A Bitter Veil Read online

  And yet life in Iran had a semblance of normality. People went to work. Ate in restaurants. Drove their cars. It was a parallel state of being, this new normal; like an eerie fun house mirror that distorted and bent reality. Anna knew she had to be careful, lest the edges came apart and the chaos just beneath the surface leaked out.

  Some people were still suffused with the glow of victory over the shah. Like Hassan, they lavished unconditional praise on the new republic, excusing and rationalizing any decision—no matter how despotic—as necessary. Others, like Laleh, believed the situation was just temporary, that life would somehow revert to the way it used to be. Still others believed Iran would become a democratic society, and they persisted in protesting and pressing for free elections.

  Anna still worked at the IAS, and Nouri at the Metro. In fact, the trip to the bookstore was Anna’s idea. She was looking for a book of poetry by e e cummings to use in class, and the bookstores near the university were her best bet. She would have preferred to take a cab, so she could browse by herself, but Nouri refused to let her to go alone. She had to assure him that Laleh would be with her at all times.

  They found a spot near Laleh Park, a few blocks from campus. “When I was little, Baba-joon told me the park was named after me.” Laleh giggled. “For years I believed him.”

  Anna managed a wan smile. She and Nouri had been married almost a year now. She missed her own father.

  They walked down Azar Avenue to the intersection of Azar and Enqelab-e Eslami Avenue, Laleh continuing to complain about the new street names. The heat was oppressive, and Anna didn’t know which was worse: the muggy heat of the east coast back home, or the sweltering air of Iran. Either way, her t-shirt clung to her back, and her jeans felt heavy. A clearly pregnant young woman, her tummy protruding, passed them. Anna felt a pang. When would she have her own family—children to cherish, children who would fill the house with laughter, children who would need her and would never abandon her?

  The English language bookstore was small and cramped. As they entered, the odors of mold and dust drifted over them. Books crowded the shelves and counters, and a tower of them on the floor wobbled precariously. Nothing seemed organized, and yet Anna instantly felt a powerful connection. All the books were in English. Her pang of homesickness swelled.

  The proprietor came out from a room in the back. An elderly man with a flowing white beard, his face was as worn and faded as one of his books. He looked them over. “What do you want?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  Anna explained that she was looking for poetry by e e cummings

  The bookseller’s eyebrows arched. He eyed her suspiciously. “Why do you ask for that?”

  She explained. “Do you have any of his work?”

  Another skeptical glare. Anna was uneasy, as if he knew a secret about her and wanted her to know that he did. But she continued to meet his eyes. Finally, his glare subsided, and his features morphed into a sad expression. He led her to a bookshelf against one wall and pointed a finger toward the top shelf. “You see?”

  Anna followed his finger. There was a gap in the display of books.

  “I no longer carry e e cummings. They took it away. My Shakespeare also.”

  Anna’s jaw dropped. “Who? Why?”

  “The komitehs.” The local armed revolutionary groups sanctioned by Khomeini. In the weeks and months since the revolution, they had amassed broad power to weed out and punish immoral behavior. “Shakespeare is counter-revolutionary, they claim. Too Western.”

  “But that’s absurd.”

  “Not to them.” He flipped up his hand, then clasped his palms together. “But I still have some Robert Browning, which they haven’t confiscated. And Emily Dickinson. Her poems should do nicely.”

  “Why don’t you appeal the confiscated books? Let them know they’ve gone too far?”

  If anything, the bookseller’s expression turned even more morose. “You are young. And American, yes?” When Anna nodded, he said, “You think, if you demonstrate, everything will change.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. Americans are like that.”

  Anna wanted to interject, but he stayed her with a raised palm.

  “It is different here. We have been victims for years. Invaders, the shah, now the revolution. It is all the same.”

  Anna recalled what Nouri had told her the day they met: how Persians craved their martyrdom; how they cherished the fatalism that accompanied it. But she couldn’t accept it. It was so…well…un-American. “All the more reason to stop it. You have to do something.”

  “What I have to do is survive.”

