Rooftops of Tehran (27 page)

“I miss her so much,” she says. “You know, I haven’t seen or talked to her since that night.”

“How come?”

“Her parents are ill, and she has been consumed with nursing them.”

“I think she would like to hear about you and me.”

Zari doesn’t say anything. The lost look in her eyes returns.

“After you and the Masked Angel went back inside the house, I sat on the roof and stared at the stars all night long,” I say hurriedly, hoping to banish the look on her face, even if for just a few seconds. “It was a dark night, but your star was clearly visible.”

“Where was yours in relation to mine?” she asks.

“I didn’t find mine,” I say. “I never do.”

“You should’ve been able to find yourself because you have the biggest star up there. I call it Pasha’s star. It’s the biggest and the brightest, and the rest of us orbit around it.”

I want to land a little kiss on her cheek but I’m afraid. She rests her head on my shoulder and I feel her lips touch my neck. I hold her tighter and my hands caress her back and her neck.

A few minutes pass. “When are you leaving for America?” she finally asks.

“I’m not going unless I can take you along.”

“You can’t plan your life around me. You have to go. I want you to. I want you away from this hellhole. You should stay in America forever. Make movies. Tell everyone our story, Doctor’s story. People should know what happened.”

I start to respond, but she puts her finger on my lips. “I want you to swear that you’ll go to the States no matter what happens.”

“No matter what happens? What do you mean? We’ve already had enough happen to us to last a lifetime. You and I will go to America together. Everything in my life will be planned with you in mind from now on.”

“Don’t say that,” she pleads, the lost look back in her eyes.

“I will take you with me, and that’s that. And you shouldn’t worry about money because I’ll work to support you. You were a great high school student, so I think you’ll do very well in college. I personally think you’d make a great psychiatrist, or an anthropologist. Although I’d prefer that you be a heart surgeon so you can cure mine.”

She looks at me, her pretty face frozen in concern. “What’s wrong with your heart?” she asks.

I smile. “You’ve broken it.” She smiles back and the lost look on her face finally fades, at least for now.

Lighting a Candle for Doctor

It’s the day of the Shah’s birthday, Doctor’s fortieth day. Faheemeh, Zari, Ahmed, and I meet a couple of alleys down from ours and together we walk to the bus stop. Zari is wearing the chador we bought when we shopped at Laleh Zar. I tell her I hope she is wearing something warm under the chador because the weather is unusually cold for this time of year. She says she is.

We sit together on the bus, and Ahmed and Faheemeh sit a couple of rows behind us.

“Why are you wearing a chador?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer for a few seconds before she looks at me, smiles, and says, “Because I want to look like an angel.”

“You always do, with or without the chador,” I shoot back without missing a beat. Then, I reach over and take her hand in mine.

The streets are not as crowded as I thought they might be. The bus skips some of the stops, no passengers to pick up and no one getting off. As we come closer to Amjadieh Stadium, traffic becomes more congested. There are more police cars and army jeeps, more traffic cops, and even more people.

We get off the bus on a street beyond which the buses are not allowed to go today. A dark cloud hangs over the mountain up north, which is visible from where we start our walk. A chilly wind threatens an imminent storm, as if nature, too, is mourning the fortieth day of Doctor’s death and the birthday of the Shah.

The streets are filled with people waiting quietly, patiently, for their leader to drive by. Most of these people are government officials, students, and reluctant shop owners who have been ordered out onto the streets. The news agencies had reported that over five hundred thousand people were expected. This was obviously a lie, a total fabrication; perhaps wishful thinking on their part. I’m sure that the media will report an enthusiastic crowd, impatient and restless for the arrival of their king. I look around and what I see is people who want to go home, people who don’t seem all that enthused about being out on the streets. Around certain corners, kids of different ages wave small flags, as their teachers instruct them to do. Every once in a while they are ordered to shout and to make happy noises as television cameras and photographers focus on them. Cops and soldiers can be seen everywhere.

