Читать книгу Escape From Paradise - Majid MD Amini - Страница 3

Listen to the sound of reed,

As it blows its complaint:

Reciting the tale of separations!

From the time I was cut,

From my reedy bed in the marshland,

And molded to a reed,

Men and women have wept,

Listening to my lament!

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Whoever remains apart from his roots,

Enduringly seeks for the day of his reunion!

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Rumi

The man with his shaggy appearance was in his late twenties. He wore an untidy green army jacket, wrinkled grey trousers and a pair of worn-out sneakers. He walked cautiously as if seeking prey or haunted by someone, through the narrow, freshly painted and carpeted hallway on the third floor of the Jahan Hotel.

The medium-sized three-story hotel was an old building. Although renovated recently, it still maintained its three-hundred-year-old historical charm. It stood proudly on the north side of the ancient city of Tabriz, remote from the hustle and bustle of the city’s center, in northeastern Iran – a country embroiled in the devastating turmoil and aftermath of its February 1979 revolution.

Even though close to two-thirds of his face was well hidden under a few weeks’ worth of dark curly beard, his rectangular face was a mirror of intense expression. The skin on his forehead and cheeks was soft, smooth and chalk-white.

The bloody hurricane of an Islamic revolution with its rigid and narrow fundamentalist nature had passed over the country and was instantaneously changing the political, social, and cultural landscape of the society. It was unexpectedly impacting the way people dressed, looked, and behaved in public. Seemingly, the bearded man was no exception. Like many people who tried to conceal their true identities shortly after the revolution, he grew a beard to remain unrecognized, to hide behind the mask of a crude and rugged revolutionist in an effort to be considered part of the new establishment, a devout Muslim, a fierce soldier of Islam.

Despite his unkempt, dirty long dark hair, nervous shifty brown eyes, and skinny body, there was nothing else noteworthy in his appearance to attract anyone’s attention. Certainly, at least in appearance, he was no different from a lot of other jobless young men roaming the streets of the shock-stricken city, but if they were considered inconsequential in the previous regime, the social atmosphere caused by the revolution was now offering them a golden opportunity. They were impatiently waiting for their turn to jump on the bandwagon that could, at least, offer them the security of conformity.

Noticing a sensation that felt like the wiggling of an insect in his stomach, he nervously knocked on the door of room 312 at precisely five o'clock on the morning of April 15, 1980, and could hardly wait for a response. To occupy his mind, to control his exaltation, while shifting his weight from foot to foot restlessly, he muttered under his breath the incoherent words of an old forgotten song that used to be his favorite. The barely audible exhausted voice of a woman, as if echoing from the bottom of a deep well, came from inside, “Come in.” After a short pause, the man heard her soft voice, “It is open!” He turned his head, looked down the hallway with caution before reaching for the doorknob. He opened the door just slightly, slipped through the door’s crack sideways and inconspicuously entered the room.

It appeared as if the isolation offered by four walls of the room changed his demeanor entirely. He rubbed his palms together in anticipation and could hardly control his excitement, as if he had been looking forward to seeing her all night. Or perhaps the reason he was so delighted was that all the pandemonium and often life-threatening underground work was now behind him, and the rest of the upcoming task appeared to be a piece of cake.

The man found her fully-covered by a raven-black chador with only her drained face showing, wearing no makeup, looking as plain and ordinary as a woman of her age could, sitting on the edge of the bed lethargically waiting. Under the thick shroud of fatigue and anxiety, and with her pale face, she looked as if she had lost her capacity to grieve. She was in her late thirties and had balanced features: big brown eyes, full lips, narrow nose, high cheek bones, and naturally full arched black eyebrows.

“Ready to go?” the man inquired, pleasantly, but with eyes constantly scanning the room.

“Oh, I’m ready as I’ll ever be. Let's get this thing over with,” she replied, sounding subdued and withdrawn.

“Then, let’s get your things together and go. There are other people waiting in the lobby,” he said in a soft voice that could be mistaken for timidity.

Still noticeably under the influence of taryak, opium, smoked plentifully two nights earlier, along with countless shots of imported Russian aragh, vodka, drunk the night before, she staggered and could hardly maintain her balance as she rose and walked around aimlessly. Her body motions didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to those of someone getting ready to leave.

Finding her disoriented, he rushed to help her in gathering her few belongings, jamming them into a brown suitcase and a black leather handbag. Packing done, holding her arm with one hand and carrying her suitcase with the other, he patiently helped her leave the room. With necessary pauses in their steps, they approached the stairs to the lobby, where more than half a dozen people were eagerly waiting on that fine early April morning.

