The Book of Fate (50 page)

Massoud slowly regained his physical health, but emotionally he was not the energetic and lively young man he used to be. He didn't draw or sketch any more. He had no plans for the future. Sometimes his friends, fellow soldiers and former cellmates came to see him and he would be distracted for a while. But again he would grow quiet and withdrawn. I asked his friends not to leave him alone. Among them there were men of every age.

I decided to discuss Massoud's depression with Mr Maghsoudi, who in time would come to play a pivotal role in my son's life. He was about fifty years old, had a kind face and seemed worldly; Massoud had a lot of respect for him. ‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘All of us were more or less the same way. And this poor boy was badly wounded, too. He will gradually recover. He has to start working.'

‘But he is very talented and smart,' I said. ‘I want him to study.'

‘Of course he should. As a war veteran, he can go to university.'

I was ecstatic. I gathered his books and said, ‘Well, recuperation time is over. You have to start planning for your future and finish everything that has been left unfinished. And the most important of these is your education. You have to start this very day.'

‘No, Mum, it's too late for me,' Massoud said quietly. ‘My brain doesn't work any more and I don't have the patience to study and prepare for the entrance exams. There is no way I would be admitted.'

‘No, my dear. You can use the quotas and benefits that allow veterans to go to university.'

‘What do you mean?' he asked. ‘If I don't qualify academically, it doesn't make any difference whether I am a veteran or not. I will not be admitted.'

‘If you study, you will be more qualified than anyone else,' I argued. ‘And being able to get a university degree is a right they have given to all veterans.'

‘In other words they have given me the right to take away someone else's right. No, I don't want it.'

‘You will be taking what is yours by right; a right that was unjustly taken away from you four years ago.'

‘Just because they took my right from me back then, now I should do the same to someone else?' he contended.

‘Right or wrong it is the law. Don't tell me you have got used to the law always being against you? My dear, sometimes it is for you. You have fought and suffered for these people and this country. Now these people and this country want to reward you. It's not right that you should reject.'

Our seemingly endless arguments finally ended with me as the victor. Of course, Firouzeh was very instrumental in this. She was in her last years of school and came over to the apartment every day with her books so that Massoud would help her with her homework, forcing him to study as well. Her kind and beautiful face brought the joy of life into Massoud's face. They studied, talked and laughed together. Occasionally, I would insist that they leave their books and go out for some fun.

Massoud applied to the Department of Architecture at the university. He was accepted. I kissed him and congratulated him. ‘Between you and me, it wasn't my right,' he said, laughing, ‘but I am very happy!'

Massoud's next problem was to find a job.

‘It is embarrassing for a guy my age to still be a burden to his mother,' he often said. And a few times he even mumbled something about dropping out of university. I again turned to Mr Maghsoudi who had a relatively senior position at a ministry.

‘Of course there is work for him,' he said with confidence. ‘And it doesn't have to interfere with his studies.'

Massoud easily passed the required exams, the selection process and the interviews, which were mostly a formality, and he was hired. The stigma we had been branded with seemed to have been suddenly erased. Now, he was a precious gem. And as the mother of a war veteran, I was extended every respect and offered jobs and resources that at times I had to reject.

That drastic change was comical. What a strange world it was. Neither its ire nor its kindness had any substance.

My days were quiet and had a normal routine. My children were all healthy, successful and busy with their work and education. And we had no financial difficulties. I had a relatively good income and Massoud was earning a higher than standard salary. As he was a veteran, there was also financial aid available to him to buy a car and a house. Siamak, who had finished his studies and was working, constantly offered to help us financially.

After the war ended, Parvaneh started travelling to Iran regularly. Each time we saw each other, the distance of years vanished and we returned to our youth. She was still funny and playful and made me feel faint with laughter. I could never forget my debt to her. For ten years, she had taken care of my son like a loving mother. And Siamak still spent all his holidays with her family. Parvaneh regularly filled me in on the details of his life and I would close my eyes, trying to build in my mind the time I had lost with my son. My longing to see him was the only sadness that occasionally darkened my horizon.

For two years, Siamak had been insisting that I go to Germany to see him. But my concerns for Massoud and worries over Shirin, who was still quite young, had stopped me. Finally, I could no longer bear not seeing him and I decided to go. I was terribly nervous. The closer I got to the date of my departure the more restless I became. I was surprised that I had endured ten years of being away from him, becoming so immersed in the difficulties of life that days would pass without my even looking at his photograph.

Hamid used to say, ‘Groundless stress and melancholy are characteristics of the bourgeoisie… When your stomach is full, when you don't care about the misery of others, you dredge up these wishy-washy emotions.' Perhaps he was right, but I had always felt the pain of being separated from Siamak and because there was nothing I could do about it, I had stifled those emotions, not even admitting to myself how desperately I needed to see him. Now that there was relative calm in my life, I had the right to miss my son and long to see him.

