Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) (18 page)

“You’re very quiet. What are you thinking about?” Ali asked after about half an hour.

“About life and how normal it seems out here.”

“I promise you that although it will take some time, we’ll eventually have a normal life. I’ll go to work and provide for you. You’ll take care of the house, go shopping, and visit friends and family. You’ll be happy.”

How could he speak about his job in such a casual way? He wasn’t a teacher or a doctor or a mechanic.

“My friends are either dead or in prison, and I’m not sure if my family will ever want to see me,” I said.

“You’ll make new friends. And why do you think your family would so strongly disapprove of our marriage?”

“For one thing, because of your job.”

“Marina, trust me; there’s hope. They’ll see how much I care for you. I’ve had to overcome many obstacles just to keep you alive, and there are many people who are against our marriage. There are many more obstacles for me to overcome, but I’ll take care of every problem. Your family will see the good life I’ll provide for you, and they’ll change their minds. We’ll face your family together, whenever you’re ready.”

Why had he chosen
me?
I was the embodiment of everything he stood against: I was a Christian, an antirevolutionary, and a prisoner. He had had to fight to save me from death and now he had to fight again to marry me. Why was he doing this?

For some time, we went out for rides every night. While in his car, I tried to pretend that I was a normal person. I tried to stop thinking about the past or the future; I tried to concentrate on the soothing hum of the engine, the softness of the leather seats, and the streets that seethed with careless life. Although the city had remained exactly as I had left it, every sight, smell, and sound felt alien. Ali’s voice rose above everything as he told me about his family. He was an only son and had one sister who was twenty-five years old and was married. His mother had become pregnant twice after his sister’s birth but had miscarried both times. According to Islamic law, men are allowed to have more than one wife, but Ali’s father, Hossein-eh Moosavi, had devoted himself to his only wife and two children. Mr. Moosavi was a very religious man and had helped Ayatollah Khomeini for many years. He was proud of Ali for being a brave soldier in the jihad against the shah. Mr. Moosavi was a smart businessman who had made a great fortune but remembered to help those in need. For years, Ali’s parents had wanted him to get married, but at the age of twenty-eight, he still had not made the commitment.

“I told my parents about you,” he told me during one of our nightly drives.

“What did they say?” I asked.

“They were horrified,” he said, laughing.

Maybe there was hope that I wouldn’t have to marry him after all. “But I told them you were the one,” he continued. “I told them I wanted you more than anything else. I’ve always been a good son for them. I’ve always obeyed them, but this time, the decision is mine. I can’t settle for any less. I’m twenty-eight, I’ve been through so much in my life, and I’ve made up my mind. I want you to be my wife, my companion, and the mother of my children.”

“Ali, we’re from different worlds. Your parents will never like me. They’ll always criticize me for my different ways.”

He told me that his parents were kind and generous and he had no doubt they would love me.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think.

After a few minutes, he told me that there was one more thing he had to discuss with me. He knew I wouldn’t like it, but he insisted it was just a formality. “My father has told me that if you convert to Islam, he’ll have nothing against our marriage. He’ll even encourage it,” he said. “Then, my parents will be proud to accept you as their daughter. They’ll support and protect you as their own. Marina, this is what I want to happen. I want you to belong with me, and I want my family to love you. From the moment I saw you, I knew we had to be together.”

I had lost my family, the man I loved, my freedom, my home, and all my hopes and dreams. Now, I had to betray my faith.

He didn’t care if I remained a Christian in my heart. I pleaded with him to let me go, but he said it was not possible.

“What if I say no?” I asked.

“Don’t make this difficult for yourself,” he said. “This is for your own good. You don’t want the ones you love to suffer because of your pride. You’re only seventeen years old. There are so many things about this world you can’t understand. I promise you that I’ll make you happier than you’ve ever been.”

How could I make him understand that I would never be happy with him?

He parked the car on a quiet street. I knew the area; it was close to my Aunt Zenia’s house. I asked him if he understood that I had to forget all about my parents, my friends, and my church, that they would hate me forever. He told me that if they hated me because of my converting to Islam, this would mean that they had never truly loved me.

He stepped out of the car and opened my door.

“What are you doing?” I asked

“Come. I’ve bought a house for us.”

We climbed the few steps that led to the front door of a large brick bungalow. He unlocked the door and went in. I hesitated.

“What are you waiting for? Don’t you want to see it?” he said.

I followed him. There was a family room, a living-dining room combination, the biggest kitchen I had ever seen, four bedrooms, and three bathrooms. The walls were all freshly painted in neutral colors, but there was no furniture. In the master bedroom, I stood in front of a sliding door that opened to the backyard. The lawn was thick and green, and geraniums, pansies, and marigolds were growing in mounds. Reds, whites, purples, and yellows. A white butterfly flew from one flower to the next, struggling to keep its trembling balance on the wind. A tall brick wall separated the yard from the street. How could there be so much beauty in such a cruel world?

Ali opened the sliding door.

“Let’s go outside. The flowers need water,” he said.

Once in the yard, he pulled up his sleeves, turned on the tap, and grabbed the hose. The wind carried the cool mist and touched my face. He watered the plants, careful not to disturb the soil. Large droplets of water appeared on the foliage, holding the golden sunlight inside their pearly bodies. He picked the spent flowers, humming a tune and smiling. He looked normal, like any other man. Had he ever killed anyone, not at the war front, but in Evin? Had he ever pulled the trigger and ended someone’s life?

“Do you like the house?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I planted the flowers for you.”

“Ali, I’m a prisoner with a life sentence. How would I be allowed to live here?”

“I’ve convinced all the key officials in Evin to let you stay here with me, like a house arrest of some sort, and they’ve agreed. Marina, this is our house; yours and mine.”

