Rooftops of Tehran (16 page)

Someone else said, “That’s not blood, you idiot. You just peed in your pants.” The sound of soldiers laughing and cursing brought a smile to my father’s face. He ran around the building, making sure he was out of sight in the darkest areas of the campground. The old corporal screamed, yelled, and kicked at the guards who were glued to the ground, fearing that a flying bullet might catch them in the belly. They got up, brushed the dust off themselves, and began to run after my father. They hadn’t gone three steps before they heard the sound of shattering windows behind them. They turned around, confused and exasperated, uncertain which way to go, and unsure how anyone could be here one second and on the opposite end of the camp the next. At that moment, another window was shattered on the opposite side of the camp, and still another at a third location.

The superstitious soldier threw his gun down and started to run toward the gate of the barracks, screaming, “It’s a
Jen
, it’s a
Jen
!” which means an evil spirit or devil. The other guards threw their guns down and began to run away, too, biting the space between their thumbs and index fingers.

“Stop, you fucking imbeciles!” screamed the corporal.

Windows began to bust on both sides of the camp simultaneously. My father and Mr. Mehrbaan had started an all-out stone-throwing assault on every window in the campground. People in the dormitories were screaming and whistling, encouraging this outburst against a system that had taken them from their loved ones for two years to teach them how to salute, and not much else. My father and Mr. Mehrbaan ended up making it back to their dorms without the corporal discovering their identities.

My father takes a deep breath. A tiny smile appears on his face. “The next day, everyone was talking about the devils that had broken the windows in the barracks,” he says. He lights another cigarette.

I can tell from the look on his face that the recollection of his younger years with Mr. Mehrbaan has filled him with sorrow.

“He’s the best friend I’ve ever had,” he says. “He’s the most generous person I’ve ever known. I thought I had him back after eighteen years. Now I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.”

The Cost of the Bullet

I’m depressed, and Ahmed knows it. He spends even more time with me these days than he used to. I can tell from his never-ending attempts to cheer me up that he’s concerned about my emotional well-being.

Ahmed is the pillar I lean on. My father always says that there are two kinds of people in the world: ordinary and great. I have no doubt that Ahmed belongs to the latter category.

I tell Ahmed about Mr. Mehrbaan’s arrest as we’re doing our geometry homework in my room. Ahmed looks mournful and says that someday, this country will see the bloodiest revolution in the history of mankind. I once heard Doctor say that a revolution in Iran would change the world. Iran is crucial to the stability and balance of power in this vital region.

As soon as I mention Doctor’s name, Ahmed changes the subject. He begins to sing, “Nothing makes you a better person than the love of a woman!”

“Did you just make that up?” I ask. “I’ve never heard that song. And how can you sing and still concentrate on geometry?”

“Who says I’m concentrating on geometry? And yes, I’m a poet, didn’t you know that?” he replies.

I laugh and shake my head.

“I’m tired of school because school is for kids, and homework is for nerds,” he says. “School and love are two diametrically opposed phenomena.”

“Diametrically opposed phenomena?” I tease. “Who’s using big words now?”

Ahmed ignores me. “Once you fall in love, academic knowledge becomes irrelevant,” he claims. “I’m going to ask Mr. Bana how geometry, the motherfucker of all sciences, distinguishes between the shape of a virgin heart and a heart tormented by love.”

“Have you been smoking hashish?”

“No, why? Do you have some?” he teases. “You know what I think we should do?” he asks, a serious look on his face for once.

“What?”

“We should kidnap Faheemeh and Zari and take them on a trip around the world.”

“Oh, sure,” I say sarcastically, remembering the time he scolded me for suggesting we take the girls out to a movie. “Would we tap into your checking account or my savings?”

“Well, Americans, the most disciplined people in the world, do it all the time. They hitchhike and find work wherever they go to make enough money to get them to the next town. I’ve seen it in the movies. That’s what I think we should do.”

“You’re nuts.”

“You know what’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“What?”

