A Bitter Veil Read online

  Anna sat down on the chair beside him, and the ceremony began. The officiating mullah was a distant cousin, and was known to be quite liberal—some clerics would not marry couples if they were not both Muslim. He recited some introductory blessings. The esfand was sprinkled on a bed of glowing coals in a brazier. Nouri’s aunt and uncle walked around Nouri and Anna seven times. The smoke from the esfand made Anna quietly clear her throat.

  After speaking about the sanctity of marriage for what seemed like an eternity, the mullah asked if Anna and Nouri wished to proceed. The idea was to make Nouri wait for Anna’s answer, and Anna was asked three times whether she wanted to marry Nouri. Anna did not respond, and after each question, Nouri’s mother placed a gold coin in Anna’s hand, symbolically encouraging her to say yes. After the third time, Anna said in a clear voice. “Yes. Baleh.”

  The mullah recited more verses from the Qur’an, after which Anna and Nouri and their witnesses signed the marriage contract. The mullah pronounced them man and wife, and Nouri lifted Anna’s veil. They kissed and exchanged rings. Nouri heard Anna’s intake of breath when she saw the ring Nouri slipped on her finger. Made from beautifully wrought gold, the diamond was enormous. Anna gave him a simple gold band.

  During the ceremony, two of Nouri’s female cousins had been holding the ceremonial cloth over Anna and Nouri’s heads. Now a third cousin rubbed together two cone-shaped pieces of sugar and let the grains fall onto the cloth, to sweeten the couple’s life together. Nouri and Anna dipped their fingers into a small pot of honey, then into each other’s mouths.

  They kissed again. It was done.

  The guests moved into another room for the banquet. The room was lavishly decorated with flowers, fruit trees, and, in one corner, a pool with a tiny waterfall. The band was already playing but, between courses and during breaks in the music, guests sauntered through the artificial garden to enjoy the babbling water.

  Nouri’s mother had imported a chef from Paris to supervise the menu, which included escargots, followed by courses with names like Quail in Puff Pastry Shell with Foie Gras and Truffle Sauce. Different wines were served with each course. There was a nod to Persian food too, and the haute cuisine was paired with sweet rice, chelow kababs, vegetable dishes, and flatbreads.

  As course followed course, the noise, the smells, the heat—despite the air conditioning, it was a hot September night—took their toll. Nouri slid into a daze. A blur of men, most of whom he only vaguely recognized, pumped his hand or took him aside to whisper how lucky he was to have snared such a beautiful blonde. The women overwhelmed him with hugs, perfume, and giggles as he danced them around the room. The relentless flash of the photographers’ lights blinded him. It was all too much. His smile felt sewn on. And this was just the first of several parties, called paghosah, that would occur after the wedding.

  He tried to be polite, the perfect host, but by midnight his patience had worn thin. Finally, they cut the cake, and were able to make their exit. They took the elevator to the hotel’s honeymoon suite, where they fell into bed and were soon asleep.

  *****

  Esfahan, about a six hour drive from Tehran, depending on traffic, was at one time the capital of Persia. It was also one of Iran’s most beautiful, romantic cities. The five days they spent there reminded Nouri of their life in Chicago. It was only the two of them, free to say and do whatever they pleased.

  They stayed at the Abbasi, a luxurious five-star hotel with magnificent gardens, walkways, restaurants, even a teahouse. For the first two days they hid out in their room, doing what newlyweds did. By the third afternoon, though, they were ready to face the world, and got dressed, and strolled from the hotel to the Zayandeh River. The riverbanks, with their wide, sloping lawns, were crowded with families picnicking and drinking tea. Children frolicked at the water’s edge. Nouri gave them a tolerant glance. “That will be us soon,” he said to Anna.

  Anna squeezed his hand and offered up a shy smile. Since the wedding she’d been different. Nouri couldn’t quite define it, but something had changed. In bed she was less passionate, more tender, vulnerable. It was as though a catch had been released. She seemed…happy. Now he bought her an ice cream, and they admired the bridge with its series of pointed archways. Young people joyously paddled around the river in swan boats.

