A Bitter Veil Read online

  He looked pleased that she’d spoken his name as he picked up his cup. “Anna Schroder,” he said. “Samedi and Schroder. You see, our names have their own rhythm. It is a sign.”

  She swelled with pleasure. She had never met a boy like Nouri. American boys were either preening Marlboro men or disco rats. “Are all Iranians this romantic?”

  “If they’re Persian.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Romantic, poetic, and fatalistic.”

  “Fatalistic?”

  “We Persians have a tragic view of life. The rose withers. The butter-fly dances its way to death. We love to mourn. We wallow in misery and martyrdom.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It started with Husayn ibn Ali, Mohammed’s grandson. He is as important to Shi’a Muslims as Moses is to the Jews. But he was beheaded. You will learn about him in your class.”

  She tapped her spoon against her cup. She hesitated before asking her question. “Are…are you observant?”

  He shook his head. “I am Muslim in name only. I reject all orthodoxy, no matter what its source.”

  A surge of relief ran through her. She was a Christian but a non-believer.

  “The fatalism…” he continued. “It also comes from the fact that Persia was conquered so often. It is ironic: Persian culture has survived because the conquerors assimilated our culture, rather than the other way around. Still, we always worry.”

  “The other shoe theory of life,” Anna offered.

  “Pardon?”

  She explained. She always waited for, indeed expected, the other shoe to drop. For things to go bad.

  “Exactly.”

  “But Iran is quite modern now, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes. The shah has made sure of that.” A shadow moved across his face.

  Anna caught it. “You don’t approve?”

  “The shah has modernized quickly. Some say too fast. But his regime is repressive. If you disagree with anything, SAVAK will find you. Many have disappeared. It is, in some ways, a reign of terror.” He pressed his lips together. “And the US does not help. They continue to support a dictator.”

  She paused. “I am an American citizen—I was born here. But that doesn’t mean I always agree with my government.” She told him about her anti-war days. Taking over the principal’s office with twenty other students, all of them puffed up with arrogance and self-righteousness. It wasn’t that long ago.

  The shadow on his face disappeared, and the amber in his eyes flashed. “I am glad you feel that way. You know, with a civil engineering degree, I can help rebuild democracy in Iran. Put structures in place—electricity, running water, bridges, and roads—that will improve lives. Give people a sense of community and entitlement. Like Mosaddeq.”

  “Mosaddeq?”

  “He was prime minister of Iran’s only popularly elected government. He nationalized the oil companies to plow profits back into the country. For the people instead of the privileged few. But your CIA and the Brits didn’t like that. They accused him of being a Communist. In fact, they staged a coup to overthrow him and brought back the shah.” He blew out air. “Poof. The flame of democracy was extinguished.”

  He was lyrical even when he was critical. Still, she bristled. “It’s not my CIA.” She told him about her intellectual journey from Hegel to Marx, and then Marcuse. How she was anxious to come to Chicago, in part because of Saul Alinsky. Over the past few years, though, she had backed away from social action, focusing more on observation and analysis. On good days she called herself a chronicler. But she left unsaid the nagging fear that on bad days she was nothing more than a blank slab of stone.

  Nouri was swept up in the conversation, his eyes so intense they seemed to be lit by tiny candles from within. His voice sank to a conspiratorial whisper. “I too have read Marx. The shah has banned his books, you know.”

  Anna leaned forward. “Tell me, Nouri. Why engineering? You are so knowledgeable. And articulate. Why not politics? Or teaching?”

  He snorted. “My parents expect me to become a Mohandes.”

  “Mohandes?”

  “It’s a title of respect for an engineer. Like a doctor. They insist. And I am good with numbers. I like to make things.”

  “What does your family do?” She suspected they must be wealthy if he was able to study abroad.

  His expression turned sheepish. “My father is a senior officer with the National Iranian Oil Company.”

  Somehow she was not surprised. “So he supports the shah.”

