Rooftops of Tehran (14 page)

Sometimes Mr. Gorji gives us unannounced quizzes. “Any day can be a quiz day,” he says. “I do this for your own good because as a student you should always be ready to take a quiz.” I wonder, however, if Mr. Gorji is just too lazy to plan things. After all, as my father always says, we are a spontaneous nation; we do everything at the spur of the moment without much advanced planning.

Mr. Gorji chooses the hardest words in the book, and reads each one aloud three times. “Ghostantanieh, Ghostantanieh, Ghostantanieh.” I guess he thinks we don’t hear the word the first couple of times. “Maghlateh, Maghlateh, Maghlateh.” It’s easy to misspell these words because letters like
gh
,
s
, and
t
can be written a couple of different ways. Most of the words in the quizzes are covered in previous lessons. However, to differentiate the good students from the mediocre ones, words not already covered could also be on the quiz. And getting a word correct does not necessarily guarantee you credit. Mr. Gorji also grades your handwriting. You can spell everything perfectly, but if he doesn’t like the way you write, you could lose two or more points. Mr. Gorji wouldn’t reward you with a twenty, a perfect score, even when you don’t misspell a word and have the best handwriting in the world. “Nineteen is the highest you can get. Twenty is God’s grade. He is the only perfect entity in the world,” he says, while kissing his rosary.

If we get a word wrong, he makes us write it four hundred times in our notebooks. Sometimes he calls our names individually and asks us to go to the board to take a quiz as everyone else watches. He reads each word three times, and then moves on to the next word regardless of whether we are finished with our spelling. Each quiz is worth twenty points, and the passing grade is ten. Even a passing grade of ten to fourteen can get you a couple of slaps in the face and a good verbal thrashing: “You stupid jackass, you lazy cow, you temperamental dog—you will never amount to anything! If I asked you to spell the hardest female name you’d do it in your sleep, but you can’t spell words that make you a better person. That’s because all you think about is girls, girls, girls. You can’t wait for the hour to be over so that you can rush out to the nearest girls’ school and act like you’re cool. Go sit your fat ass down and write each word four hundred times. I’m warning you, you’d better watch your handwriting.”

Mr. Gorji loves to insult us by calling us animal names. Our last year’s composition teacher, a young university student assigned to our school by the government, said it was impolite to call a person a “cow” to insult them. He said millions of people in India worship cows, and we should respect everyone’s religious beliefs, no matter how stupid they are! Every week, he would give us a new topic to write about, and then he would collect all the papers and read them carefully. No one ever got more than a fourteen in his class because he prided himself on being a hard grader. One time, he asked us to write a paper on the “Benefits of Technology.” He called on Ahmed to read his composition in front of the class. Ahmed read that contrary to Mr. Bana’s claim, he believed that technology and not geometry was the mother of all sciences, and that he wanted to put his mouth on mother technology’s large tits and drink until they were completely empty of the milk of knowledge.

Our composition teacher yelled, “Stop, stop!” He then called Ahmed every animal name except a cow before throwing him out of the class. Last year, our composition teacher was caught in the bathroom with his pants down and a fifteen-year-old kid bent over in front of him. He was immediately reassigned to a school in another district. That day, Mr. Gorji told us that homosexuality is born of a lack of faith.

“If you believe in God, you don’t desire anal sex.”

Mr. Moradi said that homosexuality results from a lack of discipline, and respect for the rule that prohibits men from seeking other men. He was certain that there were no homosexuals in America because Americans were the most disciplined people in the universe.

Our principal, Mr. Yazdi, said that we would have to be careful not to fall prey to the trap of homosexuals. “They are evil and psychotic,” he said. Then he told us the story of Asghar Ghatel, a man accused of molesting and murdering over one hundred teenage boys. I was dying to find out how Mr. Bana and his mother of all sciences would explain homosexuality in the next hour, but to my disappointment, he completely ignored the issue.

In the SAVAK’s Prisons

No one has heard anything about Doctor since the night he was taken away, a little over two weeks ago. It’s as if he’s vanished from the face of the earth. His mother’s serious illness prevents her from going to the gates of Evin Prison anymore. Zari hasn’t been to the yard since Doctor’s arrest. When Faheemeh visits her, they spend most of their time in Zari’s room.

