Читать книгу Farewell Shiraz - Cyrus Kadivar - Страница 20

9

Our House

One day in 1972 my father was persuaded by Uncle Farjoud to buy a large piece of land on the outskirts of Shiraz in a place called Qasro Dasht. Famed for its orchards and gardens, this area was a refuge from the brutal heat of late spring and summer. Every Friday we would drive up to our property, which lay hidden somewhere beyond the mud walls. There was a large wooden gate with a huge old brass knocker. The keeper of this delightful paradise was Mr. Shams. He was a tall, grizzly man who always greeted us with a big, friendly smile, his white sleeves rolled up, spade in hand. His shoes and trouser bottoms were always covered in mud after redirecting the channels in the ground to allow for pumped water to irrigate the different parts of the orchard.

Mr. Shams, who lived on the property, took pride in showing us the poplars, vineyards, and fruit trees. Later he would pour us tea and pick flowers for Grandma Julia. For us kids this was bliss. My brother Darius and I would run around the grounds pretending to be Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, Errol Flynn, or cowboys. My five-year-old sister preferred playing with her Barbie doll. Mother would bring a picnic box filled with hot dogs, potato salad, salami, hard-boiled eggs, sliced melon, goat cheese, and grapes. In the summer months we returned over and over again to pick cherries, quince, and apricots. One sunny afternoon, while relaxing on a Persian rug under a large walnut tree, I heard my parents excitedly discussing their plans to build their dream house.

In the weeks and months that followed, I stood next to my parents as they pored over the plans and designs with their Iranian architects, suggesting last-minute changes and additions. For the next two years or so the building of our house in Qasro Dasht became the family’s shared obsession. Every weekend, we would go and watch the trees being cleared away to make room for the building site. During these inspection tours my father would film and photograph the work in progress. At one point the builders stopped work because they claimed to have seen a gray wolf lurking among the foundations, a story which, whether true or not, we found thrilling. Sacks of cement would often go missing and work was halted until the delays and interruptions were overcome by the offer of extra payment. Finally the house we had dreamed of became a reality.

Just a few days after my father’s forty-fifth birthday in September 1975 we set off for our new house. Father felt sad that Uncle Farjoud had not seen his house. He had died of a heart attack in a taxi in Tehran. Parting with the old house in Behbahani Street was an emotional affair. I said goodbye to the kids on my street who used to play football with me. Our three pugs came with us and a large truck transported our furniture to Qasro Dasht. Despite the heat and the fact that he was fasting during Ramadan, Mr. Kojouri helped us. The first night in our new home, Mother burst into tears. The physical and emotional strain of the last three years had exhausted her nerves. She seemed overwhelmed by her new life and did not know how she would cope. Our maid had left because we now lived so far away from the town center. There were hardly any neighbors, although a few new buildings were under construction.

“Don’t worry, darling,” my father told her affectionately. To help my mother, Father employed a thirty-year-old driver called Ebrahim, who soon moved in with his wife, son, and two daughters. Gradually we settled into the house. Everyone had their own room. I particularly liked mine on the top floor with its bright vistas and a bookshelf where I kept my novels and a collection of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. The white walls surrounding the grounds had been fitted with two electric iron gates. There was also a covered garage for my father’s shiny new BMW, servants’ quarters, and a fenced area for our little dogs. A group of electricians, plumbers, and carpenters applied the finishing touches.

It would be several months before the house was finished. Eventually the terrace was completed and the last small, unpolished pink marble bricks were meticulously fitted into position. Most important of all, however, was the completion of the kidney-shaped swimming pool. As soon as it was ready we were splashing about in it and spent long sunny days enjoying the water. Mr. Shams and his assistant Almas, our gardener, had done a good job. The luscious roses were in bloom, their fragrance intoxicating and their beauty enough to inspire poetry in any Shirazi. More than once I heard my father quote a verse or two from the poet Hafez while my mother cut the prized specimens and placed them in vases around the large living room. The summer of 1976 was exceptionally mild and pleasant.

Fruit picking was something we did in the late afternoon, when the air from the mountain cooled the massive garden. Whenever I climbed one of the trees I would admire our house, a pink, square-shaped fortress rising from the orchard. Enthusiastically, I would gather the dark and white cherries from the branches and present them to Grandma Julia, who had a particular fondness for them. Her face would light up each time I brought her the filled baskets. With her blue eyes twinkling and a big smile, she would ask me, “Shall I make you some cherry pies?” I would smile back and nod and give her a big hug. Her pies, incidentally, were out of this world. My parents were proud of their home and gave many garden parties. Life seemed perfect.

That summer my mother’s childhood friend Monique came over from Paris and spent a month with us. She had never married and spent her time teaching children, falling in and out of love, and traveling around the world. Monique was fascinated by Shiraz and especially the spectacular and historic world heritage city of Isfahan, where we invited her to the Shah Abbas Hotel. Monique was a joyful companion and she was greatly missed when she left us. Over the holidays I saw a lot of my friend Karim at his grand house, which was closer to town. We swam, exchanged Tintin books, painted toy soldiers, and played with the dogs. Going to the movies was also a favorite pastime. There were four or five cinemas in Shiraz where young Shirazi lads congregated to watch the latest Iranian films with their favorite sexy actresses and macho men. Our family and friends preferred Ariana Cinema, where once a week we went to watch Clint Eastwood westerns, Charles Bronson and Bruce Lee action flicks, or vintage epics like Ben-Hur, The Ten Commandments, or Spartacus. Some of the romantic films, like Love Story and Franco Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet, were so popular that they were shown over and over again in their original language.

