A Bitter Veil (14 page)

The evening air was tinted with the aroma of barbecued beef as Nouri walked up to the house. Anna must have been cooking
kabab kubideh
, one of his favorites. He recalled her telling him this morning that she planned to do so. He opened the door and went inside.

“Nouri? Is that you? How was your day?”

He ignored the smell, Anna too. He trudged up the stairs, opened the door to their room, and threw himself on the bed.

“Nouri?”

He heard Anna’s light tread on the steps. He slid a pillow over his head.

“Nouri, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

He didn’t answer. She came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s the matter, Azizam?”

Nouri said nothing. He knew he was frightening her, but didn’t know how to begin. For once he wished Anna was less perceptive. She could tell in a heartbeat— without his saying a word—if something was wrong. He pulled the pillow more tightly over his face.

“Nouri, Azizam…” Her voice was tense. “Whatever it is, please, tell me. We’ll work through it.”

Maybe she was right. Anna was the type of woman who made everything seem lighter. He relaxed his grip on the pillow and lifted it off his face. Anna was staring at him, her face filled with concern. He reached for her. She snuggled in close, resting her head on his chest. He wondered if she could hear his heartbeat. He inhaled her special scent: sweet, musky, yet slightly metallic. It used to drive him wild. It still did when he let it. He could get lost in her. She made him feel whole. But now was not the time. He sighed.

After a moment, she raised her head and gave him a tentative smile. “So?”

Another sigh. “They cut me down to three days a week at work. They’re not getting the funding from the new government that was promised, and they can’t afford to keep staffing at capacity.”

Anna’s eyebrows arched. “Oh.”

“They say it’s just temporary,” he hastened to add. “They say things should sort themselves out by the end of the summer.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Anna murmured.

“Yes, but what will I do if they don’t?”

“Don’t worry.” Anna brushed her hand across his forehead. “It could be a blessing in disguise. We’ll have more time together, you and I.” She smiled. “To travel, see other parts of the country. Or…,” she grinned, “whatever.”

He forced a smile.

“Of course, you could look for another job if you want, but if it’s just temporary, why not just relax and enjoy it?”

He gave her a halfhearted nod.

Her brow furrowed. “You know, you could always use the time to finish your thesis.”

Nouri considered it. The thesis was from another time, another place. He was past academia. He had no interest in going back.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Anna shrugged. “It was just an idea.” She hesitated. “Maybe your father has a suggestion.”

He shook his head. “I can’t keep asking Baba to make things right. It’s time I learned to rely on myself.”

“I understand.”

But she didn’t. Not really. Baba-joon would do anything for the family. In fact, he would like nothing better than for Nouri to ask for help. He considered it his duty to take care of his own. Which was why Nouri couldn’t go to him. He had his own family now. Or would have. He wanted to make his mark himself.

Anna continued to stroke his forehead. “You know, Nouri, you could work freelance. Everyone needs engineers. We can put the word out to friends and family and neighbors. You could become a consultant.”

Nouri looked up, intrigued. “A consultant.” He let the word roll off his tongue.

“Why not? In the States they make a fortune.”

He brightened. “I like that. Maybe I can build a store, or remodel someone’s home. Something like that.”

“Exactly.” Anna smiled. “If you want, after supper we can make a list of people you could call.”

Nouri smiled again, a genuine one this time. He had a plan. A solution. The steel bands around his chest loosened. “Thank you, Anna. You are the perfect balm for my soul.” He pulled her close again. This time he allowed himself to inhale her scent and wallow in it. Now he was ready. He rolled on top of her.

“We can’t, Nouri. Dinner is cooking.”

He raised himself on his elbows. “Let it burn.”

*****

The doorbell sounded a few hours later. Nouri was watching TV and Anna was washing the dishes. “I’ll go,” Nouri called.

When he opened the door, no one was there. He glanced left, right, straight ahead, but saw nothing. But the house was sheltered behind a brick wall so his view was limited. Someone could have been there and retreated through the gate. But the gate was closed and looked undisturbed.

