A Bitter Veil (16 page)

As Nouri sank into his father’s arms, tears welled in Baba-joon’s eyes. He, Nouri, must have looked half dead; he certainly felt it. At the same time relief surged through every pore of his body. He was going home. Baba-joon slipped his arm around Nouri’s waist, and together they descended the stairs and exited the building.

Outside Nouri found himself in the heart of downtown Tehran. The streets were choked with pedestrians and traffic. The slanting rays of the sun indicated it was nearly evening. Nouri was surprised. What seemed to him an eternity was probably no more than eight hours. It was as if nothing was amiss.

Before he climbed into the car, he turned around to gaze at the building in which he’d been held captive. His left eye was almost swollen shut, but he caught a glimpse. Again he was surprised. It was an innocuous five-story office building. The windows were covered; then again, most Tehran windows were, to protect against the sun. Still, no one would ever imagine the abuse going on inside. Had it always been this way? Or did the new government convert the building into a makeshift torture chamber?

Baba-joon led him to the car. There was no driver today, so his father drove. Baba was careful and solicitous as he settled Nouri into the front seat; still Nouri winced in pain. His father apologized, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. Once they were on their way, he looked over.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nouri shook his head. “How did you find me?”

His father hesitated. “It is not important. Praise Allah I did.”

“How much did it cost?”

His father didn’t answer. Nouri knew it must have been a lot.

“How is Anna?”

“She called as soon as they took you away. She’s at the house.”

“Do you know who framed me?”

His father grimaced. “No. Do you?”

Nouri pressed his lips together. “No.”

Neither of them spoke. Then his father frowned. The skin on his face looked looser, the lines on his forehead deeper than they had just the other day. “Nouri, I am grateful I was able to rescue you. But I doubt I can do it again. I have used up all my favors. The people who are in charge…I do not know them. I no longer have any influence. I don’t know what you’ve done or—”

“Baba, I didn’t do anything,” Nouri said, cutting him short. “I am no rebel. Or traitor. The only thing I did was protest against the shah.”

“Where? When?”

“In Chicago. Before we came home.” Nouri told him about the demonstration at Daley Plaza.

Baba-joon scowled “That should not have provoked the guards to…” His voice trailed off. “What about your wife?”

Your wife
. Baba usually called her Anna. “She’s done nothing either.”

Baba ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. He needed a shave. Then again, so do I, thought Nouri.

“Nouri, I think you and Anna should leave Iran.”

“Leave? How can we?”

Baba-joon gestured toward the street. “At first I thought this was an aberration. I thought this revolutionary…zeal…would subside. That sensible, competent men would regain positions of power.” He paused. “I am no longer sure that will happen. Your mother…” Baba sighed. “Well, never mind her. The country is being torn apart. I cannot protect you. You should leave while you can.”

Despite the pain of his injuries, Nouri’s insides turned liquid. It had to be killing Baba to say this. His father was always in control, the fixer who solved everyone’s problems. Admitting he could no longer protect his family had to be his biggest shame. Indeed, in a culture that prized appearance and saving face, it
was
failure. More disturbing, it meant Nouri was on his own. He could no longer count on his father to rescue him.

“I ask just one thing, my son. Whatever you do, wherever you go, do not dishonor the family.”

A wave of panic rolled over Nouri. It sounded as if his father was saying goodbye. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Baba-joon gave him a sad smile. “Persia will always be your home. But things are different. Fortunately, you are still young. You have many good years left.” He stared through the windshield, his expression pensive and anxious, as if he was surveying the destruction wrought by a bomb or natural disaster. “And your wife…well…it is not good for either of you to stay.”

“But I need you. I mean, you need me. I am your son.”

“Yes, you are, and they arrested you anyway. Just like Maman-joon’s friends. Next time they may kill you. That is what it has come to.”

Afterwards, Anna realized that Nouri’s arrest was the rip in the fabric of her life—the point at which everything veered off course, down the path to destruction. But the tear did not have a surgical precision; it took its time, it was relentless, and it sapped her. She came to feel as if she was drowning in a pool of quicksand.

For the first few days, as his wounds and bruises turned purple then yellow, Nouri was quiet. Too quiet. He barely ate, he didn’t want to see anyone, go anywhere. He stayed in bed, but he didn’t sleep. When he did manage to doze, he had nightmares and woke up screaming.

Anna tried to persuade him that the worst was over. He was home. And safe. But he didn’t listen, and she felt as insignificant as the noise that blared from the TV when no one was watching. Aural wallpaper, she called it. Baba-joon telephoned twice a day, but Nouri wouldn’t speak to him. Anna knew the memory of the arrest was raw, that he needed time for his wounds, both physical and mental, to heal. She wondered how long it would take. His suffering broke her heart.

