4

Every afternoon, when Hasti came home, Grandmother would say, “So, tell me. What’s new?” And Hasti would report . . . Well, that afternoon she would go from the office to Professor Mani’s house . . . And . . .

Hasti had decided that Professor Mani, more than Simin, had seen ups and downs in life, and his wife undoubtedly knew about love, since she had come all the way from Czechoslovakia to Tehran with him and, in the professor’s words, “had stuck with me for a good thirty years.” He would say to his students, “Come, admire our forbearance and sympathize with us.”

And another report . . . that early morning on New Year’s Day, she should go to Mother Eshi’s house and set up their New Year’s table. Since she had a thousand other tasks for Hasti, Mother Eshi had said, “Go to bed early so that you won’t be tired. Ahmad has invited a slew of foreign guests for the turning of the year, so that they can see New Year ceremonies in an Iranian family.” And Grandmother had said nothing because Hasti had said, “They have invited Salim, too.”

In contrast to Hasti’s expectations, it wasn’t long before a taxi stopped in front of her at the start of Shahabad Avenue. It had four passengers. A man sitting next to the driver got out, Hasti took the place beside the driver, and the man got in again. The driver was fat, and the man wasn’t skinny, either. It was as though they had Hasti pressed in a laundry mangle. The gearshift was hitting Hasti’s leg as the driver kept shifting, and she kept pulling away. It was clear that the man next to her had eaten a lot of garlic at lunch time.

Hasti told the driver to stop at the Shah Avenue intersection, and the driver stopped right there in the middle of the street. The man grumbled and got out. While waiting for change Hasti said to the man, “Well, if you are going a long way, you shouldn’t have gotten out to begin with.”

“I always sit next to the window, sister,” the man said. As he got back into the car, he passed gas loudly. He turned to the three women in the back seat and said, “Swear to God, that was the cars lined up behind the taxi honking their horns.”

Hasti arrived at the end of Pahlavi Avenue by means of another taxi. She had planned to catch a third taxi, but she changed her mind. It wasn’t far to Professor Mani’s house. The one time that she had to cross the wide street, finding a way among cars and people and pleading with her hands and eyes for some drivers to just tap once on the brakes and stop was, in Touran Jan’s words, “more than enough for her and her ancestors.”

She had been to Professor Mani’s house many times to show him her drawings. She could go from the outer courtyard to the inner courtyard with her eyes shut. Both courtyards were built of brick and had decorative brick arches in the architectural style of the Qajar era, but the brick did not seem old. It seemed that someone had polished all those algebraic designs on the surface of the arches with a pumice stone—probably Gholam Reza, the gardener, cook, servant, and handyman for both courtyards. The professor had not touched the shape of the building or its decoration. He had only added to the house this century’s creature comforts.

Triangular blue tiles had been placed all around the little garden plots, and the small pools had also been lined with blue tiles. Gold and red fish moved gracefully in the pools. Over the inner courtyard pool, at the top of the arch, there was a carved lion head that seemed to be yawning. Hasti knew that the professor had bequeathed all his belongings, after his death and that of his wife, to the Faculty of Fine Arts. It was going to the right owners—if only that rich museum is not looted, and if those involved in the property’s transfer and delivery don’t each one pocket a few pieces of its relics. The couple had no children.

The professor’s wife took Hasti to the sitting room. The first time that Hasti had seen her, she was middle-aged, and her remaining good looks gave notice of the beauty of her youth. Photos of the woman that were dispersed here and there, in the niches, on the walls, and on the tables, bore witness to this fact. But now . . . It was as though time had scattered the dust of old age on her face and her limbs, as though from head to foot soft ashes had been sprinkled. Her silver hair had only a few strands of gold. Time had drawn lines around her blue eyes. Between her eyebrows two parallel lines had been placed in remembrance, nostalgia even. Her gray clothes accentuated the curvature of her back. Tired, she moved slowly. As if apologizing for her gray slippers being so big, she asked, “Is there an herbal remedy for corns?”

She told Hasti, “Go to kitchen and make tea or coffee with milk for you.”

