Censoring an Iranian Love Story (21 page)

It was morning. Later, when he was shaving, he remembered what the talisman peddler had said. He stared at his face. It wasn’t a bad face. It was a handsome face. But there was no sign of a spell on it. Sinbad looked in his mouth; perhaps something there would give him an inspiration. With his finger he pushed up the tip of his nose to look inside his nostrils … No, he saw nothing strange there either. He cursed the magic seller and headed for the office. As on all previous days, his colleagues either were busy debating politics or were getting ready to go to some demonstration against something or other. Among the debaters, two groups were often more impassioned than the rest—they were also louder— the Communists, consisting of ten people belonging to seven different political factions, and the die-hard supporters of the Islamic regime who were far greater in number. Sinbad started to work.

Countless mothers and fathers, most of whom brought their newborn with them, would come to request birth certificates with all sorts of different and at times strange names for their child. Sinbad would record their information in a book, along with the chosen name, and he would ask them to return in two months to pick up their child’s birth certificate. The parents would complain:

“Sir, how long could it possibly take to write a couple of names on a birth certificate for us to have to wait two months?”

Sinbad would meekly glance over at his colleagues who were busy arguing, and he would explain all the various steps that he would have to take to issue a birth certificate.

Sometimes the parents, clutching their newborn, would join the debaters and start arguing about the crimes and treasons committed by the Shah’s regime, by American imperialism, by Russia, Britain, France, Germany, and China. Sometimes one of the die-hard Communists would reach his boiling point and shout, “According to Marx …,” and from the opposite side others would in unison shout back, “Death to communism which says there is no God.” It was in the midst of all this commotion that Sinbad would at times make strange mistakes. For instance, on a boy’s birth certificate he would write a girl’s name, or vice versa. That morning, he was double-checking a birth certificate when with the spark of an inspiration he suddenly realized that, ever since the revolution, the number of birth certificate applications for newborns with names of Iranian kings and emperors was decreasing and, conversely, the number of applications for newborns with religious names and Arabic names that have no relation to religious figures was increasing. In a gesture of surprise, as is common around the world, he raised his hand up to his face. He realized he had not shaved that morning. He found it strange that he would forget an age-old habit. Even stranger was that he seemed to have some vague memory of soaping his face and shaving that morning and then looking at himself in the mirror searching for a spell…

The next applicants did not give Sinbad more time to think. It was two in the afternoon when he noticed his colleague, Ms. Roxanna, staring at him in surprise. Ms. Roxanna was the only woman in their office, and further to the decree forbidding female government employees from wearing makeup, she obstinately came to work every morning wearing makeup, even more makeup than she used to wear before the revolution. The lady was among the very few employees who treated Sinbad with respect, and Sinbad had started thinking that perhaps he was in love with her. The only reason he had not proposed to Roxanna was that he was sure that any day now she would be purged as an antirevolutionary and a corrupt element. Sinbad knew that, given his meager salary and the soaring inflation, he had to marry a woman who had a job.

At three in the afternoon, Roxanna again stared at him. But there was no longer any respect or surprise in her eyes. Instead, there was fear. Sinbad rushed to the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror. He was shocked. Not only had he not shaved that morning, but it seemed he had not shaved for the past three days. Yet Sinbad’s surprise was nowhere as great as his surprise, and even horror, the next morning when he stood in front of the mirror. At the sight of a stranger’s face looking at him, he screamed and leaped back. A bearded man was looking at him from inside the mirror. Sinbad ran his hand over his face, and for the first time in his life he felt the softness of his beard. A full, beautiful, adult beard. The soft hair flowed down neatly, as if it had been blow-dried. The beard had given his face a spiritual and innocent quality. Sinbad examined it more closely. He was experiencing an unfamiliar pleasure. He enjoyed the touch of this alien feature and found his new face interesting to look at, yet he reached for the razor and shaved off the beard and headed for the office.

