Rooftops of Tehran (24 page)

“Give me your goddamn paper,” he shouts.

I hand him my paper. He takes a lighter out of his pocket, sets it on fire and throws the ashes out the window. “Too bad I have to recall from memory what you wrote. Stay in the room. I have to go see the principal and the discipline teacher before the next session starts.”

Then Mr. Rostami walks slowly out of the room. Ahmed and Iraj rush in. “Are you okay?” Ahmed asks.

I remain unspeaking for a while, thinking of Mr. Rostami’s four children. The expression on his face and the measured pace with which he left the room were like that of a man walking toward the gallows.

“He has
That
,” I whisper.

“What?” Iraj asks, bewildered. “Who has what?”

The next day, Mr. Yazdi asks my father to go to school to discuss the disturbing concepts presented in my paper. According to Mr. Rostami, my paper was not politically critical at all. However, its socially unacceptable position necessitated a discussion with my father. Mr. Rostami had confiscated my paper, but unfortunately lost it on the way to the principal’s office. He was concerned that in my paper I had advocated tolerance for criminal activities, if the motives were justified. Mr. Rostami simply wanted my father to convince me of the inappropriateness of criminal behavior regardless of the motive.

When my father comes home in the evening, I expect him to talk to me about his encounter with Mr. Yazdi, but he remains surprisingly silent throughout the evening, and even during dinner, when he usually tells us about his day.

Thinking that I have gotten off easy, I go up on the roof immediately after dinner. I’m sitting beneath the short wall that separates my house from Zari’s when my father walks up. He asks if I’m busy, and I say no. He sits down next to me and is silent for a long time.

Finally he says, “The events of Doctor’s night are still bothering you, aren’t they?” His eyes are sad, his voice dispirited. “Doctor was a good man. We all miss him. I know you were particularly close to him. Closer to him than everyone else in the alley.”

I’m waiting for a big lecture, but he doesn’t say anything else. I realize he’s waiting for my response.

“What they did to Doctor wasn’t fair,” I say bitterly. “He wasn’t a terrorist. He hadn’t hurt anyone. Why do they kill young men like Doctor? Why do they take someone like Mr. Mehrbaan away for eighteen years?”

Dad pats me on the back. I know I’m lecturing the wrong guy, but I need to say what’s in my heart.

“I hate the CIA. They’re responsible for Doctor’s death, and the deaths of all the other young people executed by the Shah. You know why, Dad? If you teach me how to kill, and I kill someone, you are as responsible as I am for my crime.”

I know that I’m ranting, but I can’t stop.

“Why doesn’t God do something about this? Why do we have to wait so long for justice? That’s not fair, Dad, is it? Do you know why God doesn’t do anything about atrocities committed against innocent people like the Jews in Germany, or the followers of the prophet Mazdak, or the slaves of the Romans? Do you know why he doesn’t do anything about the children who’re dying every day in Palestine? Because God doesn’t care, Dad.”

I close my eyes, lower my head, and let the pain pour out from my chest and throat. It feels good to cry. My father puts his arms around me and I sink my head onto his chest like I used to do when I was a kid. Dad doesn’t say a word. He understands that even his wisdom is no salve for my grief.

 

The next night I’m sitting beneath the short wall, reading the poetry of Hafiz, when I hear Zari’s voice call to me from the other side of the wall.

“I heard what you said to your dad last night.”

I want to jump up and look over the wall to see her, but I sense that she doesn’t want to be seen.

“Were you on the roof?” I ask.

“I’ve been on the roof every night this week,” she admits.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your reading.”

“What were you doing, sitting in the dark alone?”

“I wasn’t alone. You were up here, too.”

Knowing she’s been nearby sends a rush of warmth through me. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay. What’re you reading?”

“Hafiz.”

“You promised to bring your book to my house and take a
fahll
for me, but you never did, remember?”

“I do,” I say.

After a long pause she says, “Would you read something to me now?”

“Have you made a wish?”

She pauses for a few seconds, then says, “Done.”

