Rooftops of Tehran (11 page)

“She has the face of an angel, and the body of a mermaid. The look in her large blue eyes takes your breath away! Her skin is soft, and her hair is like a calm sea. Her words are like poetry, delicate and tender. Her voice is like the chanting of an angel, magical and soothing.”

I tell Ahmed that Soraya’s burqa reminds me of our religion teacher, Mr. Gorji, telling us last year that every woman in his family wore the chador. He said unveiled women commodify their sexuality, that everyone knows that men are programmed to desire women who show off their faces and bodies, and that in a moral society you can’t have horny men desiring other people’s wives, mothers, and sisters!

“He really said all that?” Ahmed asks. “Must have been on one of the days he threw me out of class.”

I say that as sad as this story sounds, it’s all true. Then I tell him how Mr. Gorji said it is against the tenants of Islam for women to seek the same rights as men. Mr. Gorji called January 8, 1936, the day Reza Shah unveiled women, the darkest day in Iran’s history. He said that in a just society, the government creates an atmosphere in which women can compete against one another in meaningful and appropriate roles specifically designed for them, such as raising children, teaching little girls, and cooking.

Ahmed laughs and says he will run all this by Faheemeh to ensure she knows where she stands in the family.

Ahmed and I have noticed that Iraj spends a lot of time in the alley these days. An anxious expression steals over his face every time the Masked Angel and Zari are there. He becomes clumsy and awkward, speaking with a stutter, as he follows the Masked Angel with his eyes everywhere she goes. He told me once that if he were a couple of years older, his mother would want him to marry Soraya. He really wishes he knew what she looked like.

I recall Mr. Gorji’s lecture about desire and morality, and begin to laugh. The burqa is protecting Soraya from Iraj’s lustful eyes, but it’s obviously not preventing him from desiring her.

 

Early one evening, I’m sitting under the wall that separates my roof from Zari’s, reading a book, when I hear her voice from the other side of the wall. She’s speaking to the Masked Angel. I’m about to stand up to say hello when I realize that Zari is crying. I remain seated, not wanting to cause her any embarrassment.

“Be strong,” the Masked Angel says. “Take heart because God takes care to guide things in the best interest of all parties involved. As long as you’re well intentioned and live life with a pure heart, God’s grace will turn your goodness into good fortune.”

“I’m afraid God may punish me for my disloyalty,” Zari cries out quietly. The Masked Angel recites a poem by Hafiz. I can hardly hear the verses, but they are something like:

Zari keeps on crying without saying anything.

“Does anyone know?” Soraya asks.

“No,” Zari responds, “ just you. You’re the only one who knows.”

Zari’s mother calls them for supper, and they hurry away. I wonder what it all means. Were they talking about me? Was she crying because she doesn’t know what to do? My head is filled with questions, and I can’t read anymore. I close the book and set it aside. Loving is a laborious and complex business.

 

There are only two weeks left before school starts, and Doctor should be coming back any day now. Despite being madly in love with Zari, I still deeply respect and admire Doctor. I think it ironic that he would be the person with the most constructive insight and advice about my ordeal, if I ever had the courage to tell him about Zari.

The Masked Angel leaves for Qum, and Ahmed and his father take their annual trip to Ghamsar, the town where Ahmed’s relatives live. I have never been to Ghamsar, but Ahmed says it’s so small he runs out of people to tease in less than twenty-four hours.

Late that afternoon, I begin to notice strange activities around Zari’s house. Doctor’s parents come and go, hurriedly and quietly. Zari hasn’t been to the yard for hours. I think I hear Doctor’s mother crying for a few seconds, but then total silence fills the house again. I wish I knew what was going on.

Thoughts of the mysterious activities at Zari’s house keep me awake. The night is hot and close, and I’m in my bed on the roof when my solitude is suddenly interrupted by the heavy footfalls of a man running down the alley. I look down, and instantly recognize Doctor. He’s running fast, breathing hard, moaning in fear, as if a hungry tiger is chasing him.