  “They know each other. Socially.” A flush crept up his neck. He cleared his throat. “What about yours?”

  She chose her words carefully. “My parents are…European. But they met in the States. I spend summers abroad. My mother lives in Paris. She pretends to be an artist. They’re divorced.”

  “And your father?”

  “He is…” She paused. “…a scientist.”

  “Ahh.” His smile was equal parts sunshine and desire. For Anna, it was a heady mix.

  She sipped the last of her tea. “Tell me. How did Persia come to be named Iran?”

  “It is from the word ‘Aryan.’”

  She looked up, startled.

  “It comes from Sanskrit originally and means ‘honorable,’ or sometimes ‘hospitable.’ Iran literally means ‘Abode of the Aryans.’ But your parents are from Europe. Surely, you knew that.”

  She stared at her teacup.

  Three

  A few days later Anna nervously cooked dinner for Nouri. She’d never been taught to cook, and she only knew a few dishes. She’d prepared a chicken recipe she’d cut out of the newspaper that included bread crumbs, cheese, and cream. After she slid the pan into the oven, she ran a worried hand through her hair. What if he was a vegetarian? She should have asked.

  She set the coffee table with the mismatched plates and utensils she’d collected. She lived on the third floor of a greystone in Hyde Park. The apartment had only one bedroom, but it featured a long hall and hardwood floors, and the kitchen opened onto a back porch with stairs going down to the backyard.

  The buzzer sounded. Her stomach tightened. She released the lock, heard the vestibule door click open. Boots clumped up the stairs. She opened the door. A light snow was falling, and snowflakes dusted his hair and jacket. She felt the urge to brush them off but restrained herself. They greeted each other awkwardly. His cheeks were red, his eyes bright. She inhaled the smell of wet wool. He bent over to take off his boots, and set them by the door. She took his jacket and hung it over the bathtub. When she returned, he handed over a bottle of wine. It was red, not white, but she pretended to be thrilled. She dug out two jelly jars from the cabinet and poured.

  “To you, Anna.” He took his glass and held it up. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

  She sipped her wine.

  He sniffed. “It smells wonderful.”

  “I hope…I should have…do you eat chicken?”

  He laughed. “Of course.”

  Her attack of nerves eased.

  He gazed around. Her father paid the rent, but Anna was thrifty and had cobbled together the furniture from second-hand stores and garage sales. A green worsted couch—shabby but serviceable—shared the space with a black recliner, a couple of straight-backed wicker chairs, and a coffee table made from a giant telephone company spool. Her books, albums, and stereo rested on shelves supported by cinder blocks. Two small dhurri rugs covered the floor.

  “Your apartment is so…well…my place is a hovel in comparison. Just a dorm room.”

  Secretly pleased, Anna gestured to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  But instead of sitting, he went to the stereo. She tensed. She’d spent twenty minutes deciding whether and what music she should have on when he arrived. She didn’t want to appear as if she was orchestrating the mood, but she didn’t know his taste: rock, classical, jazz? The choices were too o
verwhelming so she ended up putting nothing on.

  He inspected her meager collection of records and 8-tracks. They were mostly classical, except for two Moody Blues albums and one Dolly Parton she’d bought on impulse. He tipped his head to the side. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a Dolly Parton fan.”

  She felt herself blush. She didn’t know what to say.

  He put on one of the classical tapes. Beethoven’s Ninth, performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra, Eugene Ormandy conducting. She would have preferred something lighter, but she kept her mouth shut and went into the kitchen.

  He followed her in. “I got a letter from a friend today.”

  “In Tehran?”

  Nouri nodded. “Hassan. We were at school together, on the same soccer team. He is the best defender I ever met.”

  She smiled. She liked that he was telling her about his life. Ordinary details, like letters and soccer.

  Nouri continued. “He says things are heating up. People are openly accusing the shah of repression. Writing letters, declaring resolutions. Calling for the restoration of constitutional rule.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And there’s this cleric—his name is Khomeini. He’s in exile in Iraq, but he’s calling for the overthrow of the shah. He’s starting to get a following.”

