In the Walled Gardens (16 page)

Before we parted outside the hotel, he said curtly, “Forgive me if I caused you embarrassment in any way.”

For the first time ever I felt he didn’t mean it, that he didn’t care anymore one way or the other, so much was his disappointment.
I walked to my car with an astonishing sense of regret.

S
HIRIN CALLED
, all breathy on the phone, to say her boss had just left on Swissair for Zurich and she could leave the office early. Couldn’t
we go dancing? Couldn’t we go uptown and dine on steak with pepper sauce at Chattanooga and watch people? I said I had a busy
night.

“I’ve got something for you,” she said, unrelenting but sheepish.

It wasn’t like her to be sheepish or insistent. I asked what she had, but she wouldn’t say, so I said I only had one hour.

Her white car was at the corner as usual. We drove up Pahlavi past the Hotel Miami and parked by the towering plane trees
opposite Sa‘yee Park. She slid out of the car in her tight skirt and heels, and I followed, watching her strut across the
sidewalk, swinging her purse and blond mane, straight for a café marked Nice Teria. The place was overheated and smoky, swarming
with lovesick couples, mostly students, crammed into narrow booths, with textbooks stacked on the tables under dim low-hanging
lights.

We got seated by a window of smoked glass. Shirin asked for tea and creamy roulette, then pulled out a cigarette. As I extended
the flame of the match, she cupped my hand, lips puckered, eyes sultry. I found the artful gesture comic. She had oodles of
eyeliner and green eye shadow and mascara. In the other booths they had heads together, all snug and whispering. The waiter
brought tea and cake, Shirin joking around with him. We ate creamy roulette.

“I love these new
terias!
” she said. “Nancy Teria and Pretty Teria and Fancy Teria and two opening in Vanak.”

I couldn’t have cared less.

“You know, my English teacher at the Iran-America Society? He says
teria
is a word in Tehran, not in English. We laughed when he explained!”

“You let another foreigner patronize you again? Don’t be a sheep. You love everything foreign. Careful, or you’ll turn into
a cheap imitation.”

“I’m already one to you.”

She slid a parcel wrapped in brown paper across the table. “Jalal gave it to me. He said if he ever disappeared to give it
to you.”

The brown paper was unmarked and sealed with tape.

“You opened it?” I said.

“You don’t trust anyone.”

“I know you slept with him,” I said.

She flinched, slid off the bench. “I have a headache,” she said imperiously.

She sauntered off, swinging her hips, waiters eyeing her appreciatively.

I
TORE OPEN
the brown paper of the parcel. It was a book,
The Selected Poems of Forough Farrokhzad.
I leafed through, and a white unmarked envelope fell out by my cup and saucer, a letter.

I tore open the envelope. A single sheet of white, unlined paper with five lines in blue ink. I recognized his lousy handwriting:
“If something happens, call the number written in the book I gave you. Call at night after eleven. Tell whoever picks up:
‘I bring news from Varamin.’ He’ll tell you where to meet him. When you see him, give him this message: The group has been
infiltrated by two SAVAK agents. Tell him one of them is Omeed, and the other is Shaheen. It happened after the assassination
of Colonel Fotouhi. I’m Omeed. I’m under surveillance. Trust me — I trust you.”

There was no signature. A letter to no one from no one, only the bearer imperiled. I was stunned. Omeed — that was Jalal’s
code name? He was a member of the secret police? A Savaki? Impossible! I looked around, reread the letter. I couldn’t believe
what I was reading, couldn’t believe I’d been misled. It came up against all my intuition and years of experience. I could
have sworn he couldn’t be a Savaki, not in a hundred years, not Jalal — he could never sell out, he was no squealer. The very
idea was absurd. Since when did they hire agents who quoted poets like Nima and Shamlu? A new breed. I couldn’t accept that
I’d been betrayed. Ice in my veins instead of blood. He wanted me to trust him. He had some nerve! If he was a Savaki, then
where had he drawn the line? Had he reported me, our underground group? Set us up, then lied about the SAVAK raid against
us this summer? Already late for my class, I flagged a cab on the street.