Ahmed continues to assure me that Doctor will soon be freed, and things will return to the way they were. After one such conversation, he turns to me and asks how I am doing. I want to say that I am frustrated about not seeing Zari, and that I miss her terribly; that although I feel guilty for falling in love with her, I can’t stop thinking about her. Instead, I say that I need a diversion from our current predicament, that our teachers make me sick, that the thought of going to America makes me sick, and that sometimes I feel like the whole world makes me sick. I wish I could shoot the man with the radio, after I had a chance to break his nose and spill his blood on our sidewalk. Ahmed puts his hand on my shoulder and shakes his head in understanding. Then he says that we should go see an Iranian movie—the best cure for depression because they all have happy endings.

We decide to take Iraj with us because we don’t want to leave him unsupervised in the alley, where he could have a field day looking at Ahmed’s sister.

Most of the theaters in our neighborhood only show Persian movies, which don’t look anything like their American counterparts. Doctor told me once that Persian movies are made to legitimize class differences in our country. He also said that all Persian movies follow the same generic plot in which the conflict is always between the poor and the rich, with the rich winning the battles, but losing the war. The rich are always portrayed as powerful, but not evil, and certainly not the type against whom you should organize a violent uprising. In fact, Iranian movies go out of their way to establish an emotional link between the hero and the rich villain—a lost son, a displaced relative, or the victim of bizarre circumstances. These movies discourage the masses from confronting the rich, and encourage the poor to stick to their high principles, according to Doctor.

“This is why a revolution in this country would be against the Shah, and not the rich,” Doctor told me once, a philosophical ring to his voice. Doctor believes we might rebel for cultural, religious, or political reasons, but never to destroy the wealthy.

God, I miss Doctor.

The best-known actor of this genre is a man called Fardeen. Most critics don’t think that he is a very good actor, but I like him a lot, although I would never admit it.

Before getting to the theater, Iraj says that he wants to sit between Ahmed and me. He explains that a couple of weeks earlier he came to see a movie by himself and ended up sitting next to a child molester. A few minutes after the movie started, he noticed that the man was looking at him. He didn’t think much of it until he felt the man’s hand on his knee. He got up and ran away. He was so traumatized that he ran all the way home without ever looking back to see if the man was following him.

Ahmed says his sister runs home the same way every time she sees Iraj in the alley. I bend over, laughing.

The movie theater is packed with people of all ages eating sunflower seeds, a customary snack in Iranian theaters. In one of the scenes halfway through the movie, a group of hoodlums attack Fardeen and start beating him up. Suddenly, we hear an old woman in the audience scream, “Stop beating him up, you bastards! What’s he done to you? Leave him alone! If my husband were here, he would kick the teeth out of your filthy mouths.”

Ahmed looks at me with panic in his face. “It’s my grandma!” he says.

“They’re killing him! Help, help!” his grandma yells as Fardeen falls on the ground and his enemies start to kick his body and face. People start yelling profanities at her.

“Shut your babbling mouth, lady.”

“Throw this fool out.”

Within seconds, the usher, flashlight in hand, runs into the theater looking for the rowdy old lady. Iraj points to the first row and says, “There she is.”

We see Ahmed’s grandma waving her hands and shaking her fist, yelling, “Somebody call my husband. He’s a good friend of Fardeen. Help! Somebody get my husband!” Ahmed, Iraj, and I run to the front of the theater. Grandma sees us and screams, “Thank God you’re here. Help him out! Help him out!”

We try to coax her out of her seat, but she refuses to leave. The usher shouts that we’d better take Grandma out, or he’s going to have to do it himself. People whistle and laugh. Iraj grabs Grandma’s left arm and Ahmed grabs hold of her right arm. They start to pull, but Grandma starts to kick and throw her body back at the same time. The usher and I try to grab her legs, but Grandma gets a good one in and kicks the flashlight out of the usher’s hand, while screaming for her husband.

