Rooftops of Tehran (23 page)

 

 

Night falls fast. Before dinner, Ahmed and I are sitting on the porch and my father and Mr. Kasravi are in the living room playing back-gammon. We can hear them teasing each other and laughing.

Ahmed asks, “You know why your dad brought us on this trip, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you angry?”

“He’s my dad,” I say. “I’m angry at our host.”

“Take it easy, he meant well.”

“I know.”

Mrs. Kasravi has prepared a dinner fit to serve “a thousand kings,” as my grandma used to say. Basmati rice, broiled chicken, lamb cooked in an underground oven, three different kinds of
khoreshts
, vegetables of all kinds, including radishes, mint, parsley, three different kinds of
naan
, along with goat cheese and yogurts mixed with dried mint and cucumbers, and four different kinds of
torshi
, including dilled garlic—which everyone says doesn’t make your breath stink on account of the humidity up north.

Ahmed looks at the dinner and says to me, “I wouldn’t mind getting adopted by this family, really, I wouldn’t mind at all.” I elbow him in the side. My father and Mr. Kasravi are drinking vodka with their dinner. Ahmed, Mustafa, and I are sitting next to one another, and we eat our food with the appetites of a pack of ravenous wolves. Ahmed and I try to start a conversation with Mustafa a couple of times during dinner, but he just looks at us and smiles.

“Do you think he can speak?” I ask Ahmed in a concerned whisper.

“Maybe his dad repeats everything because he speaks for both of them.”

I bite my upper lip to hide my smile.

My father raises his glass and drinks to the hosts. Then he looks at Ahmed and me and raises his second glass to us, sending us a wink. Then, as if he’s reading my mind, he leans close and says in a low voice, “Sorry for this afternoon. It didn’t turn out the way I had planned.”

I love my dad. I want to put my arms around his neck and kiss him on the cheeks, like I used to do when I was four or five years old.

The doorbell rings, and Mr. Kasravi goes to answer it. A few minutes later he comes back followed by a tall man of around fifty. He introduces the man as Mr. Mohtasham. We all stand up and shake hands with him.

“What a wonderful night for you to have come to my home, a wonderful night indeed,” Mr. Kasravi says, pouring vodka for his new guest. “It is fabulous to have you here at the same time as my guests from Tehran.”

I notice that Mr. Mohtasham does not speak.

Goli Jaan, who is also excited by the arrival of this unannounced visitor, brings in plates and silverware and insists that he start eating right away. Mr. Mohtasham keeps bobbing his head to express his gratitude. Mr. Kasravi turns to my father and says, “Mr. Mohtasham has taken the vow of silence. His Holiness is well known for his clairvoyance. He sees the future as you and I remember the past, that clearly, really—I’m not kidding you. All of his predictions have come true over the years, all of them.” My father politely expresses his gratitude to God for granting him the honor of spending an evening in the presence of Mr. Mohtasham, while I wonder why one would vow not to speak if God has blessed him with such a magnificent power.

Pointing to me, Mr. Kasravi tells Mr. Mohtasham that I am a very special person, definitely very special, and that at the age of seventeen I have the maturity and the wisdom of an educated thirty-year-old man. Mr. Mohtasham stares at me as he chews his food. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a small notebook, writing, “He has
That
.”

My heart sinks as memories of Doctor cloak my mind. Ahmed nudges me gently and discreetly with his elbow. “Trust it, you do,” he says under his breath.

“What can you tell us about the future, Your Holiness?” asks Mr. Kasravi, as he drinks a shot of vodka to his guest’s health.

Mr. Mohtasham looks around the room and focuses on Mustafa for a few seconds. The room is hushed with a tranquil excitement. I have a hard time believing that the holiest man in Iran, who by now must be giddy with vodka, is about to make predictions about the people in the room. Mr. Mohtasham writes on a piece of paper that Mustafa will follow in the footsteps of his father and will become a successful businessman.

Goli Jaan is overcome with joy. “
Enshallah
, God willing!” she whispers.

Ahmed looks at Mustafa and says, “Congratulations.” Mustafa smiles back, but still doesn’t say anything. Ahmed turns to me and whispers, “We’ll take turns sleeping tonight. I don’t trust this kid.” I put my hand over my mouth to cover my grin.

