Scattered Pearls Read online

  Another purchase some years later, again with Shahin’s encouragement, would be a house neighbouring our manb-e abb house, which they bought using funds from the sale of that first property.

  Asghar didn’t always listen to his wife’s investment advice. When I was 19 a friend of my father’s offered him the chance to buy into a chicken farm he was developing. He wanted nothing from my father but some capital to help him get started; my father would be no more than a silent partner. My mother felt this was a sure thing, and the business ultimately succeeded . . . but Asghar wasn’t a part of it. Buying into the business would have involved borrowing money, and if there is one thing my father disliked more than anything else, it was going into debt. He passed up the offer.

  My father’s investments set my parents up for retirement, but did not generate a lot of income for our family at the time. My father’s earnings came mainly from running his taxis and later, from buying and selling cars – something he did have a talent for. There was also some rental income from the upstairs section of the manb-e abb house that we didn’t use, and from the house next door after he bought that. If there was any extra money, it never came to the household. It would go first to paying off any debts and second to sometimes dubious investment opportunities. Twice, for instance, my father flew to Europe with two friends. On both occasions he bought a Peugeot car in France and drove it back to Iran, via Turkey. He then sold these cars when he got back, once to Ahmad and once to a friend.

  Otherwise Asghar was very tight with money, especially when it came to the household. He earned perhaps 20 toman per day of which he gave Shahin two toman. To make this meagre amount go around, my mother wore a single pair of galesh (cheap sandals) for years, bought one plain dress for herself each year and dressed us in the cheapest clothes she could find. A Persian description of my father’s attitude was that we should ‘eat enough so as not to die’. It wasn’t quite that bad – we were not hungry – but there was little room for anything other than the basics. On the rare occasion my mother asked for extra money, she would usually be insulted. ‘If you want money, move your ass, go and find work, earn money and then spend it.’

  My mother became very adept at being frugal. She used to tell me with pride how she had once fed 16 people at short notice – our whole family and her brother Abdollah’s family plus four of his guests – with tasty burgers using only eggs and potatoes from her kitchen and two rial worth of sabzi, a Persian herb mix. No one would have guessed she had created such a meal with so little. She also found secret ways to make a little money. Back in Takht-e Tavoos, Farangis, when she was staying with us, would give her laundry, five toman and a pack of washing powder to my mother each Saturday morning. The intention was that my mother would pass all this on to the local washer woman who would call at the house. Of course my mother wasn’t going to do another person’s laundry – she was a lady! But secretly my mother did do Farangis’s laundry, glad of the extra five toman to spend on the household.

  Despite her resourcefulness, there were times when Shahin was ashamed. Laya once asked her to buy some glycerin, which she used to relieve rheumatism in her legs, and bring it to her at the Takht-e Tavoos house. As she started out to see Laya, my mother was devastated that she would have to explain that she did not even have the two rial (20 cents) needed to buy the ointment. With great relief she avoided this embarrassment when she found a two rial coin on the path along the way.

  One winter’s day my father wanted to wash one of his cars on the street in front of the manb-e abb house. He borrowed a hose from Ahmad but when he got it home realised that the fitting on the end of it was the wrong size for the one on the tap in the yard. But he would not buy a new fitting. Instead, he asked Shahin to hold the hose against the tap while he washed the car. Of course this only partially worked. While a small amount of the almost freezing water travelled down the hose, most of it sprayed in every direction, including all over my mother. This did not please her. As was usual in winter, she had already woken at two o’clock in the morning to place an oil burner under the oil pan of the car, warming it so that the car would start for my father at dawn, then starting on her housework.

  At the other end of the hose, about 15 metres away, Asghar couldn’t understand why there was so little water coming out.

  ‘Open the tap! Open the tap!’ he yelled back at my mother, along with one of his usual assortments of swear words.

  Shahin shouted back that he needed to buy the correct fitting.

  ‘If you want to buy something, move your ass and buy it,’ said Asghar.

  ‘I have no money to buy anything,’ came the response.

  Thereafter my father continued to insult my mother for not doing the job properly, while my mother was left drenched and frozen.

  This incident, on top of her bitterly cold early morning task, triggered something in Shahin. She had had enough of her husband’s insults. Without telling any of us, she decided she would find a job. The money would improve our standard of living and allow me, and later my brothers and sisters, to go to university so that we could get good jobs and have better positions in society.

  Shahin’s approach to finding work was as it had been when she wanted to get me into a good school: to go straight to the top. Only this time she went to the top of the nation. She wrote directly to the prime minister’s office asking for some assistance in gaining employment. She explained that she could not raise five children on the wages of her ‘labouring’ husband. When her letter was ignored, she persevered, visiting the department every week and asking for a reply. Eventually she was told that a high-class kindergarten needed a caretaker. There would be some cleaning work also.

  Mum jumped with happiness. Unable to contain her excitement, she told me what she had done. I was shocked, and also heartbroken because I knew exactly why she was doing this. I tried to tell her that she would not be able to manage to work plus do all her chores at home, but she was insistent. ‘I will do this job so your father knows that I can earn money on my own.’

