A Bitter Veil (10 page)

Anna couldn’t remember a time when she was so content. Parched for affection most of her life, her marriage to Nouri had slaked her thirst, and like a desert flower, she was blooming. In the mornings she woke with a smile, eager to greet the day. As a wife, a daughter, a sister. She was loved. Finally, she belonged.

Their furniture eventually arrived, and she and Nouri moved into their house in Shemiran. Laleh was right; they received a mountain of gifts. Still, there were always odds and ends a home needed, and Anna was determined to provide them. Despite the traffic, she walked everywhere. She didn’t mind; it was the best way to explore her new neighborhood. She fell in love with Persian architecture, and she was thrilled to find glimpses of the colorful tiles, mosaics, and intricate designs she’d seen in Esfahan. It was a sign, she decided, of hope and beauty.

As usual, the Alborz Mountains dominated the landscape, but sometimes it was difficult to tell where the buildings ended and the mountains began. Other times, the mountains changed color, transitioning from shades of ochre and brown to pink, all in sharp contrast to the rest of the landscape. Anna liked it best when they turned gray. She tried to guess when, and how, and why, that happened: was it the time of day or the weather or pollution? For now, the mountains were keeping their secrets.

Anna found Iranian shopkeepers quite eager to help her part with her money. Many assumed their few words of English made them fluent, and they chattered on incomprehensibly. Still, Anna nodded and smiled as if she understood. She picked up a few words in Farsi for food items, furniture, and simple directions. She also learned that the price of everything was negotiable, and she discovered that she loved to haggle.

Despite her happiness, a darkness was inexorably gathering, like a storm massing on the far side of the mountains. At first both Anna and Nouri refused to acknowledge it. It was Hassan who picked at the cloudy wisps of trouble.

Anna invited him for dinner one night in mid-October, when the warmth still clung to the city, as if summer was reluctant to depart. She set a small table on their patio so they could eat outside. A gentle breeze stirred the air, bringing the soft whispers of distant traffic. She worked all day on the meal:
tah-chin-e morgh
, a saffron chicken dish with yogurt, rice, tomatoes, hummus, and the Iranian flatbread called
sangak
. Hassan lifted a piece of chicken to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Anna held her breath.

Then he grinned. “This is good, Anna.” He dug in, shoveling the chicken into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. “You have become quite the Iranian cook.”

Anna beamed. So did Nouri.

After dinner they went inside. While Anna made tea, Nouri got out a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. He poured a shot and handed it to Hassan. Hassan seemed reluctant to take it, Anna thought.

Nouri noticed too. “Is something wrong?” Nouri gulped his down and smacked his lips. “It’s real Kentucky bourbon.”

Hassan stared at the glass, then shook his head. He took a small sip.

“So, my friend,” Nouri said, in the tone he had adopted recently, one that some might construe as patronizing. “How goes your life? Any interesting job prospects?”

Hassan had been looking for work for a long time, Anna knew. He’d wanted to become a doctor, but his father’s death, and his responsi-bilities as the eldest son, forced him to quit medical school. He was working as a sales representative for a medical supply company. Anna hoped Nouri would help Hassan, perhaps even find him something at the Metro, once Nouri himself was settled.

Now, though, Hassan peered at Nouri with puzzled irritation, his silence almost deafening. Anna winced. Nouri should have been more sensitive, she thought, and made sure not to condescend, especially toward his best friend. Perhaps it was just the pressure of his new job. She let it go.

But Hassan didn’t. “Nouri, help me understand,” he said after a long pause. “There is rioting in the streets, people are being killed by the shah’s men. Revolution is coming. But all you can think to talk about are my job prospects?”

Nouri tilted his head as if
he
was confused. “Revolution? That’s a strong word. Certainly there is bitter opposition to the shah. As well there should be. But revolution? I don’t see it.”

Surprise flitted across Hassan’s face. “I understand that you and Anna just celebrated your wedding. Perhaps you are still on your honeymoon.” He emphasized the word
honeymoon
. “But you cannot be oblivious to what’s happening. You have seen the riots on Shah Reza Avenue and at Tehran University. You have seen the cars set on fire, the attacks on the banks and government buildings.”

