. Believe me that I gave you the news exactly as it was given to me. I never thought that it would upset you so much, my dear. I sent your message [to that individual, asking for proof]. Please remain assured that I will inform you of any news that comes my way
.

Please don’t be upset about this
.

Yours truly
,

Setareh

How could I
not
be upset?

Half an hour later, she wrote again:

Dear Marina: Now this individual is saying that he never said Ali was alive … I can’t believe it. What can I say? I only gave you the message of a listener. Now this person is saying that this was about another interrogator … I am terribly shocked. I took my comment off your [Facebook] wall … Sorry for the inconvenience. I was just simply relaying a message
.

Her “solid source” was a listener she didn’t even know? I needed to have a stiff drink and go to bed. I was trembling.

Some events change everything in our lives. I have had a few of
them. The Islamic Revolution in Iran was one. Going to Evin was another. Marrying Ali was the third. And his death was the fourth. After he died and I went back home, I built the foundation of my new life on the fact that he was gone. Then, twenty-six years later, I came face to face with the possibility, even though slim, that he could be alive. And my world collapsed. It was as if the ground had disappeared from under my feet and I was falling into the unknown. I had lost control.

It took me a few days to collect my thoughts and put things into perspective. I had a new understanding of the power of the past, how it could easily become the present and redefine everything. Yes, I had faced my past and my demons, but I had to remember that the road ahead was still treacherous.

I went to the bathroom and found an elastic band. My hair was shorter than it used to be, but I could still pull it back. My hands shaking, I put the elastic around my right wrist, looked at my reflection in the mirror, and made a ponytail. Despite my weaknesses and my having lost many battles, I was a worthy opponent for the past. After all, I was still standing. Tears fell down my face. But it was okay. No one was watching.

I heard a key turn in the lock of the front door. Andre was home.

Acknowledgments

First, I have to thank Margaret MacMillan for her kind support and opening the doors that I didn’t even know existed. Margaret: I am forever in your debt.

My heartfelt gratitude goes to John Fraser for offering me a fellowship at Massey College and to Peter Munk and the Aurea Foundation, whose generous grant made it possible for me to give this book all my time and energy for a year.

Diane Turbide, my editor and friend: a day doesn’t go by that I don’t thank God for you. You have an amazing ability to shed light on the road ahead when I lose my way. You saw the potential of this book even when it was terribly raw and disjointed. Thank you for having faith in me.

Beverley Sotolov: you are the most meticulous copy editor I have ever had. Thank you for your attention to detail, patience, and availability.

Also, I’m grateful to everyone at Penguin Canada. You have all become like family to me.

Beverley Slopen: you are much more to me than just my agent. Thank you for your sound advice and precious friendship.

Sister Mary Jo Leddy: thank you for trying to help Anamy; also for sharing books, thoughts, recipes, and stories with me.

Steve: our friendship has taught me a great deal about the world and myself. Thank you for always being there, for your thought- provoking emails, advice, funny jokes, favourite poems—and for your being you. Thank you for reading my manuscript at an early stage. Your comments and editorial insights have been a great help to me. Your kindness, compassion, strength, and humanity make the world a better place.

All my friends at the School of Continuing Studies at University of Toronto, especially Nory Siberry, Lee Gowan, Ed Carson, and Marilynn Booth: your continuous friendship and support mean a lot to me. Thank you for giving me a very special sense of community and belonging.

Dearest Hoda, my strong, beautiful friend. The difficulties I have faced are nothing compared with yours. The Islamic Republic murdered your mother when you were only three, and after her death you still suffered tremendously as a result of more tragedies and injustices, but you managed to maintain your dignity and humanity. The love in your heart astounds me. You told me that your only memory of your mother is her feeding you rice with her fingers. Your story will be told. The world will know.

Dear Elena: you are one of my best friends, yet we have never met! Thank you for your uplifting emails that make me laugh when I need a boost. And thank you for your insights. I would never have been able to organize this book effectively without you.

Martha, my talented and hard-working friend: thank you for the Barbie and for all the laughter you bring into my life.

E.H., my long-lost classmate: thank you for finding me and for remembering all those little things that I never thought anyone would remember. And many thanks to all my schoolmates from Anooshiravan-eh Dadgar High School who have written to me. As a few of you mentioned, we are all survivors. Our dreams turned into nightmares, but we kept going. I hope we can have a reunion
one day and a memorial for our friends who did not survive. They are loved and remembered. Their courage and sacrifice are like lights that will shine forever.

My darling A.R.: you have a permanent place in my heart, and I wish you all the happiness in the world. I hope never to lose you again. You have always been a true friend, even when our paths separated.

Crystal Loszchuk, a singer and songwriter from Calgary, sent me an email in 2008. I didn’t know her. She had read
Prisoner of Tehran
and loved it. It had inspired her to write a song for Iran’s political prisoners—“Lift Your Voice”—which she attached to her email. I listened to it with tears in my eyes. It was absolutely beautiful. Then Crystal came to Toronto to visit me and sang her song at one of my speaking engagements at a high school. “Lift Your Voice” is now available on iTunes. Crystal, I don’t know how to thank you. You are a beautiful, talented young woman with a very big heart.