My father with his grandfather Aminollah Khan in Shiraz, 1935.

My father in Paris, 1958.

My mother in France, a month after her wedding, 1958.

Me daydreaming in our first house in Shiraz, 1967.

My paternal grandmother, Sheherezad, 1950.

Me with my paternal grandfather, Mohammad Kadivar, at his Tehran home during Nowruz, 1968.

My father (third from left) and key surgeons and doctors at the Nemazi Hospital, circa 1969–70.

Our teacher Miss Kahler and her Shiraz class of 1970. Karim, my best friend, is in the back row, second from right. I am the boy in the white sweater.

My maternal grandparents, Joseph and Julia Cybulski, 1962.

My parents at the Korush (Cyrus) Hotel in June 1975.

My father with (from left to right) me, my brother, Darius, and my sister, Sylvie on her birthday, October 5, 1970.

Shahrbanu and her father, Fereydoun, outside their home in 1979.

Our last summer at Ab Barik, 1979. Front row (left to right): me, Hassan, Mojghan, Soraya, and Shahrbanu; back row (left to right): unknown boy, Darius, and Sylvie.

The house we left behind, 1978.

The Quran Gate, Shiraz, sometime in the 1950s.

Then it was back to school, doing homework, playing football, staging plays, and attending Halloween and birthday parties. In October Jean and Jeannette Delvaux, a charming couple who had known my parents since their student days in France, spent their holidays with us. The following month we had another French visitor, Monsieur Didier Manheimer. My father had met him at Dr. Haghighi’s house. Manheimer was staying at the Korush (Cyrus) Hotel. A roving businessman, he was in Shiraz looking for rich Iranians interested in buying luxury apartments in France. He took an instant liking to our family. Manheimer had an interesting past. As a Jew, he was the youngest French officer to be imprisoned in Colditz during the Second World War. He entertained us with tales of his attempted escapes. Twenty years older than my father, Manheimer was a keen tennis player and a bon vivant. He was also, I discovered, a friend of French president Giscard d’Estaing. Like many foreign visitors he had been charmed by Shiraz and her kind inhabitants.

In late December my French grandfather, Joseph Cybulski, spent the Christmas holidays with us. Grandma Julia was in tears when she saw her husband. Grandpa Joseph was a robust man with blue eyes and a heart of gold. He was affectionate and generous. A decorated war hero, he would regale us with stories of his brave exploits in the war against the Germans. My grandmother, who had helped the French Resistance, was also eager to have her say. Before coming to France she, like her husband, had witnessed the effects of the Bolshevik Revolution and the horrors of that time. Born in Soissons, my mother also had her amazing wartime memories, which I often recorded on tape.

It was an unusual winter that year and Shiraz was hit by a snowstorm. One morning Grandpa Joseph dragged me and my brother out to help him shovel the pathways. We were heartbroken when my grandfather left us, although he promised to write and plan another visit. Meanwhile, another year ended. In January 1977 our friend Manheimer, who had gone to Tehran, came back and stayed another week. On his last night with us, Manheimer was his urbane self, laughing and joking. We had just sat down for an elaborate dinner when Father popped opened a bottle of champagne. “A toast to the Shahanshah,” my father proposed cheerfully. Genuinely perplexed, our guest had slowly raised his crystal glass. “A Sa Majesté Impériale,” Manheimer winked. I’ve since wondered whether my father’s sudden patriotic gesture had something to do with the good life he was enjoying under the monarchy. As an Iranian, Father was proud to have a king who, two years earlier, had taken a strong stance at OPEC that had resulted in quadrupling oil revenues and strengthened the Pahlavi state. The gray-haired Mohammad Reza Shah was at the pinnacle of his personal power; he had come of age and settled into his self-defined role of enlightened autocrat.

Over coffee that night my father showed the Frenchman an exquisite copy of the Shahnameh, published the year before by the Imperial Court to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the Pahlavi dynasty. He retrieved the huge tome, which was usually kept in a glass cabinet, and placed it on a table. Didier Manheimer took a cursory look. Suddenly Manheimer announced, “There are going to be major changes in Iran if your king continues the way he’s going.” His statement left us shocked. Nobody had ever spoken about the shah like this before, at least not in front of us. Manheimer was a man of the world and not one to ignore what he considered the darker side of the shah’s regime: the rampant corruption and the imperial dictatorship. Being an impressionable fourteen-year-old, I found the Frenchman’s remarks upsetting. “The shah is good for Iran,” I insisted. Monsieur Manheimer studied me with searching eyes. “Things will not stay like this forever; all appears calm on the surface now but it could suddenly change overnight . . . .”