“Shall I make some for you too?” Hasti asked.

“No, thank you,” the woman said in broken Persian. “If you drink coffee or tea, you not sleep until morning.”

The niches of the living room were filled with antiques. In one narrow niche there was a green crystal decanter; the bouquet of various colored flowers on its body appeared to have been presented to the niche. Next to the decanter, a place on the wall had been given to a notched plate in the middle of which was a picture of the last Qajar shah, Ahmad Shah, who seemed to be sighing for the bouquet of flowers on the crystal decanter. In another niche, a water pipe, its tube curled and its silver top jewel-studded, waited to be put to work, but Hasti knew that it would just have to keep waiting. From the crystal pot on which the water pipe was fixed, a picture of Naser al-Din Shah Qajar, with his full, curved mustache, stared at Hasti. “New buy,” the woman said.

Hasti’s attention was drawn to a photo of a young woman that she had not seen anywhere. It was in a golden frame in a niche above the head of the sofa. The woman’s dress was like sailors’ clothing. Two unframed photos had been attached to the walls of the niche on the two sides of the image of the woman. Hasti couldn’t see them well. She stood up to go observe the pictures more closely. The woman also stood. “Let me go see!” she said. “He gone to take a shower.”

“He’s shaving,” Hasti said. “I hear the sound of the electric razor.”

The woman’s eyes rounded. “He didn’t shower?”

The photo on the right was of a woman in a chador and a face veil that had been pushed back onto the top of her head. With its folds and creases, the face veil formed a half circle above the woman’s head and hung beside her ears. The eyes of the woman smiled. Her connected eyebrows had clearly been widened with black dye. The photo on the left showed a woman whose narrow, clinging pants revealed the curves of her legs up to the top of her knees, and above that, a short, full skirt with a flowered edge . . . She looked like a ballet dancer.

Hasti picked up a photo of the professor’s wife as a young woman. It was like a picture postcard of a Western woman, a postcard that had been tastefully retouched. The woman returned and said, “He come soon.” Hasti looked at her. Now she looked like a photo that had been crumbled and then smoothed out with the hand, a photo that had not been retouched at all. Couldn’t one iron the back of the picture? No. The passage of time is not compatible with this type of ironing.

Professor Mani entered, and, after greeting Hasti, he sat on the sofa, put his hand over his heart, and said to his wife, “My dear, this battery is not strong anymore. One day it will stop working.” His wife gave him a handkerchief to clean the perspiration from his face, which had turned beet red.

A tear came to the blue eyes of the woman. “My turn first,” she said. “This my second country, and I cannot go back my first country. It is under heel of Russians. If you go, I have not strength.”

Professor Mani took the withered hand of his wife, sat her down beside him, and kissed her hair. “You have all these friends and acquaintances,” he said. “Hasti, too. She won’t let you be alone. Isn’t that so, Hasti?”

Hasti chattered boldly. “Why speak of death now? Speak of life. I have come to announce that I have found another semi-suitor. If I give him a little push, he will fall into the trap. I’ve come to ask you, should I give him that little push, or not? Unfortunately, love for Morad has tied my hands behind my back.”

The professor stretched out, and his wife pulled a blanket from beneath the sofa to spread on him. She sat by his feet and began massaging them. “Give him a shove with your shoulders,” the professor said. “He has only a few faults. His bushy beard is an impediment to kissing. He also fingers prayer beads.” He laughed and began coughing.

“He also fingers prayer beads?” Hasti thought for a moment and said, “Are you speaking of someone in particular?”

“Salim Farrokhi,” Professor Mani said. “He was here last night. Ostensibly, he had come to inquire after my health, but he sat here until 11:00 p.m. asking about you. My wife and I yawned so much that he finally left.”

“But,” Hasti said, “he has shown himself to me to be well mannered.”

“And so he is,” the professor responded. “We’ve been neighbors for years, and I know him well. A better suitor won’t come your way. My wife and I pushed him enough. Hold the wedding while I’m still alive.”

“But Professor,” Hasti said,

“what shall I do about Morad?”

“What do you love about Morad?”

“First, I love his strong personality . . .”

