The Book of Fate (34 page)

Fortunately, Parvaneh's move back to Iran was quickly arranged and after a short trip to Germany her family relocated to Tehran. Her husband started to work and she found a part-time position at the Iran-Germany Society. I now had another person I could lean on. Parvaneh had shared my life story with her husband and having been moved by it, he somehow felt responsible for me and my sons. Our children grew to like each other and became good playmates. Parvaneh was constantly planning events for them and took them to the cinema, to the swimming pool, or to the park. The presence of Parvaneh's family brought a different nuance to our lives and I started to see new joy and excitement in my dispirited sons whose days had become even lonelier and more unstructured after Faati gave birth and could no longer spend as much time with them.

 

Another year passed. We could again visit Hamid regularly and once a month I took the boys to see him. But after each visit they were out of sorts and it would take a week for them to return to their normal selves. Massoud would grow quieter and sadder, and Siamak would become wilder and more highly strung. Hamid looked visibly older each time we saw him.

I continued to go to university and took a few credits each term. I was now an official employee at the agency and although I still didn't have a bachelor's degree, I was doing more specialised and advanced work. Mr Zargar still watched over me and confidently gave me assignments. Mr Shirzadi and I had remained close friends. He was still disagreeable and bad-tempered, occasionally starting fights and arguments that made him more miserable than anyone else. I tried to lessen his deep sense of pessimism towards everything, assuring him that he had no enemies and that there was no hidden motive behind what people did and said. And to all this he would reply, ‘Fear banished trust from my mind, my only beloved is suspicion.'

He was not comfortable in any gathering, he would not join any group, he detected the footprints of traitor politicos in every action, and he believed everyone was a mercenary and a paid minion of the regime. His colleagues did not mind his company, but he always kept himself on the sidelines.

I once asked him, ‘Don't you get tired of being alone?'

In response he recited one of his poems about being sorrow's friend and loneliness's beloved, his hopelessness being as eternal as the sun and as vast as the ocean.

One day Mr Zargar jokingly said, ‘Come on! Why do you take everything so hard? Things are not as bad as you think. These problems exist in every society. The rest of us are not satisfied either, but we don't make a mountain out of a pile of hay and we don't grieve all the time.'

Mr Shirzadi replied with one of his typical poems about how no one understands him.

After he started a heated argument with the director-general of the agency, stormed out of the man's office and slammed the door behind him, everyone gathered around to mediate. ‘Give in a little,' someone said. ‘After all, this is a government agency, not your auntie's house, and we have to tolerate some things.'

Mr Shirzadi yelled in verse that he would never bend and bow his head.

I intervened. ‘Mr Shirzadi, please try to stay calm. You can't just walk out of this company. You have to be able to hold on to some job.'

‘I cannot do it,' he said.

‘So what are you going to do now?' I asked.

‘I will leave. I must leave this place…'

He not only left the agency, but soon he left the country. The day he came to collect the last of his belongings, he said goodbye to me and added, ‘Give my regards to your hero husband.' And he asked me to recite a poem to Hamid: that they take to the gallows those who speak the truth.

With Mr Shirzadi's departure, calm was restored at the agency. Even Mr Zargar, who apparently did not have a problem with Mr Shirzadi, had towards the end seemed unable to tolerate him. Still, his memory, his profound sorrow and the torment he suffered stayed with me for ever and drove me to do all that I could so that my children would not turn out to be as bitter and as disheartened as he was.

At home, I tried to create an environment in which my boys would not forget laughter. I started a joke-telling contest. Anyone who could tell a first-hand joke would receive a prize. We would mimic and imitate each other; I wanted them to learn to laugh at themselves and at their problems and shortcomings. We tried speaking with different accents. I encouraged them to sing, to turn up the volume when they played music on the stereo or the radio, to listen to upbeat music to which we would dance. At night, despite being so tired I could barely move, I would play games with them and tickle them until they were faint with laughter, and we would have pillow fights until they would agree to go to bed.

It was exhausting, but I had to do it. I had to keep that gloomy environment lively, I had to make up for my hours of absence, I had to inject joy into them so that they would never look at the world through Mr Shirzadi's eyes.

 

Soon after her marriage, Faati gave birth to a beautiful girl with sky-blue eyes. She named her Firouzeh (turquoise). The boys adored her, especially Massoud who was always eager to play with her.