There was a long pause before the Frenchman addressed my father. “As a friend, not as a businessman,” he said, “I strongly advise you to consider buying a place in France as insurance.” Realizing that he might have caused offense to his host, he rapidly changed the subject. We said goodbye to our guest in the morning and I never mentioned the previous night’s conversation again.

The months passed quickly. Springtime was a short affair and summer always came early in Shiraz. I couldn’t wait until Ebrahim drained the swimming pool, painted it, and filled it with fresh water so we could have our first swim at the end of May.

After passing my exams, and with the school closed for the holidays, my parents took us horseback riding at the Bajghah near the Agriculture College. I filled my days getting together with my schoolmates at the Kayvan Bookshop in search of the latest novels and comic books, visiting the parks, and roaming the streets. Often we went to the Milk Bar for a chocolate sundae or lunched in restaurants with names like Bahar, Haji Baba, Khayyam, or the popular kebab place in Saray-e Moshir. Sometimes we grabbed a pizza, or some fast food, American style, at one of the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets in town. We still went to the movies with my brother and friends, with bags of pistachios and tokhmeh seeds. On special occasions, for evening entertainment, my parents took me to the exclusive 103 Restaurant on Anvari Street. There were also dinner shows at the Golden Bowl on Rudaki Street and cabaret performances at the Casbah.

During the summer I kept up my private math lessons with Mr. Khan. In the evenings on the way home, our driver would usually stop at a sandwich shop so we could share a Persian cutlet and a soft drink together. In the evenings the family huddled together to watch one of our favorite dubbed television shows: Kojak, Little House on the Prairie, The Six Million Dollar Man, McMillan & Wife, or Colombo. There was also Fereydoun Farrokhzad’s weekly variety show with famous pop stars. The most popuar Iranian miniseries that summer was My Uncle Napoleon, based on Iraj Pezeshkzad’s best-selling novel. Set in 1940s Tehran during the Allied occupation of Iran, it told the hilarious coming-of-age story of the narrator, a young man called Saeed, who one hot afternoon falls in love with his simple-minded cousin Layli, the daughter of his tyrannical uncle, a retired officer, who suffers from a paranoia of the English and has a Napoleon complex. The result is pure mayhem as family fortunes are reversed and assignations thwarted. We never missed an episode, laughing at a myriad of characters: the cuckolded butcher, a suspicious detective, a prying neighbor, and my favorite, Mash Qassem, the uncle’s valet who, like his crazy master, exaggerates his role as a soldier in the old wars against the Mamasani tribes in Fars.

In June we picked cherries and apricots. Mamie Kouchik came over and stayed with us for a month and once went to Fasa to check on her husband’s lands. At other times she spent time with her late brother’s widow, Akhtar Khanoum. The following month my cousin Sabina, her parents, and her German grandmother Maria came from Tehran for a short visit. Bahman, Sabina’s father, was a successful architect, and his wife, Uta, used to translate books for one of the shahbanu’s youth centers.

I do not recall a hotter or more infuriating summer than the one in 1977, when even our proud roses began to wilt in the unbearable heat. There were regular power cuts that drove us mad. When the cooling system did not have electricity the heat invaded our house. Father’s temper returned as he snapped at anyone who left the doors or windows open. Once, after dinner, Bahman got into a heated discussion with my father. “This country is becoming unmanageable,” Bahman told him. “It’s all Hoveyda’s fault!” Father disagreed. He had always liked the prime minister, a round, balding man and an intellectual, who usually sported a walking stick and an orchid in the lapel of his tailored suit. Having met Hoveyda several times, my father did not think he was personally corrupt or that he had done a bad job. Before the recession he had presided over an economic boom, illiteracy had been reduced by half, the number of hospitals, technical colleges, and universities had doubled, and there were eleven million children enjoying a free education.

The problem with Hoveyda was that he had stayed in office too long—almost twelve years. Two years earlier, my father’s cousin Dr. Pouyan had resigned as health minister over disagreements with the prime minister. Already Hoveyda’s critics were accusing him of flattering the shah, encouraging his folie de grandeur, and turning a blind eye to the regime’s excesses. People wanted a change. On August 7, Hoveyda resigned and took over Alam’s job as court minister. Dr. Jamshid Amouzegar, a Princeton-educated technocrat, was named prime minister. “Let’s hope he can do something,” Bahman quipped. When not spouting politics, Bahman liked to show off his diving and ping-pong skills. While Uta baked us cheesecake, Sabina entertained us with ghost stories, read our palms, and sang along to Donny Osmond and the Carpenters. We played together in the garden or sunbathed around the swimming pool.

Only thirteen years old, Sabina used to tease me about my diary. She spoke lovingly about a boy she’d met the previous summer and the beauty of the Caspian forests and beaches. “We have a wonderful villa there in Sari,” she said, adding, “You must all come and see us there.” We really missed my cousin when she left. Meanwhile, periodic power outages upset us every time the lights went off while we were watching one of our favorite television shows. On such occasions Mother would quickly produce her candles to light up the darkened rooms. But life felt wonderful. We had everything: a comfortable big house; love; affectionate parents; good friends, neighbors, and relatives; dogs; and flowers.