Rooftops of Tehran (18 page)

“There isn’t a God but the almighty God,” the crowd repeats.

The procession leaves the road and stops at a grave that has already been dug. They put the coffin down and the crowd gathers around it. A mullah sings verses into a megaphone.

“He was graced with the eternal youth, entering the blissful and glorious kingdom of heaven. Don’t weep, for all that live on earth are doomed to die. Only God will live forever. Welcome to heaven, the eternal home of the Muslims. In life, there may be inequalities, but in death everyone is treated the same!”

The cries of the people around the coffin swell louder as a group of men lift the body, wrapped in a white sheet, and place it in the hole. I’m standing next to Zari, and her knees buckle as she lets out a desperate cry. I reach over and grab her. I can tell from the weight of her body that she has lost all strength in her legs. Ahmed and Faheemeh help me hold her up.

Back by the grave, a young woman throws herself into the hole, shouting that she wants to be buried with her beloved husband. From the direction of Zari’s gaze, I can tell that she’s watching. I turn her around to make sure she doesn’t see any more of the burial.

A couple of men are on the other side of the street watching us. I hear Ahmed curse, “Motherfuckers.”

We all turn and look. These must be our contacts, the SAVAK agents.

The two men are wearing black suits and shirts. One of them is tall, and the other one is short and stocky. I feel like throwing up just thinking of their dirty profession. There is a sharp pain in my heart, and anger boils inside me.

Faheemeh grabs Ahmed’s hand. “Honey, please. Don’t say anything, I beg you. You promised me, sweetheart.” She tries to hold Ahmed’s face in her hands, to pull his eyes from the two men to her own face. “Look at me. I love you. I love you. I will kill myself if they take you away. You promised me, please.”

Ahmed can’t take his eyes off the guys on the other side of the street. Faheemeh turns to me and says, “Please, tell him to take it easy. I beg you. They’ll take the two of you away and that will kill us. Please, I beg you!”

Zari whispers to me, “Please, stop him.”

As I look at the two men, my body begins to shake. I let go of Zari and take a couple of steps toward the street. Zari grabs my left arm and stumbles, still weak with grief. I grab her before she falls down. “Please,” she whispers in my ear.

I turn around and look again at the two men on the other side of the street. Two women and three children have joined them and they’re all walking away. I’m embarrassed and I can tell Ahmed is, too.

Faheemeh bursts into bitter tears, and her body trembles as she sits down on the sidewalk. Ahmed tries to calm her down, but she can’t stop crying. Zari whispers to me to get Faheemeh some water. I help Zari settle on the ground next to Faheemeh and then hurry away. When I get back, Faheemeh points for me to sit next to her. She puts her arms around my shoulders as she continues to cry. “He’ll listen to you. Please, tell him to take it easy when they get here, and promise me that you’ll do the same. Promise me.”

I promise, and walk up to Ahmed, who’s smoking a cigarette a couple of steps away.

“Let’s stay calm,” I say.

Ahmed nods tensely.

A few minutes later a young boy walks up to me and hands me a piece of paper. He says a man asked him to give me the note. I look at the paper as Ahmed, Faheemeh, and Zari anxiously approach me. The note contains detailed directions to a grave. We start walking. We turn left on the second street, then right on the next road, and follow a roundabout that leads behind a building where they wash the bodies of the deceased. The closer we get to our destination, the harder and more wildly my heart pounds. Faheemeh and Zari are holding on to each other, and Ahmed is a couple of steps behind them. We reach an unmarked grave. It’s the third from the building, the fourth from the curb, and a large round stone covers the bottom half of it, exactly as the note said.

I look at my friends and point to the grave. Zari’s shoulders begin to shake violently. She is inconsolable in her grief. She sits down by the grave. Faheemeh sits next to her and utters incomprehensible prayers as tears stream from their eyes.

Zari leans over the grave and touches the wet mud with her hands. “He’s just been put in there,” she whispers as she turns around and looks at me. I sit down next to her and put my arms around her for just a split second. “They didn’t just kill Doctor,” Zari whispers to me. “They killed us all, didn’t they?”

I look into her eyes. If I open my mouth I will cry, I know it.