Except for two couples, the rest were totally strangers to one another. They were gathered to start a clandestine journey – an escape from a land entangled in turbulence to the freedom they hoped and dreamed was waiting for them beyond the Iran-Turkish border. Perhaps, the singular thing they had in common with each other was the gloom and despair on their faces and the weight of fear in their hearts. And certainly the only thing that sustained them so far was the hope they kept alive in their hearts.

Anxiously waiting in the lobby was a young beautiful, green-eyed woman in her thirties who sat quietly but bolt upright on the edge of an old couch. Her face radiated an obvious aura of sobriety. Her soft skin was unblemished and bright as white porcelain, even though she wore no makeup. The green scarf over her blonde hair was a few shades darker than her eyes. At her side sat a boy and a girl in their early teens, both with an obvious resemblance to the woman. To her left sat a tall lanky attractive man in his early sixties, silver-haired, with proportionate manly features. With his calm and composed demeanor, he was the sort of man whose exterior demanded immediate attention and respect. Across from them another tall man, almost the same age as the lanky man, and a fully covered woman with dark clothes, were sitting on another but smaller old couch. Next to them sat a slight, seemingly stressed out, grayish man, also in his early sixties, with a bulging potbelly that covered his belt. A short dark-complexioned man in his late forties, his head wrapped with gauze with a large spot of dried blood clearly visible on the left side, sat quietly on a nearby chair. Most of his face was covered with an untrimmed black beard. He held his head shyly down, staring at his knees – an obvious attempt to keep things to himself and avoid attention.

Somber, appearing determined and rather self-assured, a tall young man in his late twenties with a wispy beard and shaggy, curly brown hair stood next to a slightly younger, slender, and attractive woman in a corner near the entrance. No matter how nonchalantly they tried to present themselves, they were still unable to present a convincing outwardly calm bearing to cover their anxiousness. For protection, support, or for a display of affection the woman was comfortably leaning on the man. Except for him, everyone else in the group looked tired and lethargic. The mood was conspicuously nihilistic.

The lobby was so quiet that the buzzing of a bunch of confused and stubborn flies around the room was clearly audible. The people waiting in the lobby appeared to be wrapped in their own blankets of anonymity, with faint hopes that those covers would help take them across the border to unknown places – places they assumed, hoped, would be safer than the intolerable living conditions in their homeland – a homeland where the recent turmoil had not only sharply limited their ambitions, but had brought life-threatening danger to their very existence. Some had already lost their strength to think, and others deliberately didn’t want to think that where they were hoping to go could be nothing but an illusion – a big mirage.

Mismatched and misplaced as they appeared, it was obvious that they fearfully were trying to avoid eye contact. They appeared as if they were determined to keep the few sparks of hope for freedom that flickered in their hearts to themselves. Whenever they inadvertently caught one another’s eyes, it was a look tainted with obvious mistrust.

Except for the red-eyed, sleepy man behind the desk, who never even attempted to cover his big mouth when he repeatedly yawned, there was no other hotel employee in the lobby so early in the morning. Now and then, between his yawns, he nonchalantly cast insignificant glances towards the people in the lobby.

The bearded man and woman from upstairs slowly entered the lobby to join the others. As they approached the bottom of the stairs, it took some effort and his assistance for her to cover her tired face with a black veil to avoid being recognized by the others.

He released her arm, approached the group, and motioned the young man and woman standing near the entrance to join the others. In the manner with which they all reacted to his demand and gathered around him apparently anxious to hear what he had to say, it was apparent that they all knew him well from their previous encounters with him.

“Please listen carefully. I’m sure that this is the day you have all been waiting for. A minibus and a driver waiting outside,” the man with the curly beard spoke authoritatively, as though he had issued this directive many times before. His voice was harsh but clear and to the point. His eyes shifted uncontrollably as he spoke. “We're all gonna get on it. I don't want anybody to do anything out of the ordinary. We don't want to be noticed. The city is full of Revolutionary Guards. I only know a few of them; the rest can get crazy ideas and cause us a lot of grief. I hope you understand what I’m telling you.”

He paused and looked around with a piercing gaze for signs of understanding. They nodded and he went on, “You go first with your children, but don't rush,” he pointed to the blonde woman.

She rose quietly, helping her children. Clutching their few belongings, they left the lobby with hesitant steps. He then sent out the lanky man who had been with the woman and the children, followed by the woman he had helped down the stairs, the elderly couple, the young couple, the little old nervous man, and, lastly, the man with the bloody head wound – all by simply pointing his finger.

