My mother, my grandmother, and I lived a comfortable and peaceful life in three adjacent rooms and three separate worlds in a two-story house with a garden, a reflecting pool, and an old weeping willow tree.
I was a second-year student of philosophy at the university and I thought about anything and everything except a revolution, a war, the closing down of the universities, and becoming a rootless drifter.
Grandmother was eighty-four. She thought she would live for many years to come and would continue to command and to rule over us.
Mother was a gentle and fragile woman. She loved doing embroidery, making floral arrangements, and cultivating fragrant flowers in our greenhouse. She liked plants more than she liked people.
We had a cook named Ali Agha and a maid named Nanny Henna-Hair. As soon as the revolution broke out, they left us without any notice. Without any explanation. Still, we were grateful that they didn’t report us to the authorities; otherwise we would have ended up in prison. At the time, my father was in Canada on a mission for the Shah’s government. He had close ties with all the ministers, ambassadors, and government bigwigs. His head was certainly destined for the noose. We thanked God that he was out of the country and we encouraged him to stay away and wait for the revolution to end and for the Shah to return to Iran. Sadly, a few months later he died in a car accident on an icy mountain road. And the revolution didn’t end and the Shah didn’t return to Iran either.
My mother screamed and cried so much that she not only drove herself crazy, but she drove us crazy, too. She never recovered from my father’s death and she lost a bit of her sanity. She took dozens of sedatives every day, spent much of the time half-asleep, and often forgot where she was and what was going on around her. Grandmother grew quiet—the sort of dangerous silence that could suddenly erupt, like a sleeping volcano. She was seething inside and rumbling quietly. At the time, I was in love with a classmate who was pro-revolution and it was this tentative love affair that saved me from going mad like Mother. I would cry for hours, but then with the first telephone call from the young man, I would forget all about my father’s death and go running around the streets, raising a ruckus with him. I was oblivious to the treachery and deceit of politics.
My love affair was short-lived. My revolutionary friend was arrested and his family moved away from our neighborhood. I was young and my broken heart healed quickly. Soon I was daydreaming about another love. I believed the revolution would not touch us and I was content in this delusion. That is, until the Revolutionary Court issued a warrant for our house to be confiscated. We received a notice saying, more or less, The good days are over, please take your leave.
“Take our leave to where?” Grandmother said.
The court’s server who had delivered the notice said, “That’s not our concern. You can take your leave to hell for all we care.”
Grandmother was ready to pounce on him. Mother was watching from a distance. Her eyes were half-closed. She looked like she was dreaming. I threw myself at Grandmother and covered her mouth with my hand. I was no match for her. She weighed ninety kilos. Perhaps more. It was a blessing that she was an invalid and couldn’t stand up. Instead, all her strength was concentrated in her sharp tongue.
Grandmother would not be bullied. She wasn’t afraid of anyone.
She held her head high and said, “I will not go. This is my house” (it wasn’t) “and the deed is in my pocket” (she was fibbing), “and I will shoot whoever sets foot here.”
Shoot?
Grandmother produced a rickety rifle from under her pillow and laid it on the ground next to her. It was the old rifle my grandfather used when he hunted wild goats and ducks. It had no trigger and no pellets. Grandmother kept it under her pillow in case she needed to scare away burglars. Thank God the court’s server had left.
Mother fainted the moment she saw the rifle and we had to call Auntie Badri and her husband. Grandmother was all fired up and kept aiming the rifle at anyone who came near her.
I thought Auntie Badri would rush over to our house. But she called three times, at one-hour intervals, to say that she was on her way. It was strange, but strange things had become normal. The world, our world, had turned upside down and we couldn’t grasp the meaning and logic of events and incidents.
It was close to dusk when Auntie finally arrived. She was worried and upset, but she was trying hard to hide it from Grandmother. She kept smiling for no reason and constantly showered us with flowery terms of endearment. My aunt’s husband was standing in the entrance hall and refused to come in. He looked very pale. At first I thought he was sick, but then I realized that he was terrified of being in our house. It was as if he thought they would confiscate him, too. He kept looking at his watch and wanted to leave as soon as possible. I had always had a different image of him—that of a witty and confident man. He was talkative and had an opinion about everything. He wore Western suits and silk ties and his watchband was white gold. Now, everything about him had changed. He hadn’t shaved, he wasn’t wearing a tie, and he had an old leather watchband. He looked like a faded and altered photograph. It was hard to recognize him.
I could hear Auntie and her husband arguing. Auntie started out by whispering, but gradually her voice grew louder and louder and then she suddenly screamed, “What would you have me do? Leave my mother out on the street?”
Her husband kept repeating, “It’s dangerous. They’ll come after us.”
“Why would they come after us?” Auntie asked. “Are we breaking any laws? I just want to bring my old mother to live with me.”
Again, he said, “It’s dangerous. They are watching us.”
Finally, Auntie told her husband, “Go sit in the car and don’t interfere.”
Grandmother loved Auntie Badri. She put down her rifle next to her pillow and said, “We will stay right here. We won’t trouble you.”
Auntie Badri laughed and said, “Dearest Mom, where in the world did you find this dilapidated rifle? Put it away. People will laugh at you. And don’t worry about the house. We will file a lawsuit with the court. But it will take a couple of weeks. Come and stay with me until then.”
“With me” was a phrase that delighted Grandmother.
“My dear,” she said, “I’d give my life for you.” She looked like she was going to cry, but she went on to say, “No, I’m more comfortable here. Your house is too big. I won’t come.”