“Who is it, sweetheart?” Anna said from inside.

“No one.”

She came out of the kitchen, wiping a saucepan with a towel. “That’s odd.”

Nouri walked down to the gate, opened it, and peered up and down the street. No one. He shrugged, turned around, came back. A small brown package was wedged between the door and the wall of the house. “Look.”

Anna came out. “What is it?”

Nouri leaned over and picked it up. Something substantial was inside. He undid the wrapping. Inside was a leather-bound book. He pulled it out. Turned it over. “This is strange. It’s a copy of the Qur’an. But it’s in English.”

Anna’s eyes got big.

“I don’t get it. The Qur’an in English? Who would do that? Why?”

Anna inclined her head. Then a knowing expression unfolded across her face. “Oh, my god. I think I know who dropped it off.”

“Who?”

“Roya.”

“Roya? But why?”

“It’s a long story. Come in and I’ll tell you.”

At the end of July, Shapour Bakhtiar, who had served as the last prime minister before the revolution, emerged in Paris, after six months in hiding, to claim there was no government in Iran, only feudal alliances that were breeding chaos. Around the same time, attacks by the Kurds in the north intensified, requiring the attention of the “feudal” government. Two weeks later, in retaliation for a leftist demonstration, Muslim militants attacked leftist headquarters, the library, and the law school at Tehran University. Classes were suspended, and because the Iran-American Society was so closely connected with the university, its programs were suspended as well.

Without classes to teach, Anna, like Nouri, was at loose ends. Instead of baking in Tehran’s desert heat, they decided to go to the family’s summer cottage on the Caspian Sea. The area was the vacation spot of choice for many Iranians, and the three provinces that bordered the sea were studded with homes and resorts. The Caspian coastal area, whose terrain and climate were different than Tehran’s, had milder temperatures, lush vegetation, sandy beaches, and, of course, there was the water. In fact, Nouri told Anna the word “sea” was a misnomer: the Caspian was, in reality, a lake—the largest in the world, even larger than any of the Great Lakes.

The rest of the family stayed in Tehran to prepare for Ramadan, so Nouri and Anna took a long, meandering route northeast. They drove through the rocky Alborz Mountains. Steep reddish hills encroached on both sides of the pass, making the road seem fragile and temporary, as if it might disappear altogether if the mountains chose. Mount Damavand, the highest Alborz peak, loomed large and desolate, looking more sinister than it did from Tehran. Anna said the rocky soil reminded her of the Arizona desert.

The terrain flattened as they reached the steppes and forested foothills on the other side. The temperature was cooler, and the air was tinged with a slight fishy smell. Nouri’s mood lightened along with the landscape. He rolled down his window and peered out at the horizon.

“Are we near the water?” Anna asked.

Nouri nodded and headed into town. Babolsar was once a major port on the southern tip of the Caspian, but was now known mostly as a resort town. He drove a few miles along the Babol River which was dotted with small boats. They stopped at the point where it flowed into the Caspian and gazed at the sandy beaches. Glints of cheerful sunshine danced on the water’s surface. But there were fewer bathers than he remembered, and most of them were boys.

“This reminds me of the Chesapeake Bay.”

“The bay is on your east coast?”

“Off the coast of Maryland. It stretches from Delaware down through Virginia. My father used to take me there every summer for hard-shell crabs. I never figured out how to crack them.” She sounded wistful.

“You are homesick.”

Anna’s lip trembled. “Sometimes.”

Nouri glanced over. Anna looked as if she had wanted to say something, then forced back whatever it was. They were both quiet as they got back into the car. Nouri drove to a cluster of houses hugging the beach a mile or so west of town. He threaded his way through newly paved streets. The trees flanking them were sparse and gnarly. They seemed to have stopped growing years ago, as if the continual struggle against water and wind had vanquished them. Many of the houses were just one story, but Nouri rounded a bend and parked in front of a two-story home.

“We’re here.”

He got the bags out of the trunk while Anna climbed out. She planted her hands on her hips. “Some cottage.”

