Читать книгу Trapped in Iran - Samieh Hezari - Страница 8

Rasht had changed in many ways since I had left in 1995 for a new life in Ireland. Money from oil and agriculture had been pumped into construction, and it now seemed as urban and modern as many European cities. Streets had been widened, and access in and out of the city was now greatly improved with the construction of numerous fly-over bridges. Skyscrapers and multistory office blocks had sprung up amid the traditional buildings, and shops and restaurants lined the streets just as they do in any major city in the West.

Other changes had occurred on a more personal level. It amazed me how Iranian women now wore so much makeup. I recently read that Iran is the seventh largest market for makeup in the world and the second largest in the Middle East. It makes sense that Iranian women want to highlight the one part of their bodies they can freely expose—their face. I had always made an effort to look nice as a teenager and college student when I lived there, but what I saw women wearing now was in a whole different league.

Such a change from my experience. When I was seventeen, I was going to a private tutor in Rasht to help prepare for the college entrance exam. One evening as I was coming home, a white bus pulled up and two middle-age women got out and hurried toward me. Each of them was dressed in a black chador, the traditional large piece of cloth wrapped around the head and the upper body, leaving only the face exposed. Their pointy, angry faces made them look like two crows about to pounce on their prey—and that’s exactly what they did.

Grabbed roughly by each arm and flung toward the bus, all I could manage to stutter was, “What did I do?”

Glaring at me, one of them squawked, “You have not covered your hair properly!”

Terrified, I knew that if my father found out, I would be in big trouble. He was always warning me, “You must be careful. Never do anything to allow those people to harass you.” These women were Revolutionary Guards, their role to arrest women because the male guards were not meant to touch females when arresting them.

Upon being pushed into the bus I found myself surrounded by young girls with eyes as big and scared as mine. We were driven to the nearest police station and taken in.

Fortunately I was not wearing makeup. Brandishing dirty cloths, the women moved from one girl to the next, harshly scrubbing their faces and cursing at them. The young girls cried in pain, but the guards were unmoved. Once the makeup had been removed, leaving the girls’ faces swollen, red, and raw, the guards started hitting them with the back of a heavy gun.

Unbelievable. Angry, I could say nothing.

Given that most young women wore makeup in Iran now, perhaps some things had changed since I was a girl. But while the laws regarding makeup may have been more relaxed, fear was still there. In the twenty-first century that fear was painted on the women’s faces as clearly as the makeup itself.

Wanting to make the most of my visit, I made sure to visit with as many relatives as possible. It was at one of those get-togethers I heard that Farzad, one of my first cousins once removed, had been divorced recently and was eager to see me. One of my relatives had given him my phone number.

But I wasn’t sure that I wanted to see him. Farzad was the eldest child in his family and the only boy. He had two younger sisters and had been the only grandson for more than fifteen years. I remember the extraordinary attention lavished on him as a child. He seemed to get whatever he wanted. Once, when I was about nine or ten, Farzad had a violent tantrum because he had been asked to give a toy to his sister and did not want to. He went into a rage in front of everyone, screaming, throwing things around, and smashing anything he could grab. I looked on in shock with my brothers; I had never seen a child disrespect his parents like that.

When I look back now, it is clear to me that Farzad’s conviction of his own self-importance was difficult for others outside his family to accept. School friendships were fleeting; he passed by me on his way home every day and was always alone.

An intense teenager, Farzad had been attracted to me, calling to talk about books or movies that I had no interest in. At the time, I was too shy and polite to cut the call short or tell him to stop contacting me.

It had been fifteen years since I had seen Farzad—surely, he had changed. Out of both impulse and curiosity, I decided to meet him and see what he was like after all this time. I had been given his phone number by one of his relatives, and he seemed excited that I had contacted him. Because my mother was not particularly fond of her sister-in-law—Farzad’s grandmother—I thought it best to keep the meeting to myself. It was only going to be a one-time thing, after all, so there was no point in ruffling anyone’s feathers.

Farzad had suggested we meet in a café in Golsar village, a trendy suburb in Rasht where the wealthy go to dine and shop. A broad smile lit up his face when I walked into the coffee shop. “Sami, you have not changed a bit!” he exclaimed. He looked me up and down, still smiling. “No, you have changed,” he murmured. “You have gotten more beautiful.”

