A Bitter Veil (17 page)

On a crisp morning in early November four hundred Iranian students stormed the US Embassy and took nearly a hundred staff members hostage. Outside, hundreds more students burned American flags and shouted “Die America.” The students demanded that the US return the shah to Iran to stand trial. He was currently battling cancer in a New York hospital.

At first everyone thought the crisis wouldn’t last, that it was mostly for show. Even Khomeini suggested the students withdraw. But they dug in and, as time passed, the government sensed an opportunity to transform the situation into a victory over the Great Satan. Khomeini changed his mind and gave tacit approval to the hostage-takers. Shock waves resonated around the world. America had been humiliated.

Anna, who was glued to the TV, discovered that she had a personal stake in the incident. As students paraded the blindfolded hostages before TV cameras, she reeled back. She was certain one of the women was Charlie, her boss at the IAS. Her friend. A call to Ibram, Charlie’s husband, confirmed it.

“What was she doing at the embassy?” Anna asked.

“She was there often,” Ibram said softly. “For meetings.”

Charlie had never mentioned any meetings with embassy officials. In fact, she had never mentioned the embassy at all. Anna had heard rumors about American intelligence operatives—CIA or military—working undercover in bland, innocuous jobs. Hassan claimed it was part of the Great Satan’s efforts to sabotage the revolution. Now, Anna wondered if there was some truth to those rumors. Was Charlie a spy? Had she been playing Anna for a fool? Or, as someone who had a lot of interaction with Iranians, was she simply reporting what she knew to the government? Either way, her relationship with the embassy had clearly put her in peril.

But there was another problem. Like Charlie, Anna was an American. Who worked at the IAS. Did that make Anna suspect as well? Her stomach knotted. It was all becoming too much. She couldn’t work. She couldn’t go out. Nouri wouldn’t talk to her. Her best—her only—friend in Iran had been captured by a gang of student thugs. And now she might come under suspicion. Her husband’s family, once her source of comfort and support, was falling apart before her eyes. Her life was becoming a nightmare.

When Nouri came home, she tried to raise the subject with him. “Do you think there’s something we can do to get Charlie out?”

“You want to intercede for an American?” His tone was contemp-tuous. “I support the hostage-takers. The embassy—and the people who inform for it—are nothing but a nest of spies.”

Anna tightened her lips. Nouri was spouting this kind of propaganda more and more. She suspected Hassan was coaching him, but she was hesitant to say anything. He’d become so temperamental. Even though she wasn’t sure about her loyalties, she felt the need to defend Charlie. “She’s been a guest in our house. She is my friend.”

“She is an enemy of the people.”

Anna tried a different tack. “What about Baba-joon? Maybe he can help.”

“Baba-joon?” Nouri’s laugh was scornful. “I think not.”

Anna cringed. “Why not?”

“Baba must cut his ties to the Great Satan as well. We all must.”

Anna ran a worried hand through her hair. “Nouri, do you realize what you’re saying? You are married to an American. If you cut your ties to Americans, you will destroy our marriage.” She paused. “Do you understand that?”

For a moment Nouri’s expression shifted, as if he knew he’d gone too far, and a remorseful look unfolded across his face. Anna held on to it, her heart swelling with hope. She wanted to run into his arms, to feel him encircle and protect her. He loved her. She knew it. All he needed to do was show her. Just one small gesture. She waited, realizing any move on her part might break the spell. She was almost afraid to breathe.

Nouri’s features rearranged themselves into the perpetual scowl he had started to wear. He drew himself up, his eyes narrowed. “Stop whining, Anna. You know nothing.”

*****

Anna was not the only family member concerned about the crisis. That night, for the first time, Anna’s mother called her from Paris. Anna picked up the phone in the kitchen, and when she heard her mother’s voice, a flood of longing she didn’t know was bottled up inside her came unleashed.

“I’m worried about you, darling. I want you to come to Paris. I don’t think Iran is a safe place for Americans right now.”

Tears sprang to Anna’s eyes. Someone actually seemed to care about her. “I…I can’t, Mother,” she said softly.

“Why the hell not? Don’t tell me you—”

“Nouri must give written permission in order for me to leave the country. He won’t.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake. Have him come too. He’s never been to Paris, has he? It would be—”

“He won’t leave.”

“Why not? Is he crazy?”

Anna kept her mouth shut.