Our house. I don’t even know who I am anymore. This house is an extension of Evin.

“So I’ll be a prisoner here,” I said.

“We have to do this the right way. You know very well that some people like Hamehd are against our marriage, and they’re watching us. We shouldn’t make any mistakes. You were condemned to death by an Islamic court and—”

“But I never had a trial,” I said.

On the night of the executions, Ali had told me that I had been sentenced to death, but I had assumed that Hamehd, and maybe a few others, had simply decided to execute me. To me, a trial was what I had read about in books and had seen in movies: a large room with a judge, a jury, a defense lawyer, and a prosecutor.

Ali said that I had had a trial, but I wasn’t present when it took place. Then I received Imam’s pardon, and my sentence was reduced to life in prison. He said it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to go to the imam again, but he was allowed to request a retrial. He believed if I received a retrial after converting to Islam and marrying him, my sentence wouldn’t be more than two or three years.

I asked him why Hamehd hated me so much. He explained that Hamehd and many others like him didn’t care for those who are different and have different ways.

I sighed. I didn’t understand this strange Islamic society.

“Everything will be fine,” he continued. “I haven’t bought any furniture, because I thought you might want to decorate the house yourself. We can start shopping for the house tomorrow, then it will probably be ready in time. I know you’re still worried about your family’s reaction, but trust me. Once they see the life I’ve provided for you, they’ll be happy.”

Maybe Ali had a point. We weren’t rich, and this house was far beyond our reach. My father had never believed in God and had always laughed at my religious beliefs, but money was something he had always cared about. Big, expensive things had always impressed him. Maybe he was going to like Ali. My father loved luxury cars, and Ali drove a brand-new Mercedes. My mother never owned anything expensive and lived in a rental apartment since she had gotten married. She was going to love this house. Did I even have a small chance of ever being happy with Ali? It did depend on him, but also on me. He loved me in his own way. Although his ways were very different from mine, I could see the love in his eyes when he looked at me.

As we drove back to Evin, Ali said, “I don’t think you should go back to 246. The cells of 209 will be a better idea for the time being. I’ll be able to see you more frequently and bring you food from home. What do you think?”

I nodded.

On our way, we stopped at a small restaurant, and Ali bought us each an egg sandwich and a bottle of Coke. I loved eggs and had not had any for months. We ate in the car. The bread was fresh and buttered, and there were slices of tomatoes in between slices of hard-boiled eggs. When I finished my sandwich, Ali wasn’t even halfway through his. He asked me if I wanted another one, and I said I did. He bought us each one more.

In Evin, Ali parked the car in front of a building, and we entered it. A long, dimly lit hallway stretched before us, patched with many metal doors on either side. A guard walked toward us.

“
Salam aleikom,
Brother Ali, how are you?”

“Very well, Brother Reza. Thanks be to God. And how are you?”

“Not bad. Thanks be to God.”

“Is the cell I asked for ready?”

“Yes, it is. This way.”

We followed him to a door with number 27 written on it. He put a key in its lock and opened it. A loud creak echoed in the hallway. Ali stepped in the cell and looked around. Then, he came out and motioned me to step in. I did. The cell was about ten by seven feet and had a toilet and a small sink both made of stainless steel. The floor was covered with a worn brown carpet, and the only window, which was about one foot by one foot, was barred and beyond my reach. Ali stood at the door.

“You’ll be all right here. I’ll be back with breakfast in the morning. Get some sleep.”

I watched the door close and heard the key turn in the lock. The click it made almost sounded like “traitor.”

A military march began to play through the loudspeakers. Another victory. If all these “victories” were true, Iran would have had conquered the world by now.

I took off my scarf, went to the sink, and washed my face. It felt good. I did it over and over, thirty times or so, until my face felt numb. There was something comforting about the sound of running water and its coolness. The water somehow connected me to the world. But this connection, even though I could feel it on my skin, was like a memory. The comfort it brought me didn’t belong to the present; it was something from the past, nostalgic and sad.

I was exhausted. There were a couple of folded military blankets in a corner. I spread them on the floor and lay down. The walls of the cell had been painted light beige, but some of the paint had peeled off, exposing the plaster underneath. The remaining paint was covered with fingerprints, strange, greasy-looking marks of different shapes and sizes, and a few brownish-red stains, which I suspected were blood. Also, quite a few words and numbers were engraved on the walls, most of them illegible. I traced the engravings with my fingers, as if they were written in Braille. One of them read: “Shirin Hashemi, January 5, 1982. Can anyone hear me?”

I was home on January 5, and this girl, Shirin, was here. Where was she now? Maybe she was dead. How badly tortured was she when she wrote these words? “Can anyone hear me?” she had asked.

“No, Shirin, no one can hear us. We’re here alone.”

There were other names: Mahtab, Bahram, Katayoon, and Pirooz, and more dates: December 2, 1981, December 28, 1981, February 12, 1982, et cetera. I managed to read a sentence that said: “Firoozeh
jan
, I love you.” Trapped and lost lives had left their imprints on the walls around me. I followed an invisible line, like a road on a map, connecting words, dates, and sentences that surrounded me like tombstones. Death was present here, its shadow sieving every word with finality. “Can anyone hear me?”

I’m a traitor. And I deserve all this, this pain, this cell. The moment I stepped in Evin, I was condemned to betraying myself. Even death turned its back on me. They’ll hate me: my parents, Andre, the priests, and my friends. How about you, God? Do you hate me, too? No, I don’t think you do, although you might. This is useless. Who am I to decide what you think? But you put me here, didn’t you? You could have let me die. But I lived. So this was more your decision than mine. What did you expect me to do? Please, I beg you, say something…