Rooftops of Tehran (38 page)

I touch a place on Doctor’s stone where a little piece has chipped away. “When I get a job and have some money, I’ll replace this stone for you,” I whisper. “ ‘Doctor’—that’s what the inscription will read. Pretty soon people will start to wonder why ‘Doctor’ and not a name. ‘Who was he?’ they’ll ask. ‘What happened to him? How old was he when they shot him? What did he look like? Was he tortured before he was killed? What happened to those who loved him?’

“And I’ll tell your story to everyone I meet. Then pretty soon everyone will know that your father had a heart attack, and your mother lost her mind with grief. ‘Poor woman,’ people will say. They will talk about Zari and her courage, her defiance, and her self-sacrifice. ‘That poor girl must have loved him very much! This is so unfair. How can we let things like this happen?’ Then people will tell their children, their friends, and their neighbors. And the news will spread, and everyone will know the truth the SAVAK has been trying to hide by preventing us from grieving your loss, by destroying documents of your existence, by confiscating and probably burning your books.”

I then look down at his grave and smile.

“Thank you for teaching me about
That
, Doctor,” I whisper. “I think I know what it means now.”

As I pause I can picture his smiling face, his nodding head.

“It’s all about honor, friendship, love, giving it all you have, living an alert life and not pretending ignorance because it’s an easier way out—all those things packaged together, isn’t it? I feel fortunate to be surrounded by people who have
That
. You, Zari, Ahmed, Iraj, my parents, and Faheemeh; I’ve lived a wonderful life in that way.”

I touch the chipped
R
of his name as I fight back tears.

“I take solace in knowing that you and Zari aren’t dead. Because people with
That
never die, they don’t cease to exist; they continue to live on in our hearts and minds, where existence matters.”

The tears roll freely now and I know there is nothing I can do to stop them.

“Do you remember asking me what the most precious thing a human possessed was? I said, ‘Life.’ You smiled and said, ‘Time.’ Do you remember that, Doctor?”

A mild wind blows and a single leaf falls on Doctor’s grave. I pick it up, look at it, and place it at the foot of his grave.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our discussion that day,” I say. “And with all due respect, I think both of us were wrong. The most precious thing a human can possess is
That
.”

Just then, I feel someone behind me. I turn and see Ahmed, Faheemeh, and Iraj. They sit down next to me without saying a word. Faheemeh puts her arm around me. Seconds later, my parents come to the grave with red roses in their hands. My father winks at me as he sits down by the grave, places the roses on Doctor’s clean stone, and says a final prayer. My mother does the same. One by one, our neighbors join us—a sea of people, everyone in the alley, and all with single red roses in their hands. I don’t think anyone cares that the SAVAK might be watching. We should have been allowed to mourn Doctor’s death a long time ago.

Another Dawn

The day after Grandma’s funeral, I wake up to a beautiful April morning. Sunlight spills through the opening in the curtains and warms my face. I hear birds outside chirping and celebrating the glorious spring day. Last night, I slept like a baby for the first time in many, many nights.

I feel refreshed, rested, and full of energy, as if I’m ready to go out and run a few kilometers, something I haven’t felt like doing in months.

I hear kids yelling and screaming in the alley. I walk out onto the terrace and breathe in the fresh air. I stretch my arms to the sides and make a loud noise as I exhale. A strange hope fills my heart. At the edge of the balcony, I look down into our yard. The tree my father planted the first day we moved here is beginning to sprout leaves.

I’m not the only one enjoying the day. The alley seems crowded with people of all ages, just as I remember it before Doctor’s arrest. Iraj is sitting on the sidewalk playing a game of chess against himself. I promise myself I will challenge him later today; not that I can win, I just want to get back in the game. Occasionally he throws a nervous look toward Zari’s house, perhaps anxious to see the Masked Angel. A group of kids is playing soccer. One kid pushes another down during a play, and a brief scuffle ensues, then a shouting match. The incident reminds me of Ahmed’s ploy to get back in the goalie position last summer. That feels like a million years ago.