“They destroyed our lives by killing him: his dad, his mom, and us,” Zari says. “Nothing will ever be the same again, nothing will ever be the same.” Then she slowly puts her arms around the grave as her face touches the sodden earth.

I stand up and take my place next to Ahmed. He and I look at each other. I can tell that both of us want to cry, but a promise must be kept, especially when it’s made with your best friend. I failed to keep my promise to Doctor when he asked me to keep an eye on his girl; I’m not failing another friend.

I squint my eyes and hold my breath as my heart pounds. I look to our right and see a number of buildings. These are the private tombs of the rich, who can afford to build a structure around their final resting place. Great, tall columns, sandy stone steps, and large gates make these expensive crypts look imposing. I remember the words of the mullah by the gate.
In life there may be inequalities, but in death everyone is treated the same.

What a joke. I look at Doctor’s humble grave, and I can’t believe that his body is buried only a few meters from the private tombs of the rich.

One of Doctor’s favorite books was
Mother
by Maxim Gorky. He must be wondering why his mother has not come to see him. Does he know that his father is in the hospital? Does he wish I wasn’t here?

I begin talking to him in my head. I tell him that I’m sorry for falling in love with his girl. It was my destiny. I know he doesn’t believe in it, but I need to. I tell him that I will take care of Zari, and will love her for as long as I live. I tell him that I love him and that if this hadn’t happened I would have quietly gone away, because I had no intention of stealing his girl.
Show me a sign,
I beg.
Let me know you understand, and that you forgive me
.

I feel someone standing behind me. I turn around and there is Iraj. He is pale, out of breath, and sweaty. He says he didn’t have enough money to take a cab, so he took the bus and that’s why he’s late.

Ahmed and I are standing shoulder to shoulder. I take a step to my right, and Iraj steps between us. The three of us are now standing side by side. I look at Ahmed, no tears, just as he promised. I hear Faheemeh and Zari crying. Out of the corner of my eye I see a mullah approaching us. He asks if it would be okay for him to read a prayer out of the Koran. Ahmed reaches into his pocket for a few coins, and the mullah begins his sermon.

Ahmed, Iraj, and I sit down by the grave and say a final prayer for Doctor. It’s October. A rush of cold wind coming from the north sends a shiver through me. The dark gray skies augment the heartrending emotions brought on by the worst day of our lives, so far.

 

I’m crying quietly in my room later that night when I hear a knock on my window. I look up and see Ahmed and Iraj standing outside on the terrace. I open the door and let them in. I can tell from their red eyes that I’m not the only one who’s been crying. Ahmed lights up a couple of cigarettes and gives me one of them. Iraj says he wants one, too. Ahmed hesitates for a moment. I gesture for him to get on with it, and he does. Iraj smokes his cigarette like he’s been a smoker all his life.

I tell them to wait there, then run downstairs and take my father’s bottle of Smirnoff vodka out of the fridge. I also grab three shot glasses and a bottle of Coca-Cola. I’m glad my parents are out of town. They would have objected to everything we’ve done today. In my room, I open the bottle and tell Iraj and Ahmed that we need to replace it before my father comes back.

“Have you ever had this?” I ask.

“No.” They shake their heads.

The first time I ever had vodka was with my dad, when I was sixteen. He poured me a shot and told me that he wanted me to have my first drink with him. He encouraged me not to ever hide anything from him. Perhaps it’d be better if I tell him what we did today instead of subtly replacing the bottle.

“One of my uncles says you can’t call yourself a man until you’ve had your first shot of vodka,” I say. “There are rituals you need to respect,” I add, remembering my father talking about it. “The
saghi,
the one who pours the drinks, must be fair. He must serve everyone equally.” I fill the shot glasses carefully, making sure that they all contain exactly the same amount of vodka. “You know how to drink this?” I ask them.

They shake their heads again.

“Pick up your shot glasses.”

They do.

“You bang your glasses together, like this.” The rim of my shot glass touches the middle of theirs. “You see, you’re not supposed to let me do that. Banging glasses and making sure that your glass is not higher than your partner’s at the moment of contact is a sign of respect.”

