The Book of Fate (37 page)

I went on: ‘Do you remember the night she left? She was clutching Massoud to her chest, kissing him, smelling him, crying. As she was leaving, she said, “No matter how, you must protect your family and raise your children in a safe and happy environment. Massoud is very sensitive. He needs a mother and a father. He is fragile.” At the time, I didn't grasp the true meaning of her words. It was only later that I realised her constant insistence that I protect my family was not her giving me advice, she was actually struggling with herself.'

‘It is hard to believe,' Hamid said. ‘The person you are describing isn't like Shahrzad at all. Do you mean to say she followed that path against her will? That she didn't believe in our cause? But no one forced her into it. She could have walked away from it and no one would have reproached her.'

‘Hamid, how could you not understand? It was another part of her. A hidden part that until then she didn't even know existed. The one thing she did for this side of her that showed only fleetingly was to save you from death. Not including you in the mission was to protect you. And keeping you uninformed was to protect themselves; in case you were arrested. I don't know how she managed to convince the others, but she did.'

There was a certain expression of doubt, surprise and hope on Hamid's face. Although he hadn't completely accepted everything I had said, after four years he was considering other reasons for his having been excluded. The greatest change this vague hope made in him was that it broke his silence. From that day on, we constantly talked. We examined our relationship and circumstances, and analysed our personalities and behaviour after having lived a secret life. One after the other, the snags were unravelling and with each one a small window was opening on to freedom, happiness and relief from unspoken frustrations. And the self-confidence he had long considered dead was beginning to grow again.

Sometimes in the middle of a discussion he would look at me with surprise and say, ‘You have changed so much! You seem so mature and well-read. You sound like a philosopher, a psychologist. Did a few years of university change you this much?' ‘No!' I would say with a pride I did not want to conceal. ‘Life's hardships forced me to change. I had to; I had to understand so that I could choose the right paths. I was responsible for my children's lives. There was no room for mistakes. Luckily, your books, the university and my job made it possible.'

 

After two weeks, Hamid was more energetic and in better spirits. He was starting to resemble his old self. Just as his mental and emotional gloom was lifting, his body was gaining strength. With their perceptive eyes, the boys noticed the changes in their father and allowed themselves to grow closer to him. Captivated and excited, they watched his every move, followed his orders and laughed when he laughed; and hearing them brightened my life. With his return to health and the rekindling of his hunger for life, Hamid's needs and desires reawakened, and after all that darkness and deprivation our amorous nights brought us intense passion.

 

Hamid's parents and Mansoureh came to stay with us for a two-day holiday. They were surprised and thrilled to see the dramatic change in Hamid.

‘Didn't I tell you this was the solution?' Mansoureh said.

Hamid's mother was ecstatic. She constantly hovered over him, gushed with affection and thanked me for his return to health. Her behaviour was so touching that even at the height of our joy it made me want to cry.

It was cold and rainy the entire two days, but we sat around the fireplace and talked. Bahman, Mansoureh's husband, would tell us the latest jokes about the Shah and then Prime Minister Azhari, and Hamid would laugh from the bottom of his heart. Although everyone was convinced that he had fully recovered, I decided to extend our stay by another week or two, especially because Hamid's mother had privately told me that Bibi was not faring too well and that a few of Hamid's activist friends were searching high and low for him. Bahman suggested they leave their car behind for us and return home by a car service so that we could travel to different towns along the coast. Though in those days there was a shortage of petrol and it was hard to come by.

We spent another beautiful two weeks in the north. We had bought a volleyball for the boys and Hamid played with them every day. He ran with them and exercised, and the boys who had never experienced such a relationship with their father were grateful to him and to God. They worshipped Hamid as if he were an idol. Massoud's drawings often depicted a four-member family picnicking, playing, or walking amid flowers and gardens with a bright sun shining in the sky, smiling down at the happy family. All the reserve and formality between the boys and their father had melted away. They talked to him about their friends, their school and their teachers. Siamak boasted about his pro-revolution activities, telling Hamid about the places his uncle Mahmoud had taken him to and the things he had heard. Hamid was surprised and pensive.

