Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) (7 page)

T
HE YEAR
I
WAS BORN
, my parents bought a cottage in the small town of Ghazian—across a bridge from Bandar-eh Pahlavi—by the Caspian Sea, where life was slow and green. Although owning a cottage by the Caspian was a sign of wealth at the time, my family was not rich. My father loved the peace and beauty of northern Iran so much that instead of buying a house in Tehran, he decided to buy a cottage. However, he didn’t have enough money and bought it together with one of his friends, a loud and cheerful Russian-Armenian man named Partef who owned a stainless steel factory in Tehran. Uncle Partef, as I called him, was not married, was usually very busy, and rarely came to the cottage, so we had the place to ourselves most of the time.

The cottage was in the middle of a large piece of wooded land behind the harbor on a quiet street that led to the beach. Its first owner had been a Russian doctor, a close friend of my parents, who had built it himself with sturdy Russian lumber. There were four bedrooms, a living-dining room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom. The outside walls were painted a light green, and twelve stone steps led to the front door.

The trip from Tehran to the cottage took about five hours by car. Heading west from Tehran, we continued on the flatlands until we reached the city of Ghazvin. Here, the road turned north toward the Alborz Mountains, which seemed like an imposing sheer wall, separating the deserts of central Iran from the Caspian Sea. Through tunnels, steep climbs and descents, and wild bends and curves, the road stubbornly made its way across the mountain range. It followed the valley of the White River to where thick forests covered the hills and the wind carried the fragrance of rice fields.

A see-through metal fence, which was painted sky blue and was even taller than my brother, surrounded our property. When we arrived, my father would stop our blue Oldsmobile at the gates, and I would step out and open them to let the car through. The long, unpaved driveway stretched away toward the cottage, disappearing behind maple, pine, poplar, and mulberry trees. Under my feet, multicolored pebbles poked through the dirt and sparkled in the sunlight that had managed to penetrate the thick canopy of leaves. The driveway led to an opening that seemed too bright for a moment. The white stone stairway leading to the house suddenly appeared.

The building always greeted us with a familiar damp scent that had saturated the stale air during the months of our absence. A dark green carpet covered the floors. Before entering the house, my mother made us take off our shoes and clean our feet, so we wouldn’t bring in any sand. My parents had furnished the small living room with a cast-iron patio set, which they had bought from a moving sale; it was painted white and had velvety purple cushions and a glass-top table. The bedrooms were very simple with plain beds and old wooden dressers, and the curtains hanging in the windows were made of bright floral fabrics. At night when I went to bed, I usually left the three windows of my room open to welcome the cry of the roosters in the morning. When it rained, ducks quacked and played in puddles, and the scent of wild lemon trees dripped from their thick leaves.

There was a special place on the property where, as my grandmother had taught me, I said the Our Father every morning. From a distance, it resembled a big moss-covered rock, but as you approached, you could see that it was made of many small stones. It was about four feet high and six feet wide, and a thick, rusty metal bar reached out of one of its corners. It belonged to ancient times when the sea covered most of the land. Once useful as a place where fishermen tied their boats, it looked strange and out of place when I discovered it in a forgotten corner of the property. I loved to stand on it, open my arms to the gentle breeze, close my eyes, and imagine the sea surrounding me, its glassy surface moving and living, transforming the sunlight into a golden liquid that glided toward the shore where sand hills were like blisters on the hot skin of the earth. I came to call this strange monument the Prayer Rock.

I would usually wake at sunrise and wander outside. A river of mist would float between the trees, rise over the tall grass, and cover my legs. When I reached the Prayer Rock it seemed as though the sun had breathed into the fog, making it pink with light. The top surface of the rock was an island resting on a glowing sea. I would lie down on the rock and let the sun cover my skin, making me feel weightless as if I were made of mist and light.

Every summer, my mother and I spent about two months at the cottage, but my father couldn’t take such a long time off work and only stayed with us for a couple of weeks. Then, he came up every other weekend or so. For years, I spent my days at the cottage biking, building sand castles, swimming, chasing ducks, and playing with local kids. Free to do whatever I wished all day, I would only go home for dinner and to sleep. As years went by and I grew, my summer days remained the same with the exception that my daily adventures covered more ground and took me farther from home. At the age of twelve, I could explore the town on my bike in half a day. Following the old, narrow streets lined with small white houses, I would go to the market. The rice cookies and
koloocheh
s—ground walnut-and sugar-filled cookies—I bought from the bakery sustained me on the many days I skipped lunch. The fish markets were filled with the loud voices of vendors, the strong smell of fish, and the fragrance of fresh herbs.

One of my favorite spots was a bridge that connected the two sides of the harbor. Standing on the bridge, I watched the boats and ships go by. The blue waters stretched to the horizon, heavy ships tore the surface of the sea into a white foam, and saltwater air filled my lungs. I especially loved the fog; it made the harbor seem dreamy and unreal. Not able to see much through the mist, I could hear the paddles of a boat slicing the water, and then the boat would emerge, appearing as if from another world.

When I was about ten years old, my mother’s eldest sister, Zenia, bought a cottage about four miles outside of Ghazian in a recently developed subdivision complete with tennis and basketball courts, restaurants, and swimming pools. Here, expensive houses, which were surrounded by perfect lawns and waist-high white metal fencing, gleamed with fresh paint and kids rode their bikes on clean streets.

Aunt Zenia didn’t look like the rest of the family. She was blond with blue eyes, and everything about her was big. She had a very big house in Tehran, a big car, and even a big chauffeur. Her husband, who had been killed in a car accident two years after Grandma’s death, had owned a meat-processing factory in the city of Rasht about twenty-two miles from our cottage. After his death, my aunt had taken over the business and had done quite well. Her daughter, whose name was also Marina but whom everyone called Marie, was my mother’s favorite. She was twenty years older than I, a petite woman who always seemed tense when her mother was around. They were both stubborn and strong-headed and argued constantly about everything.

