Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) (8 page)

“Yes.” I looked down.

“I might be old now, but I used to be young, you know. Young and beautiful. And, believe it or not, I remember what it was like.”

I held my breath.

“Mortezah will take you to this party and pick you up.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Cinderella. You can go. But be home by midnight.”

I thanked Mortezah when he dropped me off in front of Neda’s house, promised to be waiting for him right there at midnight, and waved as he drove away. I followed the gray stepping-stones that poked through the grass in Neda’s front yard. She was standing on the porch, which encircled the one-story cottage, chatting with two girls. The back of the building faced the sea, and I could hear the waves gurgling against the sandy shore. Soon everyone arrived. All the girls left their bags in Neda’s bedroom and the boys in her brother’s, and we ran to the beach. We played tag and water polo until everyone was starving, and then we headed back to the house. In Neda’s room, when I opened my beach bag to get my dress, I realized I had forgotten to put in a bra or underwear. I had to keep my bathing suit on, which was okay; although a little wet, it was white and wasn’t going to show.

After a dinner of cold cuts, fresh bread, and different kinds of salads, we pushed all the furniture in the living room aside and the sound of the Bee Gees filled the air. Neda danced with Aram, the handsome basketball player who had asked her to get him a Coke when I had first met her. Neda’s perfectly tanned body looked beautiful against her white dress, and I noticed Aram whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. Most people were soon paired off, and I found myself standing alone in a corner, sipping a bottle of Coke. When it was finished, I busied myself by opening another bottle and filling a plate with potato chips. Song after song was played, and I ate so many chips my stomach hurt, but no one asked me to dance. Gita danced with Ramin, the big guy from the basketball court. His hands moved up and down her back. She was blushing. I glanced at my watch: ten o’clock. I had been standing there for an hour, and for all this time, no one had said a word to me. Feeling out of place, embarrassed, awkward, and sad all at once, I just wanted to get out of the room.

The door to the back porch was only a step away from me. I opened it and took another glance around the room—no one reacted. I stepped outside. The half moon had spread its silver light over the sea, and the air was calm. I had to do something. Maybe I could go for a swim. Swimming always made me feel better. I had swum at night many times before. In the moonlight, the sea became one with the sky and turned into a warm, silver body of darkness. I stepped down the few steps that connected the porch to the yard and started to unzip my dress, but as I let it slide to the ground, a voice startled me: “What are you doing?”

By a lawn chair in a corner of the yard, stood a young man with his hands covering his eyes.

“You scared me!” I said, and my heart struggled to regain its normal rhythm. “What’re you doing hiding there?”

“I wasn’t hiding! I was sitting here, on this chair, getting some fresh air. Then, along comes a girl who undresses right in front of me!” He seemed more scared than I was, which was amusing. He looked no more than sixteen and was still covering his eyes.

“Have you put your dress back on?”

“What’s wrong with you? I’m not naked. I have my bathing suit on. I’m going for a swim.”

“Are you crazy?” he said, taking his hands off his eyes. “You’re going swimming in the middle of the night in those dark waters?”

“It isn’t too dark; the moon is out.”

“No, no! You’re going to drown, and I’ll never forgive myself!”

“I won’t drown.”

“I won’t let you go.”

He had stepped closer to me, now standing about two feet away.

“Okay, okay, I give up. I won’t go,” I said, pulling my dress back on.

His large dark eyes looked at me from above slightly raised cheekbones. His small, somehow childlike mouth contrasted with his otherwise strong-featured face. He was about two inches taller than I and had very short brown hair. What caught me by surprise was the look in his eyes, which made me feel unique, special, and beautiful. His name was Arash.

Now that I couldn’t go for a swim, I decided to sit outside. I sank into a comfortable lawn chair but was too aware of Arash. I could hear him breathe. After about ten minutes, he stood up, and I jumped.

“Do you enjoy scaring me?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. Have to go. Don’t go swimming, okay?”

“Okay.”

I watched him walk away and enter the cottage. A minute later, Neda came out, called my name, and asked me to go inside; she was going to cut her cake.

A few days after the party, I was riding my bike to the beach to meet Gita. There was some sand on the road due to construction, and I turned too fast. My bike slid to one side, and I fell. I managed to get up, but one of my knees and one of my elbows were bleeding. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon and far too hot, so the street was deserted. At least no one had seen me fall like that. As I was trying to get my bike off the road, I felt someone standing behind me. I turned. It was Arash, and he looked as surprised as I was.

“Do you always appear out of thin air?” I asked.

“Are you a daredevil?” He laughed and examined my scratches. “We have to clean you up. That’s my aunt’s cottage,” he said, pointing to the cottage at the corner.

He carried my bike, and I followed him. My scratches were stinging. I had tears in my eyes but took a deep breath and didn’t complain. I didn’t want him to think of me as a weak little girl.

“I was sitting on the porch, watching the street, and there you came at a hundred miles per hour and crash! You’re lucky your neck isn’t broken,” he said.

Blue hydrangeas and pink roses had taken over the white walls of the cottage, and the silver-green branches of an enormous weeping willow brushed against the red shingles covering its roof.

Arash held the door open, and I stepped in. The scent of freshly baked cookies wafted in the air.

“Grandma, I have a guest!” he called.

A handsome old woman with silver-gray hair came into the room from the kitchen. She was wearing a blue dress, wiping her wet hands on her white apron. She looked very much like my grandmother.

“What happened?” she asked in Russian as she looked at me and noticed the blood. I couldn’t believe it; she spoke like my grandmother. Grasping my arm, she led me to the kitchen as Arash explained what had happened. She even fussed the way Grandma used to, and before I knew it, I was cleaned up, disinfected, and bandaged. Soon, a cup of tea and a homemade cookie appeared on the table in front of me.