They were all quietly seated in the old bus when the bearded man rushed in and joined them, surveying them quickly while flashing a smile at the driver. The blonde woman sat with her daughter while her son occupied the seat behind her with the tall lanky man beside him. Except for the two couples, everyone else occupied seats alone. No one spoke a word. They could almost hear each other’s hearts beating. The air was saturated with fragments of uncertainty and fear.

Assured that all the passengers were boarded, the bearded man left the bus unexpectedly to join an old couple on the sidewalk. He placed his arm around the man, pointed to the couple they had accompanied to the lobby, shook the man’s hand and returned to the bus hurriedly. With a motion of his right hand he signaled the driver to move, “Let’s get going, man!” The driver pushed the long stick shift into first gear and slowly released the clutch. The bus made a scratchy noise and began to move forward. The couple on the sidewalk, with moist eyes, wordlessly waved goodbye to their friends.

The bearded man sat on the seat behind the driver, a young man in his late twenties, also bearded, dressed in battle fatigues, who very much resembled a Revolutionary Guard. The bearded man placed his hands on the top of the driver's seat, leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Dawn’s milky light in the eastern sky was slowly sweeping away the night's lingering darkness. Moments later, the eastern horizon brightened with the coming of sunrise, shining brilliantly, promising a beautiful day. Straight above, the sky was a radiant light blue, but it turned darker blue as it stretched along to the west. The streets were wet from an early morning April shower from clouds that had blanketed the night sky until the coming of dawn but now no longer lingered. The pavements looked washed and clean. The air was soft, slightly chilly, perfumed with the fragrance of honeysuckle from vines hanging over many houses’ walls along the way, accentuated with the earth’s wet odor. The empty and eerily quiet ghost city of Tabriz looked its best, still sleeping under the safety net of the imposed curfew hours. The city dazzled the eyes, shining in the morning sun, as shiny as it must have undoubtedly appeared to Marco Polo, who was amazed by its beauty when passing through Persia on his way to China, centuries ago.

Small groups of rugged looking Revolutionary Guards in military vehicles waved at the bus driver from almost every corner, each time giving some comfort to the passengers, assuring them they were in good hands. Several blocks further, the bus stopped abruptly at the corner of Shah Esmael Boulevard and Satar Khan Avenue. Two obviously friendly Revolutionary Guards, both bearded, one in his early twenty, the other one slightly older than the other, with automatic weapons hanging over their shoulders, casually boarded the bus. After shaking hands with the guards, the bearded man offered a seat to the older guard, sat next to him, and started a friendly conversation in a low tone of voice.

The other guard stood upright in the aisle, filled his lungs edgily with air, and suspiciously examined all the passengers before sitting on an empty seat across from them. His intense examining gaze added more fear to the hearts of the passengers, which were already full of fright and anxiety.

No sound was in the air except the monotonous, invasive roar of the old bus’s engine as it kept weaving through the streets of the old city that was waking from its long night’s sleep. The coming of the bright morning light had completely erased the night’s darkness by now and was shining on the city’s washed-up face.

Once they put a few miles between themselves and the last of the city buildings, heading northeast, the bearded man abruptly interrupted his whispered conversation with the guard. He rose to his feet, bent slightly, and looked outside, checking their progress by the landscape. He faced the worried passengers and announced loudly, “Listen to me please. ...You're gonna’ be taken through the city of Shabestar, over the north shore of Lake Rezaeih, to the west of the city of Salmas. This brother (pointing to the younger guard) is gonna be with you up to that point. There you'll be handed over to a guide. From that point on, it'll take three days of hiking to reach the border. I hope you’re all in good shape for the hike. I'm gonna get off near Salmas. You got any questions you better ask now.” His glance drifted over the passengers, expecting for some questions.

Despite so many questions racing through their minds, such as, what is our chance of success? What if we get caught? Would they kill us all?, no one dared utter a word. Their silence signified that they were perhaps holding tight onto the last shreds of expectation – hope – that they would soon be freed from the chaos revolution had brought into their lives.

He sat and continued his conversation with the guards, this time, intensely haggling and arguing over the shares of revenue from their ingenious underground enterprise. Furrowing his brows in an expression of disapproval, the older guard seemed to run out of patience. He snapped his fingers, demanding his share of the revenue – the bribe money. Disappointed at not having other options, the bearded man promptly pulled out a bundle of bills wrapped with a rubber band from the inside of his untidy jacket pocket. He hesitantly handed the precious bundle to the guard whose frown suddenly changed to a wide grotesque grin as he laid eyes on all that colorful cash.

The lanky man and the tall elderly man were the only ones who alertly witnessed the transfer of the money. Their disgust was silently but clearly reflected on their faces.

