Censoring an Iranian Love Story (36 page)

I will say:

“You are wrong. First of all, it is ‘symbols’ and not ‘synbols.’ Second, these are Dara’s nightmares. Dara is going mad; these are his horrific illusions. Is going insane allowed in our country? It is not a crime, is it? Is it?”

Mr. Petrovich will stare into my eyes to read what’s left of my thoughts. I feel tired. My back is too burdened for my knees to carry, and my throat is too tight to breathe. I wish I could be alone somewhere—away even from the eyes of Sara and Dara—to pour out this ill-omened saltiness that burns my eyes. But even if I were in the middle of a desert between Shiraz and Tehran, Dara on my right and Sara on my left would stand waiting, staring at me. And all I know is that I must not come to my knees before their eyes.

THE FREEDOM OF INSANITY

I
magine you live in a country where you are not even free to be insane. It’s frightening. I know. Imagine you are a twenty-something-year-old girl and mentally disabled. During the day—because your family wants to be rid of you—you go out, and in the streets of one of Iran’s northern towns, you wander around. There are men who with instinctive shrewdness realize that you are mentally disabled, and with an ice-cream cone they lure you under a stairway and they empty themselves inside you. And you enjoy it a little as you eat your ice cream. Then you are arrested, and the judge sentences you to death. You don’t understand what is going on. One day they take you from the prison to the town square, and you see a crowd has gathered there for you. You are happy that so many people are there just for you, and you try to smile at them to show them that you are happy to see them. But before they can see your smile, an officer pulls a bag over your head, and you no longer see anything, not even the face of the last man who emptied himself inside you. And all you feel is the coarseness of the rope around your neck. Then all you want is the sweetness and chill of ice cream, and you feel that your air passage is constricted and you are vomiting. You are happy you are vomiting. You try to laugh. But the rope that has tightened around your neck pulls you up using a crane; it doesn’t allow you to laugh; it only allows your lips to contort in an ugly way. If you are lucky, because of the weight of your body your neck will break and you feel no pain. But if the rope has not properly lodged around your neck, you have to suffer for a few minutes until you find relief. And the men who have emptied themselves inside you, and who are surely among the onlookers, are perhaps gratified by watching your body’s convulsions as it hangs from the noose …

I too am looking on as my love story is being hung. I am beginning to understand that I have deleted so many scenes and replaced them with new ones, and I have choked and stifled so many sentences, that my novel—the information that I must offer the reader—is no longer coherent. I know I have no right to give in. I have no right to go insane. To save my novel, Dara must be wise and call Sara and say:

“I have to apologize to you.”

“For what?”

“Don’t ask, just accept my apology. Forgive me.”

“What have you done?”

“What I almost did. Don’t ask me what I was about to do. Will you help me?”

“Yes, yes. Just tell me what has happened. What do I have to do?”

“Just help me be the man I was on the first day you saw me. I don’t want to be … I don’t want to be a murderer. Why do you all want me to be a murderer? Help me!”

Dara’s sobs are like nails piercing the ears of those who tap the telephones of lovers.

And I am ashamed of myself for having unknowingly and unintentionally sent an assassin into my novel to kill this innocent man. Given my guilty conscience, Sara has no other choice than to say:

“Very well, my darling, I won’t ask any questions. Just tell me what to do.”

“You are wiser than me, think of something, do something, so that we can start over again.”

The good fortune or misfortune of lovers is that they quickly forget their good fortunes or misfortunes.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

A
t one o’clock in the morning, in the heart of the desert, when
The Moon Is Down
and the sky allows the stars—the sight of which is the lot of us earthlings—to tell their stories without fear, I climb out of my car. The road is deserted. The Milky Way stretches all the way behind a mountainous terrain on the horizon. I hear the wind stir in the thornbushes. I can now confidently say that it is wintertime. The chill of the desert forces sleep out of my head, and I can wake Dara up too for him to stare at the ceiling and with eyes wide open to see his Sara. I like my midnights of solitude on the desert roads of Iran. I have driven two hundred and fifty miles to arrive here, and I still have another three hundred miles to go before I reach Tehran, where tomorrow afternoon I will start my story-writing workshop at
Karnameh
magazine. It is forbidden for writers such as me to teach at literature departments in universities in Iran. But sixty young people have registered for my workshop, which is being held in the offices of a privately owned magazine. They are very eager to become story writers.

A large blue meteor burns in the sky and disappears on the northern horizon. The wind blows from the heart of the desert and brings the sound of camels’ bells from a caravan carrying silk that on this night, hundreds of years ago, was approaching the Shah Abbas caravansary …

I have to go so that I can arrive at my friend’s house before the maddening morning rush hour of Tehran and sleep for a few hours.

