Rooftops of Tehran (40 page)

I open my eyes and listen. Nothing.

“Zari!” I say involuntarily. I turn and look at the wall behind me as I listen with every fiber of my being to the unusual silence that has filled the air. I walk up to the wall that separates Zari’s house from mine. I put my ear against it and listen—nothing but absolute quiet. Was this a dream? It must have been, and I’m probably still dreaming, otherwise how could the whole world plunge into a state of total noiselessness? I look around and touch the brick wall with my hands to ensure that I’m functioning in a world made of solid materials. I’m not dreaming.

I wish I could see into Zari’s yard. I run toward the steps that connect the yard to the terrace on the first floor, and then up the steps to the second and third floor, skipping two or three steps at a time. I open the door to the balcony and rush to the edge where I can see down into her yard.

No one is there.

I lean over the edge to see if I can see anyone on her first-floor terrace. There’s no one. I look toward Zari’s room on the third floor. The curtains are pulled tight. I pace back and forth on the balcony as my whole body tingles.

“It was only a dream,” I whisper to myself. “Besides, what if Keivan was just begging the Masked Angel for one more story, like he used to do when his sister was alive?”

I look into her yard again. I want to tell myself that my suspicion is absurd, preposterous, and downright stupid—but I don’t. My tormented heart defies my logical mind.

She wouldn’t do that to me,
I keep thinking. She would never inflict so much pain on me, no matter what the circumstances.

But what if the Masked Angel is my Zari, hiding her scorched face under a veil? Why would she do that? Does she not know how miserable my life has been without her? Does she not know the pain that her absence has caused me? I hunch down and lean back against the short wall, biting my hands to hold back my whimpers.

“God, please, I want my Zari back!” I cry, belatedly remembering that I don’t believe in God anymore.

I look into the empty yard again, and can’t believe how everything seems to have come to a standstill, as if the world is holding its breath in anticipation of an answer to this mystery. I run to my room and look around, unsure of what I’m hoping to find. I run back onto the terrace and take a deep breath of the fresh air. I wish Ahmed and Faheemeh were here. I sit on the short wall and try to put the pieces of the puzzle together methodically, but I’m overwhelmed by a storm of emotions that blows me farther and farther from the shores of reason.

I try to focus on the moment I heard Keivan’s whisper,
“One more story, please . . .”
Was that a dream? Did I really hear him? What did I hear before that? The car with the broken muffler! Does anyone own a car with a broken muffler in our neighborhood? If that sound was real, then Keivan’s whisper was real, too. What else did I hear? The cats fighting and hissing at each other. I look in the neighbors’ yards for the cats. The growling must have been real. Why would I dream of two cats fighting? But none of our neighbors own cats; they must have been strays.

I think of the shadow that watches me at night. I already know it’s the Masked Angel, but why would she watch me unless she were actually my own Zari? It was her veil the other night that moved with the force of the wind, I know that now, too. Everything is beginning to make sense. “The Masked Angel never rushes anything,” Faheemeh once said. “She glides like the spring breeze—calm, gentle, and deliberate. There is nothing expeditious about her.” Then why does she walk so fast every time I see her coming back from the bakery in the morning? The person under the veil is not the Masked Angel. It is Zari, hiding from me, either because she was told by the SAVAK to do so, or because she doesn’t want me to see her charred face. Oh, my poor, dear little Zari!

She told me once that she wanted to become an expert in interpreting the poetry of Hafiz. How could I not see it all these nights, staring at her through the opening in the curtain? The Masked Angel has all of Hafiz memorized. She wouldn’t be reading his
Divan
because it’s all in her head. It’s Zari who reads the book, trying to fill the lonely nights. And earlier today, I found the picture Zari had drawn of me and my mystery woman in their house. Somehow Zari must have taken it out of my room when I was in the hospital. And then the outburst of Mr. Naderi—it’s all making sense now. He said he wished he could offer me an alternative, and that’s when Zari walked up to him, hugged him, and whispered something in his ear. The Masked Angel would be too religious to embrace a man who is not a blood relative!