Mrs Parvin's husband passed away and she found peace and freedom; especially because she had managed to transfer ownership of their house to herself prior to his death. Still, she never spoke well of him and never forgave him for what he had done to her. After his death, she started spending much of her time with us. She stayed with the children if I had to work late and did most of the housework so that I would have more time to rest and to spend with the boys. In a way she felt responsible for my fate and my loneliness, and tried to make up for it.

On Mahmoud's recommendation, Ali asked for the hand of a reputable bazaar merchant's daughter. They became formally betrothed and plans were made for an elaborate wedding to be held that autumn in a hall that served men and women guests separately. The match was to Mahmoud's liking and he promised all sorts of cooperation and assistance, agreeing to all the idiotic conditions the bride's family laid down; all of which were more like ancient trade practices than arrangements for a marriage.

When Father complained, ‘We cannot spend this much money… what is all this nonsense?' Mahmoud simply replied, ‘The investment will soon pay off. Wait and see the dowry she will bring and the deals we will make side by side with her father.'

Ahmad had completely left the family circle. No one liked to talk about him and everyone tried as far as possible to not even speak his name. It had been some time since Father had thrown him out of the house. ‘Thank God, he doesn't know where you live,' Father said. ‘Otherwise, he would create more scandals for you and come to you for money.'

Ahmad had crashed at such great speed that everyone had given up on him. Mrs Parvin was the only one who still saw him and she would secretly tell me about him.

‘I have never seen anyone so determined to destroy their own life,' she said. ‘What a shame. He was such a handsome man. If you saw him now, there is no way you would recognise him. One of these days, they will find his corpse in a street gutter somewhere in the south part of town. The only reason he is still alive is because of your mother. Don't tell anyone; if your father finds out he will really give her a hard time. But the poor woman is a mother and he is her beloved son. In the morning when your father leaves the house, Ahmad comes over and your mother feeds him, cooks kebab for him, washes his clothes, and if she can, she puts some money in his pocket. To this day, if anyone tells her Ahmad is a heroin addict, she will rip out their guts. The poor woman is still hoping he will recover.'

 

Mrs Parvin's prediction soon came true. But along with himself, Ahmad destroyed Father, too. In his last stages of decline, Ahmad did anything for money. In a desperate moment of need and poverty, he went to Father's house and was busy rolling up a carpet so that he could take it and sell it when Father arrived and got into a tussle with him. It was more than Father's weary heart could take. He was taken to the hospital and we spent several days behind the doors of the intensive care unit. Father's condition improved and he was transferred to an ordinary ward.

I took the children to the hospital every day. Siamak had grown taller and he could pass himself off as older than he was so he easily got a visitor's pass, but even with a thousand tricks and plenty of begging, Massoud saw Father only twice. During his visits, Siamak would just hold his grandfather's hand and sit next to him without speaking a word.

We were hopeful that Father would recover, but unfortunately he suffered another massive heart attack. He was returned to the intensive care unit where twenty-four hours later he surrendered his life to his life giver. And I lost my only support and refuge. After Hamid was sent to prison, I felt lonely and isolated. After Father's death, I realised that his presence, even from a distance, had cast a cover of safety over me and that in my darkest moments the glow of his presence had brightened my heart. With Father gone, the bonds that had tied me to his house grew weak.

For a week, I could not stop my tears. But my instincts soon urged me to become aware of those around me and I realised that my tears were insignificant compared to Siamak's profound sadness and silence. That child had not shed a single tear and was ready to explode like a balloon that did not have room for even one more puff of air. But Mother groused, ‘What a shame! With all the love Mostafa Khan gave this child, he didn't cry a single tear when they put that man in his grave. The boy didn't care at all.'

I knew Siamak's emotional state was far worse than it appeared. One day I left Massoud with Parvaneh and I took Siamak to visit Father's grave. I kneeled down beside the grave. Siamak stood over me like a dark and gloomy cloud. He was trying to look away and remain detached from the time and space he was in. I started to talk about Father, about my memories of him, about his kindness and the void his death had left in our lives. Slowly, I made Siamak sit down next to me and I continued to talk until he suddenly started to cry and poured out all the tears he had kept inside him. He cried until night fell. When Massoud came home and saw Siamak crying, he too burst into tears. I let them pour everything out. They had to rid themselves of all the pain that had piled up inside their small hearts. Then I sat them down and asked, ‘What do you think we should do to honour Grandfather's memory? What does he expect of us and how should we live for him to be pleased with us?' And in the course of all this, I, too, realised that I had to try to go on with my normal life while forever holding on to my memories of him.