Groups of women have gathered in different parts of the alley: the east, west, and central gossip committees, as Ahmed used to call them. They all talk at the same time, and they all laugh and interact as if they understand one another despite the chaos.

Then I see a man walking to the rosebush with a bucket of water. Iraj quits his game and runs up to him, and together they water my plant. Tears roll down my cheeks—tears of joy.

I look down the alley and see Aboli and a couple of other kids ringing the bell of a house and running away. I start to laugh out loud, remembering the little trick he played on my poor Dad.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. In that placid state a soothing thought slowly creeps into my mind:
I need to go away
. For weeks I have been fighting the idea, but the more I let go of myself, the more comfortable I am with the thought. I will go to the United States. There I can restart my life. I will live alone and go to school, busying myself with learning English and getting to know the Western culture. There is so much I need to understand. I hope Doctor and Zari don’t feel betrayed. I hope not.

I go downstairs for breakfast. In the living room, a repairman is fixing the old grandfather clock. He’s pulled the clock out into the middle of the room and is in the process of examining a number of its dismantled parts.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“We either need to fix this damn thing or throw it away,” my father explains.

“It’s too good to throw away, sir,” the clock repairman says. “They don’t make this brand anymore. This is an antique.”

“What do you think?” my father asks me.

I approach the clock and touch its coarse and bumpy surface. “We should keep it. So what if it doesn’t work? It’s a nice piece. Besides, it was given to you and Mom as your wedding present.”

Dad nods thoughtfully. “It was the only present we got. I used to wind it first thing every day as I had my morning tea.” He smiles and then turns to the repairman. “We’re keeping the clock no matter what the outcome of your efforts.”

At breakfast, I tell my father that now I really do want to go to the United States.

“It would be best,” he agrees. “I always wanted you to go there to become a civil engineer. Yes, a civil engineer, and then you can come back and build the European-style highway that connects Tehran to Noshahr!”

“I want to be a filmmaker, Dad,” I say, looking directly in his eyes.

He stares at me for a little while. “Well, maybe you can double major in college,” he says, still enthused about my agreement to go abroad.

My mother doesn’t receive the news as well. Although she doesn’t say anything to discourage me, she gets a thoughtful, mentally preoccupied look on her face. She walks around aimlessly, dusting the shelves, the picture frames, the TV screen, the grandfather clock, and everything else in the room. Then she begins again with the shelves.

“You just dusted those,” my father points out.

She looks at him without speaking, and moves on to the picture frames.

 

 

The news of my departure travels through the neighborhood like water through a floodgate. By now almost everyone in the alley has learned that I’m preparing to leave for the United States. Grown-ups wish me good luck and express a wishful desire to go, too. Almost everyone has a friend or a relative who is either currently living there or did at one time.

“The U.S. is a great place,” one of my neighbors comments. “My cousin just came back from Washington, where the government has installed hot water pipes under the streets to keep the roadways from freezing during harsh winters.”

Another neighbor sighs with amazement. “How clever, how clever,” he repeats with a dreamy look on his face.

Another neighbor confirms that technologically Americans are more advanced than we are, but not culturally. Children, he claims, are kicked out of the house when they turn eighteen. A few people gasp and shake their heads as the man continues by saying that the more compassionate parents ask their kids for rent money and charge them a fee for their food. “That’s why the crime rate is so high in the States,” he claims. “Being out on your own, without the supervision of your parents and away from the warmth and security of your own home, of course you’re more inclined to gravitate toward crime!”

“Yeah, they call that independence,” says another man. “They teach their kids from an early age to be independent.”

“That’s not independence, that’s bullshit!”

Ahmed, who is standing next to me, turns to Iraj and says, “I wish my parents would kick me out soon.” Both Iraj and I chuckle.

