A Bitter Veil (18 page)

For the first time in her life Anna didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Nouri forbade it, and the Samedis had no interest. Her hopes dimmed. If he wouldn’t let her celebrate Thanksgiving, which wasn’t a religious holiday, Christmas would be out of the question.

In December, Iranians voted to accept the new constitution and named Ayatollah Khomeini their Supreme Leader. Although sporadic resistance from opposition groups was reported, the outcome was never in question. A few of the US Embassy hostages were released, but most of them, including Charlie, were still held prisoner. Later in the month, the Soviets invaded Afghanistan, Iran’s neighbor to the east. Although it didn’t affect Iran directly, it reinforced the perception that this part of the world was a powder keg.

By the turn of the year, Nouri was practically a stranger. He spent most of his days—and evenings—away from home. It appeared he was not becoming a Guard like Hassan—he had not brought home any uniforms. So what
was
he doing? Anna asked him repeatedly, but he refused to tell her and claimed she did not need to know. On the few occasions he did stay home, he wouldn’t talk except to demand food and clean clothes. And then he was curt and churlish. When she tried to ask him about his behavior, he replied that it was
she
who’d changed. Alternatively, he criticized everything she was
not
doing: not practicing Islam, not wearing a chador, not being an obedient Muslim wife.

Eventually, Anna stopped talking at all. She wasn’t allowed to use the telephone, and even if she was, there was no one to turn to. Her one friend was a hostage, she and Nouri were estranged, and the Samedis had their own problems. She had started to build a new life in Iran. At first, she’d had a loving husband, a welcoming family, even a friend. But now, one by one, her support systems had disappeared, like hazy dreams that vanished in the morning light.

Indeed, life had come full circle. Her strength was depleted, and the old familiar isolation of her childhood settled like a weight on her shoulders. But this time it was almost intolerable—because she’d tasted the other side. So she did what she’d always done to survive. Like a prisoner suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, she tried to please. She kept the house spotless. She spent hours cooking. She even started reading the Qur’an, although she found it violent and rigid. Allah was not a forgiving god.

As the days passed, and Nouri remained distant and hostile, Anna tried to think of what, if anything, would improve their relationship. There was only one thing. A last resort. She had been loath to do it, her refusal perhaps to give up the last vestige of her independence. Now though, she had no choice. She would try. And if that didn’t work…she shuddered at the thought.

The next morning, before Nouri left the house, she asked him to make a call for her.

An hour later the doorbell rang. Anna answered it. “Good morning, Roya.”

Roya, in her black chador, flashed Anna a warm smile. “
Khodâ râ shokr
, Anna. I am full of joy that you called.”

*****

The chador shop—you couldn’t really call it a store—was tucked away in a tiny building somewhere in downtown Tehran. Anna was lost; she and Roya had come by cab, and the taxi made too many twists and turns.

At the top of a steep set of stairs, an open door led to a small, cramped room. Every available inch of wall space was lined with shelves that appeared to be warped and rickety. Most of the shelves teemed with bolts of materials. Dark colors predominated. On the other side of the room, the shelves were jammed with books, pamphlets, and magazines.

In front of the door stood three female mannequins, or rather the heads of mannequins, attached to black metal poles. Their faces had simple, cartoonish features with empty expressions, the kind of faces Anna might have doodled on a piece of paper. Each head was draped in black material, but each drape had a slightly different style around the face. One headdress was a traditional round border; one was an upside-down V; the third sported two flimsy v-shaped wings that protruded slightly over the forehead.

“That’s a
maghna’eh
.” Roya gestured cheerfully. “You see, you have choices.”

Anna swallowed and managed a nod.

Roya called out in Farsi. A moment later an elderly man, bent over with arthritis, came out from a back room. Roya told him why they were there, and the man studied Anna. When he smiled, Anna noted he was missing two front teeth, and the remaining ones were yellow. He pulled out a tape measure from his pocket, and handed it to Roya, who measured Anna around the head and shoulders. As she did, the man spoke to Anna in Farsi, but his accent was not clear, and Anna shook her head.

“He wants to know how many you want,” Roya translated.

“How many would you suggest?”

“I would buy two. You do not have to wear them at home.”

“
Do
,” she said in Farsi.

The shopkeeper asked another question.

“He wants to know which
rusari
you want.”

Anna gazed at the mannequins. She pointed to the traditional round border. “That one…,” then she pointed to the one with tiny wings, “…and that one.”

Roya grinned. “Like mine.”

Anna hadn’t noticed. She did now.

As they rode in the taxi back to Shemiran, Roya nattered on about teaching Anna how to drape and clasp her chador when she was on the street. Anna felt like she had surrendered the last bit of her freedom.

*****

That night after dinner, she said to Nouri. “I have something to show you.”

He scowled. “I do not have time.”

“It will just take a minute.” Anna got up and went into the kitchen. She took one of the chadors out of the bag and draped it over her. She grasped the material under her chin, the way Roya had shown her, and glided back into the dining area.