“Then you need to leave without him.” Her mother’s voice sounded resolute.

“I can’t. I told you.”

“Anna, you need to get out. You’re a smart cookie. Forge his name on the permission form.”

“Mother, I would like nothing more. But I made a—” She spun around. Nouri was standing at the door to the kitchen. Her voice trailed off and a spike of fear raced up her spine. How much of the conversation had he heard?

“Anna, are you still there? What’s going on?” her mother demanded through the phone.

Evidently Nouri had heard enough, because he grabbed the phone from Anna. “You didn’t come to our wedding,” he barked into the receiver. “You haven’t visited your daughter in years. You have no right to interfere in our life. Anna is my wife. She is happy here. Leave us alone. Do not call again.” He hung up the phone, pulled it out of the wall, and glowered at Anna. “From now on, I will keep the phone hidden. You are not permitted to make calls or answer them. Even when I am not home. If I find out you have, there will be consequences.”

It was hard for Anna to imagine how life could get worse, but as the cold rainy season swept away the crisp autumn days, her life deteriorated even further. A few days after the hostages were taken, Khomeini had threatened to put them on trial for espionage unless the US sent the shah back to Iran. Bazargan, Iran’s current prime minister, resigned.

With Charlie a prisoner in the embassy, classes at the IAS were suspended again. Anna was relieved. Since the start of the revolution, anti-American texts had been added to American and European literature courses at the university. Charlie had told her it was only a matter of time before the IAS would also be required to add them. At least now Anna would not have to teach anti-American propaganda.

New laws were proposed by the Islamic Revolutionary Council, which had assumed the de facto role of government. Among them were restrictions on the public expression of emotion. Men and women were not permitted to kiss, hold hands, or walk together on the street. Most music was outlawed, along with dancing, liquor, movies, bright colors, and games like chess. Even laughter was punishable by a fine.

It seemed to Anna as if anything that brought pleasure had been banned. Everything was interpreted in political terms. A too colorful headscarf was seen as a symbol of Western decadence. A poem was only worthwhile if it reinforced Islamic ideology. Even the wearing of the veil was considered a revolutionary triumph, since it was the shah’s father who’d banished them in the 1930s.

A few days after her mother’s phone call Anna was making the bed when she saw something on the floor underneath it. Sliding it out, she discovered a book. It was a Qur’an—in Farsi. She opened and rifled through the pages. Some passages were underlined in red. She took it down to the living room and rummaged through their bookcase, where she found the English version of the Qur’an Roya had given her. She thumbed through it; maybe she could figure out the corresponding passages in English. She hoped they would give her some insight into Nouri’s transformation. But after a few minutes she realized she couldn’t make any sense of the Arabic script and gave up.

She sat on the living room couch and ran her fingers back and forth on the nubby upholstery. She remembered when she’d bought it with Laleh, little more than a year ago. They were on a carefree shopping spree. They ate lunch at an exclusive club. Since then their world had collapsed. She stared out the window for a long time.

*****

Death and martyrdom had always played an important role in Iranian culture. Persian poets like Rumi, Hafiz, and Omar Khayyam spoke eloquently about the divinity of the spirit. Death was seen as a natural step toward that goal. Life and death coexisted.

But the carnage that descended on Iran bore little resemblance to Persian spirituality. Anna shuddered as she watched the constant TV chatter about torture, executions, and beheadings. The government seemed to revel in doling out death sentences, twisting the philosophy of the past into something ugly and frightening. When she saw the phrase “The more we die, the stronger we become,” plastered on the walls of the US Embassy, she couldn’t help wondering what the purpose of that strength was, if it was only achieved by killing.

She ventured out only when she had to, and when she did, she tried to blend in. She kept her head covered with a long black scarf, and made sure her clothing wasn’t tight or revealing. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone. One afternoon she hurried to the market to buy ingredients for
beriyani
, another of Nouri’s favorite dishes. They had discovered it on their honeymoon. She would stew lamb with sliced onions, then mince, fry, and serve the mixture on sangak bread. Part of her clung to the fragile hope that, if it turned out well, the scents curling out of the kitchen would entice Nouri to change his behavior. The other part of her knew better.

She did her shopping and left the store with lamb, turmeric, and fresh bread. Next to the newspaper stand was a rack of pamphlets. Usually it contained ads and circulars, but today she spotted something new. She had trained herself to ignore the photos of the condemned in the newspaper, but this pamphlet, stacked next to a circular for health and beauty aids, included photos of men and a few women who had been recently executed. Anna backed away in dismay and headed for home.