He heard the sarcasm in her voice and tried to see the house through her eyes. It was not as large as his father’s Tehran home, but larger than theirs in Shemiran. It had three bedrooms, a large living and dining area, and a sloping back yard that led to a private beach. A dock, which they shared with their neighbors, sat to one side.

They went inside. The home was well-equipped, with modern appliances in the kitchen, a washer and dryer, even a TV. Anna stood in the kitchen and slowly turned around. “Sometimes I forget how wealthy your family really is.”

Nouri wasn’t sure how to interpret her comment. “Does it make a difference? Between you and me, I mean?”

Anna threw him a fleeting glance with an expression he’d never seen before. It was flat, almost detached; as if he were a specimen under a microscope. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, and she smiled warmly. “Of course not. But it helps me understand how much is at stake.”

“What do you mean ‘at stake’?” Nouri retaliated. “Your father is not exactly impoverished.”

“True,” Anna said. Again she flashed Nouri that detached, objective look.

He picked up their bags and carried them to the steps. “Come upstairs, and I’ll show you where we’ll sleep.” He turned around. She was looking through the picture window at the water. “Well?”

She glanced back over her shoulder, as if unwilling to give up the view.

“You were the one who said we should enjoy our time, together. So…” Nouri gave her a sly smile. “Let’s do that.”

*****

Although the resort town of Babolsar was more casual than Tehran, the tentacles of the revolution had stretched there as well. Nouri learned that the public beach had been forced to segregate—that’s why there were fewer bathers. Furthermore, women bathers were frowned upon; bathing suits were an affront to Islam. As a result, he and Anna spent most of their time on their private beach, swimming, sunbathing, and running the Samedis’ small motorboat across the harbor. Anna asked Nouri to keep the TV off, so evenings were spent reading or playing cards. One day they drove to Sisangan National Park and hiked through the forest.

By the fourth day, though, Nouri was restless. While he had no illusions that life would return to what it was, he sensed he was missing out on something. He wasn’t sure what, but he wanted to go back to Tehran to find out. Anna didn’t want to go back, but Nouri insisted. He tried to accommodate her by taking the long way home. They rode along the coast, then cut south on Chalus Road, one of the most beautiful roads in Iran. Like the one they’d come down, it was a twisty mountain pass hugged by the Alborz. On the Caspian side, a carpet of green covered the hills, made even greener by a glittering sun but as they approached Tehran the landscape reverted to barren brown rock.

Nouri decided to stop at his parents’ house to drop off the key to the cottage. As they headed over, Anna pointed to something on the side of the street. “Slow down.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. But this is the third one I’ve seen.”

Nouri slowed. Anna pointed to a blue box on a pole next to a newspaper stand. A yellow ornamental design ran along the sides of the box. Nouri pulled to the curb to study it. Up close, he could see the yellow was actually a pair of hands clasping the box around its edges. They were pointing up. A few words of Farsi were scrawled across the box. “I know what they are,” Nouri said. “They’re alms boxes.”

“Alms boxes? What for?”

Nouri shrugged. “I assume the new government wants people to donate money to the less fortunate.”

“Really?” Anna didn’t bother to keep the edge out of her voice. “Who do you suppose the money really goes to?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” As Nouri pulled away from the curb, she sighed. “Look. The posters are gone.”

Nouri gazed at a brick wall, which until recently had been covered with movie posters, but was now pasted over with murals of Khomeini and other clerics.

Anna looked like she wanted to ask Nouri something. He looked away.

When they arrived at his parents’ home, Nouri began to think they should have stayed at the beach. They’d only been away four days, but the atmosphere had changed. Baba-joon—usually a sharp dresser—was in wrinkled khakis, and the tails of his shirt hung out. His hair was more grizzled. In only four days, he’d aged dramatically.

He was glued to the TV, switching channels almost frantically. It didn’t matter which he settled on. Every channel kept running photos of the “traitors” who’d been executed. Nouri wanted to tell him to turn the set off but, when he looked into his father’s eyes, he hesitated. Those eyes were full of something he’d never seen. Not just worry. Despair.

