A Bitter Veil (11 page)

December marked the beginning of Muharram, which, next to Ramadan, was the most sacred month of the Islamic calendar. Fighting was supposedly prohibited during the month, but violent riots broke out in Tehran, and other cities, three nights running. Demonstrators seized government buildings, shut down businesses, and attacked government officials. Even in Esfahan, the city Anna recalled with so much affection, protestors attacked SAVAK offices, and burned down the cinemas. A number of people were killed. Chants for the return of Khomeini choked the air. Foreigners, including many Americans, fled the country.

Anna decided the whole world had gone crazy. Three weeks earlier, over nine hundred people in Jonestown, Guyana, had committed mass suicide on the order of one man. And November 27th saw the assassination of San Francisco gay leader Harvey Milk. Maybe there was something to the concept of Armageddon.

It got worse. On December 7th, US president Jimmy Carter was asked at a news conference whether he expected the shah to survive. He replied that it was a decision the Iranian people would have to make, not the US. This stunning about-face, coming after months of proclaiming the shah one of his staunchest allies, sealed the shah’s fate. His remaining support was now in tatters.

On the 11th of December, the Day of Ashura—a sacred Islamic day of mourning and fasting—nearly a million people gathered in Tehran’s Shahyad Square to call for the shah’s ouster. The protest spilled over to Shahyad Tower—the “gateway to Tehran”—the landmark Anna had marveled at as she and Nouri drove from the airport only four months before. The shah refused to use force and did not order his troops to disperse the crowd. His military government resigned. The unrelenting pace of events distorted Anna’s perception of time; it felt like four years, not four months.

As the new year began, the shah appointed yet another government, but that did little to stem the turmoil. Demonstrations and riots persisted, each more violent than the one before. On the 16th of January, the shah flew his own plane to Egypt for what he told the country was a vacation. Everyone knew he would not be back.

Millions of Iranians poured into the streets, this time in jubilation. From Paris, Ayatollah Khomeini said the shah might be gone, but the need to create an Islamic republic still existed. Two days later, despite the opposition of the new government, the crowds poured out onto the streets again, demanding just that. A flurry of communiqués passed between Khomeini and Bakhtiar, the new prime minister—who had only been in office a few weeks. On February 1st, Khomeini flew back to Tehran.

Come, Nouri.” Hassan called up the stairs. “We won’t get close if we don’t leave right now.”

Anna zipped up her jacket and draped a muffler around her neck. She and Hassan were waiting for Nouri. They were going to the southern part of the city to see the Ayatollah, whose plane had just landed at Mehrabad Airport. He was now en route to Behesht-e Zahra Cemetery where he would give a speech. According to the radio over two million people were already lining the streets. It promised to be one of those days people would tell their grandchildren about.

Hassan shuffled his feet impatiently. “Where is he?”

“Probably still shaving,” Anna said.

Hassan scowled.

Finally, Nouri clattered down the stairs, trailing the scent of aftershave and toothpaste. Anna loved the way Nouri smelled after he showered. She wanted to burrow into his arms but settled for a quick kiss.

They piled into Nouri’s BMW, another wedding present from his parents, and drove south toward the cemetery just outside Tehran on the road to Qom. As they got within a mile of it masses of people swarmed the streets, making further progress impossible. They abandoned the car and started walking. Nouri looked around in wonder. “I’ve never seen such huge crowds.”

“
Inshallah
, it is the beginning of a new dawn,” Hassan said.

Anna wanted to roll her eyes at the cliché. It was a mild day for February, and she unwrapped her muffler and unzipped her jacket. The atmosphere was festive; people sang and hugged each other. They even smiled at Anna. Some had cut the shah’s picture out of their money, and they waved their shah-less rials and tomans. Shopkeepers flung candy and sweets into the crowd. Children scampered to retrieve them. Others distributed flowers. Every so often they saw soldiers, but they didn’t appear to be menacing. At one point, a girl inserted flowers in the barrels of the soldiers’ rifles. If not for the clothing, Anna thought, she might have been walking through Haight-Ashbury during the height of the Vietnam War. The men were, for the most part, in Western dress, but many of the women were wearing chadors.