“Of course.” Nouri glanced at Anna, almost apologetically. As if he was trying to shield her from what was going on in central Tehran. She frowned. He didn’t need to.

“That is not just opposition, Nouri,” Hassan continued. “It is revolution, and it is sweeping the country.” Hassan set down his glass of whiskey. He’d hardly touched it. “Just who do you think will take over after the shah leaves?”

Nouri twirled his glass. Was this an attempt to look thoughtful, Anna wondered? Or was Nouri hiding a budding sense of unease? “An interesting question. I favor a parliamentary democracy. Perhaps a democratic republic.”

Hassan folded his arms. “What about the Imam?”

Anna listened to their discussion warily. Earlier that month, Saddam Hussein had expelled Ayatollah Khomeini from Iraq, where he’d been living for fifteen years. Khomeini promptly moved to Paris where his fiery rhetoric had been broadcast back to Iran far more frequently than it was from the dusty Iraqi village to which he had been confined. His influence had exploded, sparking even more upheaval.

“Khomeini is only one voice,” Nouri said. Anna noticed he deliberately didn’t repeat the word “Imam,” which meant “Islamic leader.” “There are also Socialists, Communists, Democrats—all of them want to depose the shah.”

Hassan leaned forward. “Listen to me, Nouri. The Ayatollah could have gone to any Arab country when he left Iraq. But where did he go? To a place where freedom of the press assures he can continue to call for the overthrow of the shah. To a place where many more will hear him than did before. The man is a master strategist. You need to prepare yourself.”

“For what?”

Hassan just looked at him. Anna’s stomach clenched. In any other time, with any other person, she would have said—perhaps flippantly—that for every religious leader Hassan could name, she could raise him a Sartre, a Karl Marx, or a Marcuse. But she had seen the protests in the streets, the fervent chants for Khomeini, the tears streaming down women’s faces. Hassan had a point. Discomfited, she changed the subject. “My mother lives in Paris.”

Hassan looked at her curiously. “Is that so?”

She nodded. What’s more, her mother was the type of person to befriend extremists, outlaws, and outcasts. But she kept that to herself.

Hassan stroked his mustache. “A mother in Paris. A German father in America. Who are you really, Anna Samedi? What do you want?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I am Nouri’s wife. I want what makes him happy.”

Hassan flashed an enigmatic smile. “Spoken like a good Iranian wife. Perhaps there is hope for you.”

Anna wasn’t sure how to respond. A few minutes later, Hassan bid them good night. “
Marg bar Shâh
, my friends. Death to the shah.”

*****

Strikes had erupted sporadically over the past few months, but at the end of October a general strike closed down most of the country, including the oil fields. Over the next few days, mobs burned down large areas of the city. The British Embassy was set on fire, and rioters tried to attack the US Embassy. Some reports said that the shah’s troops refused to act against the protestors and allowed the riots to escalate. The prime minister resigned. Baba-joon stayed away from his office and insisted that Anna come to their house while Nouri was at work. Although the riots had not spilled into north Tehran, and the streets were quiet, the Samedis’ chauffeur picked her up every morning. Nighttime was another matter. After dark, the cry of “
Allâho Akbar!
” was shouted from rooftops across the city.

One afternoon in early November, only days after the resignation of the prime minister, Anna and Laleh lounged on sofas in front of the TV. Laleh was sulking because she couldn’t leave the house to meet Shaheen. Maman-joon was in the kitchen. A soap opera was blaring away—pabulum for the masses, Anna thought. The state couldn’t afford to let its people watch coverage of the riots all day. But the unrest was having an effect. The household help, including the woman who’d taken Anna’s suitcase upstairs when she first arrived, the one who wore a scarf over her hair, had become hostile and quiet and refused to make eye contact.

Baba-joon stayed in his study, his shortwave radio tuned to the BBC. Anna watched part of the soap opera with Laleh. She’d picked up more Farsi, but the actors spoke too fast for her. Still, she got the general idea from their body language and expressions. Bored, she wandered into Baba-joon’s study. He was behind his desk reading the newspaper. The radio hummed softly in the background.