I bend over and cry with joy and sorrow, exaltation, and misery. I close my eyes and tip my head to the skies, realizing that, for the first time since the day I gained consciousness in the hospital, a heavy burden has been lifted from my chest. The air I inhale seems to go down easier, at least for now.

What should I do? I need a plan of attack. Where is Ahmed when I need him? Does he know? Maybe he and Faheemeh know what has been going on but haven’t said anything to protect me and Zari from the SAVAK. Then it suddenly dawns on me that I’ll be leaving for the United States in less than a week. That cannot happen, now that I have my Zari back! Given the circumstances, the trip must be called off. We must call all the guests and cancel the good-bye party. But how do I get to the Masked Angel and uncover the truth? This will be embarrassing for her family, and there may also be safety ramifications as far as the SAVAK is concerned. I need to approach her carefully. I don’t want the SAVAK to take my angel away again.

I run downstairs and drink a couple shots of my father’s vodka, which immediately warms me up and calms me down. “To you, my love,” I whisper. “Resurrected, I hope and pray, from nothingness back into my life.”

I climb over onto Zari’s side of the wall and sit in the same spot where we used to sit. I remember the dream I had the last time I sat under this wall. I’m sure now that the experience was not a dream. She was sitting behind me, holding me in her arms. She said she wanted to keep her sweetheart warm. My poor little Zari.
Oh, God, I love you so much. I miss you so desperately
.

I was cold and delirious that night, and Zari saw me through the window and came out with a blanket. She wrapped it around me and hugged me all night long, keeping me warm and whispering in my ear that she was afraid that her sweetheart might catch a cold, and that she was going to make sure he didn’t. That certainly was not a dream!

My mind races from one topic to another. I can’t focus on one thought for long. The memories of the day she set herself on fire rush through my head. The days in the hospital and the suffocating depression that devoured me, the fear that Ahmed was lost, the old man, Apple Face . . .
Oh, my God, why is life so cruel?
If I had to live through all that again, I don’t think I would make it.

Then my thoughts turn to Zari, alive next door, breathing the same oxygen as me, and perhaps thinking of me at this very moment. No wonder I’ve felt her presence so strongly. These were the conditions that drew me to her window every night. And why would I dream of being on top of a mountain with the Masked Angel if it wasn’t for the fact that, deep down, Zari wants to unveil herself in my presence?

The vodka I drank gives me the courage to walk up to Zari’s window. The curtain is half open, and I get a good look into the dark room. The Masked Angel’s burqa is on Zari’s bed, so I know she’s in the room, or at least in the house. I return to my room.

The doorbell to our house rings. It’s Iraj. I’m so excited about my new discovery and I want to tell him all about it, but as always he begins to talk before I have a chance to say anything. He’s not the person I need to be talking to, anyway. We sit by the
hose
in my yard. He shows me a new book he’s purchased, a biography of his hero, Thomas Edison. He is deeply disturbed by the author’s account of Edison’s life.

“According to this guy, Edison was a crook,” Iraj says. “He used to hire hoodlums who forced young inventors to sell their inventions to him for pennies, or face a vicious beating!” Iraj is having a hard time believing these outrageous lies, but he swears that if these accusations are true, he will give up his dream of becoming an inventor in favor of being an honest politician.

According to his father and his uncle, the Shah’s days are numbered because people are fed up with his dictatorial ways and the inhumane treatment of political dissidents. Even the leaders in the army feel that he has gone too far. Iraj’s uncle, a general in the American-backed army of the Shah, was involved in negotiations to purchase a number of F-16s from the American government. These fighter jets would make Iran the superpower of the Middle East—exactly what the Americans always wanted. The Israelis would have been their first choice, of course, but it’s better to have a Muslim state carry your stick than a Jewish one that’s hated by millions of people in the region. Iraj says his father believes that the closer the Shah gets to the West, the less popular he becomes in the Middle East. The biggest threat to the Shah, however, is Israel. The Israelis must be getting nervous that a military powerhouse is developing in their backyard. Sooner or later, they will use the rich Jewish lobbyists to turn Washington against the Shah.