They stop the movie and turn the lights on in the theater. The whistles and boos get louder, and so do Grandma’s screams. Grandma escapes from Iraj’s grip, takes her shoes off, picks them up, and starts beating on anything within her reach. Some people encourage her to hit harder. The usher is furious, but doesn’t dare get too close to her. Finally, Ahmed and I rush her, pulling her to the ground. With the help of Iraj and three other people, we carry Grandma out of the theater. The fresh air calms her down immediately.

Ahmed is quiet on the way home. He and Grandma walk a couple of steps in front of Iraj and me. “Those guys were lucky that your grandpa wasn’t around, or they would’ve gotten the worst beating of their lives,” Grandma explains to Ahmed. “Grandpa was a wrestler, and everyone in Tehran was scared to death of him.”

Ahmed’s grandpa was a tiny, peaceful man who was never in a fistfight in his life.

I’m on the roof that night when Ahmed comes up. “She says Grandpa took her to the movie,” he says. “I wonder how she got in. She never has any money.”

“Her devotion to your grandpa is really touching,” I say, not sure what else to say. “He must’ve been the biggest star in her life.”

Ahmed doesn’t respond.

“Can you believe how she was fighting us?” I marvel. “What is she, sixty-five?”

Ahmed thinks for a while, and then he grins. “Hey, do you think my grandma could beat up Fardeen in a real fight?”

 

My mother tells me to clean up because we have special guests coming to our house. She mentions a name that I don’t recognize. “He used to be your dad’s best friend,” Mom says.

As I’m taking a shower, I remember Iraj’s story about Americans and their sophisticated radar equipment, and wonder if they can really see through the walls. I look down and momentarily cover myself, then shake my head and laugh.

The special guests are Mr. and Mrs. Mehrbaan. When I open the door, Mr. Mehrbaan hugs me as if he has known me all his life, although we’ve never met. My father runs up to him and they embrace for a long time, as they whisper in each other’s ears. I can’t see their faces, but I can tell that they’re crying. Mrs. Mehrbaan and my mother look at their husbands with teary eyes. They finally come in and sit in the living room. My father and Mr. Mehrbaan look at each other, and continue to cry. They occasionally caress each other’s faces and hair. Mr. Mehrbaan says, “It’s been eighteen years.”

My father says, “Eighteen years, four months, and three days.”

I’m curious to know why they let so much time pass without seeing each other. “I hope it’s not eighteen years before I see Doctor,” I whisper to my mother.

“I hope not, too,” she says as she bites the space between her thumb and index finger.

Mr. Mehrbaan is a tall, dark man who walks with a slight limp. His thick black mustache makes his face look manly and harsh. His wife is tall, thin, and pretty. “Mehrbaan” means “kind” in Persian, and both the husband and wife are very
mehrbaan
.

My father and Mr. Mehrbaan drink vodka with a mixture of yogurt, cucumber, raisin, salt, and pepper as the chaser. They talk about the old days when my father was a heavyweight boxing champion and Mr. Mehrbaan was a wrestling star. They talk about old opponents and friends. A couple of their mutual friends have died in freak accidents, while another is disgustingly rich and lives in Europe. Someone else was discovered to be an agent of the secret police—a filthy dog. Mrs. Mehrbaan and my mother look at old pictures and talk about the time they were in high school together.

My father quietly tells Mr. Mehrbaan of another old childhood friend, Mr. Kasravi, who is now a very rich man up in the Caspian Sea area.

“I heard about it in prison,” he says. “He always had a good mind for money.”

Mr. Mehrbaan has gotten my attention now. Was he in prison for eighteen years? I wonder what for. Does he know Doctor? I think about asking him, but my parents have taught me that it’s not polite to get engaged in the conversation of adults, especially when the discussion is very serious.

They drink more vodka, and Mr. Mehrbaan smiles at me. He wants to know my age, what grade I’m in, and whether I read as much as my father did when he was seventeen. My father tells him that I’m a great student, am majoring in math, and plan to be an engineer like my uncle Mehrbaan; in Iran, your father’s good friends are referred to as uncles. I feel as if I’m four years old. I want to say that I’m an average student, I hate math, and I don’t want to be an engineer, but I don’t. I look at Mom, remembering the number of times I have complained about this issue to her. She ignores my piercing glance and looks the other way.