Mother had taken her sedatives and was dozing off, but she could hear everything. She mumbled, “Here. There. What difference does it make? The sky is the same color no matter where we go.”
Auntie Badri insisted. She sat next to Grandmother and kissed her face and hands. “Everything will be all right. I promise. Things won’t stay like this. This is all temporary.”
Mother moaned and muttered, “Everything is temporary. Everything.” And then she started calling for Ali Agha.
Grandmother shook her head sadly and said, “There is no Ali Agha, my dear. That double-crossing louse got up and left the minute things changed.”
“He is gone, too,” Mother said. “A temporary cook.”
Arguing was useless. Grandmother knew we had no choice but to leave. Yet she wanted to at least put up a fight and not surrender too easily.
“I’ve prayed and fasted all my life,” she said. “What the heck do they want from me? As a matter of fact, they should reward me with a second house.”
Who were we? Three lone women. We were no match for the Revolutionary Court and the Foundation of Martyrs. We were no match for anyone. We were scared of our own shadow. Grandmother’s huff-and-puff was just a big bubble in the air.
Where would we go? For now, to Auntie Badri’s house. But what would we do with our belongings and all the household furnishings?
“Don’t make it hard on yourselves,” Auntie said. “We’ll call secondhand dealers and sell everything—from the tables and chairs to the refrigerator and the stove.”
Grandmother shouted. Balked. She clawed at her hair and at Mother’s hair.
“You want to put my life up for sale?” she screamed. “You want to leave me bare-assed and living in other people’s homes? You want to sell the carpet from under me?”
“No,” Auntie said. “We’ll put the carpets in a bank vault for safekeeping.”
The next day, the secondhand dealers came to the house and got busy appraising everything and buying the tables and chairs and the silverware. My heart was breaking for Grandmother. She had lived a lifetime with these things. She felt her pride and honor were being auctioned off and her past put up for sale.
“Mr. Secondhand Dealer,” she said, “excuse me, would you please come over here?”
Auntie looked at Grandmother in alarm and stopped haggling with one of the dealers.
The other was holding a large frying pan under his arm. His face was flushed with excitement and he kept running around, asking for the price of this and that item. He walked over to Grandmother.
Grandmother was sitting in her wheelchair, smiling. Her good humor was cause for concern.
“Hello,” she said. “How much did you pay for the frying pan?”
Auntie took a few steps forward and said, “Mother, please don’t tire yourself.” She meant, Please don’t interfere.
“Let me see the frying pan,” Grandmother said.
The dealer obeyed and handed it to her. He was in a hurry. The other dealer was picking out the better pieces.
Grandmother grabbed the frying pan by the handle and shouted, “You unscrupulous scamp. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You’ve raided someone’s home like a vulture and you’re robbing the dead? But I’m still alive. I’ll teach you a lesson, you scoundrel.” And before Auntie and I could make a move, she raised the frying pan and slammed it on the dealer’s head. Auntie screamed, “Oh!” The dealer yelled, “Ouch!” And he leapt back and groaned. The other dealer laughed and Grandmother, proud and satisfied, laid the frying pan on her lap.
Auntie ran and fetched a glass of water for the man. She apologized a thousand times and whispered to him that Grandmother wasn’t well, that recent events had made her emotionally unstable.
Grandmother heard her and shouted, “Not at all! My brain works better than ever. You’re the ones who have lost your mind.”
Auntie put one of Mother’s sedative pills in Grandmother’s tea and made her drink it in one gulp. Barely ten minutes later, Grandmother’s head dropped down on her chest and she fell asleep. I pushed her wheelchair and took her to her bedroom.
The dealers hastily bought our past for a pittance and left.
The next day, we stuffed our clothes into suitcases and got ready to move to Auntie Badri’s house. As we were leaving, Grandmother paused at the door. Sitting in her wheelchair, she turned and looked back at the house and suddenly burst into tears. She wanted to go back. She wanted her home.
AUNTIE BADRI’S HOUSE wasn’t like it used to be—happy and with lots of people coming and going. The sofas in the living room were covered with bedsheets. They had taken the antique paintings off the walls and rolled up the carpets and stacked them next to the wall. It looked as if the homeowner was away or getting ready to go away. They had even taken down the chandeliers from the ceilings. Instead, there were a few small lamps on the side tables and they weren’t all that bright. The house was almost dark.
Grandmother looked around and frowned.
“Oh, it’s so depressing here. It makes you feel like it’s the end of the world,” she said. “Let’s go back to our own house. Otherwise, tomorrow they’ll pack us up, too, and God knows where they will send us.”
Mother was tired. She dropped her handbag on the floor right next to the living room door and lay down on a sofa. One of her shoes fell off and in a bristly voice she said, “We don’t have a house anymore. It’s finished.”
Auntie Badri assigned each of us a separate bedroom. Mother slept in her own room, but in the middle of the night she came over to mine. She had had a bad dream. And then she started imagining that there were people walking around in my room.
“Do you see them, too?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
Grandmother was in her own room, fast asleep and snoring. She was neither scared of burglars, nor of ghosts and spirits.
Life at Auntie Badri’s house wasn’t easy. Our clothes remained in suitcases and we felt as if we were living day by day, as if it was all temporary, just as Mother had said. We changed our rooms a few times. The house was noisy and doors were constantly being slammed shut.
“This is a ghost house,” Mother said. “I can see them. They roam around the rooms.”
Grandmother took a few folded sheets of paper with prayers written on them and tucked them under her prayer rug.