One day, tired from playing with the boys, he dropped down on the blanket next to me and asked for a cup of tea. ‘These kids have so much energy,' he said. ‘They just don't get tired.'

‘What do you think of them?' I asked.

‘They are delightful. I never thought I would love them this much. I see my entire childhood and youth in them.'

‘Do you remember how much you hated children? Do you remember what you did when I told you I was pregnant with Massoud?'

‘No, what did I do?'

I wanted to laugh. He didn't even remember how he had abandoned me. But that wasn't the time to air grievances and relive bitter memories.

‘Forget it,' I said.

‘No, tell me,' Hamid insisted.

‘You relinquished all responsibility.'

‘You know very well that my problem wasn't children, I just wasn't sure of my own life and future. I always thought I would live only another year. In those circumstances, having children was very foolish for both of us. Be honest, don't you think you wouldn't have suffered as much during these past years if you hadn't had children and all this responsibility?'

‘If it weren't for the boys I wouldn't have had a reason to live and to fight,' I said. ‘Their existence forced me into action and made everything tolerable.'

‘You are a strange woman,' he said. ‘At any rate, now I am very happy that I have them and I am grateful to you. The situation has changed. A good future awaits them and I am not worried any more.'

Hearing Hamid speak those words was a blessing. I smiled and said, ‘Really? So having children now is not a problem and it doesn't frighten you?'

He leaped up and said, ‘Oh, no! For the love of God, Massoum, what are you saying?'

‘Don't worry,' I said, laughing. ‘It's not like one would know this early. But it's not unlikely. I am still in my childbearing years and as you know I didn't have any contraceptive pills here. But all jokes aside, if we were to have another child, would you be as frightened and as troubled as you were before?'

He thought for a while and then said, ‘No. Of course, I don't want any more children, but I am not as opposed to it as I used to be.'

When we were done discussing and sorting out our personal issues, we started talking about political and social matters. He still didn't fully understand what had happened during the years he had been in prison, what had led to his release and why people had changed so much. I talked to him about the university students, about my colleagues and about everything that had come to pass. I talked about my experiences, about people's reaction towards me and the palpable change in their attitude recently. I spoke about Mr Zargar who had hired me solely because Hamid was a political prisoner, about Mr Shirzadi who was an objector by nature and because of political and social suppression had turned into a creature of hatred and suspicion. And finally, I talked about Mahmoud who according to himself would give his life and all his worldly goods to the revolution.

‘Mahmoud is a real phenomenon!' Hamid said. ‘I never thought he and I would ever take two steps in the same direction.'

 

By the time we arrived back in Tehran, the seventh-day ceremony for Bibi's death had already been held. Hamid's parents had not found it necessary to let us know she had passed away. In reality, they were afraid that the crowds and the traffic of family and friends would be too stressful and trying for Hamid.

Poor Bibi, her death did not affect anyone's life and it did not make anyone's heart tremble. In reality, she had died years earlier. Her passing was void of even the sadness that one feels over the death of a stranger. It paled in comparison to the death of the youth and of the activists who in those days were being killed by the dozen.

The doors and windows of the downstairs rooms were shut and the book of Bibi's life, which must have once been sweet and exciting, came to an end.

 

Our return to Tehran took Hamid back to a period years earlier. Books and pamphlets started arriving from here and there and with every day that passed there was a larger crowd around him. Those who knew him from the old days built him into a hero for the younger generation: a former political prisoner and a survivor of the self-sacrificing founders of their movement. They chanted slogans for him, lauded his superiority and welcomed him as a leader. And all the while, Hamid was not only regaining his confidence, but growing prouder every day. He talked to them like a leader and lectured them on the ways and means of resistance.

A week after our return, he went to the printing house with a group of his devoted followers. They broke through the seals and locks and used the equipment that still remained to start a modest print shop. Although it was quite basic, it met their needs for reproducing bulletins, pamphlets and newsletters.

