Rooftops of Tehran (29 page)

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” I respond. “How are her parents?”

“The Masked Angel is taking care of them.”

I tell him about my dream, and about Zari telling me that Doctor has forgiven me for falling in love with his girl. I share how Zari said she would always be with me, and how I feel her presence all the time. I’m sure she’s in the room with us right now, happy that we are together. And with that I break into bitter sobs.

Ahmed tells me to take heart and be strong. He says he doesn’t know what the future holds for any of us, but that God always makes things right. I tell him that I don’t believe in God and that if there is a God, he’s got a lot of explaining to do when I get my hands on him. He shakes his head and smiles. I think he wants to bite the skin between his thumb and index finger, but he doesn’t.

My father and Dr. Sana walk in. It’s time for Ahmed to go.

“But it’s only been a few minutes,” I protest.

“We’ll be spending lots of time together soon,” Ahmed says. “Just like the old days, okay? Just like the old days.”

We hug each other good-bye with moist eyes.

After they leave, I sit by the window and look at the sky. A brilliant, luminous star blinks at me from millions of miles away.

That must be Ahmed
.
He’ll go on to live the life of a king, I just know it.

The memory of Zari pointing to the biggest star and claiming that it was me, the night before Doctor’s fortieth day, chokes me up.

 

A week later, Dr. Sana tells me that her immigration application to Australia has finally been approved, and that she and her family will be flying out of the country as soon as their house is sold. I’ll be released from the hospital in a few days. She’s going to write me as soon as she settles in Sydney, and will even send me a ticket to visit them in their safe, new home.

The Color of Age

On the day of my release, I become more anxious as we drive closer to our alley. I can’t imagine what it will be like to be home again. Is our house under surveillance? Have people been told not to interact with me, and did my father choose a late hour for our arrival to avoid the neighbors? As the car turns into the Ten Meters of Shahnaz, I remember the day Ahmed brought the neighborhood together to measure the width of the alley. I smile, and Dad notices.

“What’re you smiling about?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I respond, and ask him to slow down so that I can take a good look at the neighborhood. Nostalgia envelops me as I think of the past, when innocence ruled and wickedness existed only in the minds of imaginative storytellers. Times when Iraj seemed evil because he looked at Ahmed’s sister, and death was an alien state of “not being” associated with the old.

Our neighborhood looks different, as if the brush of time has painted everything the color of age. The alley seems darker and narrower than I remember it. The trees are bare and lifeless. February is a cold month in Tehran. The wintry wind from the north blows and traps the snow against the tall walls of the houses. The windows on the homes with northern exposure seem frozen. I remember Mom saying that those homes are a breeding ground for germs because they never get any sun. A smile creeps up on my face again, but then I see Zari’s house from a distance. It too is dark and lifeless. An excruciating pain shatters my soul. It’s unbearable to imagine the alley without her in it. Now I see the rosebush. It’s standing tall but bare, like it’s supposed to at this time of year.

We arrive at our house, and when my father stops the car, the brakes make a loud squeaking sound. My mother runs into the alley and, as I open the door, she scoops me into her arms. She hugs me, kisses me, and cries that she doesn’t ever want to let go. I want to cry, but I don’t. Before we enter the house, I look toward the roof.

“Where’s Ahmed?” I ask.

My parents exchange a glance but don’t say anything. My heart sinks and I involuntarily reach for my sleeves. Now what? What have they done to him? He wouldn’t miss my arrival!

As we walk into the yard, I’m attacked by flying snowballs aimed at my chest, my head, and the rest of my body. “Get him, get him!” I hear two guys yelling. My mother turns the lights on in the yard, and Ahmed and Iraj come running toward me. They tackle me and throw me on the ground.

My mother laughs and warns, “Be careful, please, be careful. He’s weak and his bones are fragile.”

“Oh, leave them alone,” my father says. “Let them have some fun.”

Of course Ahmed and Iraj pay no attention to anyone. They turn me around, playfully punching me in the stomach and on the sides, piling snow over my face and body. I’m overwhelmed with joy. I kiss and hug them, too, but don’t punch them back.