Every night, a group of people came to Auntie Badri’s house. They would all sit around the radio and listen to the BBC and Radio Israel. We watched them from a distance. Auntie’s husband constantly looked out the window and kept an eye on the garden. He was afraid the Revolutionary Guards would show up. Listening to Radio Israel was a crime. He kept turning down the volume on the radio.
“Gathering in groups is dangerous,” he said. “It creates suspicion. They may think we are plotting something.”
“Who can see us? Have they put cameras in the rooms?” Auntie asked.
“Yes,” he said. “They have equipment that allows them to see through walls.”
“They can read our thoughts,” Mother said. “They go inside our head. Inside our dreams.”
I HAD SPENT the better part of my life in that house and with Auntie Badri. I used to spend the weekends and most of my summers there. No one was closer to me than Auntie. She always took me along when she went on her summer holidays. But this was all before fear, like a dark shadow, became part of our existence. Fear of the unknown, fear of an uncertain future. Auntie Badri was worried for me, but she was more worried for herself and for her old antiques that could end up in the hands of strangers.
Two weeks later, she told us that her husband had decided they should leave the country as soon as possible. They had received visas for Canada.
Mother sighed and said, “I wish we could leave, too.”
Grandmother got angry and snapped, “No! This is where we belong. We have to go back to our own house and to our own life.”
“What life?” Mother said. “It was just a fleeting moment in a dream.” And tears rolled down her face.
Auntie was rushing back and forth, overseeing the packing of their belongings. She had hundreds of bowls and pitchers and plates and statues of Buddha from ancient times. She couldn’t take them with her. It was illegal to take antiques out of the country. She put them all on the dining room table and looked at them with profound angst.
“What are you going to do with these?” Grandmother asked.
Auntie sighed. It was as if the antiques were part of her being.
“I will die if one of them breaks or gets lost,” she said.
“So what if they get lost,” Mother retorted. “If I were you, I’d throw them all in the trash.”
“Every one of them has great value—sentimental value, artistic and historical value,” Auntie explained. “This statue of Vishnu is three thousand years old. He is the god of existence and life.”
Grandmother looked at the statue with contempt and said, “This black guy with four arms and four legs is a god?”
I wondered why, instead of bickering with Auntie Badri, they weren’t asking her what we were supposed to do after she left. Where were we to go?
Auntie Badri had the answer. A few days later when Grandmother posed the question, Auntie said, “There is no place better for you than Homayoun’s house.”
Uncle Homayoun! What a choice. Of course, I loved Uncle, but he was a special sort of person and his door wasn’t open to everyone. He had spent many years living in India and he had his own beliefs and way of life. I thought, When he finds out what Auntie Badri has in store for him, he will pack up, go back to India, and pitch his tent on the banks of the Ganges River.
Grandmother, who had grown tired of Auntie’s house, clapped her hands and said, “Let’s go today. I would give my life for my son. A son is a mother’s crown.”
“Homayoun won’t take us in,” Mother said. “He is used to being alone.”
Grandmother chided her. “What are you saying? Hadn’t we, too, grown accustomed to our comfort? Now look what has become of us. People get used to everything and Homayoun will get used to us.”
“Poor Homayoun. His life is going to be turned upside down,” Mother said.
“Didn’t ours turn upside down?” Grandmother flared. “The world is upside down. Its head is down and its feet are up in the air.”
Uncle Homayoun didn’t know that Auntie was getting ready to leave the country and he wasn’t aware of our circumstances. He lived his own life. He never listened to the news on the radio, he didn’t have a telephone or a television, and he didn’t read the newspaper. We sent someone to deliver a short note to his house. We were worried that he might not even read the note. Fortunately, he did. And as soon as he learned that we were going to be homeless, he rushed over to Auntie’s house. He kissed Grandmother’s hand and my face and happily agreed to us living with him. But when Auntie Badri insisted that he also take her antiques, the color drained from his face. Auntie cried. Pleaded. Begged.
Uncle was confused and didn’t know what to do. He said, “It’s better if you sell them or give them away. What good are they to you now that you’re leaving?”
“They are tokens of the past, of my life,” Auntie said. “One day the page in the book of times will turn and I will come back.”
Mother was mumbling to herself. It was obvious she was thinking of my father. Grandmother couldn’t bear Mother moaning and groaning. She couldn’t bear anyone moaning and groaning. “Get up and go take a nap,” she snapped. And then she took Auntie’s side, and the mother and daughter argued and pleaded with Uncle until he gave in. He just wanted to put an end to Grandmother’s grousing and Auntie’s entreaties. Still, he knew that moving all those precious objects was not going to be easy. If the Revolutionary Guards saw them, they would immediately confiscate them and our lives would be in danger.
We had to be as careful as possible. One by one, we would load the ancient pots and pans and silver trays and Indian statues and Russian candelabras and a hundred other odds and ends into the trunk of the car and under the cover of night we took them to Uncle Homayoun’s house. The items that were smaller and lighter, we packed in a variety of bags, and walked out of the house with them, pretending we were going about our daily life. Mother was thin as a rail and because of the sedatives she took she kept staggering. But we would tuck a tennis racket under her arm and send her out carrying a sports bag filled with the smaller pieces. Sometimes she would lose her way and she would sit in front of someone’s house and doze off.