“Baba-joon?”

He lowered the paper and peered at her. “Yes, my dear?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Think nothing of it.” He smiled tolerantly.

“Baba-joon, do you think there will be a revolution? Will Khomeini come back to lead Iran?”

She wasn’t sure how she expected him to respond: with a vigorous denial, perhaps, or a sardonic laugh that implied the question was ridiculous. Certainly not with the answer he gave. He leaned back in his chair. “I hope not. If there is, we are lost.”

Anna felt as if her moorings had suddenly come loose. She sat down heavily. “So you think it could happen?”

His lips tightening, Baba-joon folded the newspaper into precise quarters and put it down on the desk. “Six months ago I would have said ‘never.’ I am no longer as confident. The shah is losing support—and quickly.”

Anna knew Baba-joon’s background. Nouri had explained that he had been in the military, and his upbringing had been spartan. There wasn’t a lot of money, but there had been discipline, hard work, and determination. For him to express doubt about the shah was huge.

“And as far as Khomeini is concerned…” He explained that the riots and protests appeared to run in a forty-day cycle.

Puzzled, Anna frowned. “Why?”

“Islam requires forty days of mourning after the death of a family or loved one. It has always been so. Now that ritual has become a political act.”

“I don’t understand.”

“After the forty-day mourning period, crowds gather to com-memorate those who were martyred in the previous riot. Their despair and anger are still raw, so it often triggers a new riot, invariably bigger, and more destructive, than the one before. This is happening all over Iran, these forty-day cycles.”

“But what does that have to do with revolution? Or Khomeini?”

“When peoples’ lives are at the breaking point, when they can no longer stand the oppression of a despot, they seek shelter anywhere they can. Iranians do not have a physical space in which to hide, so they seek shelter in a different time. They revert to the past, where familiar rhythms and customs bring relief.”

“The good old days.”

He nodded. “Especially because the shah has tried to be so modern. If you continue to be modern, they say, we will be old. The result is the rebirth of religious Islamic laws, laws that are centuries old.
Shariah
, it is called.”

“Which is what Khomeini preaches,” Anna said.

“Exactly,” Baba-joon said. “For those who have nothing, Khomeini’s words and Shariah law are seductive.”

“You sound almost sympathetic.”

“I understand. There is a difference.”

In the silence that followed, Anna heard the squeak of drawers opening in the kitchen, a blade chopping, the thwap of meat being pounded. Despite the warmth and familiarity of the sounds, she felt a chill.

It was in early November that events gathered speed, seeming to hurtle toward a still unknown end. The shah gave a speech in which he called the unrest a revolution for the first time, and seemed to extend an olive branch to the protestors. But this gesture was reversed when he appointed a military coalition to replace the civilian government. In Paris, Ayatollah Khomeini demanded that the shah abdicate the throne in favor of an Islamic republic. At home, Shi’ite religious leaders rejected the military government and urged the faithful to continue the struggle. But the government managed to break most of the strikes, and some people returned to work.

Meanwhile, the rainy season arrived. It was cold and damp, with periods of steady rain or intermittent sprinkles. Occasionally, a cheerful sun broke out, as if apologizing for the dreariness, and life seemed almost normal. Going out, Anna encountered the jubes—man-made gullies that ran beside the sidewalks. Running from north Tehran down to the city center, they smelled of damp concrete, and at first she thought they were sewers, but Baba-joon told her they were built to handle the excess rain and snowmelt from the mountains. Sometimes, little boys and dogs played in them.

Now that their house was more or less in order, Anna decided it was time to pursue a job. She took a taxi to a quiet, tree-lined street in north central Tehran, not far from the Samedis’ home. Taxis in Tehran were an adventure. They could be private or shared, and today Anna was squeezed between a man who, despite the cool weather, was sweating, and a woman whose hair gave off a sweet, fruity aroma.