  They found their way up to Shah Square, a complex of two mosques and a palace that were almost painfully beautiful. The bigger mosque, designed for men, was covered by a turquoise dome rising above a towering façade with elaborate mosaic patterns. Although seven different colors of tiles were used, shades of blue predominated. A huge reflecting pool sparkled in front. Nouri explained that the color blue was thought to calm the soul and promote spirituality.

  Humbled by the architecture, they were subdued as they wandered the grounds. The smaller mosque had been built for the women of the seventeenth century shah’s harem. Twenty stately columns protected a golden honeycombed façade and dome. Inside, thousands of tiny mirrors twinkled from the ceiling, and intricate mosaics and frescoes saluted the king, who’d built the complex during perhaps the most noteworthy of Persia’s golden ages. Nouri told Anna about Shah Abbas and how he’d decided to move the country’s capital to Esfahan in 1598.

  “Which calendar?” Anna joked.

  Nouri laughed. Iranians operated with two calendars, the Persian solar calendar and the Western one. It might be 1978 in the West, but it was only 1357 according to the Jalali calendar. “Which one would you like?”

  “The one that will stop time altogether,” she said.

  Nouri stole a glance at her. Her expression was pensive, almost sad. “What’s wrong?”

  “This is all too beautiful, Nouri.”

  He brushed his hand down her cheek.

  “Everything. This city. Our wedding. Your family. It is almost more than I can bear. You have filled the hole inside me—the one that has been there since I was a little girl. I think my heart might break from joy.”

  Nouri gathered her in his arms. At that moment he loved Anna more than life itself.

  Sixteen

  Anna couldn’t remember a time when she was so content. Parched for affection most of her life, her marriage to Nouri had slaked her thirst, and like a desert flower, she was blooming. In the mornings she woke with a smile, eager to greet the day. As a wife, a daughter, a sister. She was loved. Finally, she belonged.

  Their furniture eventually arrived, and she and Nouri moved into their house in Shemiran. Laleh was right; they received a mountain of gifts. Still, there were always odds and ends a home needed, and Anna was determined to provide them. Despite the traffic, she walked everywhere. She didn’t mind; it was the best way to explore her new neighborhood. She fell in love with Persian architecture, and she was thrilled to find glimpses of the colorful tiles, mosaics, and intricate designs she’d seen in Esfahan. It was a sign, she decided, of hope and beauty.

  As usual, the Alborz Mountains dominated the landscape, but sometimes it was difficult to tell where the buildings ended and the mountains began. Other times, the mountains changed color, transitioning from shades of ochre and brown to pink, all in sharp contrast to the rest of the landscape. Anna liked it best when they turned gray. She tried to guess when, and how, and why, that happened: was it the time of day or the weather or pollution? For now, the mountains were keeping their secrets.

  Anna found Iranian shopkeepers quite eager to help her part with her money. Many assumed their few words of English made them fluent, and they chattered on incomprehensibly. Still, Anna nodded and smiled as if she understood. She picked up a few words in Farsi for food items, furniture, and simple directions. She also learned that the price of everything was negotiable, and she discovered that she loved to haggle.

  Despite her happiness, a darkness was inexorably gathering, like a storm massing on the far side of the mountains. At first both Anna and Nouri refused to acknowledge it. It was Hassan who picked at the cloudy wisps of trouble.

 
Anna invited him for dinner one night in mid-October, when the warmth still clung to the city, as if summer was reluctant to depart. She set a small table on their patio so they could eat outside. A gentle breeze stirred the air, bringing the soft whispers of distant traffic. She worked all day on the meal: tah-chin-e morgh, a saffron chicken dish with yogurt, rice, tomatoes, hummus, and the Iranian flatbread called sangak. Hassan lifted a piece of chicken to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Anna held her breath.

  Then he grinned. “This is good, Anna.” He dug in, shoveling the chicken into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. “You have become quite the Iranian cook.”

  Anna beamed. So did Nouri.