We didn’t trust anyone. A neighbor’s simple glance made us shudder. But finally, with plenty of fear and trepidation, we moved all the antiques to Uncle Homayoun’s house and lined them up on the dining room table. We wanted to store them in the cellar, but Grandmother wouldn’t allow it. She wanted them right where she could see them, lest one of them went missing, and she counted them every day—how many hand-painted Persian plates, how many old Chinese bowls, how many Indian silver trays, how many Russian candelabras, etc. She didn’t trust Haji, uncle’s male housekeeper, and she watched him like a hawk.
Auntie Badri cried the day she left. She hugged me and held me tight against her chest. I looked at her. Something had changed in her eyes, in her voice. Perhaps it was anger or dread of exile and life in a cold, unfamiliar land.
UNCLE HOMAYOUN ANNOUNCED that there were two conditions to life in his house. “First, bring nothing with you other than your clothes and necessities. Second, cooking meat is forbidden in my house.” We had to eat simple foods—vegetables, fruits, bread, cheese, and walnuts.
Grandmother objected. “Absolutely not! You think we are fakirs? Why don’t you just tell us to sleep on nails? I won’t have it. I’m used to sleeping in a warm and cozy bed. I have a bad back. I have to eat meat and fish for lunch. Its doctor’s orders.”
Uncle was kind and soft-spoken. Again, he said, “There will be no meat in this house.”
“Is this the army barracks?” Grandmother retorted. “If it is, I am the commander in chief and you, my dear son, are a lowly soldier.”
Uncle Homayoun and Haji lived upstairs. Uncle’s room was full of books and smelled of incense. He wore white Indian pants and shirts and his long salt-and-pepper hair was always in a ponytail. He had given Haji a few sets of Indian clothes, too. Haji wore his Indian shirt with a pair of Kurdish pants and went from room to room all day long dusting the furniture with a grimy rag. He was hard of hearing. He misheard everything we said and replied with a bunch of nonsense. The only creature who understood him was Jimmy—Uncle’s huge, hairy dog who communicated with Haji by wagging his tail and the expression in his eyes.
We had put Grandmother’s mattress in the living room. She didn’t like it there and every night she would shout, “Haji, you idiot, come prepare my bedding.”
Grandmother was paralyzed on the left side of her body and couldn’t stand properly. She had to lean on a wall or grab the edge of a table. The first night we spent at Uncle’s house, she behaved worse than a two-year-old. Uncle and I took her under the arms and with great difficulty made her sit down on the mattress.
She thrashed about and screamed, “Leave me alone!” Uncle Homayoun was thin as a reed and could barely keep his balance.
“Damn it, Homayoun!” Grandmother shouted. “Who can I turn to? Why the heck did you turn into an Indian fakir? The hell with India. Your father died of a broken heart. He wanted you to study law and become an attorney. Instead, you went and lived in India and turned into a weed-eater. Can’t you see what you look like? You look like a scrawny goat.”
Haji put Grandmother’s cane next to her and he received the first strike of the cane on his ankle. It caught him off guard. He was writhing in pain and staring at Uncle with his jaw hanging and his eyes wide with surprise.
“You deserved it,” Grandmother growled.
From the moment she opened her eyes in the morning, Grandmother bossed Haji around and screamed if Uncle’s dog stepped into the living room. She had ordered Haji to supply her with some stones which she kept close at hand. Jimmy, clueless and happy and wagging his tail, would trot into the living room and a big stone would hit him in the head and he would run away howling.
Grandmother’s temper was fouler than ever before. Anyone who walked past her would get whacked on the ankle with her cane. She wanted to be the absolute ruler of the household and she couldn’t. She was immobile and her legs ached. A burly nurse came every day to take care of her. But Grandmother fought with her, too.
LIFE WENT ON somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The Iran-Iraq war was still raging. At night, we had to live with the lights turned off. Uncle Homayoun would read by candlelight and we used paraffin lamps. Grandmother spent the evenings listening to the small battery-operated radio she kept next to her pillow.
Mother had stashed all her valuables in her handbag. We spent her money with great prudence. Uncle was generous. Even though he didn’t have all that much, he made sure that we lacked for nothing. I would go to the corner grocery store and buy chicken or meat cutlet sandwiches for myself, Mother, and Grandmother, and Uncle would put a large bowl of salad and a basket of fruit on the dinner table. Haji only ate white rice with yogurt or tomatoes and he shared whatever was on his plate with Jimmy.
Life had become one long wait. I was waiting for the universities to reopen. Grandmother was waiting for Auntie Badri to come back. Mother was waiting for a miracle and for the mullahs to leave. Among us, Uncle Homayoun was the only one who didn’t talk about the past and didn’t think about the future. For him, time was always today. But we three women were like mute, motionless beings in a deep coma. We were waiting for something to happen or for someone to seek us out. Our prayers went answered.
One night, I was getting ready for bed when I heard someone knocking on the glass door in the living room that opened to the garden. It was dark and all I could see was a shadow outside. I looked more carefully and saw a tall man wearing a brimmed hat. Without thinking, I automatically opened the door a little. But before I could ask who he was, the man pushed his way in and said hello. Grandmother stared at me and the stranger.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The man took off his hat and said, “Please stay calm. I have no intention of harming you. I will just take something small and leave.”
“Speak up,” Grandmother chided. “What did you say?”
The man repeated himself a bit louder. Then he blushed, looked down, and took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“Excuse me,” he said. “With your permission, I will take this bowl and clock and I will leave.”
Grandmother half rose, clutched her cane, and shouted, “Congratulations! I’ve seen all sorts of burglars, but never a polite one. Theft with permission! Are you crazy? Get lost or you’ll end up in a black hole in prison.” And she took one of her stones and hurled it at the polite burglar. The man grabbed his nose and groaned.