The taxi deposited her in front of the Iran-American Society, which occupied a modern, two-story building. Inside, on the first floor, were white-painted halls lined with oil paintings. Directly in front of her was a theater. She peeked in and saw seats for about two hundred. She took the stairs to the second floor and started down a hall flanked by offices, each with a nameplate on the door. The executive director’s office was at the far end. The door was open, but Anna knocked anyway.

“Come in,” a voice called.

Behind the desk sat a woman with dark hair, pale skin, a strong chin, and bright blue eyes, which probably looked bluer because of her turquoise suit. She wore little makeup, but her jewelry was something else. Bracelets tinkled, earrings bobbed, and Anna saw several rings on both hands, including a wedding band.

The woman came out from behind the desk. “I’m Charlotte Craft, but everyone calls me Charlie.” She offered Anna her hand.

Anna took it. “Anna Samedi.”

Charlie waved her into a chair. “So, tell me about yourself. Your father-in-law said only that you are an exceptional young woman and that you want a job.”

Anna jiggled her foot. A few days ago she’d finally confessed to Baba-joon that she didn’t want to work at the oil company, whereupon Nouri immediately told him about Hassan’s suggestion that she try the IAS. It turned out that Baba-joon knew people there, too, and he’d arranged the interview.

“He is too kind,” Anna said.

“Do you know what we do?”

“Not exactly.”

“We’re a cultural center. We try to strengthen the bonds between Iranians and Americans by exposing them to each other. We’ve been around for over twenty years, and I became director two years ago. I, myself, am married to an Iranian.”

“I am, too.” Anna folded her hands in her lap.

“Yes, I know.” Charlie smiled. “I understand you lived in Chicago.” When Anna nodded, she said, “I went to Notre Dame. Right around the corner, so to speak. But I’d visit friends at U of C. I miss Harold’s fried chicken.”

Anna grinned and felt herself relax. “I miss Medici’s pizza.”

Charlie laughed, and the sound was infectious: low, throaty, and raucous. “Oh, my god. Iranians are great chefs, but they have no clue about pizza.”

Anna laughed too. “I know what you mean.”

“At any rate,” Charlie went on, “we have a dynamic organization, if I do say so myself. It’s friendly, it’s substantive, it’s creative. We showcase some of the most exciting work being done by Iranian and American artists. We stage theater events, plays, concerts—you saw our gallery downstairs?”

Anna nodded. She liked Charlie, even if she did talk at eighty miles an hour.

“We also teach classes in English and American culture—mostly for professionals or Iranians moving to the States. As you might imagine, interest in the US is at an all-time high, so we have programs for young people, too. Especially students with promising careers. Do you have a teaching degree?”

Anna’s stomach turned over. “I graduated with a degree in literature. No teaching.”

Charlie leaned forward, plopped her elbows on her desk, and studied Anna. “Most of our teachers are instructors at Tehran University or someplace comparable. They moonlight here.”

Anna looked at the floor.

Charlie was quiet for a moment. Then, “But given the current demand, we have more students than we can accommodate.”

Anna looked up. “Even with all the unrest?”

“Because of it.” She smiled again. “Don’t believe everything you hear. The floodgates have opened. Everyone wants to learn English. Right away. I suppose, in one way, we can thank the shah for that.” She smiled. “Tell me something. Would you like to teach young people? Teenagers? We don’t currently offer classes to Iranians that young, but we’ve had a number of calls. If you can handle it, I think we can make room for you.”

Anna sat up. “Are you kidding? I would love it.”

“It’s just part time, you understand.”

“That would be perfect.”

“Because you need time to devote to your husband and family.”

“Exactly.” Anna grinned. They were complicit, she and Charlie. In fact, for one of the first times since she’d been in Iran, she felt comfortable. Charlie was the kind of woman she would like to become. Dare she think this woman might one day be her friend?

“Charlie, thank you so much. This is so much more than I expected!”

Charlie peered at her. “It’s just a job.” But she looked pleased as she rose and strolled to a set of file cabinets in the corner. She rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a folder. “Here are some sample curricula from past classes. They were designed for adults, so you’ll have to adapt them. Can you do that?”

Anna nodded eagerly.