The lights in the neighbors’ homes come on. Suddenly it feels as if the whole alley has come alive. “Welcome home,” Ahmed’s dad yells from the other side of the wall, as his mother prays.

Another man from a couple of houses down yells out, “We missed you.”

I look around and see the neighbors at their windows, on their roofs and on the balconies of their homes. They wave, smile, and wish me well.

“Sleep well tonight,” one neighbor says.

“Thank God he’s home safe.”

“We’re playing soccer in the alley at nine a.m. sharp, okay?” I hear a kid yelling out. I nod, and wave back as we walk into the house. Ahmed and Iraj look so happy I want to hug them again. My father sits down with us as my mother goes to the kitchen to get tea and sweets. I look around and I can’t believe I’m back in my own home. Our black-and-white television is right across from the door. The three ancient blue chairs are positioned around the little old sofa as if they’re guarding it, and an old Kirman rug covers the floor. I notice that the bright blue wallpaper that my uncles helped put up five years ago is getting too old for this room and should be replaced. I try not to remember that blue was Zari’s favorite color. The big grandfather clock, which never worked, is placed diagonally in the corner next to the huge brown oil heater. A large terrace lies between the living room and the yard. The lights in the yard are still on, and from where I’m sitting I have an unobstructed view of the
hose
and the olive tree that my father planted the day we moved in.

My mother brings us tea and tells us to drink it while it’s still hot—but not too hot because drinking hot tea can cause liver cancer. Ahmed discreetly sniffs the tea for traces of powdered sorb. I chuckle.

Iraj informs me that Mr. Yazdi has retired and that Mr. Gorji, our religion teacher, has taken his place as principal. Things are very different at school now because Mr. Gorji is a strict disciplinarian, something no one knew about him when he was only a powerless religion teacher.

Every morning he makes the students line up and stand at attention while he lectures everyone via a bullhorn at full volume. In my mind, I can hear his pompous crowing. They also talk about a new algebra teacher named Mr. Sheidaee. He’s a fourth-year physics student at the University of Tehran who believes that everything in the world can be explained by mathematical formulas, and that the governing laws of the universe are coded in the architecture of the pyramids of Egypt. It seems that Mr. Gorji hates Mr. Sheidaee’s blasphemous theories.

“Everyone knows that Sheidaee’s days as a schoolteacher are numbered,” Ahmed says, “but he’s putting up a good fight so far.”

“To settle their differences, a few weeks ago they went out and drank vodka together,” Iraj says.

Mr. Gorji used to lecture us that drinking alcohol was a sin and that drinkers were infidels who would burn in hell on the day of reckoning.

“How did you find out?” I ask, laughing at the ubiquitous hypocrisy of Mr. Gorji.

“Mr. Sheidaee told Ahmed!” Iraj says, laughing. “The next day, Ahmed praised Mr. Gorji in front of a whole bunch of students for setting aside his differences with Mr. Sheidaee and chugging a few drinks.” I immediately begin to laugh as Iraj continues, “Ahmed said that all of us had learned a valuable lesson from them: that any quarrel can be peacefully resolved over a couple shots of vodka.”

“Mr. Gorji left the room like a bullet from a six-shooter.” Ahmed grins.

Iraj interrupts Ahmed. “The next thing we heard was Mr. Gorji calling Mr. Sheidaee an idiot and a blabbermouth, and Mr. Sheidaee calling Mr. Gorji a hypocrite and a charlatan.”

I laugh as I picture Ahmed causing yet another major disturbance at school. It’s the first time I’ve laughed so cheerfully in more than three months. My mother brings us more sweets and another round of tea.

“I don’t miss being at school, especially if Mr. Gorji is the principal,” I say quietly.

“Are you planning to come back?” Iraj asks.

“He can’t,” my father says. “He’s already missed over three months. They won’t let him in until next year.”

Suddenly, I realize that I won’t be graduating with Ahmed and Iraj. The thought of being in high school next year without my friends fills me with sadness.