“You take life too seriously.”

“And what exactly is wrong with that, Professor?”

“Don’t take life too seriously; you’ll never get out of it alive!”

Then he picks up the phone and calls Faheemeh. Her brother answers the phone. Ahmed changes the tone of his voice and asks if this is Mr. Rezai’s residence. Faheemeh’s brother says no, and hangs up. Ahmed waits a few minutes, then calls again. And again Faheemeh’s brother answers.

“May I speak to Mr. Rezai?” Ahmed asks politely.

“You have the wrong number,” Faheemeh’s brother responds flatly.

“Is this 346585?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t have the wrong number. Would you please get Mr. Rezai?”

I start to laugh. Harassing people on the phone is a fashionable thing to do among young Iranians. Although I think such pranks are childish, I admit that I enjoy watching Ahmed torturing Faheemeh’s brother, who lets loose with a stream of profanity and hangs up the phone. I tell Ahmed to quit fooling around as I laugh my head off. “You’re going to get us into a major fight with those two boys,” I chide.

He says, “Watch this, watch this.” He calls Faheemeh’s house again, and when her brother answers the phone Ahmed says, “Hi. This is Mr. Rezai. Has anyone called for me today?” He holds the phone away from his ear, and I can hear Faheemeh’s brother exploding into a rage.

We hear my mother coming up the steps. Ahmed hangs up the phone and pretends to be studying. Mom walks in with a tray of tea and some dates, mumbling something about being proud of her two boys. She loves Ahmed like she loves me, and is very happy that I have such a great friend. She tells us to drink the tea before it gets too cold. It is Lahijan tea, the best tea in the world, and the only way to drink it is hot. She also gives us a brief lecture on the benefits of dates, and how the Arabs eat them to avoid dehydration in the scorching heat of the Sahara, and how the Buddhist monks survive on a single date a day.

When my mother leaves, and as Ahmed and I are checking the tea for traces of powdered sorb, Ahmed says, “That’s funny. I thought monks were celibate and didn’t have any dates at all.”

 

I have a hard time falling asleep that night. Around midnight I hear a noise from Zari’s house. I run out on the terrace, and see Zari and her mother walk into the yard. Zari looks up and sees me. She puts her head down and disappears quickly into the house. I feel helpless, as if I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs. Does she not like me anymore? Will she ever come back into the yard like she used to? Oh, what great times we had before Doctor’s arrest.

I’m still on the terrace when she joins me. The weather is unusually cold for this time of year. She is wearing a heavy dark brown turtleneck sweater. She has pulled the sleeves down and into her fists to keep her hands warm. She doesn’t pretend she’s up there for any reason but to talk to me. I’ve always admired her directness and lack of pretense.

She says a soft hello, and approaches the wall that separates our homes. This is the first time we’ve talked since they took Doctor away.

“How are you?” I ask. She shakes her head. Her eyes are red, and I can tell that she’s been crying. She looks pale and devoid of the energy that always characterized her presence. She scratches the top of her head, and I notice that her hands are shaking. Then, as she looks at me, her eyes fill with tears. Her smooth brow lifts into a bed of wrinkles and she bites her lips, trying not to break into a sob. I jump over the wall and put my arm around her shoulders. I think she can tell that this is only a gesture of friendship and sympathy because she doesn’t pull back.

“I’m okay,” she says. Then she cries some more as I tap gently on her hand to calm her down.

“What am I going to do?” she finally asks.

“There isn’t much we can do, except wait and pray.”

She crouches with her back to the wall, and I sit next to her. She starts to sob. “No one knows where Doctor is,” she says. “Both of Doctor’s parents have been hospitalized. His mother is about to lose her mind, and everyone is concerned about his father’s heart condition.”

“Isn’t that strange?” I ask. “Doctor’s parents used to say that he was their heart and mind.”