  “Is he religious?”

  Again, Nouri nodded.

  “Religion and revolution are not always a good mix,” she said.

  “This time it’s different. Everyone is working together. Hassan says it is the first time he has seen so much unity. He is with a group of students who are planning demonstrations. I wish I was there.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous, given SAVAK?”

  Nouri was quick with an answer. “Sometimes there is no alternative. Anyway, Hassan says the demonstrations will be peaceful.”

  “Even so…”

  He eyed her speculatively. “You worry too much, Anna.”

  “I would make a good Persian, wouldn’t I?”

  He laughed then, a hearty musical sound, somewhere between a viola and a trombone. She loved the sound of it. “That’s right,” he said. “You would.”

  She served dinner. He must have been hungry because he ate two helpings of chicken, rice, and salad. Afterwards he was effusive in his praise. A warm glow came over her.

  They did the dishes together, slipping the plates into the dish rack. Afterwards, they curled up on either end of her couch, their legs and feet overlapping in the middle. Nouri sighed contentedly. They finished the wine, and even the dim lamp in the living room seemed too bright. Beethoven’s Ninth was long over, but Anna felt too sluggish to put on anything else.

  Nouri laced his hands behind his head and watched her.

  She smiled tentatively, uneasy with the silence. “What?”

  He sat up and looked around, spotting her Rumi book on the shelf. He got up and retrieved it.

  “More poetry?” Was this is an Iranian seduction technique? she wondered.

  “Just a few lines. They are famous. I’m sure they are here.” He thumbed through the book. “Ahh.” He smiled and cleared his throat. “The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”

  Her toes curled. A smile tugged the corners of her lips. If it was a seduction technique, it was working brilliantly. He put the book down and came to her end of the couch. Kneeling down, he traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips. A shiver ran through her body. He kissed her, tender at first, then more urgently. She felt slippery and warm. At the same time a slow-building tension tightened her muscles. She opened her mouth, her arms, her insides. They moved into the bedroom.

  Afterwards, she said, “No one has ever read poetry to me before.”

  “Stick with me. You will ace your course.”

  *****

  Anna did ace the course, but she had no idea how. She hardly spent any time out of bed that semester, much less in class. Thick sweaters, jeans, and boots ended up in a pile on the floor of her apartment. She and Nouri were addicts, obsessed with each other’s bodies. Sometimes they spent the entire day making love. After a week she began to feel incomplete without his weight on her, his breath in her ear. Even his smell, a sweet musky sweaty scent, was a narcotic.

  The times they did go out, for food or shopping—though Anna was never hungry—they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. After a while they didn’t even try. By the time winter slid into spring, they had made love on the rocks by Lake Michigan, near the lagoons at Jackson Park, and once on the Midway behind some trees.

  Anna was surprised at the bold, wanton creature she’d become. Not that she was a virgin. She’d had a lover or two, but this was a new experience. Nouri grew to be as much a part of her as an arm or leg. He burrowed his way into her marrow. She grew so attuned to him that the mere blink of an eye or the arch of his eyebrow incited her to passion or angst, depending on his mood. She decided she finally understood Rumi’s poetry.

  At the end of May Nouri gave up his room and moved in. The night he brought his things over, they fired up a celebratory bowl of hashish. Then, they tore their clothes off and made desperate love. They were both feeling an impending sense of doom. Nouri was due back to Tehran for the summer, and Anna was going to Paris. They decided to cut their vacations short and reunite in Chicago at the beginning of August. They would only be apart for eight weeks, but Anna didn’t know how she would survive.

  Four

  The time Anna spent in Paris visiting her mother that summer was torture. Her mother lived on the Left Bank, off boulevard Saint-Germain not far from the Sorbonne. Anna wandered the neighborhood, past Notre Dame, the cafés, the tiny farmers’ market that popped up as if by magic on Wednesdays and Saturdays. She often ended up in the Jardin du Luxembourg where, despite the riot of flowers and blossoms, she felt colorless and drab. She was jealous of every couple whose arms were wrapped around each other, who shared secret smiles and giggles.