I want to tell Iraj that I’m not interested in hearing his father’s political theories, but I don’t. My God, why can’t he leave me alone? Why did he have to show up now? Aren’t there more important things in life than the political situation in Iran? I don’t yell at Iraj only because I remember his sweaty face at the cemetery, tired from all the running to join us at Doctor’s grave site, despite knowing that the SAVAK was watching.

To my surprise, Iraj switches gears and starts talking about the Masked Angel. He’s been depressed lately because he finds it impossible to get her attention. To make matters worse, no one takes his love for her seriously. I don’t tell him that the woman under the burqa is Zari and not the Masked Angel. I can’t reveal that yet. What if they have an agreement with the SAVAK for Zari to remain incognito and I blow her cover?

Iraj says he’s tired of people criticizing his love for the Masked Angel. Everyone wonders how he could love a woman he’s never seen, but does that really matter?

“One’s not supposed to fall in love with how a person looks,” Iraj argues. “That’s superficial love. True love is about accepting someone’s inner goodness. People criticize me because I don’t know her personally, but do I need to know her to believe in her goodness? Isn’t it true that genuine love is about respect for one’s character and disposition? Shouldn’t people marry based on the compatibility of their temperaments? If so, then everything I know about the Masked Angel makes her a perfect bride for me.”

The Masked Angel! Poor kid; if only he knew. Iraj continues to talk, but I tune him out. I occasionally nod in agreement as I drift further and further away.

He finally leaves and I run back up to the roof. The lights in Zari’s house are off. I know the family doesn’t go to bed this early, so they must be hiding from me. They can’t reveal the Masked Angel’s true identity. They must’ve made an agreement with the SAVAK. Yes, that’s how they saved her from going to jail and that’s why there is no grave. I look into Zari’s room. The Masked Angel’s burqa is still on the bed.

In the Silence of the Night

At dinner that night, I’m so preoccupied with thoughts of Zari that my father asks me if I’m okay. “Yes,” I say, playing with my food.

My father puts his spoon back on his plate. “Are you getting nervous about your trip?”

I know I can’t tell my parents about the events of the afternoon, so I nod yes.

“It’s normal, you know?” Dad says. “This is a big step, and your apprehension is totally understandable. It isn’t easy to pack up and move to the other side of the world, where you don’t speak the language, don’t know anyone, and don’t know the culture. I’d be nervous, too!”

From the corner of my eye, I see my mother begin to cry. My father clears his throat and continues. “My father used to say that life is like a laboratory in which people’s true characters are tested. He believed that the greater the person, the greater the tests they faced.” He lights up a cigarette and takes a huge puff; I have to check myself from asking if I can have one.

“Nobody in our family has ever been tested as you have been. I’m so proud of you for the way you have handled things. You’ve experienced more in a couple of years than most people do in a lifetime. Your mother and I are very proud of you, very proud. Tomorrow, this house will be full of people who love you. People who are happy to see you go, but will be even happier when you come back as an engineer. ‘Mr. Engineer,’ that’s what everyone will call you for the rest of your life. You’ll be an icon of success, a role model for many in this community. You’re opening a door no one in our family has ever been through, but I assure you that you won’t be the only one to pass through it! As you pave the way, others will follow in your footsteps. Your courage and determination will be an inspiration. Your success will make many lives better. You truly have
That
, my son.”

I look at him with a blank look on my face. The U.S., the laboratory of life, the test of greatness; if he only knew what thoughts were brewing in my head now!

My father continues talking, but I’m not listening anymore even though it’s impolite to be distracted when your father speaks. I hear words like U.S., airplane, civil engineering, four-lane highway, and Noshahr and Tehran, and I’m beginning to lose my patience with all the bullshit I’ve been hearing ever since I was four years old. I think,
Fuck the United States, the airplane ride, the goddamn civil engineering degree, and the fucking four-lane highway that connects one fucking dump of a town to another
.

Then I think about Zari, my beloved, who is embarrassed to show her charred face, or forced by the government to hide her true identity. My angel who has accepted a life of solitude and loneliness. These are not hypotheses anymore. These are facts—not my perceptions, but reality.