Rooftops of Tehran (6 page)

“Red is the color of love,” one person tells another.

It’s also the color of blood,
I think, my heart sinking to meet a rising stomach when I consider the risk my friend has taken. If the SAVAK ever finds out that he’s responsible for this, he’ll be finished.

 

 

Five days pass before Doctor finally comes to see me on the roof.

“Listen, I’m going away,” he says, his eyes anxiously scanning the horizon. “I’ll be away for some time.”

“Where’re you going?” I ask, my voice flat with frustration.

“To a village up north by the Caspian Sea with a bunch of my college buddies.” Doctor continues quickly, “It’s no big deal, we do this every year.”

I think back to the previous summer and know he didn’t go away then. The fact that he’s lying makes me furious. He must sense my anger because he can’t seem to get the words out of his mouth fast enough.

“People in the villages need to be educated,” he says passionately. “We’ll be teaching the adults how to read and write. We’ll teach them about health issues. We’ll help them dig wells and show them more efficient irrigation techniques.”

“Really?” I snap. “The government suspects people who engage in those kinds of activities.”

His shock is plain, both at my words and the fever behind them.

“When I come back, I plan to marry Zari,” he says, more calmly, really looking at me for the first time since he arrived. “I need to settle down. I love her so dearly.”

The sound of Zari’s name and the poised way in which he declares his love for her jolts me. Suddenly, all my anger about his thoughtless bravery evaporates into the vast warmth of his gentle brown eyes.

“Does she know?” I ask.

“No,” Doctor says. “This will be our secret, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, ignoring the sharp pain at the center of my heart.

“After what we all saw on TV a few nights ago,” Doctor adds, referring to Golesorkhi’s trial, “I need Zari in my life.” Doctor’s eyes fill with tears. “Golesorkhi is the most compassionate man I’ve ever known, and he’ll be placed against a wall and shot to death like a common criminal.” He roughly wipes the tears from his face. “It’s time . . . ,” he begins fiercely, then stops.

“Time for what?” I ask.

Doctor draws in a deep breath, then smiles and asks, “What’s the most precious human commodity?”

“Life,” I answer, without the slightest hesitation.

He laughs good-naturedly and shakes his head. “Time,” he says. “Time is the most precious thing we possess.” He touches my shoulder and says, “It’s time to understand that we can’t waste any more time. ‘It is not the consciousness of men that determines their social being; it’s their social being that determines their consciousness.’ Do you know who said that?”

I say Karl Marx, and he smiles again but doesn’t confirm the answer. His quote reminds me of my grandmothers, who attribute everything to God—including the most dreadful calamities—and are then unable to explain the reason behind God’s inexplicably unmerciful actions. I quickly check the blasphemous thoughts and discreetly bite the skin between my index finger and thumb. This is the gesture you’re supposed to use when you say or think something sacrilegious, so that God will forgive you rather than causing the roof to collapse on your head.

Doctor reaches into his side pocket and takes out a book called
The Gadfly.
“This is for you,” he says. “It carries a sentence of at least six months, so be very careful.”

I take the book and quickly shove it in the side pocket of my jacket. “This will become my most prized possession,” I vow, trying to hide my shame over my secret feelings for Zari, though I am sure they must be stamped on my face.

“About the posters—” Doctor begins with his head down.

I interrupt him. “Don’t know who put them up, but it was a nice touch.”

He lifts his head and looks at me from the top of his round glasses. A thoughtful expression covers his face.

“And that’s
That
,” he says.

Suvashun

For reasons the adults don’t understand, kids ringing the bell and running away has become a widespread problem in our neighborhood. It happens with more frequency in the early parts of the afternoon when no one is out. Ahmed and I think that the kids are from our own alley. My mom, of course, thinks the kids in our alley are too polite to do that.

One afternoon when my father is walking home, he sees Ahmed’s five-year-old brother standing by the door to Iraj’s house. “Hi, Aboli,” my father says with a big smile. “What’re you doing?”

“Can you help me ring the bell to Iraj’s house?” Aboli asks innocently. “I can’t reach it.”