  After dinner they went inside. While Anna made tea, Nouri got out a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. He poured a shot and handed it to Hassan. Hassan seemed reluctant to take it, Anna thought.

  Nouri noticed too. “Is something wrong?” Nouri gulped his down and smacked his lips. “It’s real Kentucky bourbon.”

  Hassan stared at the glass, then shook his head. He took a small sip.

  “So, my friend,” Nouri said, in the tone he had adopted recently, one that some might construe as patronizing. “How goes your life? Any interesting job prospects?”

  Hassan had been looking for work for a long time, Anna knew. He’d wanted to become a doctor, but his father’s death, and his responsi-bilities as the eldest son, forced him to quit medical school. He was working as a sales representative for a medical supply company. Anna hoped Nouri would help Hassan, perhaps even find him something at the Metro, once Nouri himself was settled.

  Now, though, Hassan peered at Nouri with puzzled irritation, his silence almost deafening. Anna winced. Nouri should have been more sensitive, she thought, and made sure not to condescend, especially toward his best friend. Perhaps it was just the pressure of his new job. She let it go.

  But Hassan didn’t. “Nouri, help me understand,” he said after a long pause. “There is rioting in the streets, people are being killed by the shah’s men. Revolution is coming. But all you can think to talk about are my job prospects?”

  Nouri tilted his head as if he was confused. “Revolution? That’s a strong word. Certainly there is bitter opposition to the shah. As well there should be. But revolution? I don’t see it.”

  Surprise flitted across Hassan’s face. “I understand that you and Anna just celebrated your wedding. Perhaps you are still on your honeymoon.” He emphasized the word honeymoon. “But you cannot be oblivious to what’s happening. You have seen the riots on Shah Reza Avenue and at Tehran University. You have seen the cars set on fire, the attacks on the banks and government buildings.”

  “Of course.” Nouri glanced at Anna, almost apologetically. As if he was trying to shield her from what was going on in central Tehran. She frowned. He didn’t need to.

  “That is not just opposition, Nouri,” Hassan continued. “It is revolution, and it is sweeping the country.” Hassan set down his glass of whiskey. He’d hardly touched it. “Just who do you think will take over after the shah leaves?”

  Nouri twirled his glass. Was this an attempt to look thoughtful, Anna wondered? Or was Nouri hiding a budding sense of unease? “An interesting question. I favor a parliamentary democracy. Perhaps a democratic republic.”

  Hassan folded his arms. “What about the Imam?”

  Anna listened to their discussion warily. Earlier that month, Saddam Hussein had expelled Ayatollah Khomeini from Iraq, where he’d been living for fifteen years. Khomeini promptly moved to Paris where his fiery rhetoric had been broadcast back to Iran far more frequently than it was from the dusty Iraqi village to which he had been confined. His influence had exploded, sparking even more upheaval.

  “Khomeini is only one voice,” Nouri said. Anna noticed he deliberately didn’t repeat the word “Imam,” which meant “Islamic leader.” “There are also Socialists, Communists, Democrats—all of them want to depose the shah.”

  Hassan leaned forward. “Listen to me, Nouri. The Ayatollah could have gone to any Arab country when he left Iraq. But where did he go? To a place where freedom of the press assures he can continue to call for the overthrow of the shah. To a place where many more will hear him than did before. The man is a master strategist. You need to prepare yourself.”

  “For what?”

  Hassan just looked at him. Anna’s stomach clenched. In any other time, with any other person, she would have said—perhaps flippantly—that for every religious leader Hassan could name, she could raise him a Sartre, a Karl Marx, or a Marcuse. But she had seen the protests in the streets, the fervent chants for Khomeini, the tears streaming down women’s faces. Hassan had a point. Discomfited, she changed the subject. “My mother lives in Paris.”

  Hassan looked at her curiously. “Is that so?”

  She nodded. What’s more, her mother was the type of person to befriend extremists, outlaws, and outcasts. But she kept that to herself.