“Look!” Hassan pointed.

Someone wielded an ax, and was chopping away at a statue of the shah. He’d clearly been at it for a while; the statue wobbled precariously.

Nouri took Anna’s hand. She squeezed it.

The throng of people thickened as they approached the cemetery, but the gates were wide open, and the crowd poured through. Anna, who had never been inside a cemetery, wasn’t sure what to expect. She was oddly relieved as she walked into a bucolic setting with tree-lined streets and broad plazas and terraces.

A big banner just inside the gates proclaimed something in Arabic. “What does it say?” Anna asked Nouri.

“The Communist Party welcomes the Ayatollah back onto Iranian soil!” He answered cheerfully. Other people waved Iranian flags. Some held up green banners.

“Why green?” Anna asked.

“Green is the color of Islam.” Hassan grinned.

Nouri picked up on his mood. “I’ve never seen you so happy, Hassan.”

Hassan clapped his hands. “We did it, Nouri! The shah is gone, and the Imam will lead us into a new age.”

The trace of a frown came across Nouri’s face. “The Imam is a learned man, and a holy one, but he is not part of the ruling structure. We have a constitutional monarchy. Shapour Bakhtiar is our prime minister. And the Army is still loyal to the government.”

Hassan’s smile lost some of its wattage.

As if placating him, Nouri continued in a reassuring tone. “But Khomeini has pledged to abide by the constitution of 1906 which means we
are
going to have a democratic government. And a free press. Political prisoners will be released. SAVAK will be shut down. So, yes, that is what we wanted.” Nouri rubbed his hands together. “You are right, Hassan. It is exciting.”

Anna couldn’t help thinking that she and Hassan had just been given a civics lesson. She shook it off. They’d been inching forward slowly, but now the crowd was so thick they were forced to stop. They’d reached a large grassy area that reminded Anna of Chicago’s Grant Park. A platform was erected at one end. Loudspeakers attached to poles were scattered around the field. Some people sat on the ground as if they were at a picnic. Others had their eyes squeezed shut in prayers. Still others were on their knees. Anna could taste the anticipation.

A motorcade turned into the cemetery. It was made up of surprisingly ordinary-looking cars: Paykans, even an American car or two. At the sight of it, a swell of shouts erupted. Everyone pushed forward. The crush of the crowd blocked Anna’s view. The cries rose to a frenzy. Tears streamed down women’s cheeks. Anna could barely see in front of her, much less the platform. Several years before she’d seen the Rolling Stones at the Chicago Stadium. The audience had been so mesmerized that Mick Jagger could have strutted across the stage stark naked and people would have cheered. It felt like that now.

As several men appeared on the platform, the noise reached a fever pitch. Anna caught a glimpse of an old man in a black turban and robes. He was surrounded by men, some wearing white turbans, others in Western-style dress. Khomeini was seated on a chair on the platform; others sat cross-legged at his feet.

A youngish man came to the microphone. The noise of the crowd subsided. The man, speaking in Farsi, exhorted the crowd. Many in the audience raised their hands, made fists, and shouted replies. Then there was a long moment of silence.

When Khomeini started speaking, his voice was remarkably dispassionate. Anna wondered if he was reciting prayers from the Qur’an. His face was solemn, expressionless. If anything, he looked angry. As he continued, though, his voice gathered strength. At one point he raised a stern index finger. He seemed to be warning the crowd. They responded with cheers.

Anna tugged on Nouri’s jacket. “What’s he saying?”

“He says he will smash the mouth of the Bakhtiar government. He thinks the government is illegal and he’s calling for more strikes and demonstrations.”

Hassan jabbed his fist in the air. Nouri didn’t.

Khomeini’s voice grew more emotional, even passionate. Another round of cheers went up.

“Now what?” Anna asked.

“He’s criticizing the US. And appealing to the army to join the revolution.”

More speech. More cheering.

“And now?”

“He’s saying there will be a popularly elected government and the clergy will not interfere. He promises no one will remain homeless and that Iranians will have free telephone, heating, electricity, bus service, and oil.”

“He sounds exactly like the shah.”

