A Bitter Veil (2 page)

January 1977

The dusty smell of books, both new and used, was reassuring. Anna wound through the store’s narrow aisles, thinking of the hours she’d spent in the library when she was a little girl. She had never been popular; her schoolmates kept their distance. So she’d spent a lot of time by herself. But her governess—or nanny, as they called them here—permitted her to ride her bike to the library after school, and it became her refuge, a place to lose herself in the stacks. The children’s librarian would suggest novels, which she wolfed down like a starved animal, sometimes two or three in as many days. It wasn’t long before she’d tackled
Gone With the Wind
and
A
Tale of Two Cities
, at which point the children’s librarian handed her off to the adult fiction section.

Now, as she closed in on the poetry section in the back of the store, the collected knowledge on the shelves comforted her. She shrugged off her down jacket and pulled out her syllabus for Middle Eastern Literature. She was an English major at the University of Chicago. Her father, a scientist, had not been pleased with her choice.

“What sort of job can you get with an English degree?” he sniffed when she told him. “A teacher? Do you have the patience to teach spoiled American teenagers who are only thinking about the next rock concert or marijuana cigarette?”

She didn’t argue. She had no good answer except that she suspected a grounding in literature, especially that of other cultures, would give her a solid base for whatever she eventually pursued. Sometimes it was anthropology, and she saw herself authoring a breakthrough study of some obscure Native American tribe. Sometimes it was law, and she imagined herself a female Clarence Darrow. Other times it was film. She would be a highly sought after director, the American Lina Wertmuller, whose
Swept Away
Anna had seen three times, each time reveling in the brutal but magnetic sexuality of Giancarlo Giannini.

She scanned the books on her syllabus. The first few books she’d need were
The Selected Poems of Rumi; Ghazals from Hafiz
; and
The Poetry and Philosophy of Omar Khayyam
. She plucked the Rumi book from a shelf of brightly colored volumes and thumbed through it. The introduction described Rumi’s background as a Sufi and mystic, his erotic energy, how reading his poetry was like making love. A smile curled her lips. This would be fun.

“I gaze at the porcelain of your face and my heart lights up…”
A male voice cut into her thoughts.

She spun around. A young man was watching her. He was tall—taller than she—and slim. Straight black hair, curling below his ears. A flat chin and aquiline nose balanced his face, and his skin was as pale as hers. But it was his eyes that took her breath away. Pools of rich brown, they flashed with hints of amber and were surrounded by thick black lashes.

“
Your gentle nature teaches me to float into your embrace…”

Her insides went warm.

As if he knew his effect on her, he smiled. “It is from the
Divan
, the collected works of Rumi in his middle years.”

She noticed how the bulky blue sweater under his jacket emphasized his shoulders, how his tight jeans did the same for his buttocks.

“There is no better poet to fall in love with.”

He bowed and gestured with a flourish. “I am Nouri.” He straightened up, smiling. “And you?”

She tucked the book under her arm and extended a hand. “Anna.”

He took her hand and held it a beat too long. His skin was soft. Not a speck of dirt under his nails. “Anna is a beautiful name.”

Her cheeks felt hot. She knew he was trying to pick her up, and she knew she should be wary. But she also remembered how, in
The
Godfather,
Michael Corleone was hit with a thunderbolt when he met his Sicilian wife for the first time. Was this what it felt like?

She watched him take her in. She considered her own looks average, but he seemed pleased with her long blonde hair—that could hide her face with a shake of her head—her frank green eyes, sharp chin, and athletic build. “May I see your syllabus?”

She handed it over, aware that apart from her name, she hadn’t yet spoken a word.

He studied it. “Rumi, Hafiz, Khayyam, Ferdowsi.” He nods. “Yes, these are all masters. Is your professor Persian?”

“I…I’m not sure.” She grimaced mentally. Her first words should have been more confident, more assertive.

He didn’t seem to notice. “I am from Iran.”

“Are you a poet?” she asked shyly.

He laughed. “I’m studying engineering. At UIC.”