  *****

  Thirty minutes later, Anna and Laleh emerged from the store, Anna carrying a book of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. She was the recipient of ta’arof in reverse, she thought ironically. The bookstore owner kept pressing the book on her, but would not allow her to pay. She stowed it under her arm. They cut through the university campus on their way back to the car. Anna still felt uneasy. This was not the way it was supposed to be. After the shah was deposed, freedom was supposed to blossom with no restrictions, no limitations. Certainly no prohibition on literature.

  “Confiscating anti-revolutionary propaganda is one thing,” she said, more to herself than to Laleh. “But Shakespeare? e e cummings? They’re about as political as that lamppost,” she said, gesturing toward it.

  Laleh’s lower lip protruded in a pout. She was subdued as well.

  The heat must have made sound travel farther than usual, because Anna heard a muezzin’s far-off call for mid-afternoon prayer. The students bustling around them ignored it, seemingly oblivious to anything not directly in their path. Tehran University, like the University of Chicago, was a simmering cauldron of Leftists, Marxists, even Islamic fundamentalists. Indeed, the university was the source of most of the unrest Hassan had warned Nouri about.

  Anna observed the young people swirling around her. The new government had mandated that women wear hijab, a head covering, but it didn’t appear as if the mandate was being enforced. Most of the girls wore jeans and t-shirts, and some were in miniskirts. But more than one was wearing a head scarf, and she even saw a woman in a chador.

  As they neared Laleh Park, they saw two young men in dark green uniforms slipping a piece of paper under the windshield wipers of the Mercedes. Revolutionary Guards.

  “Oh no! What now?” Laleh hurried over and grabbed the paper. A ticket, Anna saw. Laleh launched into a rapid stream of Farsi. The men’s eyes narrowed. When she took a breath, one of them snickered and asked a question. His hostile tone was evident. He was probably asking if this was her car.

  Laleh waved her arms and talked even faster. Anna could only catch a few words, but it seemed as if she was challenging their authority.

  Anna stiffened.

  Laleh grew more agitated, the men more officious. Finally, Laleh threw up her hands in disgust, then dug into her purse. Pulling out her wallet, she extracted a wad of rials, separated them into two piles, and thrust one at each of the men.

  Anna’s stomach started to churn. Laleh shouldn’t have done that.

  The men’s mouths opened. They stared at the money, at Laleh, then at each other. One of them flicked his hand in disgust, as if she’d handed them excrement. Laleh made a disparaging comment. The next thing Anna knew, the other man spit at Laleh.

  Laleh’s eyes widened in shock. She looked like she’d been slapped. Anna knew she had to intervene before the situation escalated. She forced herself to act and grabbed Laleh by the shoulders.

  “Get in the car, Laleh. Right now.”

  Laleh glanced at Anna but didn’t move. It was as if she was under a spell. The men loomed large and threatening, close enough that Anna could smell their body odor.

  “Laleh!” Anna repeated. “Did you hear me? Get in the car!”

  Laleh blinked. Anna half pushed, half pulled her over to the passenger door, threw it open, shoved her in. “Give me the damn key.”

 
; Laleh didn’t react.

  Anna grabbed Laleh’s bag, fished inside, pulled out her car keys and the ticket. As she hurried around to the driver’s side, the men were still in front of the car. One spread his legs and planted his hands on his hips.

  Anna waved the ticket. “I am sorry. Ma’zerat meekhâm.” She threw out every polite Farsi term she knew. “Excuse me. Bebakhshid. Thank you. Mamnoonam.”

  The two men eyed Anna skeptically. They had to know she was not Iranian. Did they know she was American, from the land of the Great Satan itself? She broke eye contact with them and looked down. Submissive. Obedient. Waiting for mercy. After a long moment, during which Anna was convinced they planned to arrest both her and Laleh, they stepped back.

  Anna threw herself in the car, a wave of relief washing over her. Laleh stared straight ahead. Anna keyed the engine and put it into drive. As she pulled away she gave a little wave in the rearview mirror. “Khodâ hâfez. Good-bye.”

  “Allâho Akbar!” one of the guards shouted.

  Twenty-four

  It was horrid,” Laleh complained to Maman-joon when they arrived back at the Samedis’ home. “I was parked legally, but they gave me a ticket anyway. For twenty-five tomans.”