But at 6:45 in the morning, as I enter the city limits, I come to a full stop behind logjammed traffic. In the distance I can see the marble white of the Freedom Tower. This beautiful structure was built years before the revolution as a symbol of Tehran. In those days it was called Shahyad, which means “in memory of the king.” Naturally, it was renamed after the revolution. Tehran’s sky is strangely clear of smoke and smog, and its ultramarine blue tempts one to fall in love, provided that the hundreds of drivers lift their hands off their useless horns, stop glaring at the drivers of the cars next to them as if they were responsible for the traffic jam, and play the CD or cassette tape of a banned romantic song that they have hidden somewhere in their car:

I and the sparrows of the house have grown accustomed to seeing you,
In the hopes of seeing you we take wing from our nest …

I know that this sentimental hope is hardly possible. Many of those drivers have a grueling day ahead of them. They are troubled by their continuing descent into poverty, stressed by work hours filled with conflicts with colleagues and clients, and tired of the fact that, after the end of their workday at one of the many government offices, they have to either go to their second job or pick up passengers in their twenty-year-old cars and drive them around until late at night, just so that they can perhaps come up with tomorrow’s expenses. Then let them blow their horns and blow their horns. There is not even a one-foot move forward, which is very strange. One hour, two hours pass. Even stranger is that there are no cars coming from the opposite direction either. By now everyone has turned off their engines, lifted their hands off the horns, and with that unquestioning and unique Iranian patience, they wait. Something unusual must have happened up ahead. I see excited people on the sidewalk going in that direction. I lock the car doors and follow them. A mile farther up, I reach a large crowd circling around something. Contrary to Iranian customs in such large crowds, the people are utterly silent. They are neither pushing and shoving to move farther up, nor are they making snide remarks and calling one another names. As though the sun has dawned, from over each other’s shoulders they peer at the center of the circle where the shimmer of a turquoise hue can be seen. I make my way through the crowd. They are so mysteriously quiet that I don’t dare ask what has happened. Stranger still, the moment my elbow touches them, with no anger or resistance, they make way for me to move farther up. I have steadily entered the halo of an unfamiliar scent. It is a natural fragrance that without the aggressive pretenses of artificial perfumes, and without intending to, has spread and fused with the turquoise hue …

Suddenly, I come face-to-face with it. Right at the exit ramp for Mehrabad International Airport, it is sprawled out across the coarse and scarred asphalt from one side of the boulevard to the other, like a massive hill that has appeared overnight. Its turquoise color has a calming, rippling, neonlike glow. It is as if a huge flame burns inside it. The crowd, without the twinge of curiosity, having surrendered to the magnificence of that presence, stands staring at it from a distance that respects its boundaries. The only sound that can be heard comes from the walkie-talkies of police officers and plainclothes detectives. Their commanding officers shout, asking what is happening there, and they receive no answers. No one dares move forward to touch that turquoise whale lying on its stomach and facing the mountain range of northern Tehran. With a seemingly natural calm, it has spread its large fins on the asphalt, its eyes are open with no indication of life or death, and as in all whales, the line of an eternal smile is etched across its face. Freshness and the vigor of life radiate from its skin, but on the highest point of its middle there is a patch where layers of coral, oysters, and the shells of unnamed sea creatures have turned into stone in such a way that colorful plants from sea gardens and jasmine bushes will grow, or have grown, among them.

Now I realize that the unfamiliar scent that has flooded my body with a sense of delirium and intoxication is the scent of ambergris. My knees weaken. A huge Chinook helicopter hovers over the whale. But we all know that this helicopter that can easily move tanks is powerless before that contentedly lazing mass on Tehran’s asphalt. All it can do is irritate us and the whale with the wind from its propellers and its earsplitting noise.

I want to sit down. And from this unfamiliar temptation, all of us who have circled around, one by one, quietly sit down, even the police who normally disperse any unauthorized gathering with the force of their batons and tongue-lashings.

Mr. Petrovich will think, I must get myself to the ministry as quickly as possible to report to the director so that he can immediately instruct all newspapers and news agencies not to write a single sentence and not to broadcast a single word about the sudden appearance of this strange creature in Tehran …

That afternoon I start my story-writing workshop. To the one hundred and twenty eyes staring at my eyes I say:

“My advice to you is, if you can live in Iran for a few days without thinking of a story, if you can live a few days without the temptation to write, then take pity on yourselves and don’t come to this workshop again. Throw the dark dream of becoming a writer in Iran in the wastebasket at your house and go search for a comfortable life, carefree and happy … But if you cannot live for one day without writing one sentence, if without writing you cannot sleep, if you are in love and you don’t know who you are in love with, then welcome to the prestigious world of the Iranian story.”

One of the girls starts to read her story. A story about the shadow of a man behind the curtain in a woman’s house. The woman pulls the curtain aside, but there is no one there. Yet fear persists in the house and in the story because the woman knows, and we know, that the shadow will return.

Many words flutter around in my head in critique and analysis of the story. I wait impatiently for others to express their opinions so that my turn will come to speak. Suddenly my eyes lock on to a pair of familiar eyes at the farthest corner of the classroom. Mysterious and sharp, they stare at me. I am sure they were not there before. I forget everything I wanted to say about the underlying layers of a good story. Instead, I say:

“It’s a good story. But let’s remember that every good story needs rewriting, too. Like an emerald, one can cut and polish it over and over again. Perhaps it would have been better if every writer had the ambition to write a single story in his lifetime and worked on this one story until the final moment of his life.”