Nouri looked up. Anna pivoted one way, then the other, modeling the robe. Nouri was silent.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked. “Roya helped me pick it out.”

His face smoothed out at the mention of Roya, and he looked as if he might say something. Then he sucked in a breath, as if reminding himself to be angry, and his frown lines reappeared. He rose from the table, scraping the legs against the floor, and headed to the front door.

“Nouri, please. I did this for you. What do you think?”

He slammed the door on his way out.

Two weeks later Anna was cooking dinner on a chilly night when Nouri came home. His nose was runny, and his cheeks were flushed. He was holding a canvas bag tied at the top. For a moment, she smiled, remembering the chapped lips and achy fingers of cold days when she was a child. The blanket of warmth that enveloped her when she finally went inside.

“I’m hungry,” Nouri barked, interrupting the memory.

“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” She was preparing a
khoresh-e
, Iranian stew. Tonight it was
khoresh-e qeymeh,
split pea and beef, with onions, potatoes, tomato paste, and limes.

“Why is it not ready now? You’ve had all day to cook.”

“Ten minutes. What’s in the bag?”

Nouri didn’t answer. He wheeled around and mounted the steps to the third floor. Anna didn’t go up there much. There was nothing up there except a closet and the door to the roof. She heard a squeak as the closet door opened, followed by a thump or two. She wondered what he was using it for. Maybe that’s where he kept the phone. She’d check when he wasn’t around. Then he came back down to the living room and turned on the TV. Anna finished seasoning the stew, ladled it into a serving bowl, and set the table. “OK. It’s ready.”

Nouri went to the table, peered at the food, then at her. He folded his arms. “Why are you wearing jeans?”

She shrugged. “I’m at home. I can wear whatever I like.”

His scowl deepened, but he sat down. Anna sat at the other end of the table. Dinner was rarely pleasant these days, and she had little appetite. Often she ate her meal after he finished. Nouri broke off a chunk of sangak and put it on his plate. He dished some stew onto his plate, dipped the bread in it, and brought it to his mouth.

Midway through chewing, he stopped and spit the food back on the plate. “Something is wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t eat this. It tastes like dirt. What did you do to it?”

Anna’s stomach clenched. She picked up the bowl, scooped a spoonful onto her plate, and tasted it. It seemed fine to her. She said so.

“No. Something is bad. You’ve done something different.”

“Well, I didn’t have any saffron, so I used extra turmeric. Gives it more of an Indian flavor. Maybe that’s what you’re tasting.” Saffron was probably the most common spice in Persian cuisine.

Nouri was not mollified. “Why would I eat anything Indian? It’s a country full of ignorant, dirty, uncultured heathens. You tricked me.”

Anna just looked at him.

“You can’t even cook anymore. What good are you?”

Something inside Anna snapped. She stood up, grabbed the serving bowl, and threw it on the floor. The shatter of china was the most satisfying sound she’d heard in weeks. The stew oozed out between the shards of the bowl.

Nouri’s eyes widened. He jumped to his feet. “What do you think you’re doing? You’ve gone crazy. Evil jinns have taken over your soul!”

She planted her hands on her hips. “Enough, Nouri. This stops! All of it.”

Nouri edged closer. “Don’t talk to me that way. Clean it up. Now!”

Anna refused to move. Nouri raised his hand as if he was going to strike her. She didn’t give him the chance. She bolted and raced up the steps. When she reached the bedroom she hurled herself inside and locked the door.

*****

Nouri didn’t come home that night. As she cleaned up the mess, Anna told herself she didn’t care. She even managed a few hours of sleep. By the next morning, she had made a decision. She hunted for her passport. She hadn’t thought about it in months; she hadn’t needed it. It was supposed to be in the wall safe built into the bedroom. She knew the combination and opened it, but the passport wasn’t there. A wave of panic rolled over her. Her passport was more than her identity. It was the formal record of her existence. Without it, she was nothing. She searched her dresser and closet. No passport.

Maybe he’d put it in the closet on the third floor. The one whose door she’d heard him occasionally open and close. She went up the steps and opened the door. The only things inside were items like linens that she’d stored. No passport, and no telephone. Why did he keep opening the door if he wasn’t storing anything in it? She frowned, but couldn’t dwell on it at the moment. She went back downstairs and searched for her passport in the kitchen, behind the bookshelves, in the closets. It wasn’t there. Where was it? Had Nouri done something with it?

She started to pace the living room. Her stomach churned, her breath came in tight gasps, and she thought she might be sick. What would she do now? Then, suddenly, she stopped. There had to be a way around this. People lost their passports all the time. She couldn’t let that discourage her. She’d figure it out. As she talked herself into it, anger replaced fear. Anger at Nouri, anger at herself, anger at her own helplessness. She was wasting time.