I open the book to a random page and begin to read.

 

A light night breeze floats over us, rustling the pages of the book and eliciting a soft sigh from Zari.

I stop reading, and my ears prick, scanning the silence for a hint of her response, but she remains silent.

“Did you like it?” I ask. She makes a soft humming noise to herself. Then she says, “Thank you for planting that rosebush out there.”

I’m glad she knows. I don’t care if everyone finds out, and I certainly don’t care if the SAVAK shows up at my door tonight. I just hope they send the man with the radio so that I can make the members of the boxing fraternity proud. “The red rose will be our symbol of defiance from now on,” I say, looking toward the alley where Doctor’s blood was spilled.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Would you read for me at night?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Every night?”

“Every night.”

And so every night, Zari and I get together on the roof. I never see her. She sits on her side of the wall, and I on mine. Ten centimeters of brick separate us, but I can almost feel her warmth. I press my palms against the wall and imagine I’m touching the curves of her face. I hear her breathe and occasionally move. Ahmed knows what is going on, and stays away. We’re done with Hafiz, and she’s asked me to read
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
to her.

After I finish reading a short Rubai, she asks, “Do you believe in God?”

“I don’t know,” I reply.

“It doesn’t seem as if Khayyam believed in God.”

“I don’t think he did.”

“Do you believe in destiny?” she asks.

“I do.”

“Then you believe in God. You’re just angry at him right now.”

Her perception stings. “Why would I be angry at God?”

“Because of Doctor. I know you loved him a lot, despite . . .” She stops.

“Despite what?” I ask, my heart spinning as I bite my lower lip.

A long silence follows the awkward moment. Finally she says, “He used to tell me that I was the candle that lit up his nights.”

I don’t respond. “Doctor’s Candle,” I write on the first page of Khayyam’s book over and over.

“They told us we couldn’t wear black,” she whispers, her voice wavering.

“I know,” I say. “But we don’t have to wear black to mourn him. That rosebush will be the symbol of our grief.”

The night sky is drunk with stars, thick with the souls of loved ones, and I’m sure that she feels the magnetism of the inky heavens, that we are both staring into the riot of planets. My chest is tight with longing, as if I can breathe in but will never be allowed to breathe out.

“If you could go anywhere, where would you like to be?” she asks abruptly.

“I don’t know,” I say, but I think she knows I’m lying. I want to be on the other side of the wall. Ten centimeters east of my current location, that’s all.

 

 

The next night she doesn’t come to the roof. I stay up all night worrying. Is she okay? Have they arrested her, too? Will I ever see her again?

I’m tired and sleepy the following day in class. I haven’t been doing my homework ever since Zari and I began getting together on the roof. This is a complete anomaly for me. My calculus teacher, Mr. Kermani, asks me to go to the board and gives me a problem that I have no clue how to solve. He tells me to hold my hands out. Reluctantly, I do, and he hits me over and over with his ruler. My fingers burn, my hands feel heavy, and I think I will die if he hits me one more time, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of pulling my hands away. I fix my watery eyes on him because he personifies everything I hate. I wonder if my father would still insist that I major in mathematics if he knew what was happening to his only son. What would Mr. Kasravi say about all this if he saw what my teacher was doing to me in front of all the other students?

As my teacher hits me, I remember the eyes of the man with the radio—wide open, enraged, and evil. I see the same wicked look in Mr. Kermani’s eyes. I remember the courage with which Doctor took punches and kicks from the son of a bitch with the radio, and I can feel my blood boiling.

For a second I consider punching Mr. Kermani in the face, but he’s an old man, so I let him hit me until he’s tired. When he stops to catch his breath, he screams at me, “Lower your shameless eyes, or I will pluck them out and send them to your stupid parents.” Calling my parents stupid enrages me to the point of madness. “I know you’re one of those kids who enjoys sitting by the fire and reading philosophical bullshit instead of learning proven formulas that might save this nation from the grip of backwardness.” He spits out the words like he is shooting bullets at me. “During my honorable years of teaching, I have seen herds of pretenders like you who deem their burp to be a revolutionary manifesto. Every single one of you will end up in front of the firing squad, and that’s why this country needs engineers and doctors instead of pseudo-intellectuals like you. And after they bury your bullet-infested, worthless body, I will show up in the cemetery and shit all over your grave, like I did with the moron you all called Doctor.”