“I didn’t know Doctor was so involved. All I knew was that he read banned books, and I never saw any harm in that.” She sniffs a couple of times and wipes off her tears as she gets more emotional. “I can’t believe they can take someone away and not say a word to his family. What kind of savages are these people? Have they no decency at all, no regard for a mother’s pain? I won’t be surprised if Doctor’s mom has a stroke one of these days. Don’t these people have any respect for the sanctity of human life?” She sobs bitterly.

We don’t say anything for a long time. Finally, she turns to me and asks, “So, how have you been?”

“All right,” I lie. “I’m fine.”

“Good.”

“I’m glad you came up,” I offer tentatively.

“I wanted to talk to you earlier, but never got the chance.”

“I was worried. I thought maybe you were mad at me,” I admit.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

I wonder if I should tell her the truth about the night they took Doctor away. What if she hates me afterward? What if she never talks to me again?

“I was up here the night they came to get him.” The words come out involuntarily. “The agent with the radio saw me. I think that’s how he figured out where Doctor was.”

Zari stares at me silently, surprise in her gaze. I’m instantly sorry for opening my mouth, but it’s too late to stop now. “Everything happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to duck. For a while, I didn’t even know what was happening. I simply froze, couldn’t move. I’m so sorry. If you ever see him, please tell him that I love him and I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Zari puts her finger on my lips and hushes me. “You should never say that again,” she says. “No one would ever think you could intentionally do anything like that to Doctor. Besides, everyone knows how much you love him. Trust me, you’re not doing anyone any favors by driving yourself crazy over something like that. They knew Doctor was engaged to me, and they had the entire neighborhood under surveillance for a long time.”

I lower my head and stare at my feet. She takes my chin in her hands and turns my face toward her. “Look at me. Look me in the eye.”

I look into those pretty eyes and feel a shame I can’t control.

“Promise me that you won’t ever blame yourself for this again,” she demands.

I nod my head yes, although I already know that I can’t keep my promise.

She slowly pulls her hand away from my face, and leans against the wall. “They’re going to let him go soon. I know it. I just know it,” she whispers.

I lean against the wall, too. “I hope so.”

After a little while she says, “You know, I miss the days when we used to get together in my yard.”

I nod and whisper, “Me too.”

She calls them the worry-free days of summer, and I agree and tell her that I wanted it to be the best summer of our lives, the last hurrah of our adolescent years. How sweetly it all began and how bitterly it ended!

“I wonder if this is a payback for our carefree summer,” she muses painfully. “Life is a game of balancing acts, you know? No one is supposed to have too much of anything. I just wonder why poor Doctor had to pay for my mistakes.” She begins to cry again.

I wonder what exactly she means by her mistakes, but I don’t say anything.

“I’m planning to go to Evin Prison next week to see if I can get any information on his whereabouts.”

“I’ll go, too,” I say. At first she says no because they may associate me with Doctor, but eventually she agrees.

Knowing that she is not mad at me helps lift the anxiety I’ve been feeling since Doctor’s night.

“The stars are beautiful tonight,” I say softly.

“They are,” she answers. “Do you think we each have a star up there?”

“Not everyone,” I clarify, “just good people.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And we can only see the stars of the people in our own lives.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I see Ahmed up there.”

“Which one’s he?” she asks, peering into the night sky.

“That one.” I point to one of the biggest stars. She leans over and her face touches my arm as she aligns her gaze with the direction of my index finger. I look at the back of her head and her shoulders. I can smell her hair, and I feel intoxicated with love and desire.

“Oh, yeah, I see him. His star is big, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. One of the biggest.”

“And let’s see, which one’s Pasha’s star?” she asks.

“Oh, I’m not up there,” I say, but I’m hoping she’ll insist that I am.

“No?” She turns around and looks at me.

I shrug my shoulders.

“Well, keep looking. You’re hard to miss.”

I look for a while, then turn back toward her without saying anything. We stare at each other, and then she gets up and heads toward her house. She stops in the doorway to turn around and ask, “Did you ever give her the picture?”

I don’t say anything.

“Have you told her yet?”

I shake my head no.