“Please, help yourself,” she said in Persian but with a strong Russian accent.

“Thank you,” I answered in Russian.

Her eyes twinkled with surprise. “A Russian girl!” she said with a big smile. “How nice! Now you have a girlfriend! Not even an ordinary girlfriend, but a nice Russian one!”

Arash’s face turned scarlet.

“Grandma, that’s enough! She isn’t my girlfriend!”

I laughed.

“You can say whatever you want, but it’s so nice. Good for you. I’ll leave you young people alone,” his grandmother said and walked out of the kitchen calling “How wonderful,” over and over again.

“You have to excuse my grandmother,” said Arash. “She’s very old and sometimes gets confused.”

“Have you shown her your flute?” yelled his grandma from another room.

Arash changed color again.

“What flute?”

“It’s not important. I play the flute for fun. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’ve never known anyone who could play the flute. Will you play for me?”

“Sure,” he answered, not sounding very enthusiastic.

I followed him to his room, where he took a silver flute out of a long, black box and ran his fingers along the body of the sleek instrument. Soon, a sad song filled the room. I sat on his bed and leaned against the wall. He stood in front of me, his body moving with the music as if it were a part of him, as if he had thought it into existence. His eyes stared ahead as if dreaming, seeing what no one else could see. The white cotton curtain danced in front of the open window, catching swirls of sunlight and shade. I had never known music to be so beautiful. His eyes searched mine when he finished playing, but I was left speechless. I found out that he had written the piece himself, but he was very modest about it. He asked me if I played any musical instruments, and I said I didn’t. Then he asked me about my age and was shocked when I told him I was thirteen; he thought I was at least sixteen. And I was surprised to find out he was eighteen.

I liked the way he looked at me when I talked to him. He sat back in his chair, rested an elbow on the armrest, put his hand under his chin, and smiled, his eyes giving me all their attention. The way he paused a few seconds before answering my questions made me feel that our conversation mattered to him. I asked him if he wanted to come for a walk with me the next morning, and he said he did.

The next morning his grandmother waved to us from the porch of the cottage.

“She’s driving me crazy. She still thinks you’re my girlfriend and wants you to come over for lunch today.”

“I’d love to come, if it’s fine with you.”

He looked at me with questioning eyes.

“I mean, if inviting me was only your grandma’s idea, and you don’t want me to come, you can tell me.”

“Of course I want you to come.”

“That’s good, because I want to hear you play your flute again.”

We walked to a quiet, secluded part of the beach. In the distance, I could see a few people lying on the sand and a few swimming. Foamy white waves curved, folded, and broke against the shore. I took off my sandals and let the sea seep between my toes. The water was soft and cool. I asked him to tell me about his family. He told me his father was a businessman and his mother was a homemaker. His parents went to Europe every summer, and he, his brother, and his grandmother came to stay with his aunt at her cottage. He mentioned that his brother, who was two years younger than he was, was named Aram.

“You must be kidding me! Aram is your brother?” I said, surprised.

“Yeah, do you know him?”

“Well, I’ve met him. He seems to be very outgoing. He’s always hanging out with the other kids, but I’d never seen you before Neda’s party. Where were you hiding?”

He told me that he was not as outgoing as his brother and preferred to read a book or play his flute. He had come to Neda’s party only because Neda was his neighbor in Tehran and was his brother’s girlfriend.

Arash had been a top student in high school and had just finished his first year of studying medicine at the University of Tehran. I told him I was a good student, too, and, like him, wanted to study medicine. I invited him to come for a swim with me, but he said he’d rather sit on the beach and read.

His grandmother, Irena, had prepared a feast for lunch. It was a beautiful day, so she had set the table in the backyard under the weeping willow. The table was covered with a perfectly ironed white tablecloth. I watched her as she poured lemonade in my glass, strands of her silver hair dancing in the sea breeze. She filled my plate with long-grain rice, barbecued fish, and salad, dismissing my protests.

“You should eat more, Marina; you’re too thin. Your mother is not feeding you properly.”

Since Irena had discovered that I spoke Russian, she had not said a word to me in Persian. Like my grandmother, she was a proud woman, and although she knew how to speak Persian, she refused to use it unless it was absolutely necessary. My Russian had become rusty. My parents spoke Russian at home, but since Grandma’s death, I had refused to use it, because I believed it was something special my grandmother and I had shared and I didn’t want to share it with anyone else. Arash’s language skills weren’t much better than mine, so I wasn’t too embarrassed. It felt good to speak Russian again with Irena, who reminded me of my childhood days.

After lunch, Irena went to lie down, and Arash and I went to the kitchen to clean up. I filled the sink with dirty dishes while Arash put the leftovers in Tupperware containers and organized them in the fridge. He knew his way around the kitchen. When he was finished with the leftovers, he stood next to me with a dishcloth, and as I handed him the first rinsed plate, our eyes met, and I fought the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his face.

“I have to say my prayers before sunset,” Arash told me that evening as we sat in his backyard.

“Can I watch you?”

“You come up with strange ideas,” he said. But he agreed, and I watched him without saying a word. He stood toward Mecca and went through the different stages of
namaz.
He closed his eyes, whispered prayers in Arabic, knelt, stood, and touched his prayer stone with his forehead.

“Why are you a Muslim?” I asked him after he was finished.

“You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met,” he said, laughing, but he explained to me that he was a Muslim because he believed Islam could save the world.

“What about your soul?” I asked.

My question had surprised him. “I’m sure it will save my soul, too. Are you a Christian?”