It was a mild day, so she unbuttoned her sweater and turned her face into the breeze. Afternoons like this seemed to promise that life would be easier, maybe even happy one day. She was enjoying the play of sun and wind on her face when the blast of a car horn made her jump. A white Toyota swerved out of the traffic and parked just ahead of her. Inside were three people, two women and a man.

The women jumped out of the car and hurried towards her. The man stayed in the car, its engine running. The two women wore chadors, the man a khaki uniform.

Her nerves jangling, Anna picked up her pace, but the women matched her. Who were they? A Guard would wear a dark green uniform, not khaki. And would never work with women. Her pulse beat like a caged bird’s.

The women called to her in Farsi. “Wait. Come back, sister. We want to talk to you.” Anna slowed. She wasn’t sure why. Probably instinct, an inbred impulse to be polite. The women came abreast of her. They were sizing her up, feet to toe. Anna bent her head. If she spoke in Farsi, her accent would tag her as an American. Not a good idea. She thought quickly.
“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?
What do you want?” she asked in French.

A rag suddenly appeared in one of the women’s hands. Where had it come from? The other woman grabbed Anna from behind and pinned her arms to her sides. Anna struggled to break her hold, but the woman was stronger. Anna was trapped.

“
Lâchez-moi!
Let me go!” she cried.

But the woman held fast, and while Anna thrashed and squirmed, the woman with the rag started to scrub her face.

“Lâchez-moi! Toute suite!
Let me go! Right now!” Anna sputtered. The woman continued to scrub. The rag was damp and foul smelling. Anna grimaced. Her voice was muffled. “
Je ne comprends pas
. I don’t understand.
Pourquoi?
Why?”

The woman replied in Farsi. “Your face is that of a whore’s. Do you want to be flogged? Taken to prison? You must give up your decadent Western ways. The Imam has decreed. You are violating the revolution.”

Anna
was
wearing makeup, as she did every day. Not a lot. Just some blush, mascara, and eyeliner. Many women—at least most upscale Iranians—wore much more. Why were they objecting to her?

“Stop
. Lâchez-moi!
” Anna craned her neck. She saw pedestrians in front and behind her. “
Aidez-moi!
” she shouted. “
Quelqu’un! S’il vous plait!
”

But no one came to her aid. Passersby gazed at the spectacle, then scurried away with grim, frightened expressions. Some actually crossed to the other side of the street. Anna tried to wriggle out of the woman’s hold. “
Lâchez-moi ou je vais à la police!
Let me go or I’m going to the police.”

The woman with the rag laughed harshly. She waved her free hand, gesturing toward the people on the street who had refused to intervene. “Go ahead!” she said in Farsi. “You will see. They will do nothing.” She turned back to Anna. “You must wear chador from now on. For the sake of independence. To show up America.”

Anna was so enraged she almost blurted out she
was
an American, but stopped short. There was no telling what effect that might have. Still, her silence alerted them to something, some mind-set that was not in accordance with their beliefs. The woman with the rag narrowed her eyes. “The Qur’an says the finest of all robes is the robe of piety. Inshallah, may you see the piety of Allah in your soul. As well as your body.”

The car horn bleated. The two women looked over their shoulders. The man behind the wheel was beckoning them. The woman who’d been clutching her from behind suddenly released her with a shout.
“Allâho Akbar!”

Anna staggered backwards. The two women hurried back to the car and piled in. The man in the khaki uniform pulled out so fast the Toyota’s tires squealed. The car was soon lost in traffic. Seconds later a police car cruised by without stopping.

Anna slowly took a mental inventory. She hadn’t really been injured. Just some tenderness where the woman had grabbed her arms, and rawness where her face was scrubbed. But her bag of groceries had split apart. The lamb lay on the sidewalk, covered with dirt. The bread too. She scraped them up and dumped them in a garbage bin. She wanted to dissolve into tears. But home was still four blocks away.

She had heard about instances of vigilante justice: people inspired with revolutionary zeal who patrolled the streets enforcing Shariah law. Was this one of those cases? Or was someone targeting her, making an example of her? And if that was the case, who was behind it? Hassan? One of her students at the IAS? Or, god forbid, Nouri?