  On her first day of work, my mother got up at two in the morning to do her housework. Then, after my father had left for the day, she walked to the kindergarten, over an hour away.

  Her work day started with cleaning the toilets until they were absolutely spotless. She then moved to the kitchen to help the cook prepare the lunch.

  ‘Shahin, there is six kilograms of block salt – crush it.’

  ‘Shahin, peel these potatoes.’

  ‘Shahin, clean these vegetables. Hurry! You are too slow!’

  My mother was driven like a slave, and all for a very low wage of 300 toman a month plus the ‘benefit’ of taking home some of the leftover food, which Shahin wouldn’t do anyway out of pride.

  Later, the principal of the kindergarten asked my mother if she would assist with the cleaning and washing at her apartment. Out of respect my mother agreed. At one point, as Shahin was about to descend some stairs, she heard a male voice – that of the principal’s husband – say, ‘Excuse me, lady.’

  My mother paused, wondering what he wanted. ‘Yes?’

  With a growl the man replied, ‘I wasn’t talking to you. I said “lady”. I was referring to my wife. Get on with your work!’

  My mother’s pride was shattered. Despite my father’s lack of respect, she had always seen herself as ‘the lady of the house’; now she felt like a common servant.

  After only three days my mother’s hands were calloused and peeling, and her soul was broken. She was hunched over in pain. I challenged her, telling her that she could not continue like this, but she simply said, ‘These injuries will heal.’ The pain was nothing compared with the insults of her husband.

  When my mother returned from work the next day, my uncle Ahmad was at the front of our house on his motorcycle. He asked Shahin where she had been, and while she tried to hide it, it wasn’t long before he worked out what she had been doing. She explained that she had to earn some money. ‘Your brother will
kill us by keeping all the money.’

  Ahmad was sad and silent.

  When my father arrived home he was confronted by Ahmad. ‘Why do you let your wife work outside the house? Everyone will talk behind your back – it is khejalat dareh,’ meaning shameful.

  My father’s response was predictable. He growled at Shahin as if she had been prostituting herself. ‘If you fucking put your foot outside this house again, don’t fucking come back! I did not give you permission to work. How dare you insult my manhood in this way!’ He continued in this vein, getting louder and louder, until eventually my mother ran from the house. ‘The fucking woman works and I don’t know!’ shouted my father as she left.

  I had to search for my mother outside in the street. She had run away and was hiding under a car, crying and shaking, her arms curled over her head to try to block out the world. She did not speak, could not speak. She just lay there, staring blankly. Eventually, she looked me in the eyes. Both of us knew she was not running away for good. She would never leave us with Asghar. She had no way out and she knew it. ‘Damn him, damn him 200 times,’ she said as we walked home.

  She had worked four days at the kindergarten. She would never leave the house for work again.

  ~

  Now I decided that I must get a job. I would make life better for my mother; university would have to wait. However, from school I had a natural science diploma, and I had learnt a little English. And while my father would not allow his wife to work, he had no problem with his daughter working. The problem was that I had no real concept of how to find work, and no idea what I wanted to do. I was like what Persians call a farangi (foreign) doll, empty-headed and having no sense of what I liked or didn’t like.

  After applying for various secretarial roles and being turned down because of my lack of typing skills, my mother scraped enough money together to allow me to enrol in an inexpensive typing school for a three-month course. I’ll never forget the sound of the old-fashioned typewriters clacking away as 20 of us went through our lessons together. I passed the course and earned a certificate, so I tried again, making a number of applications, including to General Motors. But my typing wasn’t very fast as yet and I had none of the other necessary skills such as communication and the ability to be assertive. I still didn’t get a job.

  I was told that finding a job in any part of the government’s bureaucracy was based on ‘party bazi’: you need to know someone at the top who can recommend you. I took a bus to the suburb of Gholhak, in the north of Tehran, where my uncle Ahmad’s brother-in-law Hormoz worked at a branch of the post office. Perhaps he could help me get a job as a teller. However, Hormoz was just an ordinary employee and in no position to recommend me. My application was rejected.

  I worked very briefly for a local doctor before it became obvious that I was not up to the job. My uncle Ahmad then took me to see a retired general who was the manager at the Bank Sepah in Tehran. The general was a small, elderly man with white hair and very white skin. For some reason I expected him to be wearing full military uniform, but of course he just wore a suit like any other banker anywhere in the world. His office was very large, with beautiful furniture and numerous lovely carpets – both Ahmad and I were overwhelmed. But the general was disorganised and even seemed a little confused. Ahmad did all the talking as I sat quietly, trying to be respectful. Once again, despite my uncle’s efforts, it came to nothing.

  I was not going to get a job by knowing someone, it seemed, so I decided on an alternative strategy. I had grown into an attractive young woman. I had a slim, shapely body, full lips, dark eyes and skin that was neither dark nor light. Most of all, I had long, slender legs and a very feminine walk, both of which were enhanced by the fashion for mini skirts at the time. At school the other girls had always been jealous and tried to imitate my walk, but they never really got it!