My father says sure and rings the bell. The second the bell sounds, Aboli grabs my father’s hand and says, “Okay, now run!” My poor father suddenly realizes what he’s done. He lifts Aboli off his feet and starts running toward our house. Ahmed and I are sitting in my yard when Dad rushes in and shuts the door behind him, leaning back against it to catch his breath.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, surprised by his condition.

He looks at Aboli and begins to laugh. Then he tells us the story, which makes all of us join in the laughter. When we’ve finally stopped chuckling, my dad lifts Aboli off the ground and says, “You’re lucky you’re so cute, little buddy.”

The next day, Iraj invents what he calls an “ingenious” device to catch the bell ringers. His gadget is comprised of a little tube connected to a small water pump. The device squirts water at the person ringing the bell. The tube is placed over the door so that it’s hidden from view. He activates the device in the early part of the afternoon in the hope of catching the culprits who ring his family’s bell at least two or three times a week. Of course, his invention never works and everyone remains dry.

 

Some days I wish I had the courage to tell Ahmed about Zari. God, if Zari were only a few years younger and not engaged to Doctor, I’d tell Ahmed about her deep blue eyes, her crooked smile, and her beautiful chin and cheekbones. I’d tell him how her walk makes me crazy, that when she talks I can’t breathe and that I can’t stop thinking about her. As nauseating as the thought is, I’d drink an entire pitcher of my mother’s engine oil if I knew it would give me the courage to spill my guts to my best friend.

I can hardly listen to Ahmed’s stories about Faheemeh anymore because I’m always thinking about Zari. I never think anything sexual about her; she’s too pure for that and I would go crazy with guilt and shame. I imagine Doctor and Zari as a happily married couple with many children, and I accept my role as a good friend in their lives. Instigating Ahmed’s revolt against Faheemeh’s family has soured the daydream for me, though. I know I can’t do what he did. First of all, Zari loves Doctor. Second, I don’t have Ahmed’s courage. Third, I just couldn’t pull something like that on a great guy like Doctor. Sometimes, however, I wonder what my relationship with Zari would be like if Doctor were not in our lives, and each time, I involuntarily and swiftly bite the skin between my thumb and index finger.

In my mind, I live the rest of my life with a sweet secret that no one will ever know. But one evening on the roof while Ahmed is talking and I’m staring at the star-studded skies of an early summer night, I find myself interrupting him. “I want to tell you a secret,” I say.

“Is it about you and Zari?” he asks immediately.

“When did you first know?”

“When did I know my best friend was in love?” He grins. “I guess every time he got restless when a certain individual walked by, or when he couldn’t look her in the eyes even when she was talking directly to him. Like the time she brought us cold
sherbet
after soccer, and your hands were shaking when she offered you a glass, remember? Oh, and this one is my favorite. She asked you what time it was and you looked at your watch and said five minutes to lunch.”

I look down at my feet as Ahmed laughs.

“You know one other thing you always do?” he asks. “You’ve named the biggest and the brightest stars after her, night after night.”

“Really?”

“And didn’t you ever notice how I always name the star next to her after you?”

I shake my head.

So, it’s my turn to tell Ahmed everything, and his turn to listen all night. I tell him about her walk, her chin and her cheekbones. I tell him about her eyes and about my dreams, my guilt and my constant efforts not to imagine her in inappropriate ways. But I don’t tell him about Doctor’s plans to marry her when he returns. After all, a promise to a friend must always be kept.

Ahmed smokes a cigarette as he listens, offering me one. I could smoke the whole pack, but I decide not to risk my father’s dirty look.

“When did you first know that you love Zari?” Ahmed asks.

“For as long as I can remember,” I say, my head down. “I think maybe your situation with Faheemeh forced me into accepting it.”

We’re quiet for a while. The look on Ahmed’s face is serious as he thinks. Being insecure about the appropriateness of my decision to confess my feelings for Zari, I ask nervously if he thinks I’m evil.

“What in the name of God—” Ahmed laughs.

“Well, you know, because of Doctor and all,” I stutter. “He’s . . . he’s our friend and . . . and we’re sitting here talking about his fiancée. I mean, not you but me. It’s horrible.”

Ahmed laughs some more and shakes his head.