When I was saying my goodbyes, Shirin looked troubled and with utter cheekiness said, ‘I am not upset that you are leaving; I'm just upset that they didn't give me a visa.' She was a fourteen-year-old know-it-all who, confident of the love she received, impetuously said whatever came into her head. Despite her objections, I left her in the care of Massoud, Faati, Mansoureh and Firouzeh, and I flew to Germany.

 

I walked out of the customs section at Frankfurt airport and looked around with breathless anticipation. A handsome young man walked over to me. I stared at his face. Only his eyes and his smile looked familiar. The tousled locks of hair on his forehead reminded me of Hamid. Despite all the photographs of Siamak I had put on display around the house, I still expected to see an immature young boy with a thin neck. But he was now a tall, dignified man standing there with his arms wide open. I put my head on his chest and he held me tight. What profound pleasure it is to hide like a child in the arms of your offspring. My head barely reached his shoulder. I inhaled his scent and wept with joy.

It took a while for me to notice the beautiful young girl who was rapidly taking photographs of us. Siamak introduced her. I couldn't believe she was Lili, Parvaneh's daughter. I took her in my arms and said, ‘You have grown up so much and you are so beautiful. I had seen your photographs, but they don't do you justice.' She laughed from the bottom of her heart.

We got into Siamak's small car and he said, ‘We will first go to Lili's house. Aunt Parvaneh has prepared lunch and she is waiting for us. Tonight, or if you want tomorrow, we will go to the town where I live. It is two hours away.'

‘Bravo!' I said. ‘You haven't forgotten your Persian and you don't speak with an accent.'

‘Of course I haven't forgotten. There are plenty of Iranians here. And Aunt Parvaneh refuses to talk to me if I speak in any language other than Persian. She is even more unrelenting with her own kids. Isn't she, Lili?'

On the way to Parvaneh's house I realised there was an attraction between Lili and Siamak that went beyond friendship and family ties.

 

Parvaneh's home was beautiful and cosy. She greeted us with great joy. Khosrow, her husband, had aged more than I expected. I said to myself, It's normal. It has been fourteen or fifteen years since I last saw him. He probably thinks the same about me. Their children had all grown up. Laleh spoke Persian with a thick accent and Ardalan who had been born in Germany could understand us, but would not reply in Persian.

Parvaneh insisted that we spend the night at their house, but we decided to drive to Siamak's home and visit Parvaneh again the following weekend. I wanted at least a week to become reacquainted with my son. God only knew how much we both had to talk about, but when we were finally alone I didn't know what to say, where to start and how to bridge the gap that years of separation had created. For a while, Siamak asked me about different family members and I would say they were well and send their love. And then I would ask, ‘Is the weather always this nice here? You won't believe how hot it is in Tehran…'

It took twenty-four hours for the ice of unfamiliarity to melt and for us to start talking more intimately. Fortunately, it was the weekend and we had plenty of time. Siamak spoke about the hardships he had experienced after he left us, about the dangers he had faced when crossing the border, about his life in the refugee camp, about starting university and finally about his job. I told him about Massoud, about what he had suffered, about the days when I thought he was dead and about his return. I talked about Shirin, her mischiefs and her feistiness that reminded me more of him than of Massoud. There was no end to our conversations.

On Monday, Siamak went to work and I went for a stroll around the neighbourhood. I was amazed at how big and beautiful the world was and I wanted to laugh at how trivially we think of ourselves as the centre of the universe.

I learned how to shop. Every day I cooked dinner and waited for him to come home, and every evening he took me out to show me a different sight. We never stopped talking, but we did stop discussing politics. He had been away for so long that he no longer had a clear understanding of the new environment and the real issues in Iran. Even the vocabulary and the expressions he used were outdated and reminded me of the early days of the revolution. The things he said sometimes made me laugh.

One day he got upset and said, ‘Why are you laughing at me?'

‘My dear, I am not laughing at you. It's just that some of the things you say are a bit odd.'

‘What do you mean, odd?'

‘They sound like things one hears on foreign radio stations,' I explained.

‘Foreign radio stations?'

‘Yes, the radio stations that transmit from outside the country; especially those that are owned by opposition groups. Just like you, they get the real and the false news all mixed up and use expressions that were common years ago. Any kid would know in a split second that they are transmitting from abroad. Sometimes the things they say are comical and, of course, annoying. By the way, are you still a Mujahedin sympathiser?'

‘No!' he said. ‘To be honest, I cannot accept or comprehend some of the things they do.'

‘Such as?'

‘Joining forces with the Iraqi army and attacking Iran; fighting against Iranian troops. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed with them and come face to face with Massoud on the battlefield. It is a recurring nightmare that jolts me awake in the middle of the night.'

‘Thank God you came to your senses,' I said.

‘Not all that much. These days, I think a lot about Dad. He was a great man, wasn't he? We should be proud of him. There are a lot of people here who share his beliefs. They say things about him that I never knew. They really want to meet you and hear you talk about him.'

I looked at him warily. That old dilemma was still plaguing his soul. I didn't want to distort the image he had of his father and rob him of the pride he felt, but I saw that need and dependence as a reflection of his immaturity.