She put on her chador, grabbed her purse, and ran out of the house. At the corner she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of the Swiss Embassy, which, now that the US had broken diplomatic relations with Iran, was handling any issues that involved Americans. During the trip, her anger mounted. This time she welcomed it—it was better to be pissed off than to fall apart. The sensation of her pulse throbbing against her temples was perversely satisfying. The anger crystallized her thoughts, strengthened her resolve, channeled her toward action.

It was a surprisingly short ride to the embassy in the northern part of Tehran, not far from the Samedis’ house. The building, an imposing structure with elegant columns in front, looked a little like the White House, but like most upscale buildings in Tehran, it was surrounded by high walls. Winter was gradually relinquishing its grip, and a bright sun glinted off the white stucco.

She discovered that the “Foreign Interests” section of the embassy occupied a separate building a few blocks away. She walked to a small concrete structure, vastly different from the grand embassy. Bars protected the entrance, and a man in a Tehran police officer’s uniform guarded the gate. She pressed an electronic buzzer on the wall. A metallic voice asked what her business was.

“I’d like to see someone who can help me go back to America.”

She was buzzed in. After a cursory body search, a man speaking English with a thick accent asked for her passport.

“I…I don’t have it.”

Frown lines appeared on his face. He appraised her, then apparently decided she was legitimate and ushered her down the hall to a small office. He knocked on the door and entered. Anna waited in the hall, hearing the murmur of conversation inside. A moment later the man gestured her in, walked out, and closed the door.

A second man sat behind a desk in the nondescript office. His skin was sallow, his hair was receding, and he had a paunch. Wire rim glasses perched on his nose. He looked harried and in need of a vacation.

He cleared his throat. “Good morning. I’m Peter Deutsch. What can I do for you?” He too had an accent, but Anna recognized it as Swiss.

“Good morning, Mr. Deutsch. I am an American. I’ve lived in Iran about a year, and I want to go home. As soon as possible.”

“Are you married to an Iranian?”

She nodded.

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

“I see.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m glad there are no children. Complicates matters. Even so, there isn’t much I can do.”

Anna crossed her arms. His tone was crisp, almost mechanical, as if he’d said this many times. “But I’m an American citizen.”

“Yes, you are American as far as the US government is concerned. But not according to Iran.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You became an Iranian citizen when you got married.”

“No. I have dual citizenship. I…I still have my US passport.”

Deutsch took off his glasses, opened his desk drawer, and fished out a handkerchief. He wiped first one lens, then the other. He put them on again. “The Iranian government does not recognize dual citizenship. US nationals who are married to Iranians are treated as Iranian citizens. You became a naturalized citizen of Iran when you married. And as long as you are in Iran, you will be treated as one.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning that under Iranian law—despite the fact that you still hold US citizenship—you must now enter and exit Iran on an Iranian passport.” 

“But I don’t have an Iranian passport.”

“You must get one.” He paused. “Did you marry here?”

“Here and in the States.”

“If you married in Iran, your American passport would have been confiscated by the Iranian authorities at that time. Didn’t your husband tell you?”

Anna was quiet for a moment, trying to take it in. “It must have slipped his mind,” she finally said.

Deutsch laced his hands together on the desk. “You know, of course, that women must have the consent of their husbands in order to leave the country.”

“And if the husband refuses?”

“I am sorry.” He opened his hands.

The walls were closing in. A seed of desperation bloomed inside Anna. “Sorry isn’t good enough. You have to help me.”

“As I said, the law is the law. When you add in the absence of diplomatic relations at the moment, we can only give you limited assistance.”

“But that…that’s unacceptable. I have to leave. I can’t stay another week.”

He intertwined his fingers again. His tired expression suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d heard that, either.

Anna refused to accept defeat. “What about my mother? She lives in Paris. Surely, there’s a way for me to visit her.”

“Again, if you have your husband’s written permission, you may go anywhere you like.”

Anna blinked rapidly. “If you were me, what would you do?”

“Madame, I can’t advise you. What I can tell you is that if you divorce, or if your husband dies, you then will have an opportunity to renounce your Iranian citizenship. However, if you have any children, they are automatically considered Iranian citizens, and their citizenship is irrevocable. They will be required to enter and depart Iran on Iranian passports.”

Anna couldn’t imagine having any children with Nouri at this point.

“And you will still need permission from the local authorities to leave.”

Anna’s misery returned, smothering her earlier energy. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to break down in front of a stranger. “So,” she asked shakily, “what
can
you do for me?”

“We can call or write your family and tell them you’re being held against your will. Of course, I imagine they already know.”

“My husband won’t let me call my mother, and I haven’t spoken to my father in months.”

“I can mail a letter for you. Maybe get you some clothes if you need them.”

“Can you call my father? He’s a physicist. He works for the government in Maryland.”

When Deutsch nodded, she gave him her father’s phone number and address.

“And your mother?”

“I told you. She lives in Paris.”

“Ah. The city of lights.”

Anna couldn’t believe he was making small talk at a moment like this. Despair seeped through her body like poison. She couldn’t leave Iran unless Nouri gave his permission, and that was something he said he would never do. She was trapped.