A Bitter Veil (15 page)

Where have you been?” Nouri had a headache, and he knew he sounded cranky when Anna sailed through the front door the next afternoon. “I was worried.”

“I’m sorry.” Her cheeks were flushed, and there was a faint sheen of perspiration above her lip. “I was visiting Charlie.”

He scowled. “I don’t like you being on the street by yourself.”

“I understand, Azizam, but it’s been tough for her. With classes cancelled, there’s not much to do.”

“It’s a tough time for everyone. Don’t do it again, Anna.”

“But she’s my only real friend here.”

“What if something happened to you? What if someone gave you a hard time? It’s stupid. As for friends, you have Laleh.”

“Laleh’s family, and I love her. But Charlie is different. She’s a friend I made myself. And I did think about it. I was careful.”

Nouri gazed at her, still frowning. Then he changed the subject. Even though he knew she hadn’t prepared anything, he asked, “What’s for dinner?”

She threw him a look that said she knew what he was doing. But rather than challenging him, she went to the kitchen, opened the fridge and cabinets, and examined the contents. “I didn’t have time to go to the market. Let’s pick something up.”

“All right. I’ll go. You stay here.”

“That’s fine.” She ran a hand through her hair. She looked like she wanted to tell him something.

“What?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

Nouri, edgy and anxious, wouldn’t let it go. “It’s not nothing. What?”

Anna blew out a breath. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but…something happened today.”

His stomach flipped. “What?”

“Charlie and I were at the fruit market near her house, and I bought an apple. I started eating it in the store, then walked outside. A man in a uniform was watching me. All of a sudden he snatched the apple out of my hand.”

“Why?”

“He said I was eating it too seductively.”

“What?”

“He said a woman shouldn’t eat on the street. That it was a sin against Allah. That I could be taken for a whore.”

Nouri rubbed his nose. In July, three women were accused of running a prostitution ring and executed. They were the first women ever to go before a firing squad in Iran.

“Then he told me I needed to wear a chador. That I would be forced to if I didn’t do it voluntarily.” She went back to the fridge and took out a wedge of cheese.

“Who was this person?”

“A Revolutionary Guard, I think. He wore the same uniform as Hassan.”

“Are you sure?”

She took the cheese to the counter and set it down. “Sure about what? Whether it happened, or whether the man was a Guard?”

“Both.”

She glared at him. “Nouri, don’t you believe me?”

He backed off. “Of course I do.”

“I was…well…it was creepy. I was shaken up.” She took out a box of crackers from the cabinet, got a knife, and sliced the cheese. She placed everything on a plate and walked it out to the living room. “So, what do you think?”

Nouri took a slice of cheese and a cracker, put them into his mouth, and chewed slowly. “It might not be a bad idea. At least temporarily.”

“What? For me to wear a chador?”

“Not a chador. But some type of hijab. Something on your head. Everyone is crazy right now. And don’t forget, Anna, you are an American. It’s not wise to call attention to yourself.”

“But what about my choice? I am not Iranian. Or a Muslim. Why should I do something I don’t believe in?”

“It’s just for a little while. It will keep people from bothering you. Things will ease soon.”

“Do you think Laleh should wear hijab too?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

Anna planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t you see a double standard here?”

He shrugged. “It’s just outside the house. Inside, behind our walls, you can wear whatever you like.” A sly smile came over him. “In fact, the less the better.”

Anna didn’t return the smile. “Charlie says there’s a difference between ‘foreign’ wives and ‘Iranian’ wives—”

“Of course there is,” Nouri cut in.

“Listen to me. She says it’s in the
Shahnameh
. Iranian men want a woman to be childlike, obedient, and submissive. Only then can they be called ‘pure Iranian.’ I think that’s nonsense, and I won’t do it.”

Nouri picked up another cracker and a piece of cheese. “I understand, Anna. I don’t expect it of you here. But in the outside world…it would be safer.”

Anna was quiet for a moment. Then, “Nouri, maybe we should leave Iran for a while. We can go to Paris and visit my mother. I haven’t seen her in over a year, and she’s dying to meet you. Our wedding anniversary is coming up. I’d love to show you Paris. Or we could go to the States for a visit. Until things calm down. What do you think?”