Lecture dispensed, I chug my shot. Iraj and Ahmed drink theirs. I can tell that they feel as bad as I do as the vodka goes down, burning everything from our tongues all the way down to our belly buttons. We each take a sip out of the Coke bottle, and I fill our shot glasses again with the precision and accuracy of a longtime
saghi
.

“You have to have a couple in a row to make sure you get a good buzz,” I say.

We drink our second and third shots, and I already feel the buzz. We sit there quietly for a while before Ahmed slurs, “Drinking today was the best idea you’ve ever had.”

I acknowledge his praise with a nod.

“This is the best thing for killing pain.” Then his eyes fill. “I know what you’re thinking. But we’re not in the cemetery anymore.”

A lump grows larger and larger in my throat. “That was a courageous thing you did today,” I say to Iraj, trying to hold back the tears.

Ahmed nods in agreement. I put my arm around Iraj’s shoulders. “I really love you. I’m going to love you like my own little brother, okay? You’ll be my little brother from now on.”

Iraj, overwhelmed with emotions and inebriated with alcohol, begins to sob.

“Me, too,” Ahmed cries out. “I will never give you a hard time again.”

“You showing up today was a sure sign that despite what happens on a day-to-day basis, the human spirit is indestructible,” I say. “No one can destroy it. Not the Shah, not the motherfucking SAVAK, not the CIA, nobody, I mean nobody can touch it.” I burst into tears.

“I loved Doctor,” Iraj slurs. “And I love you guys. I do, I do. I couldn’t stand by and watch you put yourselves in harm’s way. No way. And fuck those SAVAK bastards, and their Western masters, and the grand servant of the West. Fuck anyone who wants to put me in jail because I stood by my friends to mourn the death of a hero, screw them all. I don’t care if I have to spend the rest of my life behind bars, I don’t, I really don’t. I learned today that friendship is worth making sacrifices for. Doctor proved that life is a small price to pay for your beliefs.”

Iraj wipes the tears off his face with his shirtsleeves. He goes on. “I’m not sure what’s going on in my heart right now, but I know that something big is happening in there, something that’s trying to pull me inside; you know what I mean? Not sure what it is, but it’s something. It’s really something. That’s how it happens, isn’t it? I think so. Something happens inside you, and then that’s it.”

Ahmed and I watch him as he talks. “I love him like my little brother,” I cry again like a little kid, completely drunk on vodka.

“Me, too,” Ahmed whispers, and hugs Iraj sloppily.

A strange feeling is taking me over, one that’s hard to describe. It must be what Iraj is calling “something.”

The Rosebush

No one will ever know the price of the bullet that killed Doctor. His parents are forbidden to speak of it. The stone on his grave must be left blank except for his name. The family can visit the grave as often as they wish, but others should not be encouraged. Doctor will not be issued a death certificate, and all documents pertaining to his birth will be destroyed. As far as the world is concerned, Doctor never existed. His books and the rest of his belongings were taken away during his incarceration, and they will not be returned. I remember my grandma saying after the death of a distant family member that the earth grows cold. I guess what she meant is that burying a loved one prepares the family to move on to the next stage in the grieving process. This is why Islam encourages immediate burial of the deceased.

In Iran, it takes us a long time to move on. We mourn the death of a loved one for a whole year. We get together on the third, the seventh, and the fortieth day after someone has died. Tea, sherbet, and sweets are served. Friends, acquaintances, and family members show up with flowers to offer their condolences. The same type of gathering is repeated on the one-year anniversary of the death. Throughout the first year, the family members wear black and refrain from attending parties or celebrating the New Year or any other national holiday.

In the case of Doctor, Zari’s family was told by the SAVAK that no one would be allowed to wear black and that there would be no gatherings permitted, especially on the fortieth day after his death, which happens to coincide with the birthday of the Shah.

I’m searching in my room for something when I accidentally find
The Gadfly
, the book Doctor gave me—the story of a young passionate revolutionary who is killed for his beliefs. I read it in less than two days. I’m gripped by its powerful nineteenth-century style of writing, and the passion and brilliance of its hero’s struggle and sacrifice. I understand Doctor better as a result. I wish I had read this book when he was still alive! Did he know of the destiny that awaited him, and was that why he asked me to read it?