Anna remembered the pills—tranquilizers, she thought—that Maman-joon was taking when they returned from the Caspian Sea. She suggested he go to the same doctor. Nouri did and stayed away all day. He finally came home with a prescription for something Anna couldn’t pronounce.

“You were gone a long time. What did the doctor say?”

“After the doctor I went to talk to some people.”

“What people?”

“Baba-joon thinks we should leave Iran.”

“Really?” A butterfly of hope fluttered her stomach. “When? How? Do you really think—”

Nouri lifted his palms. “Stop. It isn’t going to happen.”

“What? Why not? We could just go for a while. You know, until…”

“Anna, I cannot leave. The authorities will not let me.”

“Why not?”

“They…it has to do with the arrest. They will not give me permission to leave.”

“But that’s absurd. Crazy.”

Nouri didn’t reply. He wheeled around and started up the stairs. Anna followed. “But, Azizam, isn’t there something we can do? Maybe Baba-joon—”

Nouri whirled around. “Stop. Baba-joon cannot help. Not anymore. Don’t bring it up again. We stay in Iran. That’s final.”

Anna fought back tears. How could they stay in this place? Perhaps, in a week or two, when Nouri had fully recovered, she could bring it up again.

*****

One night about two weeks later, there was a knock at the door. When Anna opened it, Hassan was there. He was in his uniform, the gun belt around his waist. Anna shrank back. In the days that had passed, she’d tried to work out who, or what, prompted Nouri’s arrest. She couldn’t help thinking Hassan had something to do with it. He’d practically warned Nouri the last time he was at the house.

She greeted him with barely disguised hostility. “Good evening, Hassan.”

Hassan shifted uneasily. Did he know he was under suspicion? Did he feel guilty? “I heard about Nouri,” he said quietly.

I’ll bet you did, Anna thought. She said nothing.

He looked down. “I am sorry.” Finally he looked up. “I would like to see him.”

“He’s not seeing anyone.”

“Please, Anna.”

Was he the one who’d betrayed Nouri to the authorities? Caused him to suffer? If he wasn’t, did he know who did? This man used to be Nouri’s best friend. Anna had to make a split-second decision. Either choice was fraught with risk. The only thing that swayed her was their childhood friendship. “Stay here. I’ll ask him.”

She went upstairs. Nouri was lying on the bed, staring at the wall. He’d started taking the pills, but they didn’t seem to make much difference. When she’d commented on it, he seemed suspicious of her motives. Why did she want him to take more drugs? Couldn’t she live with him the way he was? Anna admitted she might be judging him unfairly. He had been beaten. Tortured. She couldn’t imagine the trauma he’d been through. She vacillated between coddling him, and going crazy with worry.

Now she said quietly, “Hassan is here. He’d like to see you.”

Nouri didn’t move.

“I can tell him you’d rather not.”

He rolled over and looked at her. Was he thinking the same thing she was—that Hassan’s visit might take Nouri even deeper into the maw of evil? Nouri’s eyes left hers, flitted to the window. He sighed. “Let him come up.”

Anna didn’t move. She felt protective. “Are you sure? I told him you weren’t seeing anyone.”

He hesitated. “I will see him.”

She went down the steps. Hassan was still standing outside the door, his hands clasped together. “You can go up. But only for a few minutes,” she added.

*****

Hassan stayed for more than an hour. The door to the bedroom remained closed, but Anna heard their murmurs. At one point Nouri raised his voice. Hassan’s reply was strained but quiet. They were talking in Farsi, and Anna wished she knew what they were saying. Since she didn’t, she made busy work for herself. She hadn’t been cooking much since the arrest. Nouri wouldn’t eat. Now she pulled out paper and pencil and made a list of his favorite dishes. She would shop for the ingredients tomorrow. Inside the house it was warm, but a chill of unease crawled up and down her arms. She felt out of control, powerless, with Hassan in the house.

Finally, the bedroom door opened, and Hassan hurried down. Anna came out of the kitchen. He was almost at the front door. He was trying to slink out without saying goodbye.

“Well?” she asked.

Hassan stopped, spun around. “Nouri will be fine.” His expression was lighter than when he’d arrived. Almost triumphant, she thought.

“What does that mean?”

“He understands what he needs to do. Inshallah, all will be good.” He turned to leave.

An icicle of fear pricked Anna’s spine. She went upstairs. For the first time since the arrest, Nouri was out of bed. He was actually getting dressed in something other than shorts and a t-shirt. He turned around and gave her a smile, or what passed for one.

“How was your visit with Hassan?”

His smile faded, and she realized it wasn’t a smile; it was a grimace.

“You talked for more than an hour. What did he say?”

Nouri shrugged.

Anna ran a hand up and down her arm, her agitation growing. “Nouri, have you considered the possibility that he was the one who set you up?”

He stared at her for a moment. Then, “That’s what he said you’d say.”

She jerked her head up. She felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

Nouri folded his arms. “Anna, I’ve known Hassan all my life. I’ve known you eighteen months. Who would you believe?”