 

Three months after Father's death, Ahmad, too, rushed to the world beyond in the same wretched manner as Mrs Parvin had predicted. A street sweeper found his body on a road in the south section of the city. Ali went to identify the body. No funeral was held and other than Mother, whose back was bent with grief, no one cried. Hard as I tried to recall a fond memory of Ahmad, I couldn't. I felt guilty for not being sorry that he had died. I did not mourn him, but for a long time whenever I thought of him a vague sorrow would press against my heart.

Given the circumstances, Ali could not hold a marriage celebration. Instead, he quietly took his wife to the family house, which Father had several years earlier legally transferred to Mother. Depressed and alone, Mother all but retired from life and relinquished the running of the household to the new bride. And thus, the door to the house that in hard times had been my only refuge was forever closed to me.

It was mid-1977. I was sensing political unrest in the country. The way people talked and behaved had palpably changed. In offices, on the streets and especially at the university, people spoke more daringly. The conditions at the prison had improved and Hamid and the other prisoners were to receive more amenities. There were also fewer restrictions for delivering clothes and food to them. But in my broken heart I found no glimmer of hope and I could not imagine the magnitude of the events that were taking shape.

 

It was a few days before the new year, and the air smelled of spring. Lost in my thoughts, I returned home and came face to face with a strange scene. In the middle of the hall there were a few sacks of rice, large tins of cooking lard, bags of tea and legumes, and several other foodstuffs. I was surprised. Hamid's father occasionally brought rice for us, but not all these other things. Ever since the printing house was shut down, they too were under financial pressure.

When Siamak saw the surprised look on my face, he laughed and said, ‘Wait until you see the best part.' And he held out an envelope towards me. It was open and I could see a stack of one-hundred tuman bills in it.

‘What is all this?' I asked. ‘Where did it come from?'

‘Guess!'

‘Yes, Mum, it's a contest,' Massoud added cheerfully. ‘You have to guess.'

‘Did your grandfather go to all this trouble?'

‘No!' Siamak said.

And they both started to laugh.

‘Did Parvaneh bring them?'

‘No.'

More laughter.

‘Mrs Parvin? Faati?'

‘No way!' Siamak said. ‘You will never guess… Shall I tell you?'

‘Yes! Who brought these things?'

‘Uncle Ali! But he said I should tell you they came from Uncle Mahmoud.'

I was stunned.

‘Why? What for?' I asked. ‘Did he see a prophecy in a dream?'

I picked up the telephone and called Mother's house. She didn't know anything.

‘Then let me talk to Ali,' I said. ‘I want to know what is going on.'

When Ali came to the phone, I said, ‘What is going on, Ali Agha? Are you feeding the poor?'

‘Please, sister. It was my duty.'

‘What duty? I have never asked for anything.'

‘Well, that's because you are gracious and noble, but I have to live up to my obligations.'

‘Thank you, dear Ali,' I said. ‘But my children and I don't need anything. Please come right now and take all these things away.'

‘Take them and do what with them?' Ali asked.

‘I don't know. Do whatever you want. Give them to the needy.'

‘You know, sister, this has nothing to do with me. Brother Mahmoud sent them. Talk to him. And it wasn't just you; he did the same for a lot of people. I just delivered everything.'

‘Really!' I said. ‘So it is alms from the gentleman? Of all the unimaginable…! Don't tell me he has gone mad!'

‘What sort of talk is this, sister? And here we were, thinking we were doing a good deed!'

‘You have done enough good deeds for me. Thank you. Just come and take this stuff away as soon as possible.'

‘I will, but only if brother Mahmoud asks me to. You should talk to him yourself.'

‘Certainly,' I said. ‘I will do just that!'

I called Mahmoud's house. The number of times I had called that house were fewer than the fingers on one hand. Gholam-Ali answered and after a warm hello he handed the telephone to his father.