“Anna, you know nothing.” Hassan cut in with a stern frown. “This is the dawn of the Islamic Republic. Faith and democracy linked together. We will be the envy of the world.
Allâho Akbar!”

Anna remembered what she had once said about the danger of mixing religion with politics. She wondered whether to remind Hassan of it, but when she saw the look on his face, she knew to keep her mouth shut.

*****

That night Nouri and Hassan were glued to the television, watching footage of the Ayatollah’s speech and the crowd’s reaction to it. The commentators were enthusiastic, and Anna had a sense that history was emanating from the tiny screen.

Still, she felt restless. She climbed the stairs to the loft and slid open the door to the roof. It was a clear, crisp night. Bars of silver moonlight cast stippled shadows on the shingles. She thought about her father in Maryland, her mother in Paris. They were both so far away. Were they seeing the same moon as she? Feeling the same soft breath of night against her face? Or had Iran changed so much that even the moon and air were different?

Rooz beh khayr!
Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” the students replied in unison.

Anna smiled. It was the third week of class. She was teaching about fifteen students, mostly girls in their teens. Americans would have called their English high level; certainly they spoke far better than she did Latin and French, which she’d studied at their age. At times she felt like the pupil. Even though she asked them not to speak Farsi in class, she’d picked up many new phrases since class began.

The classroom wasn’t ideal: cinder block walls, linoleum floor, a small chalkboard, and chairs with no arms. Although the heat was only on three months a year, the radiators at the Iran-American Society must have been compensating for the other nine months, because it was hot and stuffy enough to induce a late afternoon lethargy.

Anna wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “I thought we’d do something different today.” Up until now, she’d stayed close to the syllabus Charlie had given her. In fact Charlie was with her for most of the first two weeks, no doubt to observe how Anna handled the students. Apparently, Anna had passed muster, because Charlie now left her alone, greeting her with a cheerful smile and, sometimes, a joke or two.

The IAS had become a beacon of stability for Anna. The new government was fragile; most Iranians had no idea which factions or groups would ultimately prevail. While demonstrations and strikes persisted, there was much hope and talk of democracy in the now free press. Everyone talked about a new beginning, a cleansing. At the same time, some warned of dark days ahead if the revolution didn’t succeed. Still others were fearful of an Islamic republic and what it might do to Iran’s economy and international standing. Anna was grateful she had somewhere to go and something to do while the government and the people sorted themselves out.

In the spirit of the times, Anna made copies of the Declaration of Independence for her students. She distributed them and asked for a volunteer to start reading. A hand immediately shot up. It was Miriam, an energetic brunette with mischievous eyes and an impish grin.

“Go ahead, Miriam.”

“
When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth…”

Miriam read the English words haltingly. She had most of the sounds down, but her accent was thick and difficult to follow.

“Very good, Miriam. Who wants to continue?”

Another hand waved at her: a skinny young man with glasses, pale skin, and a scholarly attitude. “Zubin.”

“We hold these truths to be self-evident…”
His English was smoother than Miriam’s, and Anna wondered if he’d learned it from watching American movies.
“…that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

“Very good, Zubin,” Anna said when he finished the section. “Let’s stop there.” She looked around. “So what do you think?”

The students were silent.

“Oh, come on. These words were written by the Founding Fathers of the United States over two hundred years ago. And yet they are still recited. Which means they’re still relevant to many Americans. But what about you? Do you see any relevance to them today?”

A girl tentatively raised her hand.

“Yes, Jaleh?”

“The shah was destructive of these ends.”

Anna nodded. “And what happened?”

“The people abolished his government and created a new one,” another boy chimed in.

“No.” Zubin interrupted. “Not all the people. Just the people who no longer gave their consent to be governed.”

The students shifted and began to talk among themselves. Anna heard wisps of conversation in both English and Farsi. “But we are ‘azad’ now. Free.”…“The monarchists are wrong”…“shah supporters”…“Anti-revolutionary.”

The students were mimicking the same hopes and fears Anna was reading about.

Zubin shook his head and barked out something in Farsi. Anna couldn’t quite understand it, but it provoked more comments. Zubin switched to English. “I am nothing,” he said to Anna. “But some people, like shah ministers and the rich, they do not want revolution.”