Mr. Mohtasham looks at me. He writes that I will go to the United States to study. My father asks, “What will he study?” Mr. Mohtasham holds his hands in the shape of cylinders and looks through them. My heart jumps. He’s saying that I will study something related to cameras! I’ll become a filmmaker after all.

“You Zionist,” I hear Ahmed whisper under his breath.

Before I am overtaken by too much joy, I remind myself that this is perhaps nothing more than a hoax. Drinking vodka isn’t exactly known for enhancing clarity and insight. Mr. Mohtasham drinks another shot and then looks at Ahmed. He writes that Ahmed will get married at a very young age, and will have three beautiful daughters.

Ahmed says, “No sons? Then I’m not getting married.” Everyone laughs.

Mr. Mohtasham tells Goli Jaan that she will live to be a hundred years old, and will enjoy a happy life with her children and husband. “God willing!” she whispers reverently. We are told that my father will live out his old age while searching for the true meaning of life and unity with God almighty. He will someday be regarded as one of the greatest poets in modern Iranian history. I wonder how he knows that my father writes poetry.

Mr. Kasravi will retire in a faraway place, with his family members around him.

“The future is bright as far as this group is concerned, very bright, thank God,” says Mr. Kasravi. At that moment, Shabnam, Mr. and Mrs. Kasravi’s four-year-old daughter, walks into the room. She runs to her mother to complain that she can’t sleep. Mr. Mohtasham looks at Shabnam keenly for a long time.

“What is it, Your Holiness?” Mr. Kasravi pleads, picking up on the intensity of Mr. Mohtasham’s gaze. “What do you see? What do you see? Please, tell us. Is my daughter in danger? Please, tell us, is she in danger?”

Mr. Mohtasham shakes his head no.

“Thank God. Then what is it? You must tell us. I insist.”

Mr. Mohtasham looks at me as he drinks another shot of vodka. I begin to feel paranoid.

“What is it? What? Please, tell us, I beg you,” pleads Goli Jaan.

Mr. Mohtasham starts to write, pointing at me. “He is not going to like this now because she is too young, but he will like it twenty years from now when he returns to Iran from the U.S.”

“What? What is it that he is going to like, Your Holiness? Tell us, please, tell us!” begs Mr. Kasravi. Now everyone, including me, is curious to find out what I’m going to do to this poor four-year-old child twenty years from now.

“This young man will marry your daughter, and they will live many happy years together abroad,” he writes in his notebook.

Everyone in the room applauds and cheers, and Ahmed and even Mustafa whistle. My father and Mr. Kasravi begin to laugh and drink more vodka to toast the occasion.

This is ludicrous,
I think.
What nonsense! She is only four years old, and I’m seventeen. What a sick old man
. Goli Jaan hugs me and tells me that I’m a dream of a son-in-law. She runs to the kitchen and comes back with
espand
, a seed Persians burn to ward off evil, and she waves the seed around my head and then Shabnam’s head, and pours the rest on the charcoal inside a grill that the elderly maid brings in behind her. Soon smoke fills the room, and the pleasant scent of
espand
fills my nostrils.

Mr. Kasravi pats me on the back and says that he will invite the whole village to the house the next night to celebrate my engagement to his daughter, the whole village. I feel I’ve gone pale. Mr. Kasravi starts laughing and tells me that he was only joking, really, only joking. Everyone laughs except my future wife, who keeps complaining to her mother that she is tired, but can’t sleep.

Doctor’s Candle

More than four weeks have passed since Doctor’s execution, although it feels a lot longer than that. The trees have shed their leaves, the rosebush that I planted outside our house is bare, the days have become shorter, and the nights seem to fall into a deeper silence.

I haven’t seen Zari since the day we came back from the cemetery, and I still can’t think of Doctor without spiraling into an anxiety attack. I keep telling myself that one of these days, I’ll go to his grave alone and spend the whole day talking to him about what happened that night. I’ll tell him that I wish I’d ducked before the man with the radio saw me, that I would do anything to go back in time and correct my mistake. I’ll say I’m sorry for falling in love with Zari, for spending most of my summer days at her house while he was away, and for betraying his trust in me. I’ll apologize for dreaming about her now, for not being able to go through one minute of the day without thinking about her, for being mesmerized and spellbound by her.