The University of Illinois at Chicago campus was a few miles north of Hyde Park. “What are you doing down here?”

He gestured toward the shelf. “This is one of the only bookstores with a decent collection of Persian literature.”

An engineer with a love of literature. She smiled a little. She couldn’t help it.

His dazzling grin made up for her puny effort. “Will you have tea with me?”

She considered it. The wintry, frigid afternoon was threatening snow, and light was already slipping away like a thief in the night. She could think of nothing she’d like more.

*****

“Nouri Samedi,” Anna said, stirring her tea thirty minutes later. They were in the lounge of the student union, a nondescript university building with brick walls, linoleum floors, and plastic furniture.

He looked pleased that she’d spoken his name as he picked up his cup. “Anna Schroder,” he said. “Samedi and Schroder. You see, our names have their own rhythm. It is a sign.”

She swelled with pleasure. She had never met a boy like Nouri. American boys were either preening Marlboro men or disco rats. “Are all Iranians this romantic?”

“If they’re Persian.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Romantic, poetic, and fatalistic.”

“Fatalistic?”

“We Persians have a tragic view of life. The rose withers. The butter-fly dances its way to death. We love to mourn. We wallow in misery and martyrdom.”

“Why is that?”

“It started with Husayn ibn Ali, Mohammed’s grandson. He is as important to Shi’a Muslims as Moses is to the Jews. But he was beheaded. You will learn about him in your class.”

She tapped her spoon against her cup. She hesitated before asking her question. “Are…are you observant?”

He shook his head. “I am Muslim in name only. I reject all orthodoxy, no matter what its source.”

A surge of relief ran through her. She was a Christian but a non-believer.

“The fatalism…” he continued. “It also comes from the fact that Persia was conquered so often. It is ironic: Persian culture has survived because the conquerors assimilated
our
culture, rather than the other way around. Still, we always worry.”

“The other shoe theory of life,” Anna offered.

“Pardon?”

She explained. She always waited for, indeed expected, the other shoe to drop. For things to go bad.

“Exactly.”

“But Iran is quite modern now, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes. The shah has made sure of that.” A shadow moved across his face.

Anna caught it. “You don’t approve?”

“The shah has modernized quickly. Some say too fast. But his regime is repressive. If you disagree with anything, SAVAK will find you. Many have disappeared. It is, in some ways, a reign of terror.” He pressed his lips together. “And the US does not help. They continue to support a dictator.”

She paused. “I am an American citizen—I was born here. But that doesn’t mean I always agree with my government.” She told him about her anti-war days. Taking over the principal’s office with twenty other students, all of them puffed up with arrogance and self-righteousness. It wasn’t that long ago.

The shadow on his face disappeared, and the amber in his eyes flashed. “I am glad you feel that way. You know, with a civil engineering degree, I can help rebuild democracy in Iran. Put structures in place—electricity, running water, bridges, and roads—that will improve lives. Give people a sense of community and entitlement. Like Mosaddeq.”

“Mosaddeq?”

“He was prime minister of Iran’s only popularly elected government. He nationalized the oil companies to plow profits back into the country. For the people instead of the privileged few. But your CIA and the Brits didn’t like that. They accused him of being a Communist. In fact, they staged a coup to overthrow him and brought back the shah.” He blew out air. “Poof. The flame of democracy was extinguished.”

He was lyrical even when he was critical. Still, she bristled. “It’s not
my
CIA.” She told him about her intellectual journey from Hegel to Marx, and then Marcuse. How she was anxious to come to Chicago, in part because of Saul Alinsky. Over the past few years, though, she had backed away from social action, focusing more on observation and analysis. On good days she called herself a chronicler. But she left unsaid the nagging fear that on bad days she was nothing more than a blank slab of stone.

Nouri was swept up in the conversation, his eyes so intense they seemed to be lit by tiny candles from within. His voice sank to a conspiratorial whisper. “I too have read Marx. The shah has banned his books, you know.”