 

Days pass quickly. Ahmed’s family learns to cope with the tragic loss of Grandma. They slowly find their way back into the groove of the alley’s everyday life. Not much happens in Zari’s house, except that her father goes to work every morning and returns at night to a wife who has chosen to spend the rest of her life at home. Keivan plays in the yard by himself, subjected to a lonely childhood apart from the other kids in our alley. Occasionally I hear him giggle when he is playing ball with the Masked Angel—just like he used to do with his sister.

My father meets regularly with Mr. Mehrbaan and Mr. Kasravi to arrange for my immigration to the United States. The contacts in the Passport Administration Office deliver as promised, and I now own a passport. The next step in the process is to obtain a valid student visa from the American embassy, which requires an I-20, a letter of acceptance from an accredited university or college in the U.S. This is where Mr. Mehrbaan plays a crucial role. Some of his exiled comrades in the Unites States will be obtaining an I-20 for me from a college in Los Angeles. Mr. Kasravi also knows people in the Education Department who can help with fabricating a high school diploma and a high score on the
Ezam
English-language test so that my request for a student visa will be granted.

Mr. Kasravi tries to calm me down when I express concern over getting a fake high school diploma. I worry that if the authorities found out, I could be banned from ever attending college.

“You see, you can move a mountain in this country if you know the right people, you really can,” Mr. Kasravi says.

“And why not?” Mr. Mehrbaan adds. “When you’re cheated out of life, you cheat back to get even. That’s how things work in countries like ours. They stopped you from attending school, so we fake a diploma to make up for the lost time.”

I don’t feel comfortable with the ploy but go along anyway. I want to leave Iran more than ever. I can’t go back to my school without Ahmed and Iraj, and I can’t stay in this alley after Zari’s parents move to Bandar Abbas.

Ahmed and Faheemeh are happy to see the renewed hope in me, but they’re also sad to see me go. Although I can see it in their eyes, they never say anything to discourage me.

“You’ll go away for a while, study at the finest university in the States, and come back as an educated man,” Ahmed says, smiling.

“Yes, we’ll pick up exactly where we left off,” Faheemeh agrees enthusiastically. “It’ll be like you never left, except that you’ll probably be an uncle by then.”

My mother is not excited about any of this. “He doesn’t speak any English,” she frets. “How is he going to find his way around at the airport when his plane lands? How will he ask for food? How will he know what to eat or how to get around?”

“Oh, come now,” my father says. “You underestimate him! Thousands of young people make this trip every year. He’s probably more capable than all of them put together. He’s the most resilient kid I know.”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Kasravi confirms. “He’s a very smart kid, really, the smartest kid I know.”

I look at Mr. Kasravi and smile to let him know I appreciate his compliments. Mrs. Mehrbaan tries to console my mother by telling her that college will be over before she knows it, and I’ll be back in no time with the prospect of a great future. “At least you know he is going to a good place. God forbid, what if he was going to jail?” All three ladies immediately bite the skin between their thumbs and index fingers.

“An educated guy like him? My God, can you imagine? Girls will throw themselves at his feet!” Mr. Mehrbaan says, shooting me a wink.

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Kasravi interrupts. “He is destined to marry my Shabnam.”

Everyone laughs, including my mother. I think of Zari and feel a lump in my throat.

Everything is settled. I’m supposed to leave in a month. My father shows me the ticket for my flight, his face beaming. “You’ll land in Los Angeles and will be picked up by a few relatives of your uncle Mehrbaan,” he says. “They will arrange for you to get an apartment, and sign you up at USC. Are you comfortable with all this?” he asks suddenly, as if he’s not sure himself that I will be able to handle living alone in the U.S., despite what he told my mother.

“Yes,” I say automatically. In truth, despite the many plans I’ve made, the future seems like a fogged-up mirror to me. I’m there, but not clearly visible or recognizable. When I think of the United States, all I envision are the streets in the movies and the television shows I’ve seen. I decide the best way for me to deal with the uncertainty is not to think about it, to suppress my guilt about seeking a better future in the country that has ruined my past.