T
HAT NIGHT
we appraised the progress of the New Left — the Trotskyists, the Golehsorkhi group, and others. The new round of mass arrests
at Aryamehr and Tehran Universities, where students had rioted and been hauled away, though we’d been told none were our recruits.
Dr. Hadi sat pale and shaken. He said they had arrested his niece, an assistant lecturer at a technical university. She had
called him from a police station, told him hurriedly that she’d be away at the Caspian all week — which he knew was nonsense
— then managed to give the number of the station before getting cut off. Immediately he’d run out and called another number
from the street. An influential lawyer had accompanied him to the police station, where they were told she’d been sent home.
Two hours later they’d finally found her at her downstairs neighbor’s, severely bruised and beaten. Dr. Hadi had examined
her contusions and given her sedatives. She’d refused to go to the hospital. They had arrested her during a lecture by an
activist writer that night. She and the other detainees had been taken to the police station, questioned; then several of
them had been told to report to SAVAK headquarters the next day. She’d been put in an unmarked car with several men in plain
clothes to drive her home, but ended up on a deserted road, where they’d clubbed her in the dark and abandoned her. What mattered
most to her was this — they called her a fucking whore. “You fucking whore!” they said, beating her. “We know you’re whoring
around with faculty and students. Corrupting them. Fucking whores, all of you!” She wept with rage telling Dr. Hadi. “You
see? If I speak up, I’m a whore in this country.”

Our playwright said, “I must write a play about this! Why a woman is mother or whore in our country. I’ll write it like a
Greek tragedy.”

We got down to business. The clique of three from the provinces, who had feuded, then split from us, had now appropriated
the name of our paper. They had just come out with a very second-rate issue. Our reputation was at stake, so for the first
time we decided to officially denounce them. We discussed details on coordinating the upcoming strike at Tehran and Aryamehr
Universities, for the eight political prisoners on hunger strike, as well as at the Pars Technical School, where our feelers
had formed two new cells. For the next three nights, and in different safe houses each time, I was scheduled to lecture preselected
groups. Lenin, Kautsky, Debray, the politics of insurrection.

I reported on my friend from the confederation, Majid, and how I’d settled with him about renting the garden by the Karaj
River belonging to his uncle. We needed a covered truck to move our printing press out of town and needed to keep two volunteers
there. We considered suitable candidates, tallied how much money was in our account at Melli Bank under Dr. Hadi’s name. Again
I told them about Majid’s ambitions for the Left. Again they accused the Left in exile of being factional while supposedly
promoting a coalition. Of snooping and fraternizing just to case their competition. Of being infiltrated and funded by foreign
hands like the CIA and SAVAK. Of championing guerrilla warfare instead of political process. We agreed to stay focused and
refuse to be swayed. These guys who come back from abroad are always patronizing and theoretical.

T
WENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER
I still had the letter in my possession. It lay in the inside pocket of my jacket — I couldn’t leave it anywhere else.

The handwriting was his without a doubt. He’d used the blue felt pen. His penmanship was awful and I always ridiculed him.

I looked for the book in my room and found the phone number scrawled on the very last page. His plan was already in place
when he’d given me the book. I considered my options until nightfall. Jalal had disappeared. It was a lie that he was in prison
if he was working for the secret police. So where was he, and what was he up to? The only way to get to him was to do what
he’d asked and call the number and give his message. I had to find him to find out if he’d double-crossed me.

At eleven-fifteen I sprinted down to the corner, went into the public booth, and dialed. The phone rang four times, and a
man picked up.

“Yes?” he said, decisive and abrupt.

“I bring news from Varamin,” I said.

He hesitated, for too many seconds. I didn’t like it. I could hear the murmur of a radio and paper rustling.

“I’ve got news from Varamin,” I repeated.

This wasn’t working, and I decided to hang up.

“Wednesday,” he said. “Let’s go to the movies. Radio City. How about the seven o’clock showing? You buy the tickets and wait
by the door.”

“All right,” I said.

“Don’t forget to bring the book this time.”