I’m sitting against the wall that edges the roof and watching the sky. It’s cool outside but I don’t mind it at all. I’ve read about our solar system in science class, but the only way I can recognize any of the stars is through the names Ahmed and I have assigned to them, the names of the people who have
That
.
When I’m in the U.S., I’ll communicate with my friends by talking to their stars every night
. The fact that I’ll be seeing their stars even on the other side of the world somewhat lessens my anxiety of being away from them.

I’ve been reading Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
instead of doing my geometry homework. I still hate my major, and I still hate my teachers, but I don’t hate Iraj anymore, even though he still looks at Ahmed’s sister. Our new composition teacher, Mr. Rostami, has asked us to write a five-page paper on a subject of our choice. Ahmed suggests that I turn in his masterpiece on “Technology as the Mother of all Sciences.” I politely decline. Instead, I write a paper about crime and punishment in Iran. I write that crime is an unlawful act of violence that can be committed by anyone, and that punishment is the consequence designed for criminals who don’t have the economic means to cover it up. Throughout history, men of wealth and power have been exempt from facing the consequences of their evil deeds. Crime, therefore, can be defined as an offense committed by an individual of inferior status in society. Punishment is a consequence forced on the perpetrator of the crime only if he occupies one of the lower steps of the social ladder.

Mr. Rostami is standing in the back of the class watching me quietly over the frames of the large square glasses resting on the tip of his nose. His hands are clasped behind his back. “Who wrote this nonsense for you?” he demands.

“I wrote it myself,” I say, looking angrily at him.

He starts walking toward me. “And you’re proud of it?”

“Yes, I am,” I say, keeping my gaze fixed on him.

A nervous buzz fills the room.

“Shut up,” Mr. Rostami screams. Right at that moment the recess alarm sounds, but everyone remains seated, anxious to see what will happen next. Mr. Rostami orders everyone to leave the room. The class reluctantly complies. Ahmed and Iraj are sitting next to each other. Iraj starts to get up, but Ahmed grabs the sleeve of his coat and pulls him down. “Get out,” Mr. Rostami orders.

“We put the idea in his head,” Ahmed says, ever my defender.

“Get the fuck out, you clown, or he’ll be punished worse than you can imagine.”

I motion for Ahmed and Iraj to leave the room. When a teacher uses a word like “fuck,” you know he means business. Ahmed and Iraj leave, their eyes filled with concern.

After they are gone, Mr. Rostami walks up to me, his hands still clasped behind his back. I’m expecting him to slap me in the face. I’m ready to knock his arm off with a vicious block if he takes a shot at me, but instead he circles me a couple of times with a contemplative look on his face. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to write shit like that?” he asks. His calm demeanor surprises me. “I have no choice but to report this. Do you understand?” he says in an agonized tone. His left eye begins to twitch.

“Why can’t I write the truth?” I ask, gently.

Mr. Rostami shakes his head. “You can write what you want, but I have to feed my kids. Do you know what they would do to me if I didn’t report this?”

“Who are they?” I ask.

“The system, the other teachers, the administration, the goddamn SAVAK; who the hell do you think?”

“It’s unfair for you to get in trouble for what I wrote,” I say, but I know full well that I’m acting naïve. Teachers are ordered by the administration not to tolerate dissent among students.

“You don’t look like a stupid kid to me. You know you can’t write stuff with political connotations, don’t you?” He sighs in frustration.

I remain silent.

“I have no choice,” he mumbles. “You understand? I have four kids. I have a hard time supporting them even now. Imagine what would happen to my family if I lost my job. I have to report this to Mr. Yazdi. Goddamn it, do you fucking understand?”

There’s pain in his voice, and I can tell that he doesn’t want to report me but he has no choice. “I understand,” I say quietly. “Do what you need to do.”

“Oh, you understand?” he asks angrily. “And you understand that I will stay up all night thinking about how I didn’t have the courage to do the right thing? You understand that if they do something to you, I will have to live with it for the rest of my life?”

I think of how I inadvertently gave Doctor away. I nod my head.