Scattered Pearls Read online

  Perhaps the most intimate moment of our engagement occurred one afternoon when Reza, again in his quest for purity in our relationship, asked if he could check my virginity. In my naivety I didn’t know if this was a normal thing to do or not, so I readily submitted. I was a virgin, so had nothing to hide. I took off my panties under my dress and lay on the bed, otherwise fully clothed, with my legs apart. Reza leant over, putting his hands on my knees, and inspected my genitalia for a short moment. ‘Very beautiful,’ he said.

  And that was that. I have no idea whether he knew what he was looking for, but he seemed satisfied and that was enough for me. I had passed another test.

  On my account, I never really felt the need to test Reza in any way. I was happy to take him at his word. I asked him once – not as a test but just out of interest – if I could see his chemistry degree, but he explained that he had left all his paperwork in Australia. He had one certificate, from Latrobe University in Melbourne, that he showed me briefly one time. It seemed to be something about English language tuition rather than chemistry, but I didn’t question its value. I was satisfied that he had a document bearing the logo of an Australian university.

  ~

  Our wedding took place on 16 January 1981 at the Intercontinental Hotel in Tehran. The hotel is still there but it now has a different name. It is quite a grand building and was regarded as an excellent hotel at the time, though probably not quite five star.

  They say a wedding day is the bride’s day. And in many respects this was the case for me. I had organised the wedding entirely, including paying for it. The Iranian tradition is that the groom and his family pay for the wedding; however, having worked for a number of years I was in a position to pay so I did so. I never asked Reza or his family for any contribution, and none was offered. He never seemed to have much money, though this didn’t really bother me. My mother used to say that ‘a doctor’s money is in his brain’ – which I took to mean that he will make money in the future because of his education and intelligence.

  We had 200 guests, many of whom exclaimed at how beautiful I looked in my dress. I had found the dress in an upmarket boutique near my college, one I had bought a gown from previously. When I entered the store there was another bride-to-be trying on a dress, surrounded by the groom-to-be and his family. She was proud and demanding but also gorgeous; her fiancé was ready to pay for whatever she wanted. On my own, I selected the same dress – a white, strapless gown with a tight waistline and a shawl-like covering of delicate lace down to the elbows. The dress came with a transparent toor (veil), lace gloves and a simple, halo-like crown.

  On the day of our wedding I looked ‘like an angel’. The ceremony was conducted by a celebrant in traditional Persian style: we were seated throughout. Reza presented me with a copy of the Koran as my ‘dowry’. Afterwards there was food and dancing and all the usual celebrations of a wedding.

  Would I call it a fairy-tale wedding? I don’t think so. To be honest, the best way to describe my feelings on the day is to say I had none. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. At one point Reza and I danced a tango, but without displaying any emotion – there were no words, no love. Reza smiled throughout but he never complimented me on my appearance and we didn’t kiss. I was like a feather moving at the whim of the wind. My wedding was a technicality rather than a day of joy. I wasn’t so silly as to believe that a real wedding would be like something out of the movies, with unbridled joy all around, but I didn’t know what I should be expecting. Deep down, I think I just wanted the wedding over with. I felt that Reza was the same. The most vivid memory I have of the day is of my father. He looked anxious and sad.

  By the end of the day the main thought in my mind was that there was now one less hurdle in the way of my leaving Iran for Australia.

  8

  New home, new life, new hope

  Our aeroplane was above Melbourne. With every moment, it got closer to the ground. Melbourne looked beautiful, big and green. Even from the sky it looked clean and calm. I had no idea what nights and days were waiting for me, but in my heart I was happy that I was finally coming to Australia with my husband.

  ~

  We had left Iran about a month earlier, only a few weeks after our wedding. The journey to Australia was to be our honeymoon, so for the short period in between we stayed in my apartment.

  On the evening of our wedding Reza was finally able to touch me. I had few expectations, except perhaps some soft-focus dreams formed by movies and novels. As I imagine is many people’s experience, the reality was much more clumsy than that. My main memory is of having a lot of pain the next morning and hardly being able to walk for the next few weeks.

  Two days after our marriage came my first test as a wife. We were in the bedroom preparing for sleep when Reza lit up a cigarette. I was horrified. I detested smoking anywhere, but especially in my bedroom where I knew the smell of nicotine would get into all my rugs and the satin quilt and silk curtains. However, after living my childhood in an atmosphere charged with yelling, I was not in the mood to argue with my new husband so soon. Instead of saying something, I simply removed myself from the bedroom and sat on a chair in my guest room – an upright, dark timber chair with a padded seat and carved arms. There, I waited, fully expecting that Reza would come out and ask me what was wrong; then I could gently explain my concern at his smoking.

  But he didn’t come out.

  I stayed on that chair all night, at times pulling two chairs together and lying across them. When Reza did finally emerge the next morning, he asked me why I had slept outside and I explained. His response was to glare at me. ‘No one – neither you nor your father – can make me quit smoking,’ he said.