The bearded man then left his seat and sat next to the woman whom he had helped in the hotel. Drowsy, she looked like she was between naps.

“Are you okay?” he asked with a kind voice.

The question woke her. Startled, she straightened her posture and, without looking at him, she replied softly, “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I woke you.”

“That’s all right.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked with the same tone.

“No ... you've done enough ... thanks a lot ... I won't forget it,” she said in a sincere voice. For the first time in many years, she genuinely meant what she said to a man.

“I've some business in Salmas. Otherwise, I’d come with you to the border ... and even to Turkey, to help you get on your way. You know, another group’s coming through ... I gotta take care of them.” He hesitated for a moment and spoke in a friendlier and more reassuring tone, “You don't have to worry about a thing, the guides will take good care of you. It’s part of the deal I have with them.” After a long pause, signifying as if he has run out subject, he finally asked, “Do you need any money?”

She lifted her veil, glanced at him and let a faint smile part her lips, and only then replied, “No ... but thanks.” She reached up to his face with her visibly trembling right hand and touched him gently, as though trying to imprint his face on her mind – a mind that was cluttered with scattered of the most unpleasant memories of recent tragic events beyond any soul’s forbearance.

“You know what? This ... this sweetness is, for sure, the only good thing I'm gonna miss about this goddamn place, this shit hole,” she murmured in his ear. Then the thought went through her mind. I need this small crumb of sweetness, otherwise how in hell will I make it with all the pain and hurt about to burst inside me? Her thought was followed by some incoherent whispered words, only to console and comfort herself.

He reached for her hand and held it in his and felt her warmth. Sitting next to her, he couldn't help but think of the good old days, her golden days, when it would have been a great honor just to be seen in the company of such a celebrity in public. Conversely, she felt comforted that a stranger, who had acted so beastly towards her the night before, could now be so caring, for she was certain that he expected nothing in return for the warmth and kindness he was abundantly offering her. For the first time in a very long time, as far back as her childhood, she felt genuine pleasure at having someone around – especially a man – someone who dug deeper, to find more than first impressions suggested.

He left her after a long hour of affectionate and pleasant conversation to sit behind the driver again.

Once she was alone, the last residue of taryak, with its mysterious and potent sedative power still going up and down her veins, caused her mind to wander, putting her in a twilight zone, the expanse of a never-never land that exists between hallucination and reality. Drifting backward to the dark labyrinth of her past, a past crowded with sorrows, she searched for a few sparks of happiness. She was frantically looking for the events and places that surrounded those happy moments, even though they were infrequent occurrences in her tumultuous life. She wanted to retrieve them, to look at them, as sober-mindedly as her present condition would allow, find those few scarce moments of joy. She had to reach way back to her early childhood, but once she reached that subdivision of her life, she could still hear the echoes of her mother’s domineering voice. The voice that carried harsh words kept bouncing against her head’s walls until every word registered in meticulous clarity in her mind.

“From the day you were born, you've been nothing but a pain in the ass!” Esmat, known as “Fat Esmat” to everyone, shouted at her little girl. “Didn't I tell you, just sit there and don't move?! Goddamn you! Sit and don’t move or I'll kill you! Did you hear what I said, you little shit?”

Her mother’s threatening words scared her so much that she could only respond by nodding. A minute or so later, when the echoes of her mother’s threatening words dissipated and were forgotten in her joyful young mind, she moved slightly. Esmat noticed her move. She rose, walked to where her little girl was trying to fight boredom by playing, and smacked the side of little Fatemeh’s face viciously with her coarse wet hand. A lump in the little girl’s throat broke loose, and two streams of tears moved steadily down her face. Esmat pounded her little girl verbally by shouting at her again, “Stop that, you little bitch! I don’t want to hear any noise from you again! Just sit there and shut the hell up!”

Swallowing her pain, the little girl made a whimpering sound and wiped her runny nose and tears with the sleeve of her dirty old shirt, but the tears refused to dry up – they kept coming.

Now, many turbulent years and ten thousand heartbreaking disappointments later, lonely, pondering the trials and tribulations of her life, she searched through the fragmented events of her childhood. She curled up on the bus seat as if she were the same frightened hurt little girl, the sweet child. Riding the emotional waves of her past troubles and miseries, no other passengers noticed her when she put her thumb in her mouth, lay down on the seat in a fetal position and gradually slipped away, not into the sanctuary and serenity of sleep, nor did she ascend into the harsh realm of wakefulness. But, with the residue of the elixir of taryak still in her veins, she was weightlessly suspended in the twilight zone in between.