There is a hum in the crowd, but it’s certainly not one of excitement and jubilance. The shops are closed but their owners have been ordered, as they are every year, to decorate their doorways and their windows with blinking, colorful lights. Massive arches are built out of flowers on every block. Signs have been placed every few steps congratulating the Shah on his birthday and wishing him eternal life. On one section of the street a large group of men and women stand very close together. It’s clear that they are government officials from the same administration, ordered to stay in a pack. Every few minutes the group chants in unison: “Long live the king, long live the king.” Their chant sounds hollow and some of the people in the crowd giggle as if they’re embarrassed.

We jostle through the crowd to a spot around a turn where we will have a great view of the motorcade when it appears. Zari looks a little pale. I ask her if she’s okay, and she says there’s nothing wrong. I’m a Persian; we never believe anyone who says nothing is wrong. We’re the people of intuition. We feel, smell, and taste trouble from a hundred kilometers away. We’ve been conditioned to worry because our history is full of atrocities committed against us by ruthless rulers. I reason that the anticipation of seeing the Shah, the man responsible for the death of her fiancé, is causing Zari’s agitation.

We wait, and wait, and wait. It’s cold outside, and I have a hard time standing still in the same spot.

I hear a man complaining in a low voice to his wife, “When is the son of a bitch coming, so we can go back to our warm homes?”

I look at Zari, and realize she’s carrying something under her chador.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing.

“My purse,” she says.

Ahmed looks at me. “Is anything wrong?”

“No.”

He gives me the same distrustful look I gave Zari.

“What’s wrong?” Faheemeh asks.

Ahmed shakes his head.

“Why are we here?” I ask Ahmed.

“To be with our angels,” he says, laughing.

“We could have been with them someplace else.” He agrees, but it’s too late now. We wait to see how the Shah waves at people.

A loud cheer ripples down from farther up the street. A group of motorcyclists in uniform can be seen a few hundred meters away. “They’re coming,” I tell Zari. She looks pale, very pale.

“What’s the matter?” I ask again.

“Nothing, honey. Nothing’s wrong.” She called me honey! I can’t take my eyes off her white, tired face.

The motorcade gets closer and closer. Zari grabs my hand. “I love you,” she shouts over the din. I think her words are meant to calm me down, but I know something is wrong. My heart races. I look around and can’t see anything out of the ordinary. The motorcade is only a few meters away.

That’s when I smell the gasoline. I look at Zari. Her chador has fallen off, and in her hands I see a small container of gasoline, which she is pouring onto her clothes.

I shout, “What’re you doing?”

“I’m lighting a candle for Doctor. Today is the fortieth day of his death,” she cries. “I love you.”

Suddenly, time thickens, and we are all trapped in the horror of the moment. Zari runs out into the street, lights a match, and sets herself on fire. I run after her. “No, no, no!” I scream. The motorcade stops. The security guards take their guns out. Zari is running straight toward the Shah’s car. The motorcycle officers quickly circle Zari’s flaming form. She stops.

“Zari, Zari!” I scream. “Why? Why?”

Men in the crowd shout, and women beat themselves and cry,
“Ya Ali! Ya Ali! Ya Ali,”
a chant used when something devastating happens. I hear Faheemeh’s frantic cries. I try to break through the cyclists to reach Zari, who is screaming and staggering in small, broken circles.

I hear Ahmed yelling,
“Ya Ali, Ya Ali!”
Zari turns toward the car carrying the Shah, and a security agent kicks her hard in the stomach, dropping her to the asphalt. She attempts to get up, but the pain keeps her down. She reaches inside one of her pockets and takes out a red rose and throws it toward the Shah’s car. The sight of the flames drives me to the brink of insanity. I throw myself over her. I try to put the fire out with my arms and with my hands, realizing bitterly that the burning sensation I feel is no match for the one in my heart. Zari rocks from side to side, screaming and moaning.

I yell her name. “Zari, I love you. What have you done? Why? Why?”

Ahmed takes off his coat and throws it over her body, too. A man runs to us from the sidewalk and lays his jacket on her face. One of the soldiers comes at me with his rifle. Ahmed steps between us, and he hits Ahmed in the head with the butt of his rifle. Ahmed crumples. The motorcade drives past us. I hear the siren of an ambulance.

“I love you,” Zari whispers, before passing out.