  Laleh seemed to have made a full recovery from her earlier distress. But Anna hadn’t. For a few minutes at the park, she thought they would not be coming home. Her sister-in-law was clearly spoiled, but she wasn’t an idiot. Given the situation, she should have toned it down, Anna thought. Not made herself a target. She debated whether to mention it, perhaps just in passing, but when she saw Maman-joon’s face, she kept her mouth shut.

  Of everyone in the Samedi family, Anna’s relationship with Parvin was the most fragile. Parvin was unfailingly polite. She asked all the right questions and smiled at all the right times, but Anna sensed they had little in common. Maman-joon was raised in an observant Islamic family, where a woman’s goals were to marry well, raise a family, and honor Islamic traditions.

  All of which, of course, was fine with Anna, but put her at a disadvantage. Maman-joon was committed to doing the proper thing for the family. Like the wedding: invitations were sent to all the right people, and the seating arrangements and menu had demanded hours of planning. For Parvin, her family’s place in society was her priority. That, and saving face. Parvin couldn’t quite understand why Anna didn’t share her values. In fact, sometimes she seemed surprised by what came out of Anna’s mouth.

  Parvin had changed since the revolution. More strands of grey were threaded through her hair. Her appearance, while still tasteful, was less precise, as if she no longer cared about choosing the perfect accessories. She wore a perpetually worried look, as if she’d lost her anchor and was drifting along an unpredictable current. Now, as she listened to Laleh whine about the men and the car, Maman-joon gazed first at her daughter, then Anna. Her lips thinned to a tight frown. “Are you sure you weren’t parked over the time limit?”

  “I’m sure, Maman. It was because I drive a Mercedes. I know it. No other cars on the street had a ticket. They wanted to harass me because of who I am.”

  And now they have her license plate number, Anna thought. She didn’t say it aloud.

  Laleh stood up and crossed her arms. “I’ve had it with this country. I want to leave.”

  Parvin leaned forward, her face registering shock. “What are you saying, Laleh? You can’t leave your family. You’re not eighteen.” Eighteen was the age of maturity for women in Iran.

  Laleh rolled her eyes. “If Baba gives me permission, I can.” She turned to Anna. “You and Nouri ought to go too.”

  Maman-joon wrung her hands. “You don’t mean that, Laleh. You’re just upset.”

  “Sure, Maman.” Laleh frowned and ran upstairs to change her clothes, leaving Maman-joon and Anna together.

  Parvin stood up, nervous and agitated. “I will make tea.”

  Anna forced a smile. “Let me help you.” But Parvin shook her head and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Anna stayed in the living room, thinking about what Laleh had said. Things were deteriorating, but Iran was Anna’s home now. Nouri and his family were her protection, her security. Things were bound to get better. After all, this was just the first wave of the revolution, and history taught that the first series of changes could often be extreme. It took time to moderate.

  Anna picked up the newspaper from the couch. More executions had been ordered, and the faces of the dead were plastered across the front page. The paper was in Farsi, but she knew the men in the photos had been accused of treason. She wondered if there was any truth to the charges. She was skimming the pages waiting for Maman-joon to bring tea when the doorbell rang. She automatically got up. “I’ll get it.”

  Opening the door, she was astonished to see a woman dressed in a chador. The only visible part of her body was her face, but that face was familiar. When she realized who it was, she gasped. “Roya? Is that you?”

  Roya smiled. Anna’s lips parted. First Hassan, now Roya. She suppressed her shock and pulled herself together. “Please, come in. We were just about to have tea. Will you join us?”

  “Albatteh. Of course. That would be nice,” Roya said. As she entered, Anna couldn’t help thinking that Roya had put on a costume to audition for some still unexplained role.

  “Maman-joon, Laleh,” Anna called. “Roya is here.”

  When Maman-joon stuck her head out of the kitchen and saw Roya, her eyes widened too. She asked Roya a brief question in Farsi and received a briefer response. Then Maman-joon and Roya exchanged smiles. Anna felt self-conscious in her jeans and t-shirt. Laleh came downstairs wearing a skimpy miniskirt and tank top. When she spied the chador-clad Roya, her mouth opened. “What in the world are you wearing?”