I hear a roaring of blood in my ears. I attack him with a snarl, my hands around his thin, ugly neck, and push him back until he’s against the wall. I bring my right fist back, preparing to drive it into his face. I want to punch him once, just once. Fuck the sacred brotherhood of the boxing fraternity. I will put all my might into that single punch to make up for all the beatings I took on my hands, for the blows and kicks that Doctor took in the face, sides, and stomach. This single punch will be strong enough to make up for all the unjustified beatings that thousands of people endure in this godforsaken country every year.

I want to hit him, but he’s old and weak. I remember my promise to Dad and force myself to drop my fist. I spit in his face instead, and walk out of the classroom.

I’m halfway down the hallway when I hear Mr. Yazdi calling my name. I turn around and see him right behind me. His arm is up, and he’s about to serve me a vicious blow.

“I’ve had enough. Hit me, and I’ll make this the last day of your fucking miserable life,” I say.

Mr. Yazdi takes a step back. I detect fear in his eyes. He’s a smart man. He wouldn’t dream of taking me on—not now, not in front of all these kids watching us in the hallway. He orders me to go to his office. I see Ahmed running toward us. Mr. Yazdi barks at him to stay away. Ahmed ignores him and walks alongside me.

Mr. Moradi is attending to my calculus teacher, who is badly shaken, when we walk in. I’m expecting Mr. Moradi to take out his ruler, but instead he walks up to me and whispers sympathetically that I shouldn’t have done what I did. Then he looks at Ahmed and says, “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“It all happened too quickly,” Ahmed responds.

Mr. Yazdi walks up to me. “Assaulting a teacher is the worst thing a student can do, do you understand?” he yells angrily. “I have no choice but to expel you. With this crime on your record, no school will ever accept you. Congratulations! You just destroyed your life.”

“I don’t give a damn,” I yell back.

Mr. Yazdi takes a step toward me but then thinks better of it. Ahmed grabs his arm and tells him that he wants to talk to him and Mr. Kermani alone.

They walk to the opposite corner of the room, and I see Mr. Yazdi growing more and more agitated. Ahmed turns around and winks at me. Then Mr. Yazdi and my calculus teacher walk to another corner of the room and discuss the situation in low murmurs. Finally, Mr. Yazdi turns to us and yells, “Get the hell out of here.” As we start walking toward the door he calls me and tells me, “Don’t come to school for three days. And tell your father that I want to see him tomorrow.”

“Tell him yourself,” I say, and walk out.

Lots of students are in the hallway, and when we emerge, everyone cheers. I want to acknowledge them for their support but Ahmed grabs my hand and pulls me away. “What were you guys discussing in the corner?” I ask.

He gives me a dirty look and keeps on walking. When we’re far away from the office, he stops and yells, “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re determined to completely wreck your future, aren’t you? I have a patent on the kind of shit you’re pulling these days.”

“You don’t,” I say. “I hate them. I hate them all. They killed Doctor. It wasn’t the SAVAK. It was this screwed-up system, this goddamn country and its fucking people who can’t get their act together to overthrow a tyrant. We’re all a bunch of cowards or we would’ve rushed into the streets protesting his arrest the night I gave him away. Then maybe he’d still be alive.”

Ahmed tries to put his hand on my shoulder to calm me down, but I knock his arm away and stalk out of the school.

A Kiss

My mother is crying when I get home. My dad is sitting in the yard by the
hose
smoking a cigarette. It’s unusually cold for this time of year, late October, and I can see Mom’s breath as she sobs. Dad looks angry, so I surmise that Mr. Yazdi must have phoned him. He stands up as soon as I walk into the yard.