Rooftops of Tehran (37 page)

“Sure,” said Mr. Bana.

“The question is for Mr. Gorji,” Ahmed said.

“Yes,” Mr. Gorji replied, “you may ask your question.”

Ahmed recited a verse out of the Koran, and asked Mr. Gorji for a literal translation and commentary. Mr. Gorji, who doesn’t speak Arabic, and only knows certain verses by memory, shook his head and coughed a couple of times to clear his throat, then said that Ahmed’s accent made it difficult for him to understand which verse he was reciting. Ahmed took a small Koran out of his pocket, kissed it, pointed to a page, and said, “It’s this one, sir. Here, would you like to read it?”

Mr. Gorji stood motionless, staring at Ahmed and knowing full well the fate that awaited him from now on if he ever stepped into another one of Ahmed’s classes. Ahmed swore that he could see the sweat running down Gorji’s face. After a long and agonizing moment, Mr. Gorji excused himself and left the room quickly. Laughter, applause, loud screams, and whistles followed his departure. Even Mr. Bana laughed and bowed to Ahmed!

“He won’t be coming to my classes anymore,” Ahmed says. “And I’m not done yet, I promise! Pretty soon I’ll be following him in the yard, into his office, into the bathroom; I’ll be wherever he is, reciting the Koran and asking him questions. I’ll do whatever I can to embarrass him. I’ll memorize every word of our holy book and expose the son of a bitch for the no-good pretender that he is. That’s the way to deal with the Mr. Gorjis of the world, that powerless religious teacher turned emperor.”

That Is All

I’m dozing off in the chair in my bedroom when a loud scream wakes me. This one is a far cry from the soft sobs of the Masked Angel. I recognize Ahmed’s voice. I struggle against a fearful paralysis and haul myself to my feet. More noises begin to fill the alley: doors opening and closing, people running, women crying, and men huffing and puffing. I run out the door and onto the terrace.

“Oh, my God, oh, my God!” cries a woman, whose voice I recognize as Ahmed’s mother’s.

“Grandma, Grandma!” I hear Ahmed screaming.

I run to the edge of the terrace and see neighbors in the alley, rushing toward Ahmed’s house. In Ahmed’s yard, Grandma’s body is lying on the ground, her entire family gathered around her. I cross over to Ahmed’s terrace and head down the stairs, skipping two or three steps at a time.

Many of the neighbors are already in the yard when I finally reach the ground floor. Ahmed is leaning against a wall, his eyes bleary with tears. He slides slowly down and slumps on the ground. When he notices my presence, he shakes his head in disbelief and anguish, as Iraj sits down next to him and puts his arm around him. Iraj’s mother and a number of other women attend to Ahmed’s mother, who is crying next to Grandma’s body. Ahmed’s father whispers prayers as a number of men try to console him.

The yard seems dark, and there’s an uncomfortable chill in the air that I recognize from my previous encounters with death. The light from the living room makes the single tree in Ahmed’s yard cast a grotesque shadow, in which Grandma’s twisted body rests.

Zari’s parents enter the yard at the same moment that I look toward the roof and see the Masked Angel in her black burqa looking down at the commotion. She must notice me because as usual she immediately takes a step back and melts into the shadows.

Grandma’s skull is crushed, her joints wrenched from the force of the impact. The neighbors walk around carefully to avoid stepping in the blood that peppers the yard. It’s difficult for me to accept Grandma’s death. Only a couple of nights ago she unleashed her imagination and told me improbable stories of her childhood and her late husband. A wave of grief and anxiety crashes over my heart, for Grandma’s death is a painful reminder of the anguish I have bottled up inside me from the loss of Doctor and Zari.
Why is life so cruel?

Ahmed’s father cries, “I told her to stay away from that damn roof. She must have walked right off the edge.”

Iraj shakes his head and bites the thick hair on his upper lip. Ahmed whispers, “Grandpa didn’t catch her this time.”

“What should we do?” one of the neighbors asks another.

“It’s too late to call an ambulance.”

“Oh, for sure, but we should call one anyway.”

“Poor woman must have thought her husband was down in the yard.”

In the next two days, people come from all over to offer their condolences to Ahmed’s family. In times like these, men don’t shave their beards out of respect for the dead, and women wear little or no makeup. Kids are kept away, and no one plays music. The faces are somber.