‘Hello, sister! What a surprise. What made you finally think of us?'

‘As a matter of fact,' I said dryly, ‘that is exactly what I wanted to ask you. What made you finally think of us? You have sent alms!'

‘Please, sister. It's not alms, it's your right. Your husband is in prison because he fought for freedom and against these godless people. We who don't have the strength to fight and to endure prison and torture are obliged to at least watch over the families of the brave.'

‘But my dear brother, Hamid has been in prison for four years. Just as I have so far managed without needing anyone, with the grace of God, I shall continue to do the same in the future.'

‘You are right, sister,' he said. ‘Shame on us, we were fast asleep and clueless, we were oblivious. You must forgive us.'

‘Please, brother. All I mean is that I can manage my own life. I don't want my children to grow up on charity. Please send someone to take these things…'

‘Sister, it is my duty. You are our beloved and Hamid is our pride.'

‘But, brother, Hamid is that same insurgent who deserved to be executed.'

‘Don't make snide remarks, sister. You really hold a grudge, don't you?… I have already confessed that I was ignorant. To me, any man who fights this system of tyranny is praiseworthy, be he a Muslim or an infidel.'

‘Thank you very much, brother,' I said sternly. ‘Still, I have no need for the food. Please send someone to take it away.'

‘Give it to your neighbours,' he snapped indignantly. ‘I don't have anyone to send over there.'

And he hung up the telephone.

 

During the months that followed, the changes became more palpable. No one at the office was supposed to know that my husband was a political prisoner, but almost everyone knew and until then they had all treated me guardedly and took care not to frequent my office too often. But now all those cautions and constraints had disappeared. People did not seem to be afraid of associating with me and my circle of acquaintances was rapidly growing. And my co-workers no longer complained about my excessive absences and the hours I spent studying.

Soon, the transformation became even more pronounced. My family members, my friends at the university, and my colleagues at work started talking openly about my life and my circumstances. They enquired about Hamid's well-being, expressed sympathy and concern, and praised him. At social gatherings, I was often invited to sit at the head of the room and found myself the centre of attention. As uncomfortable as I was with all this, for Siamak it was a source of pride. Elated, he talked openly and proudly about his father and answered people's questions about how Hamid had been arrested and the night our home was raided. Needless to say, given his young, imaginative mind, he often embellished his recollections.

Barely two weeks after the start of the school year, I was summoned to Siamak's school. I was worried, thinking he had again started a fight and beaten up a classmate. But when I walked into the school administration office, I realised I was there for a different reason. A group of teachers and supervisors greeted me and closed the door to make sure the principal and other administrators wouldn't become aware of my presence. Obviously, they didn't trust them. And then they started to ask me about Hamid, about the political situation in the country, the changes that were under way, and the revolution. I was stunned. They acted as if I was the source of secret plans for an insurrection. I answered their questions about Hamid and his arrest, but in response to all other questions, I kept repeating, ‘I don't know. I am not involved in any way.' In the end, it became clear that Siamak had talked about his father, the movement for a revolution, and our involvement in it, with such exaggeration that enthusiasts and supporters had thought to not only verify his claims, but to establish direct contact with key players.

‘Of course, from a father like that, we should expect a son like Siamak,' a teary-eyed teacher proclaimed. ‘You can't imagine how beautifully and passionately he talks.'

‘What has he told you?' I asked, curious to know what Siamak told strangers about his father.

‘Like an adult, like an orator, he fearlessly stood in front of all of us and said, “My father is fighting for the freedom of the oppressed. Many of his friends have died for the cause and he has been in prison for years. He has persevered under torture and not uttered a single word.”'

On my way back home, conflicting emotions simmered in me. I was happy that Siamak was asserting himself, gaining attention and feeling proud. But I was troubled by his hero-building and hero-worshipping personality. He had been a difficult child all his life and now he was in the confusing and delicate stages of early youth. I worried how after being subjected to all those insults and humiliations he was now going to digest the praise and approval. Would his undeveloped personality be able to withstand such highs and lows? And I wondered why he needed so much attention, approval and love. I had tried as far as possible to give him all that.