I just smiled nervously. Compliments about my appearance have always made me uncomfortable, and it had been a long time since I had received a compliment from anyone.

I have to admit that Farzad had grown into a not unattractive man. His hair, once brown, was now a salt-and-pepper color. He still had thick glasses, which I remembered from years ago. As a young boy, Farzad had been watching a street protest at the time of the revolution. The protesters had been burning cars, logs, anything they could get their hands on, and he had been standing a little too close to the action. Something exploded in the fire and ricocheted into his right eye. I had heard that Farzad had undergone various surgeries over the years, but judging by the thick lenses, his eyesight was still very weak.

“I am really glad to see you,” he said. “Do you travel here often?”

“Maybe once a year to see my parents,” I replied, trying to avoid his steady gaze.

After the waitress took our orders, he leaned closer. “I have been thinking about you a lot recently. I was shocked to hear that we had both been married and divorced.” He pulled his head back and smiled. “Maybe we were meant to meet each other again.”

I said nothing. Perhaps this meeting had been a mistake. As our coffees were placed in front of us, I took time to study him more closely. That same intense expression I remembered, but he was now far more confident in the way he spoke and held himself.

“I’m an engineer now,” he announced, sitting up straight with pride.

I was pleased to know that Farzad was doing well for himself. He had struggled in school and I’d heard that his relatives had paid to get him into college. It was like that in Iran. Money could get you almost anything—but only if you knew the right people.

He returned the conversation to the two of us. “You know, I have never stopped thinking about you since we were kids,” he said softly, looking directly into my eyes. “You know I loved you dearly, Sami.”

Oh, boy. Sipping coffee, I thought about my next words. “Yes, I remember,” I replied carefully, putting my cup down. “You were always following me around.” I laughed nervously.

Looking past his shoulder and out onto the busy street, I realized I felt just as I had as a young girl when I had struggled to find something to say to him on the phone.

Perhaps thinking I was losing interest, he blurted out, “I really want us to be together! I realize that I still have a lot of love for you in my heart.”

My eyes returned quickly to his face.

Thinking of that conversation now, after all the pain that followed, it is so hard to believe I took him seriously. But I did. It had been such a long time since anyone had made me feel special, so I indulged myself a little by believing that his sweet words were genuine. Too many years of feeling worthless and depressed, and now this engineer was giving me his undivided attention. Nonetheless, I did try my best to talk about other things, but Farzad always brought our chat back to his feelings for me. I must admit I was flattered.

When we finished our coffees, he indicated to the waitress to come over so that we could order another. I gently refused, however, saying I had to return to my parents’ house and my little girl. Such an awkward, quick good-bye, given all that had been said.

On the way home, my cell phone beeped. It was a text message from Farzad. I opened the message and was surprised to see a love poem by the famous fourteenth-century Persian poet Hafiz.

I have no use for divine patience—

My lips are now burning and everywhere.

I am running from every corner of this earth and sky

Wanting to kiss you.

Wow. The possibility of a new relationship was the last thing I had expected on this trip, especially given my résumé of romantic disasters. I didn’t even have time to reply to the message when the phone beeped again. Another one of Hafiz’s poems.

For I have learned that every heart will get

What it prays for

Most.

The barrage of Hafiz poems continued throughout the evening and soon I started to just delete them. Same old Farzad, unceasingly intense. I wanted to tell him to stop, because the phone was my mother’s—my Irish cell phone had no reception in Iran—and God only knows what she would have thought if she discovered Farzad sending me poems by the great Hafiz, but I did not want to hurt his feelings. Thankfully, the messages eventually stopped.

That night as I was turning in for bed, Farzad sent me a text message inviting me to join him for a meal the following day. Wanting to clarify our relationship and with plenty of time at my disposal, I agreed.

We met in an Italian restaurant called Pizariya, again in Golsar. I love pizza and was studying the menu when Farzad gently pushed it down onto the table so he could see my face.

“Sami,” he began, looking into my eyes, “I thought about you all last night and I want us to be together.”

He took a sip from his water, still holding my gaze.

“I want us to get married.”

I stared at him in disbelief. This has gone too far. “I’m sorry, Farzad,” I replied firmly, “but I am not ready for any kind of commitment.”

“There is nothing to worry about,” Farzad urged. “All that matters is I love you very much.”

I knew I did not love him. How could I? I didn’t even know him. But Farzad was very good at choosing the right words to make me trust him.