Faheemeh’s parents come over to help receive the visitors. They seem sympathetic and kind. Ahmed’s mother serves
aash
, with the help of my mother and some of the other female relatives and neighbors. Ahmed’s father chain-smokes. Every once in a while he uses his white handkerchief to wipe the tears from his eyes as he receives friends and relatives.

The night before the funeral, Ahmed and I go onto the roof. The crescent-shaped moon, which hangs from the belly of the star-crowded sky, looks like a neon cradle designed to outshine everything around it. The neighborhood appears quiet and subdued, as if it has collapsed under the weight of all the grief it has experienced in the past few months. Somehow the dark shadows of the homes and the trees seem longer, and the twinkle of the city lights flicker frail and lifeless. It’s as if someone has sprinkled the dust of death over the alley once again. Ahmed lights a cigarette and offers me one, too. I accept.

“She was a good woman,” Ahmed says.

“Yes, she was.”

“But everyone has to die sometime, right?”

“Right.”

“Her time must have come,” he says, taking a long draw off his cigarette.

“Yeah.”

“But why did she have to go this way? Why couldn’t she die peacefully in bed? Why is God so cruel?” He stops talking, an apologetic look on his face. “I shouldn’t be saying things like this after what you’ve gone through. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve actually been feeling very close to Grandma lately. It was almost as if our lives were on a parallel course.”

“God, don’t say that,” Ahmed says. “I don’t want you to fall off the roof someday.”

“No, no. I mean I could feel her anguish and the pain of permanent separation, the loss. I had begun to feel as if maybe she wasn’t so disconnected from reality.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the talk about seeing Grandpa.” I pause as the expression on Ahmed’s face grows worried. “I mean, people can’t just die, right?” Ahmed doesn’t respond. “Grandma’s insistence that Zari was waiting for me . . . well, sometimes I think I see her in the shadows at night.”

The look on Ahmed’s face becomes even more alarmed. He’s quiet for a long time before he says, “I wonder what it’s like to be dead?”

I think he’s trying to avoid talking about my crazy thoughts. I don’t say anything, but remember Mr. Gorji talking about death as the ultimate source of terror. “The afterlife is designed to punish wrongdoers, who will be condemned to an eternally unimaginable torture,” he once said with fire in his eyes. I remember Grandma asking whether hell was built beneath heaven, and a smile flashes on my face, but disappears just as quickly. Ahmed looks toward the spot where Grandma presumably fell off the balcony. His face contorts as he tries to hold back his tears.

“God bless her soul,” he whispers as he looks toward the skies. “Watch out, Grandpa!”

 

 

The next day, we all go to the cemetery. Ahmed, Iraj, and I sit in the back of my father’s Jeep, and my mother and Faheemeh sit in front. Every once in a while, Faheemeh turns around and looks at Ahmed. Then she reaches over to touch his hand or pat him on the knee.

I remember the day we went to the cemetery for Doctor. I remember Iraj’s face as he was running behind the taxi. I feel good that this time he’s with us. The streets are full of cars, and the scent of exhaust fumes sets my heart stuttering with the memory of Zari’s last moments. The sky is gray and painted by dark clouds bloated with rain. The sidewalks are crowded with pedestrians who seem to be rushing to escape the inevitable downpour. We don’t say much, except at one point my father says that Grandma was a great lady and we all murmur our agreement.

All the neighbors are at the cemetery, including Zari’s parents. Everyone is dressed in black out of respect for Grandma’s death. It’s great to be able to wear black for a change—we can finally grieve not only Grandma, but also Zari and Doctor. Zari’s parents extend their apologies to Ahmed’s mother for the Masked Angel’s absence, explaining that she had to stay home to take care of Keivan. “It wasn’t appropriate to bring him to the cemetery,” Zari’s mother says. “He’s still too young.”

Everyone is gathered around a hole that has been dug in the ground. Most of the women are on one side of the grave, and the men are standing on the other side. Ahmed’s mother cries quietly and whispers to my mother that she’s worried about her husband. Grandma was the only family he had left.

“She lived a good life,” somebody tells Ahmed’s mother.

“Yes, she did,” another woman agrees.