Anna leaned forward. “Tell me, Nouri. Why engineering? You are so knowledgeable. And articulate. Why not politics? Or teaching?”

He snorted. “My parents expect me to become a
Mohandes
.”

“Mohandes?”

“It’s a title of respect for an engineer. Like a doctor. They insist. And I am good with numbers. I like to make things.”

“What does your family do?” She suspected they must be wealthy if he was able to study abroad.

His expression turned sheepish. “My father is a senior officer with the National Iranian Oil Company.”

Somehow she was not surprised. “So he supports the shah.”

“They know each other. Socially.” A flush crept up his neck. He cleared his throat. “What about yours?”

She chose her words carefully. “My parents are…European. But they met in the States. I spend summers abroad. My mother lives in Paris. She pretends to be an artist. They’re divorced.”

“And your father?”

“He is…” She paused. “…a scientist.”

“Ahh.” His smile was equal parts sunshine and desire. For Anna, it was a heady mix.

She sipped the last of her tea. “Tell me. How did Persia come to be named Iran?”

“It is from the word ‘Aryan.’”

She looked up, startled.

“It comes from Sanskrit originally and means ‘honorable,’ or sometimes ‘hospitable.’ Iran literally means ‘Abode of the Aryans.’ But your parents are from Europe. Surely, you knew that.”

She stared at her teacup.

A few days later Anna nervously cooked dinner for Nouri. She’d never been taught to cook, and she only knew a few dishes. She’d prepared a chicken recipe she’d cut out of the newspaper that included bread crumbs, cheese, and cream. After she slid the pan into the oven, she ran a worried hand through her hair. What if he was a vegetarian? She should have asked.

She set the coffee table with the mismatched plates and utensils she’d collected. She lived on the third floor of a greystone in Hyde Park. The apartment had only one bedroom, but it featured a long hall and hardwood floors, and the kitchen opened onto a back porch with stairs going down to the backyard.

The buzzer sounded. Her stomach tightened. She released the lock, heard the vestibule door click open. Boots clumped up the stairs. She opened the door. A light snow was falling, and snowflakes dusted his hair and jacket. She felt the urge to brush them off but restrained herself. They greeted each other awkwardly. His cheeks were red, his eyes bright. She inhaled the smell of wet wool. He bent over to take off his boots, and set them by the door. She took his jacket and hung it over the bathtub. When she returned, he handed over a bottle of wine. It was red, not white, but she pretended to be thrilled. She dug out two jelly jars from the cabinet and poured.

“To you, Anna.” He took his glass and held it up. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

She sipped her wine.

He sniffed. “It smells wonderful.”

“I hope…I should have…do you eat chicken?”

He laughed. “Of course.”

Her attack of nerves eased.

He gazed around. Her father paid the rent, but Anna was thrifty and had cobbled together the furniture from second-hand stores and garage sales. A green worsted couch—shabby but serviceable—shared the space with a black recliner, a couple of straight-backed wicker chairs, and a coffee table made from a giant telephone company spool. Her books, albums, and stereo rested on shelves supported by cinder blocks. Two small dhurri rugs covered the floor.

“Your apartment is so…well…my place is a hovel in comparison. Just a dorm room.”

Secretly pleased, Anna gestured to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Dinner will be ready soon.”

But instead of sitting, he went to the stereo. She tensed. She’d spent twenty minutes deciding whether and what music she should have on when he arrived. She didn’t want to appear as if she was orchestrating the mood, but she didn’t know his taste: rock, classical, jazz? The choices were too overwhelming so she ended up putting nothing on.

He inspected her meager collection of records and 8-tracks. They were mostly classical, except for two Moody Blues albums and one Dolly Parton she’d bought on impulse. He tipped his head to the side. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a Dolly Parton fan.”

She felt herself blush. She didn’t know what to say.

He put on one of the classical tapes. Beethoven’s Ninth, performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra, Eugene Ormandy conducting. She would have preferred something lighter, but she kept her mouth shut and went into the kitchen.

He followed her in. “I got a letter from a friend today.”

“In Tehran?”