 

The respect and admiration of those around us was intensifying from one day to the next. It all seemed exaggerated and far-fetched and I wondered if it was rooted in mere curiosity. Regardless, it was gradually becoming difficult and annoying for me. At times, I felt insincere, hypocritical and guilty. I would ask myself, What if I am taking advantage of my circumstances and deceiving people? I constantly explained to everyone that I didn't know much about my husband's beliefs and ideals and that I had never collaborated with him. But people didn't want to hear the reality. At work and at the university, during every political discussion people pointed to me and in every election chose me to represent them. Each time I said that I didn't know much and that I had no connections, they interpreted it as my being inherently modest. The only person who did not change his behaviour towards me was Mr Zargar who carefully monitored the changes taking place around me.

The day the employees decided to elect a Revolution Committee and announced their support for the roaring swell of the masses, one of the staff members, who until recently had only warily said hello and goodbye to me, made an eloquent speech in praise of my revolutionary, humanitarian and freedom-loving character and nominated me as a candidate. I stood up and, with a confidence that I had gained from a difficult social life, I thanked the speaker but objected to his claims, saying earnestly, ‘I have never been a revolutionary. Life put me in the path of a man who had a particular view of politics and I fainted the first time I had to face a small part of the foundation and framework of his beliefs.'

Everyone laughed and a few people applauded.

‘Believe me,' I said. ‘I am telling the truth. This is why my husband never involved me in his activities. With all my being, I pray for his release, but when it comes to political ideologies and political clout, I am of no use to anyone.'

The man who had nominated me shouted in protest, ‘But you have suffered, your husband has spent years in prison, and you have single-handedly managed your life and raised your children. Is all this not a reflection of your sharing his ideologies and beliefs?'

‘No! I would have done the same if my husband had been thrown in prison for theft. This is a reflection of the fact that as a woman and a mother, I have a duty to manage my life and my children's lives.'

There was uproar, but from the approving look on Mr Zargar's face I knew I had done the right thing. But this time, the employees made a heroine of me because of my humility and sincerity, and elected me.

 

The excitement of the revolution was growing and with its scope broadening, every day there was a new blossom of hope in my heart. Was it possible that what Shahrzad and the others had given their lives for, and Hamid had suffered years of prison and torture for, could become a reality?

For the first time, my brothers and I were on the same side, we wanted the same thing, we understood each other and we felt close. They behaved like brothers and were supportive of me and my sons. Mahmoud's kindness had extended to the point that whatever he bought for his children, he bought for my sons, too.

With tears in her eyes, Mother would thank God and say, ‘What a shame that your father isn't here to see all this love. He always worried and said, “If I die, these children won't see each other from one year to the next, and more alone than all of them will be this daughter of mine whom her brothers will not lend a helping hand to.” I wish he were here to see how these same brothers would now give their lives for their sister.'

 

Mahmoud's connections allowed him access to the latest news and communiqués. He brought flyers and tape recordings, Ali reproduced them, and I distributed them at work and at the university. Meanwhile, Siamak and his friends were on the streets shouting slogans and Massoud was drawing pictures of the demonstrations and writing ‘Freedom' across them. Since summer, we had been participating in meetings, lectures and protests against the Shah's regime. Not once did I consider which group or party was organising the events. What difference did it make? We were together and we all wanted the same thing.

With every day that passed, I felt one step closer to Hamid. I was starting to believe that having a complete family and a father for my children was no longer an unattainable dream. With all my being I was happy that Hamid was alive. Seeing his tormented face no longer made me wonder whether it would have been better if he had died with his friends instead of enduring years of torture. I was starting to believe that all he had suffered had not been futile and that soon he would reap the rewards of his struggles. This was their dream that was becoming reality; the people had risen and were shouting in the streets, ‘I will not live under the burden of tyranny.' When Hamid and his friends talked about such days, it had all seemed too far-fetched, idealistic and unreal.

 

With the revolution gaining strength, I found that I had less and less control over my children. They had grown very close to their uncle. With a devotion that was truly strange and new to me, Mahmoud would come and take the boys to speeches and debates. Siamak delighted in these events and happily followed his uncle. But soon Massoud started to distance himself and used different excuses to not join them. When I asked him why, he simply said, ‘I don't like it.' I pressed for a more convincing answer and he replied, ‘I get embarrassed.' I couldn't understand what he was embarrassed about, but I decided to not push him any further.