Ahmed points to Iraj and asks, “Can you believe this guy is still growing? Look at how tall he is!” Sure enough, he’s grown at least five centimeters. His upper lip is covered by thick, fuzzy hair that badly needs shaving.

“Why don’t you shave your mustache?” I ask.

“My father thinks I’m too young to shave,” he says, a bit embarrassed. “It’ll ruin my skin, you know?”

Ahmed jokes, “Of course, the medical journals are full of stories of adults with bad skin, all because they started to shave too early.” We all laugh, even Iraj.

My mother updates me on what’s been happening in the alley while I’ve been gone. There have been far too many weddings, and pretty soon this neighborhood will be crawling with babies. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but she was just getting used to everything being quiet.

The neighbors ask about me all the time, and everyone wishes me the best. My father says that my uncles and aunts will be in town to see me within the next couple of weeks. He also mentions Mr. and Mrs. Kasravi, but doesn’t say anything about the Mehrbaans. Is Mr. Mehrbaan still in jail? A more frightful thought goes through my head.
If something has happened to him, I don’t want to know yet.
I take another sip of tea.

We stay up until three in the morning talking about everything except Zari and Doctor. Sometimes as others talk, my mind drifts away in the middle of the stories. Nothing feels right to me. The brush of age seems to have passed over my soul, and I feel as if there is nothing more for me to learn, and nothing else for me to look forward to. What can life teach me that I haven’t already experienced?

 

It’s finally time for bed. Iraj says good-bye and goes home, and Ahmed and I head up to my room on the third floor. We are finally alone. I look toward the roof, and let the tears fall down my face. Ahmed lowers his gaze.

“How is Faheemeh?” I ask.

“She misses you. We’re going to see her tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait. Thank God you two are okay.”

As soon as I say that, I remember that I don’t believe in God anymore.

We stare at each other. We both know that sooner or later our conversation will turn to Zari. Finally he says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

I pause, then nod.

“We don’t see her family very much anymore,” he starts. “Her father leaves early in the morning and never speaks to anyone about her. Her mother never leaves the house, and they say she is sick all the time now. She spent a good deal of time in the hospital after . . .”

He pauses three heartbeats, then continues.

“I haven’t seen her mother for a while, but everyone says it looks as if she has been hit by lightning. They say she hasn’t been the same since that day. Her hair is gray, her face is wrinkled, and her hands shake uncontrollably, poor lady. You remember how lovely and vibrant she always was, right?”

I nod my head yes. Ahmed takes a deep breath and lights a cigarette. I light one, too. I think of my dad’s dirty look, the one that hurts more than a thousand slaps in the face, but I no longer fear that look.

Ahmed continues. “They aren’t allowed to wear black. Well, they don’t need to; it looks so dark in that house. I wonder what Keivan will be like when he grows up. I walked to school with him once and tried to find out how he and his parents were doing, but he wouldn’t say a word. He said he was told not to talk to anyone about Zari and what goes on in their house.”

I remember the day we helped Keivan build a doghouse. I remember my clumsiness with the tools, pouring the drink all over my chest, Ahmed’s insistence that I should talk to Zari, and the fiasco over
Suvashun
. My heart wants to burst out of my chest. Those days feel like a century ago.

“The Masked Angel quit school and moved up here to take care of Zari’s family,” Ahmed says. “Everyone in the neighborhood says she’s brought tranquility and sanity back into their lives.”

“Do Faheemeh and she ever get together?” I ask.

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s too hard for Faheemeh to be in that house anymore, you know what I mean?”

I think of the cherry tree, the red blanket, the little
hose
in their yard, and a teardrop rolls down my cheek. Ahmed puts his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about this some other time?”

“No. I want you to continue.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then.” Ahmed takes a deep breath. “The Masked Angel doesn’t associate with anyone. The rumor is that she takes care of the family until they go to bed, and then she goes into Zari’s room and reads poetry all night. Can you imagine what it must be like for her to live in Zari’s room?”

I remember that last night in her room, the picture of the four of us on the wall, the chair we sat on, the feel of Zari’s body in my arms, the intoxicating scent of her hair. I wipe my tears away.