Nouri chewed his snack. “I don’t know. I have the Metro project. And what about the family? Baba and Maman-joon need us.”

Anna hesitated. “Maybe they should think about leaving too.”

“Baba has an important job. Maman has never lived abroad. Iran is their home. They will never leave.”

“A lot of people, especially the wealthy, are sending their money to Swiss banks. And then leaving.”

“How do you know that?”

“Charlie.”

“How does she know?”

“She’s the director of the IAS. She travels in those circles.”

“Baba-joon will never leave Iran,” he repeated. He hoped his tone sounded as emphatic as he wanted it to.

“But you can.”

Nouri frowned.

“Will you at least think about it?”

He sensed that was all she wanted. “Of course.” He went to her, putting his arms around her and pulling her close. “Now, let’s stop discussing such depressing matters.”

She didn’t react. He took it as acquiescence and started to massage the back of her neck with one hand. With the other he tipped up her chin and kissed her deeply. Usually he heard a quiet sigh from her when they connected. It was her signal that she loved how he loved her. That she had surrendered to the physical. But this evening it wasn’t there. He kissed her again, his tongue probing hers. Then she did something she’d never done before. She pulled away.

“Not now, Nouri.”

“Ah, but Anna, I cannot be with you and not want to make love to you. That Guard was right, you know. You are very seductive. Even when you are not eating an apple.”

“Just hold me, okay?” She searched his face.

“But you are my wife.”

“Nouri, please.” She looked like she might cry.

“Don’t worry, Azizam. I will put a smile on your face, I promise.”

She let him lead her up the stairs.

The day Nouri was arrested began like any other hot August morning. He and Anna discussed their plans for the day over a breakfast of tea and fruit. Nouri would be going to the Metro offices. He expected to be back by mid-afternoon. Anna would stay home, and then they would go to Nouri’s parents for dinner.

Nouri went upstairs to take a shower. He liked a vigorous flow. He imagined the gushing water was a noisy, pulsating waterfall. He was soaping his chest when a bearded man in a military uniform burst into the bathroom and tore aside the shower curtain.

“
Ay vây!
” Nouri yelled. “Oh my God!”

“You are Nouri Samedi?” the man shouted in Farsi.

Nouri quickly covered his privates with his hands. Water streamed down his back and legs. He blinked rapidly. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

The man ignored his questions and twisted off the spigot. “Get out and put on some clothes,” he ordered.

Afterwards, Nouri didn’t know how he summoned up the presence of mind to take a stand, but he refused to move. “Get out of my house, or I’ll call the authorities.”

“Who do you think we are?” The man laughed scornfully, then pulled out a gun and aimed it at him. “Now do what I say.”

Slowly Nouri wrapped a towel around his waist, stepped out of the shower and the bathroom. A second bearded guard stood in the hall, also brandishing a gun.

“Who are you?” Nouri demanded.

There was no answer. He tried one more time. “You have no right to do this. Do you know who I am?”

A fist smashed into his face. Pain exploded across his nose and mouth. He staggered back. His towel dropped to the floor. His hand flew to his cheek. The room started spinning. He tasted blood in the back of his throat. As he fell, he thought he heard Anna scream, but it was coming from a distance. He curled into a fetal position.

Through a haze of pain, he heard one of the guards say, “Find his clothes.” The other guard grunted.

“Tell us where your clothes are,” the first guard barked. “Unless you want to come with us naked.”

“In the closet,” Nouri croaked. He was still curled up on the floor. A moment later, something was thrown on top of him. A shirt and pair of pants.

“Get dressed.”

Nouri rolled over and sat up. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him, but he tamped it down. His hands shook, his stomach cramped. “Where…where is my wife?”

“She has not been harmed.”

Stiffly, painfully, Nouri got dressed and stumbled down the steps. Anna sat on the living room couch, held at gunpoint by a third guard. Her face was ashen and her fists were clenched. A look of terror contorted her face.

“Call Baba,” he said.

She nodded. Then one of the guards pulled out a blindfold and put it over Nouri’s head.

“What are you doing?” Nouri shouted. “Take it off. I am not a common thief.”

The guard shoved him into the wall. Nouri crumpled to the floor.