 

The next day, Ahmed tells me that Zari’s six-year-old brother, Keivan, is building a little doghouse.

“Why? Is he getting a puppy?” I ask.

“Nah. It’s just a summer school project.” His stare makes me self-conscious.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” I ask.

“How’s your carpentry?”

I laugh since I’m not handy at all. Ahmed rings the bell of Zari’s house anyway, and before I know it we’re in the yard helping Keivan. Zari’s parents are at work, as they are every day, jointly managing a small restaurant they have owned for over twenty years in a nearby neighborhood.

Every time Zari comes out to the yard, she steals all my attention. I burn with shame and tell Ahmed that this is getting too complicated for me. Not only am I betraying Doctor, I’m pretending to be the friend of a six-year-old in order to be around his sister. Ahmed tells me to relax.

Zari is dressed in a tight blue T-shirt and a long black skirt covered in a flower pattern. Her damp hair is neatly combed back and she has a touch of makeup on. I’m too nervous and shy to look her in the eye, so every time she comes out to talk to us I clumsily busy myself with unfamiliar wood scraps and tools. When her back is to me, I look at the curve of her bicep and her delicate wrist. I notice the tiny blond hairs on her arm that shine under the sun, and I get so excited I want to jump out of my skin. There’s a soothing tranquility in her gaze, in the smiling eyes of a woman I would love to love. Her tiny waist makes me wish I could wrap my arms around her. I have to look the other way and squint a couple of times to wipe the image from my mind.

She brings us cool drinks and thanks us for helping her little brother. I’m so unsettled in her presence that I pour most of the drink on myself as I nervously attempt to sip.

“Your chest’s thirsty, too?” Ahmed asks in a smart-ass tone.

I give him a dirty look, which he ignores. Zari laughs at Ahmed’s comment and says, “Leave him alone, the poor guy is hot and thirsty.”

When Zari goes back inside the house, Ahmed says, “She can’t keep her eyes off you.”

“She hasn’t even looked at me!”

“You don’t know women. You think they’re not looking at you, but they watch your every move. Their brains work like radar. They see you, but you have no idea you’re on their screen. Don’t be so bashful! Talk to her when she comes back out.”

A few minutes later Zari comes back into the yard. She sits at the edge of the
hose
. She dips her pretty white feet in the cold water and begins to read a book.

“Go talk to her,” Ahmed whispers.

“No,” I say abruptly.

“Go.”

“No.”

“You’re hopeless,” he says to me. “What’re you reading?” he calls to Zari.

“
Suvashun
by Simin Daneshvar.”

Ahmed turns to me in mock amazement. “Your favorite book, wow!” He tells Zari, “He loves that book.”

I want to kill him. I haven’t even read
Suvashun
.

“What do you think of it?” Zari asks.

“Well, Daneshvar is one of the best writers,” I mumble nervously, as I try not to look her directly in the eyes for fear I might stop breathing altogether. “She’s so good. Actually much better than good, she’s very good.”

From the corner of my eye I see Ahmed shaking his head. Zari listens attentively.

“And her husband,” I continue. “Jalal Al-Ahmed is just as good or even gooder.”

“Oh, much, much gooder,” Ahmed confirms.

“I . . . I mean, maybe a better writer. I’d read anything by the two of them.” I realize that I’m babbling, and I shut up.

“Yes,” Zari says. “I would read a story by Daneshvar and Al-Ahmed, too.” Her eyes wander back to the book. I let Ahmed know with my eyes that I’m going to kick his ass as soon as we’re alone, and he winks at me.

By that afternoon, the doghouse is finished. We are about to leave when I hear Zari tell Ahmed, “Of course, anything for you. I’d love to.”

“What was that about?” I ask him angrily when we are in the alley.

“I asked her if she wanted to kiss you, and she said she would love to.”

“You son of a bitch,” I say, and attack him. He starts running toward his house.

“Well, is it my fault you’re so cute that she wants to kiss you?”

“Shut up!” I shout as I’m chasing him. “You made me look like a fool.”

“How was I supposed to know you haven’t read
Suvashun
? You’ve read every other fucking book in the world,” he says, looking back to make sure I’m not closing in on him.