“I didn’t think you would be this rude and impudent,” he said.
“Wait, I’ll show you,” Grandmother retorted.
Then she pulled the decrepit rifle out from under her pillow and aimed it at the burglar. The man froze in his place.
“My dear woman,” he said, “please put the gun down. It’s unbecoming.”
Grandmother raised the rifle up higher in front of her. “Put your hands on your head.”
The burglar obeyed.
I had never seen a thief and I was so terrified that I couldn’t move. Grandmother, on the other hand, was in top form. She said, “I will call the police immediately.”
The burglar lowered his arms and said, “Please don’t waste my time with empty threats. I’m in a hurry.”
Grandmother turned to me and said, “Did you hear that? The gentleman thief is in a hurry. He has two other houses to rob.”
“Please don’t make snide remarks,” the burglar said. “I don’t like it.” All the while, his eyes were glued to a porcelain bowl.
Grandmother took note. “If you so much as touch that bowl, I will shoot. The bowl belongs to my daughter and it is in my safekeeping.” Then she turned to me—still frozen in place—and she yelled, “Wake up! Why are you just standing there? Call the police. Call Haji. Scream ‘Thief!’ Call the neighbors.”
The burglar took a few steps forward and said, “Please don’t scream, or I will lose my temper.”
Grandmother took advantage of the man’s proximity and whacked him on the ankle with the butt of the rifle and started to scream, “Haji! You moron! Wake up! There’s a burglar in the house!”
The burglar was in severe pain. By now, his nose was swollen, too. He howled and leapt back, but he noticed that the nozzle of the rifle was broken and he started to laugh.
“You miserable creature, what are you laughing at?” Grandmother snapped.
“At you,” the burglar replied. “You’re a feisty old woman.”
“Go laugh at your mother’s grave!” Grandmother said.
The burglar turned red in the face. “My dear lady, please watch your mouth. I don’t want to be rude to you.”
Grandmother raised her cane. “I would smash your head in if I could reach you. Step forward, if you dare.”
I had to do something, but I was shaking from head to toe and stuttering. The thief noticed and it seemed to distress him. “Young lady, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Just keep the old lady calm. I will take that bowl and lamp and I will leave.”
“The hell you will, you contemptuous son of a bitch!” Grandmother shouted.
The burglar was suddenly furious. He barked, “Don’t insult me. I told you to watch your mouth.”
Grandmother burst into laughter. “Heh! The gentleman thief is insulted! What nerve. Excuse me, you idiot, if you were half-decent you wouldn’t be robbing people. You’ve broken into our house in the middle of the night and now you’re acting all uppity?”
The burglar didn’t seem to be a dangerous man and my fear somewhat subsided. I said, “Look here, mister, these things belong to my aunt and she’s left them here in our care. You can take that carpet instead.”
Grandmother lost her temper. “You’re giving charity? You have legs. Kick the louse in the butt and throw him out!”
Again, the man turned red. “First of all, I’m not a thief. I’m a math teacher. And I will not allow anyone to insult me.”
Grandmother was about to scream, but I stopped her. I turned to the burglar and said, “Yes, of course, Mister Teacher. Take this carpet and go.”
“The school you teach at should burn to the ground,” Grandmother said. “A thieving teacher!”
The burglar hung his head and his expression changed. Looking visibly troubled, he said, “Please call me a temporary thief. I was let go from my job.”
Grandmother cut him short. “You probably stole the kids’ notebooks.”
The man raised his voice and said, “I told you, I’m not your run-of-the-mill burglar. And if I take something from your house, I will return it when my circumstances change.”
Grandmother wasn’t convinced. “I will be dead by then. And you don’t have much life left in you either. Your circumstances aren’t going to get any better.”
The honorable thief’s pride was injured. He held his head high and said, “I can’t take any more of your insults and accusations.” And he picked up the Russian clock.
“Haji! Get over here!” Grandmother shouted.
The door opened and Mother walked in, dazed and confused and with her hair disheveled. She looked at the burglar, she looked at me, and she just stood there looking lost. For an instant, she dozed off and was about to topple over when she came to. She turned to the burglar and said, “Fetch me a glass of water.”
I took Mother’s arm and helped her lie down on the sofa. Grandmother said, “How wonderful! The gentleman is a thief, a teacher, and a servant.”
“I’ll go bring some water,” I said.
The burglar carefully put the gold-colored clock back on the table and followed me. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a glass of water, too.”
“A glass of water?” Grandmother roared. “Never in my life have I seen a cheekier thief!”
The burglar and I quickly returned with a bottle of water and two glasses. Mother gulped down half a glass and became more alert. She looked at the burglar and asked, “And who are you?”
“The gentleman is a thief,” Grandmother explained.
Mother didn’t understand. She smiled and muttered, “Thief.” And then she suddenly understood. She recoiled and screamed, “Thief?” And she fainted.
The burglar was more rattled than me. He splashed some water on Mother’s face and started to shake her. Just then, Haji walked in, looked at the burglar, and said hello.
All we were missing was Jimmy, and he, too, showed up. The instant the burglar saw the dog, he yelled, leapt to the other side of the living room, and took shelter behind the dining room chairs.
Grandmother laughed and said, “Jimmy, you good-for-nothing mutt, he’s a burglar. Attack, you useless dog!”
The burglar, looking utterly pale, turned to Haji and said, “My good man, I’m begging you, I’m terrified of dogs. A dog bit my leg when I was a child. Take this beast away.”