He stops at Zari’s door, rings the bell, and looks back down the alley as if expecting to see his pursuers close behind him. Doctor doesn’t wait for anyone to open the door. He climbs over the wall and drops softly inside the front yard. He sits with his back pressed to the wall and waits. Three men turn the corner and enter the alley. One of them looks toward me up on the roof. He is vile and wretched, I can tell even from this distance. He’s tall and dark, about thirty-five or forty years old. He has long wavy hair that is pulled back tight. I can see his eyes searching, absorbing every detail of everything that goes on around him.

A paralyzing numbness rushes through my joints and muscles. I want to lower my body behind the short wall that edges the roof, but I can’t move. The man curses into a two-way radio that the hunt has gone cold.

I don’t understand the muffled reply, but the three men begin to run again. They run right past Zari’s house, and relief calms my horror-stricken heart.

This must be the SAVAK. “They’re nasty,” I remember my father saying after they raided our house in search of his books. “They look like normal people. They live among us, work with us, come to our homes for dinner, participate in our happiness, mourn our losses, and then someday you find out that they have a second job working for the most loathed agency ever created in this country, thanks to the Americans and their CIA.”

Doctor is sitting down, his head between his knees, shaking with fear and occasionally jerking and twitching like a man gripped by an unstoppable, uncontrollable fit of emotions. I see Zari run out of the house into the yard, followed by her parents. Doctor springs up quickly and puts his finger on his lips to let them know that they should be quiet. He doesn’t need to. They are as silent as ghosts when they come out of the house. They know exactly what’s happening to Doctor. People from the SAVAK must have been calling all day. I wonder what Doctor was doing all summer long. This explains the strange afternoon activities. The neighbors know, too, at least the ones who have heard the commotion and are watching this drama unfold from behind their pulled curtains. Their silhouettes are a stark reminder of how real the fear of the SAVAK is.

Zari puts her arms around Doctor and begins to weep, quietly. Her mother is praying, moving her lips rapidly without uttering a single audible sound as Zari’s father, Mr. Naderi, an ex-Olympic wrestling champion, circles around his family like an old, wounded lion. Nobody says a word. Nobody needs to.

I know what fate would await Doctor in jail. My father has told me numerous stories of what they do to
kharab-kars
, subversive activists, like Doctor. They would put him in a cell for a few days to increase his anxiety in anticipation of his interrogation. Then they would take him to a room and beat him up. They would ask him a bunch of questions, and then beat him up some more. They would threaten him with heart-wrenching descriptions of their newest torturing techniques, and make casual comparisons to some of the traditional favorites: pulling out fingernails, breaking fingers, and submerging the prisoner’s testicles in boiling water. They might talk about bringing his closest female relative to the prison, where she’d be gang-raped while he watched. They could carry out the threats, but often don’t have to. Doctor is too young and too small a fish in the ocean of political opposition to face a punishment so severe. They’d keep him in jail for a while, beat him up occasionally, then one day they would simply let him go, hoping they had scared him enough that he would never try anything foolish again.

I can see that more and more neighbors are watching from their darkened rooms. No one wants to be seen, but everyone wants to know how this will end. I think of how helpless Doctor must be feeling at this moment. My father once said that nothing leaves you feeling as unprotected as facing the government’s secret police. There’s no authority to appeal to, and no one who can save you from the abyss of pain and misery you’re about to be thrown into. I remember telling Doctor about the day the SAVAK agents raided our house. That was when he told me I had
That
.

In prison, the agents will take away Doctor’s most valuable possession, his time. They will lock him up in a small cell away from his beloved books. To infuriate him, they may even give him a couple of trashy novels to read, the kind with a picture of a seminude woman and a handsome man on the cover. The kind he considers garbage.

I can’t take my eyes off the scene that has frozen in time in Zari’s yard. A sound suddenly diverts my attention to the end of the alley. The man with the radio is looking at me. I quickly sit down behind the short wall, but it’s too late. He must have been watching me for a while, and from the direction of my gaze he has pinpointed the house in which Doctor has taken sanctuary.

I look up briefly and see him. He smiles wickedly, and slowly begins his walk toward Zari’s house. The other two guys show up quickly, and a car pulls up in front of the house. The man with the radio knocks on Zari’s door. Doctor lets go of Zari. Zari’s mother begins to drive her head into the wall. I will never forget the dull sound of her skull thudding against the brick. Zari’s father looks like a helpless warrior. He moves around aimlessly, as if facing an enemy he shouldn’t fight. Zari is weeping.