I’m beside myself. “Goddamn, son of a bitch!” I scream, and jump up and hit the soldier who hit Ahmed. He goes down like a crumbling brick wall. Another soldier attacks me. I punch him, too, and he drops to his knees. I’m screaming my shock and despair when I feel a sharp blow to the back of my head, and that’s the last thing I remember.

Nights fall with a heaviness that deepens the hole in my heart, and I feel a million years old. There is a large tree outside my room whose barren branches tap against the windowpane like the knuckles of a ghost. I know who I am, and that I’ve been damaged, but it seems I can’t move beyond these facts. I check my body for signs. The skin on my hands and elbows feels raw, but my ribs are no longer sore. My chest and arms feel small, so I know I’ve lost weight, and there’s a deep bruise on the back of my head.

Everything about this place exudes a sense of sorrow, except for Apple Face, who is happy and jolly—although not when she is talking to my parents about me. I’m restless and in need of company, but I know that if I call the nurse, she will just give me another injection. It will make me feel warm for a few minutes, and then send me into a deep sleep, but I will awaken later consumed by fear and distress.

I hear a loud bang, and the power goes out. A moment of unnatural quiet is followed by a hushed chaos as the nurses scramble to put things right outside my room. I can’t help but feel nocturnal, now that the world is as pitch black as the inside of my mind. I hear footsteps approach my door, then move away. I can’t make out what the nurses are telling one another in the hallway, but the commotion intensifies as the seconds pass. The footsteps return, and the fear of the unknown coils around me like a snake as I sit up in bed. The door to my room opens with a soft squeak, and the old man walks in with a candle in his hand.

The flame jumps, licking up the oxygen in the room, and I see her, my little Zari, her face erupting in scarlet blisters as she gasps for air. The world inside me collapses, and my soul is ripped out at the roots.

I begin to scream, and it feels as if I will never be able to stop. I can’t avoid the cascade of horrific memories that parade behind my closed eyes. Despite the pain that must have consumed her, Zari still struggled to reach the motorcade. Then the soldier kicked her, and the rifle butt crashed down on Ahmed’s back, and she used her last breath to tell me she loved me. Apple Face has arrived by my bedside by the time this last realization strikes.

“Is she dead?” I ask, and Apple Face closes her eyes. I scream as loud as I can, trying to force the life out of my body. Apple Face tries to hug me, but I feel as if my skin has turned inside out and is now covered with sharp little needles. The nurses rush forward to hold me down, but Apple Face waves them back. I cry in her arms. I feel the warmth of my tears, and the ache in my chin and jaw from sobbing.

“How? How?” I scream.

“I don’t know,” Apple Face whispers.

“Damn you, God,” I scream over and over, as I pull at my hospital gown. “Why?” I cry out. “Why? I want to know why.”

Apple Face wipes her face with a handkerchief.

I yell, I bawl, I weep, but nothing lessens my pain. It hurts all over. I get out of bed and walk around aimlessly, trying to catch my breath. My skin feels too tight. There doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room. Apple Face opens the window and fresh air rushes in. Then I sit down on the floor and weep, holding my head in my hands, rocking back and forth. Suddenly blood begins dripping from my lip onto the front of my gown. Apple Face sits down beside me. “You bit your lip, sweetheart,” she whispers. “Please, be careful, please.” She holds me in her arms, and asks a nurse for a tissue.

“Where is Ahmed?” I ask, as I cry on her shoulder.

“In jail,” Apple Face whispers back, and I breathe a momentary sigh of relief before plummeting back into despair.

 

Hours later I still can’t control my emotions. My parents come, and Apple Face tells them to step back into the hallway.

Then I slip into a haze, staring straight ahead for long periods of time. I can’t cry anymore, there are no more tears, and I feel worn down inside. I think of the Shah’s family and wonder if they talked about Zari at dinner that night. Did his son ask him who that woman was and why she set herself on fire and ran toward their car? I wonder if, two thousand years from now, a couple like Zari and me will sit in an ice cream parlor and talk about Zari’s choice. Will they see me as a coward who should have embraced his lover as she caught on fire, and burned with her? I can’t stop my mind as it races from thought to thought, from face to suffering face.