Zubin must have meant “no one,” Anna thought. Regardless of his word choice, Anna thought he was quite brave to have raised the issue. And to stick to his point. “All right, class.”

They continued to chatter.

“Class!” She raised her voice. This time they went quiet. “So, what happens when not everyone agrees? When only a segment of the population wants change? Should change go forward?”

No one replied. The students looked confused. “It’s not a trick question,” she added. “But perhaps it’s one that should be asked.”

A girl who’d been silent slowly raised her hand. “My parents say Khomeini will start a reign of terror. Like the French Revolution. My father says we will move to Canada.”

Another student piped up. “My parents say Khomeini has saved Iran. That he is Iran’s Messiah.”

Once again the students buzzed, this time with passion and intensity. Anna wondered if she had unleashed something she hadn’t intended. She decided to curtail the discussion. “I appreciate everyone’s opinion, but it’s clear we’re not going to solve the future of Iran today. However, I will say one thing. The discussion we’re having would have been difficult, perhaps impossible, just a few weeks ago. It can only take place in a democracy where there is free speech and freedom of assembly. For that we should be grateful.” She hoped she’d struck the right tone. “Now, let’s go back to the language of the Declaration, because parts of it are quite specific. And beautifully written.”

She led them through an explanation of the preamble. The students asked about the “Laws of Nature,” “Nature’s God,” and what “inalienable” meant. She did her best to reply, but she’d already discovered that teaching English was more than words, letters, and sounds. It was also politics, sociology, and culture. And while she tried to filter out her own judgments—the students should make up their own minds—she understood they were taking their cue from her. She discovered a newfound respect for her past teachers and professors.

Suddenly, one of Anna’s students raced into the room. It was Dina, a girl Anna thought might be her brightest, most curious student. She hadn’t been in class that day, until now. “The army has laid down its weapons!” she said breathlessly. “The revolution has succeeded!”

*****

Laleh, who had finally obtained her driver’s permit, was waiting in the Mercedes after Anna’s class the next afternoon. Anna had agreed to go shopping with her at the bazaar. Nouri’s parents hadn’t wanted them to go out at all, certainly not by themselves. But Laleh, headstrong as always, dismissed her parents’ fears and convinced Anna everything would be fine.

As they wound through the streets of Tehran with Laleh at the wheel, traffic crawled and eventually came to a standstill. They saw no policemen, traffic monitors, or troops. After ten minutes, Laleh angrily thumped her hand on the wheel. “This is ridiculous.”

“Maybe we should go home,” Anna said. “Or maybe your driver should have taken us. You heard about the army, didn’t you? Bakhtiar is supposedly in hiding, and some parts of the city are in rebel hands.”

Laleh waved a disgusted hand. “If this is what we have to look forward to, it will be anarchy. And our driver couldn’t take us. He quit last week.”

Anna sat back in surprise. “Why?”

“He said it was time for him to join the revolution.” Laleh snorted.

“But what will he do for money?”

“Who cares?”

Anna pressed her lips together. A week or so before, Khomeini had named Mehdi Bazargan as prime minister of a new provisional government. The army’s capitulation was basically an endorsement of that decision, but government services remained largely paralyzed. In some places local civilian committees, called
komitehs
, were starting to assume responsibility for things like neighborhood security and the distribution of fuel oil.

Laleh went on. “Everyone thinks Khomeini is the answer to their prayers. Wait until they find out what a fraud he is. How does that song go? ‘Meet the new boss, same as the old boss’?”

Anna shook her head.

“The Who. That’s who.” Laleh smiled grimly.

By the time they approached the bazaar a steely winter dusk had set in, and the headlights of oncoming cars felt intrusive. The market itself looked grimier and messier than Anna remembered, as if no one had swept the ground or wiped down the counters for a while. Laleh led the way, winding around stalls whose occupants stared listlessly at the two women. Gone was the bustle and noise, the jaunty music, the merchants’ eager come-ons. Even the smells were less fragrant, as if the spices and foodstuffs had gone stale.