Doctor opens the door and walks out, with Zari holding tightly on to him. His head is up, his shoulders square; he will not allow anyone to take away his dignity. One of the agents punches Doctor in the face. Zari shrieks as if a harpoon has pierced her heart. I feel my blood rising, slamming in my ears. The other two agents are watching, and a fourth is sitting behind the wheel of an agency sedan, smoking a cigarette.

Doctor is on the ground now. The man with the radio kicks him in the face. Blood spurts all over the sidewalk. Zari’s cries reach a new peak. Zari’s mother begins to chant while hitting herself in the head and pulling her own hair. Mr. Naderi is looking at the agents, perhaps thinking that he could kill these detestable, repulsive creatures with his bare hands—but these are secret government agents, and his interference would only make things worse.

Some of the neighboring families—including my parents, who were asleep until Zari’s screams woke them—have rushed out into the alley. The agents detest crowds witnessing the inhumane treatment of their captives. They quickly push Doctor into the car and take off. The agent with the radio looks toward the roof and blows me a kiss as the car is pulling out of the alley. I swear to myself that someday I will find him, and kill him. Never in my life have I felt as much anger, not even when those bullies were beating me up at school, or when Faheemeh’s brothers bloodied Ahmed’s face.

Zari runs after the car, and the neighbors run after her. Zari’s mom faints on the sidewalk, and some of the women, including my own mother, try to revitalize her by spooning hot water and sugar into her slackened mouth. Mr. Naderi is leaning against a tree. He rocks back and forth, whispering incomprehensible words. The alley is now crawling with people. I wonder if anyone saw the agent thank me before disappearing into the night.

I rush downstairs, my body still shaking, my knees weak, and my nerves raw. In the alley I hear a little girl asking her mother what is going on. She bends over and lifts her daughter up, holding her tight against her chest. Zari is crying hysterically as the neighbors try to restrain her. I run up to her and grab her and take her face in my hands and call her name a few times. She recognizes me, throws herself into my arms, and weeps. The sweetness of her embrace could not have come at a more bitter time.

I can see my father consoling Mr. Naderi, when suddenly I hear a loud cry from the end of the alley. Doctor’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sobhi, are rushing toward the rest of us. Doctor’s mother beats herself in the head and scratches her face with her fingernails as she howls her anguish. His father limps toward us with a tormented look on his face. A number of women, including Iraj’s mother, are trying to stop Doctor’s mom from hurting herself. Her cries are agonizingly painful to hear. Doctor once told me that his mother used to follow him to school from a distance every day until he was in the tenth grade. I can’t imagine her suffering.

I see my own mother standing close to Mrs. Naderi. She’s looking in my direction. Somehow, I know what she’s thinking, even though I’m too young to know what parents think. She’s thanking God that I wasn’t the one taken away.

Doctor’s father sees his son’s blood on the sidewalk and collapses at the spot with a cry that could break the devil’s heart. He dips his left hand, the only hand he has left, in the blood, brings it up to his face, and kisses it as he wails in despair. I want to run over to hug him, to kiss his hand, to ask for his forgiveness, but I can’t. I don’t even want to admit to myself that it was my carelessness that gave Doctor away. I wish I could clench my fist, shake it in God’s face, and howl defiantly. But that would reveal my disgraceful secret. So instead I take my head in my hands and bite my lower lip so hard that a stream of blood flows down my chin.

The Anarchist

Life goes on, and nights like the Doctor’s night end, but the impact lingers. We Persians are not sophisticated when it comes to dealing with pain. I’ve heard that people in the West, especially in the United States, seek therapy when they experience emotional traumas. Our therapist is time. We trust that time heals everything, and that there is no need to dwell on pain. We don’t seek psychological treatment because we’re not as fragile as the Westerners, or so we claim. Psychological interventions are designed to cure the mind, not the spirit. We bring solace to our hearts by displaying our emotions. When grief strikes, we do whatever it takes to our bodies to wring relief from our wounded souls, without apology or regret. We may beat ourselves, tear our clothes and scream our sorrows, and there is always company, as those around us share in our suffering by doing the same.