  The words were like a hammer to my exhausted head. I didn’t know what to say, so again I said nothing.

  Later that morning Reza’s father, Rahim, came to visit us. He noticed that I was upset and asked me, in private, what was wrong. Initially I tried to avoid the question but he persisted. I eventually explained my dislike of smoking and told him what Reza had said to me. Rahim frowned and said that he would talk to his son. I don’t know whether he did or not, but I suspect he did, as he was a good man. Reza’s behaviour didn’t change, however. It was as my mother always said of Asghar’s bad habits: they were things that he needed to resolve himself. ‘Leave them. Do your own things.’ That was her advice.

  One of my biggest concerns in that period before leaving Iran was obtaining visas to enter Australia. Reza had had his passport renewed by the Iranian embassy in Canberra before returning to Iran, but he needed a new temporary visa to enter Australia. I, of course, had previously had my application for Australian residency declined. I applied again, this time for a tourist visa, but that was declined as well – again for no clear reason – as was Reza’s application for an extension. After that I could feel Shahin’s determination rising in me. I would talk my way through immigration in Australia if I had to. I was so clear in my mind that we were going there that nothing was going to stop us. I would find a way.

  I bought two tickets to Australia with stopovers in Frankfurt and Singapore. I was really looking forward to spending some time in Europe on the way to Australia, and I figured we could also try to get visas at one of these places. Surely in one of them we would have success.

  So it was that in the early afternoon of 23 February 1981 we boarded a flight for West Germany. My mother and I cried so much as we said our goodbyes, but I knew in my mother’s heart she wanted the best for me, even if that meant moving to the other side of the world. I was still crying as the aeroplane took off. Reza turned after a little while and said, ‘Oh, how much you cry. Enough’.

  ~

  Our problems started as soon as we got off the plane in Frankfurt.

  To enter West Germany at that time you needed to pay an arrival tax, in cash. We had no cash but we did have some travellers cheques. However, when we found a money exchange, Reza was unable to countersign his cheques
in a way that would satisfy the cashier. I know it sounds strange, but he simply could not replicate the signature he had used to sign the cheques in the first place. He tried over and over, without success. Finally it was time for the cashier to close his office – at this time they only opened when a plane arrived – which left us stranded in the transit lounge where we spent most of the night. The next morning we found a more forgiving cashier and were finally allowed to cash our cheques and pass through immigration.

  The next few days were a honeymoon in name only. I became increasingly anxious about being able to enter Australia and all my energy was directed towards this end. We found a tiny hotel room – more like a pensione – with no ensuite. And, it still being winter, Frankfurt was bitterly cold. It was miserable walking around. Two days later we worked out there was no Australian embassy in Frankfurt so decided to fly to Paris. Perhaps I had a vague idea that the ‘city of love’ might enable us to have a real honeymoon. On arriving in Paris, however, we discovered that we needed visas to enter France, which we didn’t have. Far from having a romantic night, we spent another night in an airport transit lounge before being escorted to the departure lounge and a flight back to Frankfurt the next day. It was humiliating. I couldn’t know for sure but it did seem that coming from Iran we were being treated more harshly – certainly more harshly than I had been treated on any of my previous overseas trips. All I could conclude was that the increasingly fundamentalist Khomeini regime was soiling the reputations of all Iranians.

  Now we thought to travel by train to Bonn, which we did, though we couldn’t work out how to buy tickets before the train was ready to leave. About an hour into the journey an inspector asked us to get off at the next stop and get tickets, after which we had to wait for the next train. In the West German capital we checked into the smallest, cheapest hotel we could. Its only benefit was that it had a tiny bath – something I cherished after almost a week wearing the same travel clothes. I was getting increasingly distressed by my body odour.

  The closest we got to romance on our honeymoon was when Reza was in the bath and asked me to join him. I was exhausted by now and in no mood for this, so refused. ‘You have changed,’ he said.

  He continued his bath alone and later went downstairs to a café while I stayed in our room. I felt incredibly alone and started writing notes, thinking I might write a letter to my mother.

  This one week took too long for me. I was unable to read any books. I feel I am ghareeb (alone, without support). We had a lot of other issues . . . we had to look for accommodation with the language barrier. I know each problem will allow us to become more aware and more experienced, but I am very tired.

  Reza has gone downstairs and I am alone. I wish I had a book to read. So many problems have happened and so I hate this damn country. I want to leave this country as soon as possible. Tears don’t allow me. God give me patience. But of course I have to pass a lot of tests.

  I don’t like Reza’s smoking, nor his small amount of drinking. But I must bear it because he is really a gentleman and I have trust in him from the bottom of my heart. The smoking and drinking are things that he needs to resolve. As you would say, ‘Leave them – you do your own things’. I haven’t changed my clothing for a week and I must wash at least my underwear.

  The day after tomorrow we are going on to Singapore and then Australia. God please help us – we don’t have anybody else but you.