Mother opened her eyes. She couldn’t remember where she was and what was going on. She thought it was morning. She said, “Haji, did you buy bread? Have you brewed some tea?”
Jimmy liked strangers. He wagged his tail and ran toward the burglar. He wanted to sniff the man’s shoes and jacket. The burglar yelled, picked up a chair and held it in front of him as a shield, and started walking backwards.
I was worried about Mother. I was afraid she would faint again. Grandmother, on the other hand, was excited. She kept shouting, “Jimmy! Attack! Bark, you stupid dog!”
I took Mother to her room and put her in bed. I told her she had had a nightmare and that there was no burglar in the house. Then I went back to the living room.
Just then, we heard Uncle’s voice coming from upstairs. He was calling Jimmy. The burglar became even more agitated. He said, “I’m leaving. I don’t want your belongings. But I warn you, be careful, real burglars show no mercy. They’re not like me.”
The man saw Uncle coming down the stairs and he dashed out of the living room and into my bedroom, and closed the door behind him. Jimmy started jumping up and down. Grandmother threw a stone at the dog and shouted to Uncle, “There’s a burglar in the house!” But Uncle didn’t grasp what was going on.
“He must have grabbed something,” Grandmother said. “Haji, go after him.”
Haji looked at her and said, “Were you talking to me?”
Grandmother hit him on the leg with her cane and shouted, “You ass! Run and catch the thief.”
Haji groaned. Jimmy howled. “What is going on?” Uncle asked. “All of you, be quiet and explain.”
Mother had woken up again. She walked into the living room, sat next to Grandmother, and started to cry. She had had a bad dream. Jimmy ran over to her and rubbed his nose on her shoulder.
Grandmother whacked Jimmy on the back with her cane and said, “Get this filthy dog out of here. Get lost, dog! Don’t come near me.” Then she yelled, “Where the hell did the burglar go?”
Still confused, Uncle asked, “What burglar?” I quickly explained what had happened. Grandmother pointed to my bedroom and said, “He’s in there. He’s hiding.”
Uncle checked my room. The window was open and there was no one there. Uncle was calm and composed. He shook his head and said, “The poor man. A math teacher has had to turn to burglary! You should have given him some money and helped him out. Why didn’t any of you call me?”
“Instead of all this nonsense, go find him,” Grandmother said. “He’s hiding in the bedroom. He’s probably under the bed.”
“If I were you, I would sell all this stuff and give the money to charity,” Uncle said.
I dragged Mother back to her bedroom. I put her in bed and closed the door.
“All of you, go to bed,” Uncle said. And he turned around and went back upstairs. Haji and Jimmy followed him.
It was a strange night, but it had ended well. I went to bed and reached over to turn off the bedside lamp when I noticed that Mother’s handbag wasn’t in its usual place, next to my bed. My heart sank. I leapt out of bed. Damn him. The burglar finally got what he wanted. I looked under the bed and behind the bedside table. No, it wasn’t there. I dashed out like a madwoman and ran barefoot up the stairs, two at a time. I was in the middle of the staircase when the doorbell rang.
I thought, They’ve caught him! And I called up to Uncle.
Grandmother was still awake. “They caught the thief,” she shouted. “Good! He’ll get what he deserves.”
Fed up with the evening’s commotion, Uncle Homayoun came downstairs with Jimmy following him. “What is going on now?” he groaned. Just then, before anyone could stop him, Haji opened the front door and three Revolutionary Guards walked in.
One of them said, “Your neighbor reported that he saw a man jump out of a window in your house. We’ve come to see what is going on.”
“As you can see, there is nothing going on,” Uncle said. “We haven’t seen anyone.”
All three guards looked at Jimmy in disgust. One of them said, “This dog is impure. Kick him out. Aren’t you Muslims?”
Uncle quickly pushed Jimmy out into the garden. The Revolutionary Guards searched all the rooms and the kitchen and came into the living room and saw the antiques hoarded on the dining room table. Grandmother turned pale and her chin started to quiver.
One of the guards walked up to the table. Grandmother couldn’t bear it. “Sir,” she said, “these are all old. Please don’t touch them. They belong to someone else.”
The guards became even more curious. “Where is their owner?”
“They’re traveling,” Uncle said. “They’ll be back soon.”
The guard who was the shortest said, “These are antiques. According to the law, all antiques belong to the government. We have to confiscate them until their owner returns.”
“I’m the owner!” Grandmother screamed. “Don’t touch them! Are you deaf? I said don’t touch them.”
Uncle stepped in. “Excuse me, but my mother is ill. If you would please leave.”
“If you talk too much, we’ll take you, too,” the guard threatened.
“Who are you?” Mother asked. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
“Don’t be scared, my dear,” Grandmother said. “They are Revolutionary Guards. They’re from the committee. They’re the real thieves.”
Jimmy was barking and clawing at the glass door.
“Insulting a guard is punishable by fifty lashes,” the guard said.
“Lashes?” Mother screamed. Uncle and I took her under the arms and led her to her room. This time, we locked the door.
The guards started gathering up the antiques. Grandmother was distraught. She wanted to get up, but she couldn’t. She kept screaming, “Don’t touch them. They belong to my daughter.” She looked like she was about to have a heart attack. Suddenly, she grabbed the broken rifle and aimed it at the guards. One of them kicked it out of her hand and it landed next to the wall.
Grandmother roared, “I will curse you in my prayers tonight. And tomorrow you will suffer something terrible. You will turn into stone.”