Like a faithful dog, Siamak was always at his father's heels, obeying his instructions. He was proud of being Hamid's son and wanted to be next to him at any gathering. In contrast, Massoud, who hated being the centre of attention, started to distance himself from them, staying with me and spending his time drawing images of street protests in which there was never any violence. In his illustrations no one was ever injured and there was never any blood.

 

On the ninth and tenth days of Muharram, commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Hossein, a large crowd came to our house and we all went and joined the demonstrations that had been planned for that day. Surrounded by his friends, Hamid was separated from us, and his parents returned home early. Hamid's sisters, Faati, her husband, Sadegh Agha, and I were careful not to lose each other in the crowd and shouted slogans for so long that we all lost our voices. I was excited and thrilled to see people vent their anger and frustration, but I still couldn't push away the fear and apprehension that was clawing at me. It was the first time Hamid had witnessed the tidal wave of popular feeling about the revolution.

As I had suspected, it deeply affected him and he threw himself with abandon into the fray.

 

Several weeks later, I started to notice changes in myself. I was getting tired more easily and I felt a little nauseous in the mornings. Deep in my heart, I was happy. I told myself, We are now a real family. This child will be born under different circumstances. A pretty little girl can bring even more warmth to our family. Hamid has not experienced the joys of nurturing an infant.

Still, at first I didn't have the courage to tell him. When I finally did, he laughed and said, ‘I knew you would get us into trouble again. But it isn't so bad. This child, too, is the product of the revolution. We need more manpower.'

 

The exciting days of the revolution were bursting with events. We were all busy. Our house was as crowded and as bustling as Mahmoud's. But gradually, our home became the meeting place for political activists. Although it was still dangerous and gathering in groups was prohibited, Hamid went about his business and simply said, ‘They wouldn't dare interfere with us. If they arrest me again, I will become a legend. They won't take that risk.'

Every night, we stood on the roof and, together with all the other people standing on rooftops across the city, we chanted, ‘God is great.' We used the escape route Hamid had devised years earlier to go to neighbours' homes, talk and exchange ideas late into the night. Everyone, young and old, considered themselves political pundits. The Shah's departure from the country escalated the excitement.

Mahmoud had arranged it so that whenever necessary we could gather at his house to receive the latest news and information about various events. Hamid and Mahmoud's cooperation was friendly. They didn't engage in political debates, but they exchanged information about their activities, offered each other suggestions, and Hamid shared his knowledge of armed resistance and guerilla warfare with Mahmoud and his friends. At times, their discussions continued until dawn.

As the date of Ayatollah Khomeini's return to Iran grew closer, collaboration between different political factions and groups became more intense and coordinated. And among the people, many old enmities were forgotten and many severed relationships were re-established. For instance, we were reunited with our maternal uncle who had been living in Germany for twenty-five years. Like all Iranians living abroad, he was excited and tried to keep abreast of the events by staying in regular telephone contact with Mahmoud. And Mahmoud was now talking to my cousin Mahboubeh's husband and they were exchanging news about the events in Tehran and Qum. At times, I felt I no longer knew Mahmoud. He had become generous with his wealth and spared no expense for the revolution. I often asked myself, Is this the same Mahmoud?

My thirteen-year-old Siamak was growing up fast and performing his duties like a man alongside his father. I rarely saw him and often didn't know what he had to eat for lunch and dinner, but I knew he was happier than ever before. Massoud's responsibility was to write slogans on walls. With his fine penmanship, he sometimes wrote them on large sheets of paper and if he had time he even adorned them with various designs. Every day, he went running through the streets with a group of other children. Despite the danger, I couldn't stop them. In the end, I had to join his group as a lookout. I would stand guard at the corner so that they could safely write their slogans and then I would correct their spelling mistakes. This way, I could keep an eye on my son and share his support of the revolution. Massoud took great, innocent pleasure in having done something illegal with his mother as his accomplice.