  Hassan stroked his mustache. “A mother in Paris. A German father in America. Who are you really, Anna Samedi? What do you want?”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “I am Nouri’s wife. I want what makes him happy.”

  Hassan flashed an enigmatic smile. “Spoken like a good Iranian wife. Perhaps there is hope for you.”

  Anna wasn’t sure how to respond. A few minutes later, Hassan bid them good night. “Marg bar Shâh, my friends. Death to the shah.”

  *****

  Strikes had erupted sporadically over the past few months, but at the end of October a general strike closed down most of the country, including the oil fields. Over the next few days, mobs burned down large areas of the city. The British Embassy was set on fire, and rioters tried to attack the US Embassy. Some reports said that the shah’s troops refused to act against the protestors and allowed the riots to escalate. The prime minister resigned. Baba-joon stayed away from his office and insisted that Anna come to their house while Nouri was at work. Although the riots had not spilled into north Tehran, and the streets were quiet, the Samedis’ chauffeur picked her up every morning. Nighttime was another matter. After dark, the cry of “Allâho Akbar!” was shouted from rooftops across the city.

  One afternoon in early November, only days after the resignation of the prime minister, Anna and Laleh lounged on sofas in front of the TV. Laleh was sulking because she couldn’t leave the house to meet Shaheen. Maman-joon was in the kitchen. A soap opera was blaring away—pabulum for the masses, Anna thought. The state couldn’t afford to let its people watch coverage of the riots all day. But the unrest was having an effect. The household help, including the woman who’d taken Anna’s suitcase upstairs when she first arrived, the one who wore a scarf over her hair, had become hostile and quiet and refused to make eye contact.

  Baba-joon stayed in his study, his shortwave radio tuned to the BBC. Anna watched part of the soap opera with Laleh. She’d picked up more Farsi, but the actors spoke too fast for her. Still, she got the general idea from their body language and expressions. Bored, she wandered into Baba-joon’s study. He was behind his desk reading the newspaper. The radio hummed softly in the background.

  “Baba-joon?”

  He lowered the paper and peered at her. “Yes, my dear?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “Think nothing of it.” He smiled tolerantly.

  “Baba-joon, do you think there will be a revolution? Will Khomeini come back to lead Iran?”

  She wasn’t sure how she expected him to respond: with a vigorous denial, perhaps, or a sardonic laugh that implied the question was ridiculous. Certainly not with the answer he gave. He leaned back in his chair. “I hope not. If there is, we are lost.”

  Anna felt as if her moorings had suddenly come loose. She sat down heavily. “So you think it could happen?”

  His lips tightening, Baba-joon folded the newspaper into precise quarters and put it down on the desk. “Six months ago I would have said ‘never.’ I am no longer as c
onfident. The shah is losing support—and quickly.”

  Anna knew Baba-joon’s background. Nouri had explained that he had been in the military, and his upbringing had been spartan. There wasn’t a lot of money, but there had been discipline, hard work, and determination. For him to express doubt about the shah was huge.

  “And as far as Khomeini is concerned…” He explained that the riots and protests appeared to run in a forty-day cycle.

  Puzzled, Anna frowned. “Why?”

  “Islam requires forty days of mourning after the death of a family or loved one. It has always been so. Now that ritual has become a political act.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “After the forty-day mourning period, crowds gather to com-memorate those who were martyred in the previous riot. Their despair and anger are still raw, so it often triggers a new riot, invariably bigger, and more destructive, than the one before. This is happening all over Iran, these forty-day cycles.”

  “But what does that have to do with revolution? Or Khomeini?”

  “When peoples’ lives are at the breaking point, when they can no longer stand the oppression of a despot, they seek shelter anywhere they can. Iranians do not have a physical space in which to hide, so they seek shelter in a different time. They revert to the past, where familiar rhythms and customs bring relief.”

  “The good old days.”

  He nodded. “Especially because the shah has tried to be so modern. If you continue to be modern, they say, we will be old. The result is the rebirth of religious Islamic laws, laws that are centuries old. Shariah, it is called.”