Anna screamed.

“That was just for show,” the leader scoffed. “He is not hurt.” To Nouri. “Get up! Now.”

As Nouri struggled to his feet, he staggered forward. His head felt loose on his neck. One of the men grabbed him under his armpits.

“Get him out of here.”

“Where are you taking him?” Anna asked. There was no response. “Please. I’m begging you. Where is he going?”

Their reply was to slam the door.

*****

The car ride seemed endless. Without sight, Nouri concentrated on sounds and smells. The car’s windows were down; horns blared, engines accelerated, angry drivers shouted. He was still in Tehran. With no air conditioning, he inhaled the rancid body odor of his captors. Every so often, he caught a whiff of hot asphalt and gasoline. Still, he was disoriented, and each swerve of the car made him nauseous. After a couple of sharp turns, he gagged. Bile rose in his throat.

“I’m…I’m going to be sick,” he stammered.

“You’d better not,” a hostile voice replied.

It was too late. Nouri vomited all over the back seat. The stench permeated the car’s interior.

“
Ah…
Mâdar ghahbeh
! Estefragh kard
!
Oh no!” one of the guards yelled. “The son of a bitch threw up!”

There was a brief silence. Then, “Show him what we do to traitors who damage the property of the Islamic Republic.”

A blow slammed into Nouri’s cheek. He cried out and slumped against the door. His ears rang, and his head felt like a whirling dervish. He gulped down air. Ironically, the blinding pain obliterated his other sensations and, for a moment, his stomach settled.

The men muttered to each other, but there was no real conversation. Drops of sweat ran down Nouri’s back. He wondered what he’d done wrong. He wanted to beg them to let him go. He would have confessed to anything, just to make the nightmare end. What did they want?

Finally, the car stopped. He tried to estimate how long they’d been driving, but he’d lost all sense of time. He could still hear the drone of Tehran traffic, which meant he was still downtown. A good omen. If they’d taken him to Evin Prison on the northwest side of the city, there would be far less noise.

The men dragged him out of the car and shoved him forward. Nouri lurched to one side. Someone grabbed the back of his collar and pushed him forward again. Nouri doubled over—whoever was yanking his shirt was also choking his windpipe. They stumbled up a few steps and entered a building with a squeaky door. They dragged him up a flight of steps. Then another.

The men paused to confer. Then someone propelled him down a hall. A door opened, and he was thrust into a room. It was at least ten degrees hotter inside, and the air reeked of stale, dirty humans. A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Nouri collapsed onto a hard surface. A bench? Shackles were put around his legs. His range of movement was only a few inches.

He leaned his head against the wall, which mercifully felt cooler than the rest of the room. Footsteps shuffled away. The door slammed. He couldn’t hear or smell anyone; he thought he was alone. He tried to gather his thoughts, but they drifted over him in snatches of panic.

He had no idea how much time passed. His throat grew parched, his lips felt like gravel. He was desperate for a glass of water. At the same time, he had to pee.

He wondered what they’d do if he wet his pants. An image of Anna, her face ashen and tight, flashed across his mind. Did she call Baba? Was he coming? How would they know where he was?

Finally he heard footsteps outside. More than one man. The door opened.

“Nouri Samedi?” The voice was high-pitched and thin. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think he’d heard it before.

He lifted his chin. “Who wants to know?”

Footsteps approached and someone slapped him across the face. Nouri recoiled. His cheeks stung.

“You will speak respectfully,” the voice ordered. “Do you understand?”

Nouri nodded.

“I cannot hear you.”

“
Baleh
. Yes, sir.”

Someone cleared his throat. Then, “Nouri Samedi, we have evidence that you have betrayed the revolution and Islam.”

Nouri was about to scream “No!” but remembered the pain that came when they struck him. He shook his head vigorously.

“So you deny it?”

He nodded.

Someone thwacked the side of his head. Nouri fell sideways. His head throbbed. Hands roughly propped him up. He thought he might be sick again.

“We have evidence that you are part of the Mojahedin-e-Khalq.”

Nouri struggled to rise above the fog of pain. The Mojahedin were a leftist group. They were accusing him of being a Communist.