In 1978, when I was thirteen, Marie and her husband spent all of the summer at my aunt’s cottage, and my mother and I visited them almost every day. Aunt Zenia was rarely at her cottage and spent most of her time at her factory, where she had a small but comfortable apartment, or at her house in Tehran.

During my daily excursions on my bike, I noticed that teenagers were hanging out at one of the basketball courts. Each day, they showed up at about five in the evening. Boys played basketball, and girls sat in the shade, chatting and cheering them on. Finally one day, I decided to approach them. In small groups of two or three, about fifteen girls were sitting on the grass. I left my bike by a tree and walked to them. No one seemed to have noticed me. I spotted a girl sitting by herself on top of a picnic table and sat next to her. She looked at me and smiled. Her straight light brown hair reached her waist, and she was wearing white shorts and a white T-shirt. She looked familiar. I introduced myself, and her eyes widened with recognition. We realized we went to the same school, but she was a couple of years older than I, and we had never talked. Like me, her aunt owned a cottage nearby, and she and her family were staying with her aunt for awhile. Her name was Gita.

One of the boys scored, and the girls clapped and cheered. He turned around and called out to a girl who was sitting close to us, “Neda, will you get me a Coke? I’m dying of thirst.”

He was about five feet nine with large dark eyes that sat above strong cheek bones. His straight black hair bounced as he ran. Neda reluctantly stood up and shook the grass clippings from her white shorts. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tucked behind her ears.

“Who’s coming with me?” she called out to the girls, and a few joined her. They walked to the other side of the narrow street to a fast-food restaurant called Moby Dick.

Whispering to me, Gita pointed out a young man standing on the other side of the court. He was about six feet two, two hundred pounds, and looked at least twenty. The petite blond girl standing next to him didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Gita said his name was Ramin and that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

“I’ll get him one day; he’s mine,” she said.

My girlfriends had always been my age, and my experience with boys was quite limited. I had never considered “getting” a boy.

“Hello there,” someone said from behind us. “Gita, who’s your new friend?”

It was Neda. Gita introduced us. I discovered that Neda had a cousin who went to our school and whom I knew quite well. At the end of our conversation, Neda invited me to her birthday party the next day.

I had the perfect dress to wear to Neda’s party. A few months earlier, my mother had decided to order some clothes for herself from a German catalogue, and she had offered to order something for me as well. I chose a white dress. It wasn’t too expensive but was beautiful. It had an open neckline, and its fabric was lacy and light. For Neda’s party, the plan was to go swimming first and then to her place for dinner and dancing. Gita had told me to wear my bathing suit under my regular clothes and to bring my dress along.

On the day of the party, I woke up even earlier than usual and spent hours in the bathroom. I tried on all my bathing suits and, each time, stared at my reflection in the mirror, devastated by every flaw I saw: my arms were too thin, my hips too big, and my chest too flat. Finally, I decided to wear the white bikini Marie had given me. She had recently taken a trip to Europe, had bought herself new bathing suits, and had given me her old ones. I wrapped my white sandals in a plastic bag, folded my dress, and put everything in a canvas beach bag. It was ten o’clock in the morning. On most days, we left for Marie’s at around ten-thirty. My mother didn’t drive, and we always took a cab when my father was not around. I could hear my mother rattling around in the kitchen, which was odd; she was never in the kitchen at this time of day.

“Maman, I’m ready,” I said, beach bag in hand, standing in the kitchen doorway.

The air smelled of fish. She was washing a large cutting board and looked at me from the corner of her eye.

“Ready for what? We aren’t going anywhere today.”

The kitchen counters were covered with bowls of different sizes and pots and pans.

“But…”

“There are no ‘buts’! Your Uncle Ismael and his wife are here from Tehran to visit Marie. Your Aunt Zenia is here, too. They’re all coming over for lunch and dinner today, and we’ll be playing cards. They’ll probably sleep over tonight.”

“But I’m invited to a birthday party tonight!”

“Well, you can’t go.”

“But—”

She turned around to face me. I could feel her anger fill the kitchen.

“Don’t you understand the meaning of the word ‘no?’”

I turned around, went to my room, and plopped down on my bed. I could take a cab myself; I had enough money. But my mother wouldn’t let me. Maybe I could sneak out. But then I had to be home before dark, which was my curfew unless I had told my mother where I was going. I heard a car pull into our driveway, its tires scrunching against the wet sand. Looking out the window, I saw Aunt Zenia’s chauffeur, Mortezah, a polite man in his late twenties, open the back door of her brand-new Chevrolet. My mother rushed out of the front door and down the steps and embraced her sister. Mortezah opened the trunk and took out a small suitcase. Then they all walked into the house. I remained by the window, my heart pounding with frustration.

“Roohi, get me a glass of cold water!” I heard Aunt Zenia call out to my mother with her sharp, demanding voice. “Marie has taken Ismael and Kahmi to town for something. They’ll be here soon. Where’s Marina? I have something for her.”

“She’s around. Probably sulking in her room.”

The door of my bedroom burst open.

“What’s going on, Marina? You don’t even say hello to your aunt anymore?”

I stepped forward, embraced her, kissing her on the cheeks. Although her skin was damp and sweaty, she smelled of Chanel No. 5. She squeezed me, and I found myself drowning in her large bosom. She finally let go, took a delicate bracelet out of her purse, and put it on my wrist. It was lovely. Aunt Zenia always gave me beautiful things. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

“You’ve been crying? What for?”

“I’m invited to a party tonight, and I can’t go.”

She laughed. “And why can’t you go?”

“Well—”

“Because I’m here?”