He was in no mood for work that day, but there were so many applicants and so much to do that he didn’t even have time to scratch his beard. Ms. Roxanna’s looks of surprise and fear persisted, and it seemed as if looks of reproach had been added to them. Sinbad thought, The hussy! She acts like I owe her something. The hell with her. Good thing I didn’t propose marriage. Obviously she’s one of those foul-tempered demanding women who treat their husbands like slaves and constantly look for excuses to henpeck and drive them mad. Therefore, the last time their eyes met, he did not quickly look away. In fact, with impudence and even anger he stared back at her with a look of What’s your problem, hussy? And he held his glare until Roxanna grew embarrassed and looked away.

At two o’clock that afternoon, Mr. P. tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to go for a walk. Mr. P. was one of those rare people who prior to the revolution openly demonstrated his religious inclinations. Even back then, unlike his colleagues, he never wore neckties, always had stubble on his chin, and whenever he came face-to-face with a woman wearing makeup and dressed in Western fashion, he would become terribly uncomfortable. He would blush, sweat, struggle to not look at the woman’s face, and he would turn away. He had once explained to a colleague why he would not even lower his head and look down. “These women … One doesn’t know what to do … Some of them wear such short skirts and sandals without socks that no matter how low you hang your head you can still see part of their legs … I get embarrassed instead of them.”

During the early months of the revolution, P. organized and led a strike by that bureau’s employees, and for this he was arrested and thrown in prison. After the revolution triumphed, he was released along with other political detainees—some of whom had spent more than thirty years in the Shah’s prisons—and he returned to his workplace a hero.

Sinbad walked in step with P., who was being very quiet and mysterious. He couldn’t figure out what this important person who always ignored him could possibly want with him. He was scared. He thought P. probably wanted to tell him he was being purged. He had prepared to defend himself if such a remark was made and to complain that they should fire Ms. Roxanna instead.

A group of a hundred people were walking down the street, hurling their fists at the sky and shouting, “Death to the monarchist, death to the Communist, death to the hypocrite, death to the counterrevolution.”

P., in a voice that now sounded sad, said:

“I see you’ve stopped shaving.”

Sinbad ran his hand over his face. He realized that contrary to what he had thought, he had again not shaved. He now had a five-day beard. He did not answer.

“It’s very good. Islam disapproves of men shaving their faces and looking like women.”

“I know.”

“I know you know … My concern is something else.”

“I have always tried to be a good employee. If there is any shortcoming in my work, please tell me and I will certainly rectify it. If you take my job away from me, I will be ruined. I have an old mother who worked as a servant in rich people’s homes to raise me, and now she is bedridden.”

“No one wants to fire you. My concern is that your growing a beard is a hypocrisy and a pretense. In my opinion, in Islam hypocrisy is a far greater sin than shaving. This is what I wanted to tell you.”

Sinbad looked at P.’s sad face in surprise; P. was looking somewhere far away.

“These days everyone is a die-hard Muslim. Mr. Kingslave has changed his name to Pious. The man who I do not claim was an informant of the Shah’s secret service, but who we know was a member of the Shah-ordained Rastakhiz Party, has grown a beard and is now more devout than the likes of me. He goes to the director general every day and with half-truths and half-lies he bad-mouths our colleagues, he slanders them, and to show that he is a revolutionary, he recommends that some of them be purged. It was he who made the director general suspect you, even though we all know how very responsible you are … I am struggling to make sure such people do not get ahead and sidetrack the revolution.”

Sinbad angrily said:

“I’m not one of these people. I just want to do my job, collect my salary, and live my life … Why are you telling me all this? You should instead go and stop people like Mr. Pious.”

“I just wanted to tell you that we are all Muslims, but if you, from the bottom of your heart, do not believe in practicing some of the instructions of Islam, then take it easy with your appearance. Let it be your heart that guides you, with purity of purpose, not to shave your beard. If you preserve the purity of your heart, you will be showing God greater love. Hypocrisy will distance you from God.”

“Why are you so sure that what you are saying is itself not a hypocrisy?”

Shocked by this question, P. stood motionless. He looked into Sinbad’s eyes. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he looked down.

“You are right. No one can be completely sure … Hypocrisy has many faces and many shades … Throughout history, all the calamities that have befallen us Iranians have been because of this hypocrisy …”

Seeing P.’s vulnerability, Sinbad felt sorry for him. He thanked him and returned to the office.