An even bigger shock was his mother. Although it was mid-afternoon, she was still in her bathrobe. She hadn’t combed her hair, and her skin looked pasty. She couldn’t seem to sit still, and flitted nervously around the house. Nouri noticed a vial of pills on the coffee table. He arched his brows and flipped his hand in Laleh’s direction. Laleh, who seemed to be the only one who hadn’t changed, gave him a curt shake of the head that clearly meant “Don’t ask.”

He tried out a jovial greeting, but his parents, who usually welcomed him with open arms, barely acknowledged him. Nouri stood around for a moment, feeling awkward. At length Maman-joon darted to the TV and snapped it off. She turned back to Baba-joon.

“The pictures. Always the pictures. I can’t take it anymore, Bijan.” Her voice sounded taut and reedy.

Baba-joon got up, and slid his arms around her. She burst into tears.

A flash of fear shot up Nouri’s spine. “What’s going on, Baba, Maman? What happened?”

“I’ll tell you—” Laleh started, but Baba-joon wagged a finger to cut her off.

“I’ll do the talking, Laleh.” His voice was brusque.

Nouri had heard that tone only twice before: once when he got into a car accident only a week after getting his permit; and again when he almost flunked his history course.

“Yousef, Aunt Mina’s husband, was arrested and taken to prison,” Baba said.

Mina wasn’t really Nouri’s aunt, but she and Roya’s mother were Parvin’s best friends. Nouri suddenly felt as if his feet were stuck in concrete.

“Why?” Anna asked softly.

Nouri was startled. He’d forgotten Anna was there.

“They say he is a traitor to the revolution.”

“What did he do?”

Baba-joon spread his hands. “Nothing. He has a chain of movie theaters. Sometimes he showed Hollywood films, you know, with the sub-titles. Last week, they burned down one of his theaters, but apparently that wasn’t enough. A few days ago they came to his house—his house, mind you—and arrested him for being an agent of the Great Satan.”

“Why doesn’t Aunt Mina just bribe someone to get him out?” Nouri asked.

Baba-joon shook his head. “She doesn’t know who’s in charge. Or where they took him. No one will tell her anything.”

Maman jumped in. “It is Yousef today, but tomorrow it might be your Baba.” She shuddered. She hurried over to the vial of pills, popped off the lid, shook one out, and dry swallowed it. Then she looked over at Anna. Anna’s blonde hair had lightened from the sun, and her skin had a rosy glow. Nouri thought she looked like an angel, but Maman apparently didn’t agree. The look Maman shot her was pure hostility. Why, Nouri had no idea, but he knew Anna felt it because she stepped back and seemed to shrink into herself.

But Maman-joon’s hostility was short-lived, and her mood swung yet again. Now she began to wring her hands and wander around the living room. “We must put blackout paper over the windows,” she said to no one in particular.

Baba-joon answered. “I told you before, no one can see in. The wall around the house protects us.”

“Like it protected Yousef?” Maman’s voice tightened even more. “Prying eyes are everywhere. We must put it up. Right away.” She sat on the couch.

Baba-joon turned the TV back on. They saw shots of crowds at Friday prayers in the city of Qom where Khomeini now lived.

Laleh flicked a disapproving hand toward the TV. “Have you noticed the people who are now growing beards and dressing in chadors? A year ago they were at the disco in leisure suits and miniskirts. Currying favor with the shah. Now look at them.”

Maman-joon made a shushing noise with her finger.

“It’s true, Maman. And the guards are just boys playing with their shiny new toys.”

“Machine guns aren’t toys,” Anna murmured.

“True,” Laleh continued. “That’s why we’re forced to barricade ourselves in our house from dusk to dawn. You tell me. What kind of life is this?” She pursed her lips. “Shaheen left, you know. Went to London. He’s smart. I’m going too. Just as soon as I can.”

Maman-joon looked at her daughter and blinked.