In the Walled Gardens (24 page)

We lost our house in Tehran and took rooms in the house of my mother’s brother. Father remained there like a caged bird, this
man who had loved the open fields and open skies and lived to oversee the land. A man whose entire language was about working
the land. He had always taken measure of its divisions and crops and seeds and water and roots.
Daimi
and
saifi
and
abi
and
maalek
and
ra‘iyat
and
mosha
and
jareeb.
A lifetime he had repeated the words into the night. A lifetime I had heard them, like the chanting of birds. When it stopped,
the silence was terrible, as if someone had cut off his tongue and hands. He didn’t say much, not even to me, and never talked
much after that. Once, he’d taken on the world, taken on peasants and tenants and government agents and land-lords, a lion
in the desert of God. I felt my blood boil every time I saw him in a corner reading. I’d see him as I came and went from university,
when I returned nights from arguing politics with friends, and there he sat under the light with his book and the ghost of
his dignity, a broken man. Mother was heartbroken. Zari felt nothing but shame. Then Morteza’s family came to ask for her
hand, and they were married under a dark cloud, though I think our family always kept up an admirable front. In time, through
my fury and humiliation and guilt for the things I could not change, I learned to have the strangest tenderness for Father
— and outright defiance for that edifice that had brought about his ruin.

One evening we found him lying in the street, where he’d collapsed from a massive heart attack on his way home from buying
bread.

Then only death came to honor his old age, his life’s work commemorated by a simple slab, a grave.

Looking to take on the world, to change a destiny I would never again leave to others, I learned to rise up against a system
that maintained that everything had to be the way it said, had to be obeyed and submitted to without question, unbroken for
all eternity.

I
CIRCLED FOREVER
, looking for parking. Mr. Bashirian had said nine o’clock, the Central Department of Police adjoining Komiteh Prison.

“You won’t forget?” he’d said self-deprecatingly the day before. As if I could. “I hope he’s all right,” he’d repeated all
day. He was afraid they’d harmed him, afraid they’d bring out a different son. “I hope it’s no trouble to you,” he said finally.
“No trouble,” I said. “Just something between friends.”

That night I worried — not just about going into Komiteh or what could happen, but about reaching out to somewhere unfamiliar,
hostile, where I would be forced to reassess everything I stood for and took for granted.

The sun shone; the sky was enduringly blue.

My wool overcoat caught in the door of the car. I tripped as I crossed at the traffic light. I never thought of turning back.
From that distance I could see Mr. Bashirian pacing with a small black duffel bag. He’d never seen the inside of a prison,
never thought he’d deserve to.

Past the front gate and main office, where we checked in, we were directed to a waiting room. We waited, other visitors inhabiting
steel chairs against the wall. Two families, one with two small children. I watched the children jump around. The duffel bag,
which they had inspected, was on the floor next to Mr. Bashirian. He got up several times and went to the window, the only
one, giving on to the courtyard, and the children jumped up and down in his way. You could still hear the noises of the city,
buses, honking, the hum of traffic — reassuring sounds, from in there. It was reassuring to see children, though there was
nothing reassuring for them there.

Mr. Bashirian didn’t want to talk, he was so nervous. I had nothing to say. He’d taken off his raincoat and carefully draped
it over a chair. He wore gray trousers and a white shirt with a striped green tie under a navy blue sweater. And he had his
eternal hand-kerchief, which he kept taking out to wipe his eyes and forehead. Nerves: he couldn’t bear waiting. I couldn’t
wait for the whole thing to be over.

We ground out our cigarettes nervously into the glass ashtray on the steel table by the wall. For once the walls were blank.
There was nothing identifiable, no official portraits. No one wanted to own up to this room. He stuffed the handkerchief in
his pocket. The door opened and a man in a black suit in the doorway motioned to the family with children. The mother started
to cry. Mr. Bashirian turned his face away; he’d gone pale.

“What did you bring him?” I whispered.

“His favorite sweets. One book.”

“Which one?”

“Les Misérables,”
he said.

I nodded, recrossed my arms next to him, twitching my foot.

He turned to me. “That day at the Intercontinental, I reproached you for mentioning the book. Forgive me.”

“No, you were right.”