  Roya blinked and clutched the chador beneath her chin. “I want to be closer to Allah. This helps.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Laleh sniffed. “Has everyone in Iran gone crazy?”

  “I can’t speak for anyone else,” Roya said quietly. “I just know it is right for me.”

  Laleh was adamant. She gestured toward Roya. “But what does it say about a woman’s place in society? You’re allowing yourself to be viewed as a subordinate. Maybe even opening yourself up to abuse, not to mention all the other barbaric laws they’re talking about.”

  “The Qur’an says that ‘wrongdoers shall be known by their looks.’ I am not a wrongdoer.”

  “Oh god.” Laleh grabbed her head in her hands just as Maman-joon walked in with a tray of tea and biscuits. She put down the tray. She had clearly overheard the tussle between Laleh and Roya because she spoke to Laleh, and her tone was curt. Then she looked at Anna and waved her hand.

  “What is it, Maman-joon?” Anna asked.

  “She wants you to know that her mother wears a chador,” Laleh said sullenly.

  “I remember,” Anna replied. “You know, Laleh, everyone should have the right to express their religious beliefs. No matter how much we personally disagree. Freedom means that Roya should be able to wear a chador and pray ten times a day if she wants. That’s the mark of a true democracy.”

  “But the chador is a symbol of repression. Just like any form of hijab. Even the father of the shah realized that. That’s why he banned it.”

  “It’s unfair to label a woman who wears hijab repressed,” Anna persisted. “In the same way you can’t call a woman who wears a miniskirt liberated.”

  Laleh crossed her arms, but Roya flashed Anna a beatific smile. Even Maman-joon looked pleased. She leaned toward the tea tray and spoke in English, something she rarely did. “Let me pour tea for you, my daughters.”

  Roya shook her head. “Thank you, Maman-joon, but I am fine.”

  A moment of silence passed while Maman-joon gave glasses of tea to Laleh and Anna. Anna turned to Roya. “Nouri is still at work. Is there something special you needed, Roya?”

  “Actually, I came to see you.”

  “Me?” Anna frowned. “Why?” />
  “I…I…” She peered at Laleh. “I was hoping we could talk privately.”

  Anna glanced at Maman-joon and Laleh, then stood up. “Bebakhshid. Excuse me. I’ll just be a minute.” She turned to Roya. “Come with me.”

  Laleh waved an indifferent hand. Anna led Roya out to the patio. The curtain of heat was so thick that Anna’s t-shirt promptly went limp. And it was made of a flimsy thin material. She could only imagine how Roya felt, wrapped in the heavy folds of the chador. They sat at the patio table in the shade of the fruit trees, which, unfortunately, offered scant cooling.

  Roya cleared her throat. “There are many Iranians who do not like Americans. The mullahs, especially, think the US is meddling in Iran for our oil.”

  “They have reason to think so. Mosaddeq was overthrown by the CIA in 1953 for exactly that.”

  “Yes, I know.” Roya ran her tongue around her lips. “But, Anna, I like you. And I want to thank you for defending my choice to wear hijab. You are a fair-minded person.” She hesitated. “Unfortunately, your boss is not.”

  “You mean Charlie? At the IAS?”

  Roya nodded. “She is very…opinionated.”

  “So what?” Anna’s neck was ringed with sweat. She looked over at Roya. Her expression was solemn. “What are you trying to tell me, Roya?”

  “I…I am afraid for what might happen to her.”

  Anna remembered the scene at the Samedis’ Nowruz party several months earlier, when Charlie argued with Hassan—quite belligerently, she recalled. She wiped her neck with the back of her hand. “Afraid? In what way?”

  “I…hear things, you know. What people are planning to do to make sure Shariah law is followed.”

  “Are you saying Charlie’s in danger?”

  Roya didn’t answer.

  “Is that why you’ve come? To warn me about Charlie?”

  Roya looked at the ground. “As I said, I think you are a fair person. I am glad Nouri has you.” She hesitated again. “He has made a wise choice.”