‘Look, Siamak, I have no patience for that sort of theatre,' I said. ‘You know I did not share your father's beliefs. He was a kind and decent man, but he had faults and shortcomings, too. The biggest was his one-sided point of view. To him and those who shared his politics, the world was divided in two. Everyone was either with them or against them, and everything that had to do with the opposing group was bad. Even in the arts, they considered only artists who shared their perspective to be true artists; everyone else was an idiot. If I said I liked some singer or thought someone was a good poet, your father would argue that the singer or poet supported the Shah or was anti-communist, therefore his work was rubbish. He would actually make me feel guilty for enjoying a song or a poem!

‘They had no personal opinions and individual preferences. Do you remember the day Ayatollah Taleghani died? Our neighbours, Mr and Mrs Dehghani, who were supporters of a leftist faction, kept coming to our house and calling because they didn't know what to do. Before his death the Ayatollah had spoken against the people who had rioted in Kurdistan and they didn't know how to react to his death. All day long they chased after the leftist leaders to learn whether they should mourn or not. Finally orders came that the Ayatollah had been a supporter of the people and his death should be mourned. Mrs Dehghani suddenly burst into tears and went into deep mourning! Remember?'

‘No!' Siamak said.

‘But I do. I want you to rely on your own thoughts and beliefs, to weigh the good and bad of everything by reading and learning, and then make decisions and draw conclusions. Sheer ideology will trap you, it will make you prejudiced, it will obstruct individual thought and opinion, and create bias. And ultimately, it will turn you into a one-dimensional fanatic. Now, I would be happy to say all this to your friends as well, and I will list their and your father's mistakes for them.'

‘Mum, what are you saying?' Siamak said crossly. ‘We have to keep his memory alive. He was a hero!'

‘I am tired of heroisms,' I said. ‘And my memories of the past are so bitter that I don't want to relive them. Besides, you should forget all this and instead think about your future. Your life is ahead of you, why do you want to drown yourself in the past?'

I don't know to what extent Siamak accepted what I said or if it had any effect on him, but neither one of us ever expressed any interest in talking about politics again.

I asked him about Parvaneh and her family so that I could find out more about the secret he was harbouring in his heart. And he finally opened up to me.

‘You can't imagine how kind and smart Lili is,' he said. ‘She is studying business management. She will finish this year and start working.'

‘Are you in love with her?' I asked.

‘Yes! How did you know?'

I laughed and said, ‘I found out at the airport. Mothers are quick to pick up on these things.'

‘We want to get engaged, but there are problems.'

‘What problems?'

‘Her family. Of course, Aunt Parvaneh is wonderful. She has been like a mother to me and I know she loves me. But in this case, she is taking her husband's side.'

‘What does Khosrow say?'

‘I don't know. He doesn't approve and puts strange constraints and conditions on us. He thinks the same way Iranian men thought a hundred years ago. You would never know he had studied and lived here for so many years.'

‘What does he say?' I asked.

‘We want to get engaged and he says, “No, you can't!”'

‘Is that it? Don't worry, I will talk to them and see what the problem is.'

Parvaneh had no objections. In fact she was happy about Siamak's relationship with Lili.

‘Siamak is like my own son,' she said. ‘He is Iranian, he speaks our language and we understand each other. I am always afraid that my children will marry a German with whom I cannot develop any sort of a relationship. I know everything about Siamak; I even know who his ancestors were. He is smart, has studied well, is now successful and has a bright future ahead of him. Most important of all, he and Lili love each other.'

‘Then what is the problem?' I asked. ‘It seems Khosrow Khan doesn't agree with you.'

‘Yes, he does. The problem is that we and the children think differently. We are still Iranian and cannot accept certain things, but our children grew up here and cannot understand our point of view. And these two keep talking about a long engagement.'

‘Parvaneh, I am surprised at you! Even if they want to stay engaged for a year, what is wrong with that? It is now common in Iran. Maybe they want to get to know each other better, maybe they want to save some money before they get married, or maybe they just want to give themselves more time.'

‘You are so simple!' she exclaimed. ‘Do you know what they mean by a long engagement? They mean an informal marriage. Like some of the kids around them, they want to live together. And their definition of “long” is at least five years, after which they will decide whether they still want to be together or not. If they do, they will make the marriage official; otherwise, they will separate. And they don't mind if they end up having a child. If they separate, one of them will take the kid!'

My eyes were wide with disbelief. ‘No!' I said, stunned. ‘I don't think this is what they mean by a long engagement.'

‘Yes, my dear, it is. Every single night, Lili and Khosrow get into a fight over it. To be honest, Khosrow will never be able to accept this. And I don't think you would expect him to.'

‘Of course not!' I said, flabbergasted. ‘How dare they? If Mahmoud and the others only knew! Now I understand why Khosrow Khan has been so cold and distant. The poor man! I am surprised at Siamak. He seems to have forgotten where he comes from. Has he really become that much of a Westerner? In Iran a simple conversation between a boy and a girl can still lead to bloodshed and this gentleman wants to live with someone's daughter for five years without marrying her? Of all impossible things!'