Uncle put his arm around Grandmother and said, “Mother, don’t worry. We will get them back. It’s not as if we have stolen them.”
But Grandmother kept screaming and the guards, ignoring her shouts, my pleas, and Uncle’s polite requests, piled everything in their car and drove away.
GRANDMOTHER WAS QUIET and wallowing in grief. The antiques were as dear to her as Auntie Badri. She constantly moaned and every night she cursed the guards in her prayers. Haji and Jimmy had grown quiet, too, and spent most of the day upstairs. Uncle, who was secretly happy that he was finally free of the antiques, was now doing all the cooking and household shopping. He cooked soups and rice without meat and Grandmother refused to touch them. Every time I left the house, my eyes kept searching for the gentleman thief. A few times I saw a man wearing a brimmed hat. I ran after him, but he wasn’t the burglar.
It was a month after the incident that Grandmother came down with a fever and no longer recognized any of us. She was hallucinating and talking to an invisible person. A few times she spoke Auntie Badri’s name and sighed. And one cold winter night, she closed her eyes and her heart stopped. Her cane and rifle were next to her. Auntie Badri called and cried for an hour on the telephone. We didn’t tell her about her antiques. She said she didn’t like living in Canada and wanted to come back. She was lonely.
The universities reopened, but it was chaos. Most of the professors had either been arrested or had left the country. Uncle Homayoun was worried about my education and he was encouraging Mother and me to leave Iran. Mother used to keep her passport and documents in her handbag. We couldn’t leave the country.
A month passed and again something strange happened. Grandmother had been right. To understand our new life, we needed a different logic.
One day the doorbell rang. By then, its chime always frightened us.
“Haji,” Uncle called out, “don’t open the door. First, ask who it is.”
Haji, being half-deaf, didn’t hear Uncle’s order. He warily opened the door, but there was no one there. There was just a package behind the door.
“Don’t touch it! It could be a bomb,” Mother warned.
Haji brought the package in and put it on the table. Uncle ripped it open. Inside was mother’s handbag. All her documents were there, as well as two-thirds of her money and a brief letter. Uncle read it out loud. “Dear Sir and Madam, you cannot know how ashamed I am. I did tell you that I am not a thief. Sometimes, life forces you to do things against your desire and beliefs. I have taken two hundred thousand tumans of your money. But I will repay you. Please forgive me.”
A few months later, Mother and I prepared to leave for Istanbul. We had an acquaintance there who said he knew the Canadian ambassador and could get us visas to go to Canada. Leaving Uncle was difficult for me, but staying in Tehran was no longer feasible.
“Don’t worry about me,” Uncle said. “Haji and I have grown old together. We’ll take care of each other.”
I hugged him and held him tight. His shirt smelled of incense and Indian spices. It smelled of his travels.
FIFTEEN YEARS HAVE passed at the speed of lightning. I’m in my third year preparing for a doctorate degree in Indian religions and mythology at McGill University. Perhaps it was Uncle’s love of India that has taken me down this road. I have to go on a short trip to India. My plan is to stop in Iran for a few days to see Uncle Homayoun.
Returning to Iran isn’t easy for me. I try not to give in to melancholy. I take sleeping pills and sleep through the entire flight. I wake up and see the passengers standing in the aisle even though the plane is still taxiing on the runway and the flight attendants are constantly asking them to return to their seats.
Imam Khomeini Airport is new to me. I run and follow everyone else. Most of the women are wearing long black coveralls. I’m nervous that something unexpected might happen. What if they take away my passport? What if they ban me from leaving the country? I’m afraid my family name will get me into trouble—it is still associated with the old regime.
Frightened and trembling, I go through passport control. All goes well. I pick up my suitcase and rush out of the terminal. I take a taxi. I’ve decided to stay at Sheraton Hotel. I don’t know what its new name is. The driver says, “Esteghlal Hotel.”
I have a restless night. I wake up a hundred times and think about seeing Uncle Homayoun. I regret that I haven’t been able to come back sooner. But I had to take care of Mother. I had no other choice.
It is eight in the morning. I’m in a taxi. I have written down Uncle’s new address. A few years ago, before he had a stroke, he wrote that he had sold his house, he needed the money, and had rented a two-bedroom apartment. And after Haji passed away, he hired a man who now takes care of him.
We pass Vanak Circle and turn onto a narrow road. Number 16. It is an old cement building. Each apartment has a balcony and they are all crammed with odds and ends, except for one where there are a few pots of geraniums. I am sure it is Uncle’s balcony. I know they tore down his old house and built a high-rise there, and I’ve heard Auntie Badri’s house has been turned into a museum. I guess her collection is there. I’m going to go there after I visit Uncle Homayoun.
His apartment is on the second floor. I ring the doorbell. A distinguished-looking man, with gray hair and beard, opens the door. My eyes are brimming with tears and I can’t see the details of his face. Uncle’s bed is set up in the living room. His arms are resting on top of the sheets. His long white hair is gathered on top of his head. His beard is also long and completely white.
The distinguished man offers me the chair next to the bed. Then he goes and stands a little farther away. I sit down. I take Uncle’s hand and quietly call him. I stroke his hair and kiss his face. He moves his head ever so slightly.
“Uncle, can you hear me?”
He looks as serene as a Zen master in deep meditation. There is a faint smile on his lips. I look around. The room is half-empty. There is a small table with a bowl of apples and a cluster of grapes, and an ironing board next to the wall with a pile of clothes and sheets on it.