“I am not a Communist. I work for the Metro project. I am not—”

“Shut up!” a new voice shouted in Farsi. “You will speak only to answer questions.”

“Our intelligence says otherwise,” the high-pitched voice barked. “We have proof.”

“It is not true.” Nouri stiffened, preparing himself for another blow, but for some reason it didn’t come. Still the anticipation made him sweat. It trickled down his face, stinging his eyes under the blindfold. He blinked.

“If you confess, the pain will stop. If you do not, it will continue.”

Nouri was in a no-win situation. Maybe he should confess. He couldn’t take much more. But confess to what?

“You spent time in the land of the Great Satan. The avowed enemy of Islam. You even brought home Satan’s wife as your own.”

So they knew about Anna. Had they been spying on him?

The high-pitched voice kept going. “You have made your choice clear. You and your family.” Nouri’s stomach twisted at the mention of his family. Had they arrested Baba and Maman-joon?

“You abandoned your homeland,” the voice continued. “You consorted with infidels and traitors. Tell me why we shouldn’t hang you for treason.”

Nouri tried to think. How did they know about his studies abroad? When he was in the US there was no Islamic Republic. Just the shah. And the protests against him.

The protests.

The fog lifted for a moment. The demonstration at Daley Plaza in Chicago. He and Anna. Massoud and the others. He’d had a bag on his head, but he took it off. He’d been warned not to. SAVAK might be taking photographs. At the time he didn’t care.

Now he understood. SAVAK was gone, its leaders either in prison or dead. But what if a few guards had been SAVAK agents before the revolution? What if they’d shot—or found—pictures? And decided to use them to bolster their new role as guards?

His theory felt oddly satisfying. Perhaps it was just that he could still think clearly but, whatever the reason, it fueled a flash of courage. “I am no traitor or infidel. I fought for Iran. Against the shah.”

“We know the truth. We have been watching you. Do you know what the revolution does to traitors?”

Nouri went rigid. This time the blow slammed into his gut. He doubled over. He couldn’t catch his breath. His bladder released and he wet his pants, but he was in too much pain to care. What did they have on him? And who gave it to them? Did someone denounce him? As he struggled to sit up, he recalled that Hassan had warned him. Did Hassan know more than he’d admitted? Nouri knew his friend had changed. The question was how much.

*****

Nouri was alone. He had no idea for how long. No idea whether it was day or night. He was still blindfolded, his stomach in knots. His eyes, mouth and nose—his entire face, in fact—was hot and swollen. The rest of his body ached. Chills alternated with sweat. No one would save him. They were going to kill him. Yet he was surprisingly calm. Even detached. Terror cannot last forever. It was too powerful an emotion. This must be how a condemned man felt. He wondered what Anna was doing. Where his parents were. Whether they would miss him.

Footsteps tromped down the hall. This was a busy place. Occasionally he heard a muffled scream. Someone in another room was being tortured. He felt no compassion, no pity. Just resignation.

At length, a pair of footsteps stopped outside his door. Odd that he felt proprietary about “his” room, but he figured he’d suffered enough to warrant a sense of ownership. The door opened, footsteps closed in. More than one person. They were probably not more than a foot away, but no one spoke. Nouri cocked an ear. Was this the end? Were they about to shoot or stab him? He took what could be his last breath.

Instead, someone ripped off his blindfold. Light flooded his eyes and he squeezed them shut against the glare. A moment later he cracked them open. He was seeing double. Four men—no, only two—wore the dark green uniforms that had become so familiar. One scowled at him, but the other had a neutral, disinterested expression, as if Nouri was simply a speck of dirt on his sleeve. Slowly his vision cleared.

This man bent down and unlocked his leg shackles. “You are free to go.”

Nouri wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.

“Get out.”

Nouri peered at one guard, then the other. He blinked several times.

“Are you deaf? Go. Get out.” The man’s voice was gruff.

Nouri took a tentative step towards the door. He was unsteady, dizzy. He leaned a hand against the wall until he could get his balance. Everything hurt. But no one stopped him. He took another step. Then another. When he reached the door he looked both ways down the hall.

“Turn left.”

Nouri shuffled down the hall to a waiting room with a desk and several chairs. Sitting in one of them was Baba-joon.