Laleh stopped at a stall that looked vaguely familiar. Now, though, there was nothing decorative or distinctive about it. Just a slab of mostly bare counter. A pile of paper and plastic bags lay on the floor behind it. An older man, wearing a tattered argyle sweater vest over a white shirt, was hunched over the counter. His head was covered with a turban, and the stubble on his cheeks indicated that he was growing a beard. As they approached, he thumbed studiously through a newspaper. He didn’t look up; it didn’t appear as if he wanted customers. Anna recalled this was the booth that sold liquor. Laleh’d bought wine there a few months ago.

Laleh planted herself in front of the man. He refused to make eye contact with her, but Anna could tell he was appraising them from the corner of his eye. “I would like to buy a bottle of scotch,” Laleh said in Farsi.

Again, Anna was surprised. She knew Laleh drank wine and the occasional beer, but hard liquor? Maybe it was something she’d picked up at the disco. Anna disliked cocktails and martinis and all the other drinks with fancy names. The taste was too grown up. They reminded her of a Cary Grant movie. He and Katharine Hepburn could hold a highball just right, tip it deftly towards their lips, but Anna could never imitate them. She was too unsophisticated and clumsy.

Laleh repeated her request. This time the man looked up. “I have nothing for you.”

“What do you mean?” Laleh’s cheeks reddened and her voice sharpened. She turned to Anna and spoke in English. “He’d sell liquor by the truckload if he could. I’ve seen him.”

“No alcohol. Not anymore.” He shrugged.

“Why not?” Laleh switched back to Farsi. “You sold some to my boyfriend last week.”

“Do you not read the Qur’an? Intoxicants and gambling are Satan’s handiwork.” He’d answered in Farsi, but Anna understood the gist. He looked over his shoulder. “Consuming alcohol is a major sin. One of the roots of corruption.”

Laleh’s eyes grew round. “Since when?”

“Shariah law prohibits the sale of alcohol.”

Laleh crossed her arms. “Just because the Ayatollah is back doesn’t mean Iran is practicing Shariah law.”

He smiled as if he knew a secret. “It will come soon enough, Inshallah.”

Laleh pointed toward the pile of bags on the floor. “I want scotch. I know you have it.”

“Come back next week. I will have spices and sweets.
Bamieh. Baklava
. You will like them.”

Laleh didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she dug in her purse and fished out a wad of rials.
“Ay Bâbâ
,” she said scornfully.

A man in a dark green uniform wandered towards them. A rifle was slung over his shoulder, but Anna was pretty sure the army wore brown, not green. With red caps. The man slowed as he got closer. Anna nudged Laleh.

“What?” Laleh snapped. She was still clutching the wad of bills.

Anna pointed to the soldier.

Laleh whipped around. When she saw him, she glared.

He looked at them, then the merchant, then back at them. A proprietary smirk tugged at his mouth, as if he was in charge of the stall, the goods, the entire bazaar. “Women should not buy alcohol. Allah does not permit it.”

Anna stepped back in surprise. He was speaking English.

“A new age is dawning. If you refuse to embrace it, you will be branded an infidel.”

Anna’s stomach knotted, and she tapped Laleh on the arm. “Let’s go, Laleh. We’ll come back another time.”

“No.” Laleh’s chin jutted out. She stared him down. “Shariah is not the law of the land. Inshallah, it never will be.”

The soldier shot her a withering look. Anna stiffened. What was he going to do? As if he had read her thoughts, he twisted toward Laleh looking like he was about to arrest her. Anna sucked in a breath, preparing herself. Then a flicker of doubt crept across his face. He adjusted the sling of his rifle, shot them a final scowl, then turned on his heel and walked away without a word.

Anna let out her breath. Laleh turned back to the shopkeeper and tossed the wad of bills on the counter. “You see?” she asked. “Now give me a bottle of Johnny Walker. Black.”

The merchant eyed the money. He took a surreptitious glance around. The soldier was gone, and no one was watching. He grabbed the bills, stuffed them in his waistband, and ducked under the counter. Anna heard the sounds of paper rustling. Something being wrapped. When he reappeared, he handed Laleh a plastic bag. Something heavy was inside. “Go away. Quickly.”