  I never did send my notes to my mother – who writes to their mother on their honeymoon? And after a bath and clean clothes I was soon feeling more positive again. I reminded myself constantly that every problem we encountered would make us more aware and more experienced.

  The Australian embassy in Bonn was sympathetic. They told us that if we had had a translation of our marriage certificate they could have granted both of us temporary visas, but without that translation they couldn’t help us. To organise a translation would take too long so we had no alternative but to continue our journey and hope to resolve this later. We flew to Singapore where, finally, Reza received a temporary visa allowing him to enter Australia for three months. However, I was still unsuccessful. Instead of flying straight to Australia, we decided to try Bangkok, where there was an Iranian embassy.

  In Bangkok we checked into another small hotel room. As soon as we had checked in and Reza had had a chance to buy his cigarettes, we took a taxi to the local Australian embassy where my tourist visa application was again declined. We decided to try the Iranian embassy – perhaps they could advise us, or at least help us get a translation of our marriage certificate. They couldn’t do the latter, as it turned out, but what they could do was combine our passports because we were married: they could add my photo to Reza’s passport with its valid Australian visa. This would mean surrendering my passport; in future we would travel on a joint passport. It wasn’t the ideal solution but if it would solve our problem I was very happy to go along with it.

  Finally, a few days later, we boarded a Qantas flight for Australia. Finally, we could relax a little. And finally, I felt that I was going to reach my destination and we would start our new life!

  As soon as we boarded the flight Reza fell back into his seat and went to sleep. I was hoping to use the nine-hour flight to talk about our plans once we arrived in Melbourne but I got little out of him. He said not a word about our new life. He did, in one brief period of wakefulness, ask me about a small but valuable silk carpet we had with us. I wasn’t sure why, though it was one of the few belongings of value that we had brought from Iran. Then he told me that we would stay with his brother Shakoor in South Yarra.

  ‘I have helped Shakoor many times,’ he said.

  ‘If one helps, one shouldn’t say so,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said with a glare.

  ‘I mean if we do good things for others we shouldn’t show off about them, should we?’

  He paused, still visibly upset with my comment.

  ‘My brother may lie about me. He may tell you things about me that aren’t true.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he may not like it that we stay at his house.’

  ‘Then why do we have to go to his house?’ I asked.

  ‘Where else would we go?’

  ‘I thought we might go to a hotel.’

  ‘No, it would be better if we went to Shakoor’s.’

  Okay, I thought. Reza knows better than me. He obviously has some plan.

  ~

  We landed in Melbourne at 7 am on 19 March 1981. I was feeling relaxed and positive, pleased and relieved that we had sorted out our passports in Bangkok. But my happy mood quickly dissipated.

  First I was shocked by a man walking down the aisle holding aerosols above his head. Then the immigration officer noticed that although we were travelling on a joint passport, the temporary visa for Australia was in Reza’s name only. This inconsistency was like a red flag to the official, and we were immediately taken to separate rooms to be interviewed and have our bags checked. I was never so thankful that I was able to speak English and could explain our situation. I kept referring to Reza as ‘Doctor’, as had become my habit. It is an odd Persian custom for those with a qualification to be referred to by their title rather than their name, and I had some small pride in using this term in relation to my husband. Eventually I was asked if my husband was in fact a doctor.

  ‘He is a chemist,’ I said, ‘and will soon be getting his PhD.’

  In the end, just as I had expected, I was able to talk my way into the country. We were obviously married and I guess it was clear that we weren’t hiding anything. The inconsistency with the visa was probably put down to an administrative oversight in Bangkok. I was told that I must go to the Department of Immigration in Melbourne within one month and arrange a temporary visa of my own.

  We caught a taxi into central Melbourne and on the way I said to Reza, ‘You know, the customs officers took that silk carpet.’

  ‘R
eally?’

  A deep frown crossed his face. When I told him I was only joking he looked even more upset.

  ‘Don’t make jokes like that,’ he said.

  We sat in silence for the rest of the drive. I stared out the window, amazed by the gum trees with their wild shapes, so different from the straight-trunked, symmetrical trees of Iran.

  We got off the bus at the Chateau Hotel, near the Victoria Market. I knew we were in the centre of the city but looking around it seemed very small and simple. Is that it? I wondered.

  Reza called his brother, who arrived soon afterwards with his beautiful wife Maria. They were so kind and welcoming. Shakoor was only in his early twenties – quite a lot younger than Reza – and Maria about the same. They took us to their one-bedroom apartment on Punt Road and generously gave us their own bedroom while they took the lounge. Reza and I spent our first night in Melbourne much as we had spent the night at his parents’ house some months earlier – in the same bed but as separate as a brother and sister.

  ~

  In the coming days it became clear that Reza didn’t have any plan for what we would do next, so I decided to take some action. We needed to find somewhere to live on our own, and for this to happen I needed to find a job. Although they were extremely patient, I felt anxious about imposing on Shakoor and Maria for too long. Reza seemed to recognise this when, about a week after we arrived, he asked me for $200 so he could buy a gift for his brother.