  She and Nouri spoke on the phone twice a week, frantic calls in which they professed undying love, but once they disconnected, she was wracked by doubt. He was an only son, and although he had a sister, he was the heir to the family name. No doubt they treated him like a prince. The brave hero who’d returned from the front. He was probably having the time of his life. Though he claimed to miss her more than she did him, and he alluded to intimate parts of her body only he knew, Anna couldn’t help wondering whether he might be eyeing Iranian girls the same way he once looked at her. Iranian girls were dark and fiery and beautiful. Her pale blonde coloring couldn’t compete.

  After one such call, she met her mother in a small café on the rue des Écoles. Julianne Schroder divorced Anna’s father when Anna was five and moved back to her native France. Though Anna flew to Paris every summer, and sometimes for Christmas too, her mother was more like an aunt, or a cousin, than a mother. She was a painter, and spent most days in a bright, sunlit studio. Anna was allowed to spend time with her in the studio, but her mother never pried. She kept her distance. Whenever Anna revealed a piece of herself in conversation, her mother would nod or purse her lips. Anna guessed her mother had decided she’d surrendered her right to judge Anna when she abandoned her so many years ago. She didn’t want to believe her mother just didn’t care.

  She slipped through the door of the café. The smell of coffee mixed with cigarette smoke saturated the air. It was early afternoon, but the place was crowded and cramped, at least for her American sensibility. But Americans had an exaggerated need for room, her mother insisted. Here in France everyone rubbed elbows, apparently not bothered by the invasion of their personal space.

  Her mother was already there, a Gauloise dangling between her lips. Anna had cautioned her about smoking many times, but her mother always made that dismissive blowing out “pee-ue” sound the French do so well. Anna was a less beautiful version of her mother, who had enormous bl
ue eyes and thick blonde hair she wore in a twist. Her body still looked like a teenager’s, and she could wear a scarf over a black sweater and jeans and look like she’d just stepped out of a house of couture. Next to her, Anna felt clumsy and big, and, well, American.

  Her mother waved her over to the tiny table. “Bonjour, ma petite. Gerard is going to meet us here. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  Anna sat. Gerard was the latest of her mother’s lovers, all scruffy men with beards and vague intellectual pretensions. Many of them were Communists, her mother confided, but some were existentialists who lived dreary, disappointing lives at the same time they sought happiness and contentment.

  “I thought we could go to the cinema later,” her mother said.

  Anna nodded. Despite her faults, her mother was the one who kindled Anna’s love affair with film. Her mother would take her to see Antonioni, Bergman, Chabrol, Truffaut—sometimes two films a day. Anna suspected it was a way for them to pass time together without really communicating. Perhaps because of that, Anna had fallen in love with the celluloid stories played out on the screen. She loved the larger-than-life characters, who, with just a flick of a finger or the narrowing of an eye, spoke volumes. She loved the editing which could take her from a Paris village to New York, or from the present to the past in less than a second. They went to films in the early evening, after which her mother typically brought her back to the flat, said goodnight, and went out again. When dawn was creeping over the rooftops of Paris, her mother returned, her long blonde hair hugging her shoulders, smelling of men and sex.

  Once Anna asked her mother why she left her father. “It was a marriage of convenience,” her mother said after a long pause. “We were—are—very different people.” She was quick to add that Anna was the only worthwhile thing from the marriage. But if that was true, why did her mother live seven thousand miles away? And why, Anna thought, with a frisson of resentment, did she seem so happy? Anna used to wonder if she would be as vibrant and alive as her mother if she moved to Paris. Now she knew it was Nouri who fueled her energy and joy. Stripped of his body, his smell, his hands on her, she was a pale shadow of a woman.