Nouri nodded. “Hassan. We were at school together, on the same soccer team. He is the best defender I ever met.”

She smiled. She liked that he was telling her about his life. Ordinary details, like letters and soccer.

Nouri continued. “He says things are heating up. People are openly accusing the shah of repression. Writing letters, declaring resolutions. Calling for the restoration of constitutional rule.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And there’s this cleric—his name is Khomeini. He’s in exile in Iraq, but he’s calling for the overthrow of the shah. He’s starting to get a following.”

“Is he religious?”

Again, Nouri nodded.

“Religion and revolution are not always a good mix,” she said.

“This time it’s different. Everyone is working together. Hassan says it is the first time he has seen so much unity. He is with a group of students who are planning demonstrations. I wish I was there.”

“Isn’t that dangerous, given SAVAK?”

Nouri was quick with an answer. “Sometimes there is no alternative. Anyway, Hassan says the demonstrations will be peaceful.”

“Even so…”

He eyed her speculatively. “You worry too much, Anna.”

“I would make a good Persian, wouldn’t I?”

He laughed then, a hearty musical sound, somewhere between a viola and a trombone. She loved the sound of it. “That’s right,” he said. “You would.”

She served dinner. He must have been hungry because he ate two helpings of chicken, rice, and salad. Afterwards he was effusive in his praise. A warm glow came over her.

They did the dishes together, slipping the plates into the dish rack. Afterwards, they curled up on either end of her couch, their legs and feet overlapping in the middle. Nouri sighed contentedly. They finished the wine, and even the dim lamp in the living room seemed too bright. Beethoven’s Ninth was long over, but Anna felt too sluggish to put on anything else.

Nouri laced his hands behind his head and watched her.

She smiled tentatively, uneasy with the silence. “What?”

He sat up and looked around, spotting her Rumi book on the shelf. He got up and retrieved it.

“More poetry?” Was this is an Iranian seduction technique? she wondered.

“Just a few lines. They are famous. I’m sure they are here.” He thumbed through the book. “Ahh.” He smiled and cleared his throat. “
The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.
”

Her toes curled. A smile tugged the corners of her lips. If it
was
a seduction technique, it was working brilliantly. He put the book down and came to her end of the couch. Kneeling down, he traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips. A shiver ran through her body. He kissed her, tender at first, then more urgently. She felt slippery and warm. At the same time a slow-building tension tightened her muscles. She opened her mouth, her arms, her insides. They moved into the bedroom.

Afterwards, she said, “No one has ever read poetry to me before.”

“Stick with me. You will ace your course.”

*****

Anna did ace the course, but she had no idea how. She hardly spent any time out of bed that semester, much less in class. Thick sweaters, jeans, and boots ended up in a pile on the floor of her apartment. She and Nouri were addicts, obsessed with each other’s bodies. Sometimes they spent the entire day making love. After a week she began to feel incomplete without his weight on her, his breath in her ear. Even his smell, a sweet musky sweaty scent, was a narcotic.

The times they did go out, for food or shopping—though Anna was never hungry—they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. After a while they didn’t even try. By the time winter slid into spring, they had made love on the rocks by Lake Michigan, near the lagoons at Jackson Park, and once on the Midway behind some trees.

Anna was surprised at the bold, wanton creature she’d become. Not that she was a virgin. She’d had a lover or two, but this was a new experience. Nouri grew to be as much a part of her as an arm or leg. He burrowed his way into her marrow. She grew so attuned to him that the mere blink of an eye or the arch of his eyebrow incited her to passion or angst, depending on his mood. She decided she finally understood Rumi’s poetry.

At the end of May Nouri gave up his room and moved in. The night he brought his things over, they fired up a celebratory bowl of hashish. Then, they tore their clothes off and made desperate love. They were both feeling an impending sense of doom. Nouri was due back to Tehran for the summer, and Anna was going to Paris. They decided to cut their vacations short and reunite in Chicago at the beginning of August. They would only be apart for eight weeks, but Anna didn’t know how she would survive.