Anna stiffened. Nouri was looking at her with perhaps the emptiest expression she had ever seen.

“In fact, how can I be sure it wasn’t
you
who informed on me?”

“Me?” Anna staggered back, stunned. “Because I’m your wife, Nouri. I left the States to be with you in Iran. I changed my life because of you. I love you. Why on earth would I try to have you arrested? That’s crazy.” Still, a wave of fear rushed up her spine.

Nouri’s face softened, and his voice went quiet. “I know that, Anna. Never mind.” Then, “Anna, would you make me something to eat? I will be going out.”

When their first anniversary arrived, Anna was bitterly disappointed. She’d imagined it as a day of celebration and joy. Maybe even teasing the family with the hint of an impending pregnancy. At least that they were trying. But none of that happened. If not for the gift Anna gave Nouri, she doubted he would have acknowledged the day at all.

She had thought about her gift for weeks. It was actually a series of gifts: she had assembled an “engineering kit”—a set of tools that included a fancy calculator, mechanical pencils, a drafting table, and several triangular scales. She shopped at three different stores, asking enough questions to make sure she bought the right things. She brought them home surreptitiously, wrapped them separately, and, except for the table, had kept them hidden until now.

Nouri unwrapped the gifts and inspected them, as if it was his due. Then he gave her a peck on the cheek. “I do not have your gift. Yet,” he added hastily.

“It doesn’t matter. Happy anniversary, Azizam.” She slipped her arms around him. For a moment, Nouri relaxed into her body the way he always did, but then he stiffened and pulled away. Anna was left with her arms outstretched in mid-air. She felt foolish.

“What shall we do to celebrate?” she asked.

“I have no time to celebrate today. I have a meeting.”

“But it’s our anniversary. We should do something special. I thought…”

Nouri looked at Anna with the empty expression she had seen several times now since his arrest. She was starting to dread it. “I have commitments.”

A jolt pulsed up her spine. Since Hassan’s visit, Nouri had been going out almost every night. On one hand, she was glad he seemed to have bounced back from the arrest, on the other, she was disturbed. Where was he going? What was he doing? And why not celebrate their marriage, just this one evening? What could be more important?

“Where do you go when you go out?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Is it part of your Metro job?”

Nouri gazed at her, again with that dispassionate air. “You do not need to know where. Just that I am going out.”

“But, Nouri, it’s our anniversary. Your family—”

“I told you. I am going out.” He turned on his heel and walked out of the house.

Anna spent the evening crying into her pillow. What was happening to her husband?

*****

As another hot summer melted into fall, Nouri and Anna suffered another blow. Funding for the Metro project was not restored, and Nouri lost his job altogether.

Anna said she’d continue working—classes at the IAS had started up again.

“Or, I can look for another job,” she said as she prepared dinner. “Perhaps I can make more money.”

Nouri scoffed. “You are an American. And a woman. No one will hire you. Women aren’t supposed to work anyway. They are supposed to stay at home. Where they belong.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

He shrugged and rubbed his hand across his chin, which was now covered with stubble. He was growing a beard. “Whether I do or don’t isn’t the issue. We must acknowledge the reality.”

Anna started to pace the kitchen, stopped, twisted around. “Nouri, I’ve been thinking. I still believe we should leave the country for a while. Please. Can’t we find a way to go back to the States? Or Paris? Anywhere but Iran.”

“Anna, I told you. We are not leaving. Iran is my home. And yours.”

“I don’t feel at home. What happened to the brilliant world of Cyrus and Darius? The world of Zoroastrian tolerance? Iran has changed.”

“Change is unavoidable if Iran is to assume its rightful place as a world leader. We stay.”

Anna was stricken. When had he started to mouth platitudes? “Nouri, ever since the arrest I feel like I hardly know you. Please. Explain it to me. I want to understand.”

Nouri’s eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious. “Why?”

She spread her hands. “I’m your wife, Azizam. Your partner. In good times as well as bad.”

He squinted. “You’re thinking about leaving on your own, aren’t you?”

“Never!” Anna’s distress mounted. “I would never leave without you.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

She was close to tears. “Nouri, who is talking about me? What are they saying?”

He covered his mouth with his fist and said nothing.

“Nouri, this isn’t fair. You can’t accuse me of something and not tell me what it is. How can I defend myself?”

Nouri still didn’t answer.

“I don’t understand, Nouri. I get that you’re probably going to religious meetings. I get that you’re becoming more observant. Is it Hassan’s doing? What has he been telling you? Are you planning to join the Guards? Tell me. I can live with just about anything. Except your silence. You’re pushing me away. I feel like I’ve turned into your enemy. Please, Azizam.”

Nouri just looked at her. Then, “There is only one thing you need to know. You cannot leave the country without my permission. I must give written approval. And I refuse.”