  When I was 14 or 15 I’d gone to the tailor near our home for him to make me a poodle skirt. My mother had always made excellent clothes as well as knitting jumpers, gloves and hats for all our extended family and many friends and neighbours. However this skirt was very full and below the knee, so too difficult for her. (This may have been one of the rare occasions when my mother used a small amount of Golnar’s money, intended for Alam-Taj, for one of her own children.) I stood in front of the tailor while, kneeling on one knee, he pinned up the hem. While his right hand was working with the pins, or seemed to be, his left hand was busy elsewhere. In fact, he was touching me all over from the waist down. But I was young, and it was not until years later that I realised that this trusted tailor was a dishonest and lecherous man. How I wish I had reacted more forcefully, as I did another time a little while later. That time I was on a crowded bus with my mother. A young man pressed firmly – more firmly than necessary – against me from behind. I was so uncomfortable and ashamed that tears started flowing and I started to shake. As he followed us off the bus I turned and slapped him in the face. My mother was surprised but said nothing. He just looked at me then walked away.

  One day my friend Elahe came around to our house wearing a lovely dress she had bought from a local boutique. (As we were older now I was less afraid of Elahe hearing my father swear if she came to visit. She did once hear him say ‘khar-kosteh’ [‘fucking bitch sister’] and while it horrified me she only giggled.) The dress had a very short, body-hugging skirt and billowing sleeves. My mother told me that she could make a similar dress for me. I bought a length of red fabric with white polka dots and some lace, and soon had this eye- popping dress to wear. Now I would get a job, no problem!

  I saw an advertisement for a secretarial job with an import–export business about 40 minutes from our house. With my new dress, white Liege shoes and a matching handbag, the three secretaries in the front office all stared as I entered. I waited nearly one hour before the owner of the company arrived. I was not at all annoyed – I would happily have waited longer, watching the secretaries and listening to the clack of their typewriters. The owner asked me into his office where there was a short interview – Could I type? Did I know English? That sort of thing – at the end of which the owner stood and came around his desk. He took my hand and held it tightly, and stared into my eyes intensely. It felt very strange and I was so naive that I had no idea what was going on. Eventually I pulled my hand away, said goodbye and left quickly, not even asking whether I had a job.

  The problem with using sex appeal to get a job is that you need to be able to use it, and flirt with it. I couldn’t. I had no idea how to relate to men, either seriously or teasingly.

  I didn’t get that job either.

  Once again my uncle Ahmad tried to help. He heard that people with computer skills would be needed to work for an American–Iranian joint venture. All I needed to do was learn some computer skills. The cost of the course was 3000 toman, which my father initially said was nothing to do with him, but finally he paid up under pressure from Shahin and Ahmad. For nine months I studied the Cobol computer language and earned a certificate.

  Finally, I was about to land my first paid work.

  ~

  In the 1970s, Iran’s leader, the Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, used the country’s enormous oil revenues to invest heavily in the modernisation and militarisation of Iran (though without substantial investment in education). A number of joint ventures were established with, mainly, British and American defence manufacturers to build aircraft and other military hardware. One of those was between America’s Bell Helicopter and the Iran Helicopter Support and Renewal Company (IHSRC, also known as Panha). The formal name of the joint venture was Iran Helicopter Industries (IHI), but it was widely known simply as Helicopter Sazi, which means ‘helicopter manufacturer’. Helicopter Sazi assembled military transport helicopters and supported Iran’s existing fleet of helicopters.

  It was with this company that I started work in 1975. I went for an interview with about ten or 15 others, wearing a shapely, sleeveless georgette dress with a floral design my
mother had made. I wore high heels and had my hair down, looking every bit like the American girls I had seen in the movies. (I had no concept of the American women I would meet later, who wore flat shoes and pants for comfort and were down to earth, hard working and mostly aware of their rights.) The man who interviewed me looked me up and down from head to toe – I’m sure in his mind he was thinking how he wished he was young again. The company’s main priority was that we spoke at least tete-pete English (not fluent, but enough to get by); specific computer training would be provided on the job. I could speak reasonable English thanks to classes I had taken during the summer holidays of my last three years at high school. I always remember a poster with the slogan, ‘A New Language is a New Life’. Once my English ability was established, the interviewer said, ‘Okay, go to the Personnel Department and give your information to them.’

  That was it . . . I had a job!

  For a 19-year-old girl this was a wonderful opportunity: a secure, full-time position with a reputable company, a good salary and the chance to keep improving my English. I was anxious to learn as much as possible.

  Helicopter Sazi was positioned beside Mehrabad Airport, Tehran’s main domestic and international airport until international flights moved to a new airport in 2007. The airport is only a few kilometres from central Tehran. A company bus did a circuit around the city morning and evening to pick up and drop off the employees (provided they were on time, which often I was not). The site was a large depot that included a tarmac, warehouses and hangars for the assembly and maintenance of the helicopters, plus various other buildings. The computer department shared a building with the administration section on one side of the site. The computers themselves were enormous – as big as a car – with large tapes and printers with stacks of perforated paper. Today when I see an episode of Star Trek I am reminded of these computers. Our desks were in an open, spread-out office area with large windows. There was lots of space and natural light.