That afternoon as Sinbad was walking home, very far from the office, he heard Mr. Pious calling him from behind.

“How are you, my fellow colleague … I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Well, you are very busy.”

“My brother, what busy! Well, yes, the director general has put some new responsibilities on my shoulders. My duty is to the revolution; I must bear the weight. Otherwise, I am that same old friend of my fellow colleagues.”

“What are you doing around these parts? Your house is uptown.”

“My man, what uptown! I inherited that ramshackle hut we live in from my father … But I was born and raised in this neighborhood. I was on my way to my aunt’s house when I ran into you. What’s new?”

“Nothing. All is well.”

Pious stared at Sinbad with his sharp and perceptive eyes. Then his tone changed.

“I saw you walking with P. this afternoon. I wanted to tell you to be very careful around him. Don’t be fooled by his innocent appearance. He is one of those slippery lizards. A long time ago he pulled all our colleagues’ files from the archives and studied them. He has made a long list of people to be purged, and he goes to the director general every day and insists that they are antirevolution elements and must be dismissed.”

“There is nothing in my file for me to be worried about. I have always done my job, and I have nothing to do with anyone’s good or evil deeds.”

“Do you really think it’s difficult for them to frame someone? He can easily tell them that you used to be an undercover agent for the secret police … As a matter of fact, given the current situation, the likes of you who are alone and don’t have the support of any group or faction should be even more afraid. We are friends and colleagues. We have to look out for each other.”

Earnestly, Sinbad said:

“In any case, I too have worked hard for the revolution, and I don’t want it to suffer in any way.”

Mr. Pious thanked him for his goodwill and said:

“I know. What’s important is for us to look out for each other and to be united. One of these days we’ll get Mr. P. fired from the bureau. Then you will understand that I have supported you and wished you well by warning you not to go down the well with his rotten rope.”

Sinbad thanked this newfound friend, and Mr. Pious, as a gesture of his sincerity, patted him on the back and said good-bye. Sinbad arrived home feeling more tired and helpless than ever before. He warmed up his mother’s food, put it in front of her, and sat cross-legged in the corner of the room to watch television.

In the television program, one of the revolutionaries who had lived in France for many years and who had returned to the homeland after the revolution was talking passionately about the government’s plan to change Western names. He was explaining that the heads of the Ministry of Arts and Culture—which was later renamed the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance—had organized a committee and issued a warning to factories that made products with Western names and to shops and especially boutiques that had Western names on their signs. Meanwhile, the committee was taking immediate action to delete the names of streets such as Shah Street, Roosevelt Street, Elizabeth Boulevard, Kennedy Circle, and would instead select Iranian names for them. Suddenly, the spark of inspiration flashed in Sinbad’s mind. Excited, he got up and started to pace around the small room … Yes, this was it. To prove what a good employee he was, to show what a creative and productive mind he had, for everyone to understand that he had never had any fondness for that monarchist regime, he must present the General Register Office with a revolutionary plan that would play a fundamental role in the lives of future generations of Iranians. Given that he had always been a responsible and hardworking employee, he was surprised that he had not thought of this sooner. He quickly stacked up all the paper he had at home in front of him. He divided each sheet into two columns. The column on the right for recommended and suitable revolutionary names, the opposite column for rotten and vulgar antirevolutionary names. In the introduction to his plan he wrote: “It is obvious and apparent that a name plays an essential role in the formation of its owner’s character and his or her future happiness.” Sinbad’s mind had become very active, and it quickly reminded him of different names. Of course, in his proposed plan, which he would have to present to the director general, he would need to point out that the suitable revolutionary names should only be suggested and recommended to parents who apply for their newborn’s birth certificate and that there should be no coercion whatsoever. The rationale behind his plan was that because the Iranian people are extremely logical and steer clear of sentimentality, they would eagerly and wholeheartedly embrace the recommended names and would abstain from selecting antirevolutionary names for their children. The random few who might not adhere to this revolutionary plan would have proven themselves to be spies and antirevolution elements, and their punishment would be left up to the courts.