“Look around you,” the first woman says. “This place is full of young people. God bless them all, and God bless Grandma’s soul. She lived her life as she pleased, and thank God it was long and fruitful.”

I wonder how many of these neighbors know the story of Grandma throwing herself off a cliff. I doubt that any of them do.

The cry of “There is no God but the almighty God!” is suddenly heard from a distance, the signal that Grandma’s body is being carried to her permanent resting place. Pandemonium breaks out at the graveside. Everyone begins crying, including the women who were consoling Ahmed’s mother. Ahmed runs toward the group that is carrying Grandma’s coffin. Iraj and I run behind him, lending our shoulders and arms to hold the coffin up in the air. The wood feels unnaturally cold and rough on my neck. I think about Grandma’s lifeless body overhead, and a rush of blood makes me shake uncontrollably as my face grows hot. At first, dizziness takes over, and then I feel the energy and strength drain from my body like water through a sieve. I let go of the coffin and fall behind the procession, walking dazedly behind the crowd. Nobody notices my sudden weakness. The anxiety that overtakes me reminds me of my early days in the hospital. I wonder if Zari is buried in the same area, in a grave without a name.

Grandma’s coffin is placed on the ground and everyone gathers around it, beating themselves, crying, and shaking their heads. Ahmed’s father kneels down and fills his fists with the black dirt that’s piled up next to the hole in the ground, pouring it over his head while sobbing inconsolably. Ahmed hugs his father from behind and cries along with him. A clergyman with a thick gray beard, wearing a black robe and a green turban, chants a few incomprehensible verses as he looks at my father, who is reaching inside his pocket to pay him. The clergyman’s chants become more passionate when he realizes that he will be receiving a good sum for his services.

I’m not sure why I feel the way I do. The present seems disconnected from the past, as if there were a sudden disruption in the continuity of time. I see a group of strangers using old rusty shovels to pile dirt on Grandma’s body, which is already in the ground. I look to my left and see the burial places of the rich. The columns and the steps of those structures revive a vivid memory of the day Zari, Faheemeh, Ahmed, and I came to this cemetery. I look to the right and see the little turnabout that we crossed to get to Doctor’s grave. I don’t know how long I gaze in that direction, because the next thing I know I’m staring at Doctor’s name on his gravestone. His grave looks desolate and dismal compared to the ones around it, which are adorned with memorials, pictures, and sometimes even a poem dedicated to the deceased.

“I’m sorry I haven’t come to visit,” I whisper. “A lot has happened since . . . since you left.”

His name is spelled “Ramin Sobhi,” and the
R
in his first name is already worn out, indicating the inferior quality of the stone placed on his grave. A thick layer of dust covers the stone, making it obvious that no one has visited Doctor in a while. I take a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe the dust off, slowly and meticulously. “I’m so sorry that I haven’t come to see you,” I whisper. “You know, I planted a rosebush for you in honor of what you did for Golesorkhi, and you should see how everyone in the neighborhood takes care of it. That’s great, isn’t it? Nobody will ever forget you, Doctor.”

A few meters away, water drips at a rapid rate from a faucet into a tin bucket. I lift the bucket and carry it to Doctor’s grave, pouring the water on the stone. The soil around the grave absorbs the water quickly. Using my handkerchief again, I clean up the stone, then sit by the grave and remember when Doctor was alive.

I remember his bright smile, his round thick glasses, his passion for books, and his cheerful attitude toward Grandma. I wonder if he knows she’s dead now, and buried only a few meters away. I want to say a few words to him about what happened between Zari and me, but quickly realize that by now he knows all there is to know, and has forgiven both of us: me for falling in love with her and she for letting me.

“She must have really loved you,” I whisper, looking at Doctor’s grave. “She gave her life to be with you. I’d give my life to be with her, but you two are together now, the way you should have been here in this world.”

As I look at Doctor’s grave, I remember the nights Zari came to the yard, occupying herself with chores that didn’t need to be done while I watched from the roof. She looked up at me, but never said a word or even flashed a smile. What we had was a forbidden love—sweet, secretive, and intoxicating. I smile as tears roll down my face. I don’t feel ashamed of loving Zari anymore because there’s nothing wrong with loving someone who is worthy of being loved.