I add:

“That’s enough for today …”

But Mr. Petrovich raises his hand to speak. Seeing the stunned look in my eyes, all eyes turn to that corner of the classroom.

“May I speak simply as someone who is interested in stories?”

“Sir, you need no permission.”

“I wanted to ask why you, who truly are a good teacher, did not talk about the underlying layers of the story that was read. I think you censored yourself so that this young lady writer doesn’t get into trouble.”

I don’t know how to respond. He continues:

“It seems the woman in the story is terrified when at night she sees the shadow of a man behind the curtains in her bedroom. But in my opinion, the shadow is in fact a reflection of the woman’s hidden desires. The story wants to suggest that in the mind of every woman there is a hidden man, and the shadow of that sin appears behind the curtains in her bedroom. I think this story is an insult to all decent women. If the writer herself has the shadow of a man behind the curtains in her bedroom, she should not attribute her own sinful desires to other women as well.”

I say:

“Sir, you’re going too fast. First of all, the story only tells us that a man’s shadow is behind the curtain. There is no mention of a bedroom …”

“Sir! What sort of a comment is that? You are either trying to fool me, or you don’t know anything about story writing. Any reader can discern that those curtains are bedroom curtains. Shadows don’t appear behind living room curtains, and even if they did, the lady of the house would grab a broom and beat it against the curtain so much that the shadow would regret having ever appeared.”

I say:

“The workshop has ended. For next session, read Kafka’s
The Trial
so that we can discuss it.”

I gather my papers from the desk.

I walk out of the building, and I am surprised to see snowflakes. I am sure that when I was driving over to the magazine’s offices, the sky showed no signs of clouds or snow. But snowflakes, without a doubt, are falling. I see the dark shadow of Mr. Petrovich a short distance away. He is standing there smoking a cigarette, waiting for me. I start walking. He asks:

“Aren’t you going to get into your car?”

“No. I want to walk a little. I really like the snow.”

He joins me. I don’t want him to learn the whereabouts of my friend’s house where I am spending the night. I randomly pick a direction and start to walk.

“How was my critique of that woman’s story?”

“It was interesting. I am surprised you don’t teach a creative writing course.”

“I am thinking about it. Frankly, given all the years I have spent reading stories by you Iranian writers, and plenty of translations of foreign novels and short stories, I think I know stories and novels better than any of you.”

“I congratulate you.”

The snow has quickly emptied the sidewalks of pedestrians. The snowflakes, although large, are very light. They float around us.

“How is your story coming along?”

“I’m stuck at the next-to-the-last scene.”

“Are you waiting for an inspiration?”

“Inspirations don’t deem the likes me deserving. They come looking for you.”

“But I want you to be able to write an Islamic love story. And if it happens to be postmodern, then all the better. In other words, for everything in it to be all muddled and confused and yet for it to criticize modernism, which incites sin. Don’t forget, we take no issue with postmodernism. After all it promotes a return to tradition.”

“In any case, regardless of whether my story is traditional, modern, or postmodern, it is getting all very convoluted.”

I turn onto another street. The sidewalk is so deserted that seeing a frail man walk toward us is somehow comforting. He is carrying a leather bag. His back is bent, and he is so drowned in thought that it seems he doesn’t see us. Just as he walks past us I recognize him. He is no other than Hooshang Golshiri, that same great contemporary writer I mentioned before. He has played an important role in my life as a writer, and I happily shout:

“Mr. Golshiri!”

In the light of the streetlamp his face looks tired and old. He seems to be straining his memory to remember me. Then in a cheerless voice he says:

“I didn’t recognize you! Your hair has turned so white … Is it snow?”

I shake my head.

“No, it turns white despite the snow.”

He pulls a handwritten manuscript out of his briefcase and hands it to me.

“I have discovered a brilliant young writer. Read.”

As if he has just then noticed Mr. Petrovich, he says:

“I see you are walking with Mr. Petrovich!”

I stammer:

“The gentleman is walking with me. You know … He graced my story-writing workshop tonight.”

The glint of his usual humor and cleverness comes alive in his eyes. He turns to Mr. Petrovich:

“My dear sir, what news of my
Prince Ehtejab
and
Christine and Kid
?”

His voice sounds young. Mr. Petrovich says:

“What’s the rush, Mr. Golshiri? Your books are a bit complicated, and it takes time to scrutinize them.”

Golshiri’s masterpieces have been waiting for a publishing permit for some twenty-seven years. He says:

“I’m in no hurry. I was going from Prince Ehtejab’s house to Christine’s house. They constantly ask when they are going to be published, and I have no answer for them. Will you be at your office tomorrow for Morad to come and pay his respects?”

Morad is one of the characters in Golshiri’s
Prince Ehtejab.
Every time he comes to visit the prince he brings news of the death of one of the prince’s relatives, until the end of the novel when he brings the prince news of the prince’s own death.

“Why Morad? You should come yourself. We’ll have some tea and chat. Perhaps we can even reach a compromise.”