The phone went dead. I had forty-eight hours.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I called Mr. Bashirian. I felt guilty about the interview and how everything had gone wrong. I valued his friendship, but
I was also angry. He had roped me in, ever more dependent on me, and now he was sulking.

I told him I needed to discuss the new directive with him. He said he had other pressing matters and I’d be better off discussing
it with Mr. Makhmalchi. Especially since I was seeing so much of him already. Someone had let him know that Mr. Makhmalchi,
his rival, was constantly in my office, perhaps Makhmalchi himself. I humored Mr. Bashirian, but he was curt, brooding. I’d
known him so long that I was familiar with the intricacies of his temperament. It mattered a great deal to me what he believed.
In the end, he made polite excuses. I felt offended; still, I kept up a warm and tactful end to the conversation. I wouldn’t
have done it for anyone else.

At the tail end of the day, there was a note on my desk. The director wanted to see me. Going past Mr. Bashirian’s closed
door down the hall, I wanted to barge in and shake him and tell him I was on his side. I wasn’t sure how he saw things anymore.

The director was standing behind his desk talking on the phone when I went in. He waved me over to a chair, got off the phone,
rubbed his temples.

“It’s been a bad week,” he said. “I know our economic realities have no bearing on the way things are run.”

I nodded politely.

“In other words” — he cleared his throat — “it’s not as simple as writing papers and sending memos. Our advice doesn’t really
count. I mean, it should — but if we argue our side too forcefully, they accuse us of harboring leftists. The truth is, whenever
there’s a big conference and everyone gathers, the only real players are way at the top. Everything — everything comes from
the top.” He sat down. “Edicts, endless monologues, lectures. We’re ordered, like servants. And that’s that.”

He stared, solitary, dubious.

“There are too many political interventions from the top,” he said. “Too many things. One option is to resign in protest.
Of course, it’s hard to let go of power. So if one knows what goes on and stays, that means one accepts.”

I thought he’d lost his mind to speak that way. If word got out, he’d lose his position and kill his entire career.

“I — I’ve spoken frankly, but, well, we go back many years and after all I know your father, though he and I are different
generations. Please give him my best.”

Thierry called just as I was about to leave my office, his voice full of mischief. He’d already heard about the interview
at the Intercontinental.

“This is the sort of thanks I get?” he said.

“You only want gratitude.”

“All that nonsense about the poor little wretched father. I hear he quotes Fanon and gets downright nasty.”

“Will it get printed?”

“Who knows,” he said. “Anyway, I’m in excellent humor, since I’ve made another conquest.”

“Tell me,” I insisted.

He dodged, but it was a game — he wanted me to know. He was having an affair and finally admitted it was Pouran.

“You call that a conquest?”

He laughed again, entertained and gratified I had ridiculed a mutual friend.

M
Y BROTHER
K
AVOOS DROPPED BY
early in the evening. The children were doing homework upstairs. They came running down to greet their uncle, then went running
back up again. Houshang had called to say he’d be late because of a meeting followed by a reception. I handed Kavoos a Scotch
and soda in the living room, and he took off his tie and jacket.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Why?” Kavoos can be cagey.

“What happened to that boy who was arrested?”

“Nothing. His father saw the lawyer.”

“Then it’s out of our hands.”

“It’s in nobody else’s.”

“There’s something you should know,” he said.

I looked up.

“I heard something from a friend this morning. Someone high up.”

“Bad news?”

“It concerns Houshang. It’s very confidential.”

I reached for the pack of cigarettes.

“It doesn’t look good. They’re about to indict two rear admirals and several naval officers and, so far, two civilians. Several
of the officers are on the Bandar Kangan project. The charges are embezzlement — payoffs in the millions. So far your husband
is not on the list.”

“Thank God.”

“I don’t know how . . . involved Houshang is,” he said. “Let’s hope he’s clean as a whistle. Father will have a heart attack
if he gets indicted.”

My palms turned clammy at the word
indicted.

“I’m not sure when the story’s going to break. Right now they’re meeting behind closed doors. One of the naval officers has
decided to come clean and name names. He’s been promised a more lenient sentence for betraying the others. I don’t know if
Houshang knows, but this is very confidential information. Very sensitive.”