“We have known each other since childhood, Sami,” he explained rationally. “That is far more than many people who marry.”

He had a point, but not the one I thought needed making.

“I am not the fifteen-year-old girl you used to call on the phone,” I said patiently. “We don’t even know if we would get along.”

Farzad shook his head and leaned forward. “Come on, Sami, you cannot be serious. We know each other very well.”

This was getting out of hand. I tried to get the attention of the waitress to diffuse the situation, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He placed his hand on mine. “I’ve never wanted anyone in my life as much as I want you.”

Gently pulling my hand away, I smiled faintly and picked up the menu again. He did the same.

Farzad became relentless in his pursuit. He continued to mention the proposal throughout that evening and over the following days when he called. His constant attention and words of endearment, which no man had spoken to me for so long, began eroding my resolve. If I let this man go, would I ever find another who wanted to be with me so desperately?

Eventually I consented to see Farzad one more time. As Saba was at my brother Sina’s house playing with her cousin, I agreed to meet him.

Quietly leaving my parents’ house, I spotted Farzad parked in his little gold Peugeot a few hundred yards down the road. As I ducked my head and got into the car, Farzad smiled at me warmly and offered his hand for me to shake, which I took.

Pulling quickly away from the curb, Farzad took off down the road at high speed. He was clearly not a careful driver, but that is not uncommon in Iran. Taking his eyes off the road, stealing glances at me, he finally said, “I can’t believe we are together, Sami.”

This surprised me. We were not together at all, but knowing how much he wanted to be with me made me feel good.

Soon he began again.

“I love you, Sami. I want us to be married.”

“But I am leaving, Farzad. My holiday here is over soon.”

I saw the sorrow spread across his face.

Looking out the window as the city of my childhood sped past, I thought of my life in Ireland. Whom was I returning to? No one. No special person, few friends at the most, for my circle of Muslim acquaintances had shunned me when I filed for divorce. I had been so sad and depressed in Ireland. Maybe I needed a change. If Farzad, devoted Farzad, were in Ireland with me, perhaps I would not feel so alone and lost.

“Sami . . . Sami—”

Deep in thought, I did not hear him.

“Do you think you could extend your stay a little longer?” he pleaded.

I looked over at him—so worried, so much caring for me. “I am not sure,” I replied softly, “but I could try if you want me to.”

He started to laugh. “Of course I want you to.”

Still looking directly at him, I went on. “But I need to tell you something, Farzad.”

“Anything,” he replied, nodding eagerly.

“All this talk of marriage is making me uncomfortable.”

A slight scowl flashed and vanished. “I thought it was making you happy.”

Shifting awkwardly in my seat, I explained calmly. “We don’t know each other well enough. Today is the third time we have met in fifteen years and you are telling me you want to marry me. It takes at least a year to know someone, Farzad.”

Not wishing to glimpse the inevitable look of disappointment, I turned my face to the window again. Rasht continued to fall behind us.

“In what world, Sami? Your thinking is too Westernized. Your parents and my parents met on the day they got married.”

True, but things were very different back then.

I turned back toward him. Crushed, he looked at me so intensely that before I could stop myself the words were out of my mouth.

“Yes, Farzad,” I said, sighing. “I will agree to a relationship with you for now, and if things work out we can marry in a year.”

Farzad was visibly delighted. “We are going to have a wonderful life together, Sami!” he shouted. “This is a wish come true for me!”

“I don’t want to rush into this,” I emphasized. “We have both made mistakes in the past.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, not really listening.

One thing I knew with certainty was that I had no intention of staying in Iran. This was no longer my world. I told Farzad that if things worked out between us, I wanted him to move to Dublin with me, because I was not prepared to live the rest of my life with so little freedom.

“But I have never thought of leaving Iran,” Farzad said, now unsure.

I understood what he was saying. Iran was his home just as Ireland was now mine. If this was going to work out, someone was going to have to give, and I knew with total certainty that it was not going to be me.

“This isn’t just about me, Farzad. I have to think of my daughter. Saba’s father lives in Ireland.”

We drove on a little farther in silence.

Nodding his head decisively, Farzad finally spoke. “It will take me at least a year to finalize this project I am working on, and I will then come to Ireland to be with you.”

And just like that, I was engaged for the second time in my life. I had no idea at the time how much I would live to regret my words and promise.