“No, but I want to tell you I’m ashamed. Ashamed of what I had to say to the reporter. Instead of telling him all about our
great progress and fine universities and wonderful medical centers and modern institutions, I had to —”

“I know. I know what you mean.”

It was miserable. He saw the world not for its flaws, nor for what it owed him, but for what he gave in service. He’d made
the pact long ago. It would be tested.

The door opened again. Mr. Bashirian looked up, panic in his eyes.

“Bashirian,” the man said impassively.

We were going through the door, Mr. Bashirian walking ahead with the duffel bag. I followed, the impostor. A guard had checked
our identities at the main office as I’d held my breath. I’d deferred to Mr. Bashirian, standing demurely behind him while
he’d handed over identification cards and the duffel bag for inspection. He’d shown his sister’s identity card with an airbrushed
picture of her, which strangely enough resembled me — the high forehead, the slightly beaked nose, the heart-shaped face,
even the squint in the eyes. We were roughly the same age. I’d memorized her date of birth and particulars, just in case,
but they had not asked.

What would his son think of seeing a stranger, an intruder? Too late now.

We were led halfway down a narrow corridor into a small room to the right. No one there. No windows, but two feeble strips
of neon lights above, casting an anemic hue. A rectangular table was in the middle with chairs around it. The man left, slamming
the door behind him, the glass pane in the door rattling. Mr. Bashirian paced, intent on sounds from the corridor. I stood
away from the door.

Within minutes we heard the distant clanking of a metal door, the reverberating echo. Then footsteps, not one set, but a cluster.
I tensed up, casting quick glances from the door to Mr. Bashirian. He stood frozen in the middle of the room. I kept to the
side.

When they brought in Peyman Bashirian, time stopped. Even for me. He hung for a moment in the doorway, a guard behind him.
The dark hair, ashen face, dark eyes. He looked as if they’d forced him to come. I could only see the back of his father’s
head and how his arms hung loosely, then twitched up, to fall back, resigned. Such yearning. I was mortified. I looked down.

“Fifteen minutes,” the guard said.

It sounded like a lifetime.

The door slammed shut, the guard remaining outside. Behind the pane of glass a jowly man appeared, about to open the door.
The man who’d conducted us to the room interrupted him, and they conferred behind the glass pane.

Freedom, the most indefinite possession.

Inside, neither spoke, Father nor son. Peyman had no hand-cuffs, no visible signs of being a prisoner. He wore dark blue jeans
and a brown sweater and sneakers. Tall, thin, clean-shaven, he seemed haggard for his age. He’d already been in Komiteh too
long. Still, the handsome son of an ugly man. Why wasn’t he embracing his father? There was no vestige of anticipation in
his eyes, no relinquishment in his posture. I panicked for Mr. Bashirian.

He spoke up. “How are you, my son?”

Peyman nodded several times, then looked through me with stony eyes. I stood rigid like a stake in the ground. He hadn’t asked
who I was. He knew I was no lawyer; they didn’t get lawyers in there.

“Sit, sit here, my son,” said Mr. Bashirian.

Backing into chairs, they sat down. Peyman sat at the head of the table at a right angle to his father. I took a chair at
the other end. Both of them had their hands on the table. Mr. Bashirian’s were clenched together; Peyman’s at the edge as
if he were about to rise, knuckles white, hunched over.

“Tell me, how are you, are you all right?” he asked his son again.

“How are you?”

He’d used the formal “you.” Hadn’t said “Father.”

“I’m — I’m so grateful to see you,” said Mr. Bashirian. “I haven’t had day or night without you. From the moment you were
arrested.”

Peyman looked down, the buzz from the neon lights above permeating the room. Mr. Bashirian wrung his hands.

Then he said softly, “This is Ms. Mosharraf. Remember? I always talked to you about her. She’s been so — so helpful, trying
to help. Doing all she can. She’s —”

“Don’t mind me,” I said quickly. “Your father has done everything possible for you. Maybe it’s best I leave you alone together.”

They stared back, Peyman impassive, Mr. Bashirian alarmed, verging on panic, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead.
I didn’t budge.

“What happened, my son? What are they telling you? What’s the accusation?”