The distinguished gentleman asks, “Can I offer you something?” I thank him. I don’t want anything. “How did you meet Uncle?” I ask. Now, I can see his face more clearly. He looks familiar. He notices my gaze and looks down.
“It is a long and strange story,” he says.
“I’m used to strange stories. Please tell me.”
“It’s difficult for me to talk about it. If you remember, I once broke into your house.”
He is so overwhelmed that he breaks into a sweat and starts to cough. He pours himself a glass of water. I suddenly remember. I am shocked. I shift in my chair and put my hand over Uncle’s hand.
The dignified gentleman says, “I stole your mother’s handbag and I took the amount of money I needed from it.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“My wife was pregnant and had to have a cesarean, otherwise she would have lost the child. I always intended to return the rest of the money. The next day, I set out looking for work. All doors were closed to me. Believe me, I wasn’t a real burglar. A month passed. I had given up hope. One day I was walking down Pahlavi Avenue and I saw a sign for the Antiques Museum. It reminded me of the things I had seen in your house and I decided to go to the museum. I remembered the things you had. How your grandmother, God rest her soul, wrangled with me. At the museum I asked them why there were no guards or custodians. They said they did have a guard, but he stole one of the antiques and they fired him. You see? It’s such a strange world. I went to the administration office and applied for the job. It was as if they were waiting for me. They asked me a few questions and took my identity card and told me to come back the next day. I didn’t have much hope that they would actually hire me. But they did, and I ended up guarding yours and other people’s antiques.”
“How did you meet Uncle Homayoun?”
Looking less nervous, the gentleman thief says, “One day I saw Haji walking down the street. He was holding on to the wall, trying to keep himself steady. He kept calling Jimmy. An Afghan worker told me that Haji wandered around there every day looking for his dog. I struck up a conversation with him. He kept asking, ‘Sir, have you seen my dog?’ There was a piece of paper pinned to his collar with your uncle’s address on it. They knew he would wander off and get lost. I walked him home, and on the way, he told me that the old lady had passed away and that you and your mother had moved to Canada. When we arrived, I went in with him. Mr. Homayoun was reading. He immediately recognized me. He looked at me with kindness and invited me to sit. I told him my life story. We agreed that every night, after the museum closed, I would go and work for him. He wanted to write his memoir, but his hand shook badly. My job was to write. He said the work was in repayment of what I owed him.”
“You’re a guard at the museum and you take care of Uncle? How?” I ask. “Where do you find the time?”
“After Haji died, my wife started taking care of him during the day, and I’d come over after six o’clock and spend the night here. Sometimes my niece or nephew helps us out. Everyone in my family loves Mr. Homayoun. He wasn’t feeling well today and I came over earlier than usual. I have to go back to the museum in an hour. My nephew is going to come. Don’t worry. We’ve all become one family.”
One family! I think to myself, I wish I were a member of this family. “Do you iron these clothes and bedsheets?” I ask.
“Sometimes I do it, other times my wife takes care of it.”
It is time for Uncle’s lunch. The distinguished gentleman, the former thief—I don’t know what to call him—explains that Uncle is fed through a tube in his stomach. Apple or carrot juice.
“A nurse at the hospital taught me how to do it,” he says.
I can’t watch. I rest my cheek on Uncle’s hand and gaze at his face. I don’t want to leave. I know that soon a door will close behind me and remain closed forever.
My next stop is Auntie Badri’s old house. The taxi driver knows where the museum is. Pahlavi Avenue looks just like it used to. The sycamore trees are green and thriving. The only thing that is different is the crush of pedestrians and the abundance of cars. Traffic is heavy; it takes a while for us to arrive. When I get out of the taxi, my heart is pounding and there is a lump in my throat. Near the front door there is a sign hanging from a massive tree, “Gateway to History.” Older women clad in chadors, young women wearing colorful headscarves, children of all ages, old men and idle young men, walk into the museum out of curiosity or simply to kill time. Entrance is free for the families of those martyred at war. A profound sadness drifts through me; it is almost a physical pain. These people, these curious strangers, don’t know that the best years of my childhood were spent in this house. I know every single tree in the garden; especially the weeping willow next to the swimming pool. If I wrap my arms around it as I used to, I am sure it will recognize me.
I walk into the house. Wherever I look, I see Auntie Badri. Her liveliness used to waft through the rooms like a pleasant fragrance and the sound of her laughter resonated all the way to the far end of the garden. Her sewing room was to the left of the hallway. The downstairs hallway, right where I am standing. The door has been secured with a chain and a padlock. The sewing machine was a gift her husband brought for her from Istanbul.
Together with the other visitors, I go upstairs. I know the way. The living room has been divided into two by a wooden partition. One side is dedicated to antiques from the Safavid period to the Qajar period, and on the other side silk carpets are spread out on wooden platforms. The large mirror above the fireplace is still there.
People look at the items on display with indifferent expressions on their faces. I am the only one who can see the hidden world behind every piece, who can hear the sound of Auntie Badri and her guests’ laughter coming from the other side of the wall. Time and history weigh on my shoulders. I’m gasping for air.
Outside, the sun is shining and the new guard, or the old burglar, is standing at the museum door. His shift has started. I want to say goodbye.
“Rest easy, I will never leave your uncle alone,” he says. “I owe him my life. You see, life is like mathematics. All its events are connected.”
Although in the Islamic Republic it is a sin and a crime to kiss a man who is not your immediate kin, I take the museum guard’s hand in mine and I kiss his cheek. His white shirt smells like Uncle Homayoun—the scent of incense and his trips to India.