“Good.” Charlie handed them over. “We’ll gear up in January. December is a month of mourning here, and, of course, all the Americans are consumed with Christmas. Does that sound workable?”

Anna nodded, thanked Charlie again, and took her leave. She practically skipped down the steps. She was already dreaming up a syllabus. Poetry, she thought. She would track down an English translation of Rumi. And e e cummings. She was so absorbed she barely remembered the trip home. She couldn’t wait to tell Nouri.

“How much will you be paid?” he asked that night.

“Sixty tomans an hour,” she said. About nine dollars.

“Not bad. In fact, it’s quite good.”

She wasn’t doing it for the money, she wanted to reply. She was doing it because someone wanted her, and she could contribute. And maybe make a friend in the process. But she didn’t tell Nouri that. She just dipped her head and beamed.

*****

As November came to an end, Anna tried to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for her Iranian family. She couldn’t find a turkey to roast so she made do with a chicken. But the ongoing unrest had reduced shopkeepers’ inventories, and the bird was scrawny and tough. Anna hoped her rice and currant stuffing would hide its flaws.

The Samedis pretended to like the chicken, but the way they scarfed down the kababs and curried meatballs she also cooked, told her they were just being polite. Over dinner Anna chattered about her new job, the students she hoped to teach, the texts she was thinking of adapting. Nouri’s family asked all the right questions, but after dinner—like an open wound that couldn’t be ignored—the conversation turned to politics.

Baba-joon said he’d talked to the shah. There was a moment of awestruck silence, during which Anna decided Baba-joon must know everyone in Tehran.

Nouri asked what he said.

“He is moody and depressed and sees enemies everywhere. First he thinks his foes are the oil companies. Then he blames the CIA and Carter, because they stopped the secret subsidies paid to radicals and clerics. Then he decides it’s the Communists, and, of course, Khomeini. Then it’s the treachery of his own ministers.” Baba-joon sighed. “One day he frees political prisoners. The next his troops shoot people in the street.” Baba-joon shook his head. “I just don’t know anymore.”

Everyone went quiet. If someone as prominent as Baba-joon was despondent, what hope was there?

“Does the shah think he can weather the crisis?” Nouri finally asked. His tone seemed to beg for reassurance.

“I believe he does,” Baba-joon said. It was clear Baba-joon did not.

Nouri didn’t say anything. Didn’t he believe his father? Anna wondered. Or was he unwilling to face reality?

Apparently, Laleh didn’t want to face it either. “I hope he does survive. I don’t like being restricted. I can’t go to nightclubs, can’t go shopping, can’t take the car for a drive. What kind of life is that?”

Anna kept her mouth shut, but it was a relief when the family piled into the Mercedes to go home. As she cleaned up, Nouri turned on the news, which, like in the US, came on late at night. Troops in Shiraz had killed fifteen people who were rioting. More ominously, over two hundred high-ranking politicians and royal family members were discovered to have sent their savings, estimated at over two billion dollars, out of Iran.

Nouri sucked in a breath.

Anna came out of the kitchen. She watched the riot scenes for a moment, then said quietly, “You didn’t expect this, did you?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would be so…violent. Then again, when a government deserves to be replaced, I suppose violence is the most efficient way to do it. And when people have nothing to lose…” His voice trailed off.

Anna was quiet. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, she asked, “What about Hassan?”

“What about him?”

“Is he someone with nothing to lose?”

Worry lines popped up on Nouri’s brow. “Why do you ask?”

“His father committed suicide because of the shah. That can be a powerful motivation for revenge.”

“It’s not that simple, Anna.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Hassan’s politics aren’t based on retribution. He truly believes things must change. He always has. You’re insinuating that no one can advocate for change if they’re not miserable. But what about us? We’re not miserable, but we certainly want change.”

Anna realized the hole she had just dug. “I didn’t mean that. I just…”

“I love this country. I want to see progress. If the shah is not moving us forward, and he clearly isn’t, then someone else should. I will gladly support them. Just like Hassan.”

“Would you really?”

“What are you getting at, Anna?”

“What if you were required to give up something in order to move forward?”

His brow furrowed, and he looked around. “What would I possibly have to give up?”