Peyman began to speak, strained, inaudible. Mr. Bashirian leaned in to him. I couldn’t hear from the other end. Mr. Bashirian
was wiping his forehead again, but this time when his hand went down I saw it tremble.

“How can it be?” he said. “What do they mean?”

Peyman shook his head. He looked up, our eyes meeting for the second time. His were more pliant, as if he’d relinquished some
terrible bit of deception, just a trace, indisposed to telling everything.

“Look,” Mr. Bashirian said, pointing. “I’ve brought you a few things.” He bent down to the duffel bag.

“I’ll look later,” said Peyman.

The father sat up lamely. “You’re . . . thin, my son. Do you eat?”

Peyman nodded.

“You appear tired. Don’t you sleep?”

His son shrugged.

“Give your father your hand. Let me hold your hand for a moment.”

Peyman remained rigid, eyes averted, his hand resting on the table. Mr. Bashirian looked to me, bewildered, strangely humbled.
I was about to intercede when the door opened and the jowly man in the business suit walked in. He was smiling, a green folder
under his left arm. Peyman instantly tensed up. Mr. Bashirian, his back to the door, turned and, when he saw the man’s outstretched
arm, rose and shook hands with him.

“This is my sister, who’s come from Sari,” he said, introducing me.

“Please be seated,” the man said ceremoniously. “Carry on, carry on. I got detained outside with an urgent problem. Do carry
on.”

He hadn’t introduced himself. But Peyman knew him: a chilling look had overtaken Peyman’s face. The man came around and sat
at my end, his balding pate and flaccid cheeks lending him an agreeable patina despite the intrusive eyes.

“Why are you seated at this end?” he asked me.

His smile was glassy. He stared at Mr. Bashirian and Peyman.

“You do well not to live in Tehran!” he said to me with congeniality. “Your air up north is so much cleaner, the coast lush
and green. I wouldn’t mind moving there myself.”

He turned to Mr. Bashirian. “You said your sister-in-law or your —”

“My sister,” Mr. Bashirian cut in.

“Your wife is deceased, yes?” the man inquired.

“Long ago,” said Mr. Bashirian.

No one spoke, as if we had forgotten how in front of the newcomer wielding authority. Mr. Bashirian was defenseless, unlike
his son, who was seated with the anger of a thousand years. Like a memorial. Eyes sunk above cheekbones into dark circles
below heavy brows. The most beautiful mouth, full, elevated with pride.

“If I may inquire, with respect —” Mr. Bashirian said, addressing the official, “what now? I mean, how long will you be .
. . holding my son?”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” the official said.

“How much longer?” I asked.

Mr. Bashirian was on the edge of his seat. The official stared at me.

“Please, tell us,” I implored. He would pity an imploring woman.

“I most certainly will not!”

“But what’s he being kept for?” I asked.

“I repeat! A family visit is a rare privilege few prisoners are granted here. I think you’re aware of that.”

“I — I’ve traveled all this way to see my nephew,” I went on, agitated. “My brother’s sick with worry. Can’t you tell us something?”

He looked at his watch. “Time’s up,” he said to no one in particular.

He rose, folder up against his chest. He’d never opened it once.

Mr. Bashirian was overwrought, eyes flitting left and right as if he couldn’t focus. He looked ill. Peyman kept his eyes on
the table, jaw tensed. I was conscience-stricken our time had been cut short because of me.

A man poked his head in the door and motioned to the official.

The official exited, assuring us he’d be right back. Who was he? We hadn’t asked. He had every right in that room, including
the right to question. Not us.

“Peyman,” said Mr. Bashirian hurriedly, “what shall I do? Tell me! What do you need, my son? Say something!”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Sweets and a book, but next time —”

“You saw the man who just left?” his son interrupted.

“The gentleman who was just here?”

“He’s no gentleman!” said Peyman. “He’s one of my interrogators.”

“Interrogator?” said Mr. Bashirian. “Him?”

The door opened. The official stood poised in the doorway, smile solicitous, the guards at attention behind him.

Mr. Bashirian had fear in his eyes. He picked up the duffel bag, handed it to his son. He hugged Peyman, kissed him, pressing
him in with both arms. He clung to him, tears rolling down his cheeks.