“Morad not have strong personality,” the professor’s wife said. “He neurotic.”

“It’s become all the fashion,” the professor said, “for artistic women to pick artistic men; educated, intellectual women, educated, intellectual men. Of course, this is exciting, and they have much to talk about with each other. But I doubt that in private they can also satisfy each other’s needs. At least, they can’t all do so.”

The professor’s wife said, “Hush! Stop!”

The professor stopped joking. “Look, girl, you are wasting your youth on Morad. You’ve been waiting years for him to propose. Your feelings for him are due to familiarity and habit, his kindness, and your own imagination.” He dropped the seriousness and made a joke: “Perhaps I should add ‘sexual attraction’ as well. Should I?”

Hasti blushed. “Have you kissed him even once?” the professor asked.

Hasti lowered her head. “You haven’t gone beyond kissing?”

“No.”

“Don’t say anything to Salim, but let go of Morad. As my wife said, Morad is confused and disturbed. He’s all mixed up. Both of you have been students of mine, and I love you both. But Morad would be a difficult husband.”

“I saw likes of Morad in my first country,” the professor’s wife said. “Here, too, I saw them . . . Their heads are in air. Idealist . . . dreamer is the right word. In the end, they married to politics and bring family ill fortune. If you become Salim’s wife, your heart gradually awaken.”

“She means,” the professor added, “that little by little, he will grow on you. When you have children, with his kindness and your familiarity with him, a quiet love will find a place in your heart—as long as you don’t make love with him while thinking of Morad!” He laughed and began coughing.

The woman left the room and returned with a teapot and tea glasses on a tray. “Quince-seed water is warm,” she said. The professor corrected, “Quince-seed brew . . . ,” and he sat up. His wife brought out a backrest from under the divan, put it behind him, and arranged the blanket over his shoulders.

“Love for Morad aside,” Hasti said, “I don’t like Salim’s opinions. I’m afraid he is hidebound and fanatical.”

In French, the professor’s wife asked the professor the meaning of hidebound and fanatical. When she had understood, she said, “You in the east, he in the west, you rub each other . . .”

The professor laughed. “She means, ‘You’ll polish each other,’” and he poured quince seed brew from the teapot into the small glass.

“You will polish each other and meet in middle of sky,” the woman said.

“Perhaps,” Hasti said. “Perhaps we won’t polish each other, and then continued tolerance and forbearance—a lot of tolerance! In the end, it will bring a person’s blood to a boil.”

She hesitated and added, “I’ve talked a lot. I’m afraid it’s getting late and I won’t find a ride home. But there’s another problem: Salim is against his wife working.”

“He has money,” the professor’s wife said. “You stay home and paint.”

“But if I’m not in society, if I don’t associate with people and don’t work, where will I find subjects for my painting?”

“A good idea,” the professor’s wife said. “Become a painting teacher at girl school.”

Hasti remembered her efforts to become a painting teacher and then remembered her study of English. Her last hope had been Mr. Hitti, Ministry of Education teaching expert. She had written him a letter in proper English and requested a personal interview. A long time passed, and no answer came. She went by Mr. Hitti’s office many times—at times that Mr. Ganjur, her mother’s husband, was not there. She made friends with Mr. Hitti’s pretty secretary. She even drew a profile of her that had shown her to be even more beautiful than she was. Finally, the secretary opened up and said that they had investigated at the Faculty of Fine Arts, and Mr. Hitti had written at the bottom of the letter, “Because of her political opinions, she is not qualified to be a teacher.”

Hasti had exploded. “That is what democracy means in free countries—countries other than the Soviet Union!” She regretted that she had sacrificed a drawing. For every Tom, Dick, and Harry, a drawing . . . Professor Mani had come to her rescue, and, with himself as a guarantor, he had placed her in the Ministry of Art and Culture.

And now what Professor Mani was saying made her angry again. “I would love to go to class one more time and die while lecturing. All those hands that write down whatever you say. All those eyes that are fixed on a person. All those ears. The eyes, ears, and hands of adolescents and youths. Then these eyes, ears, and hands become old, but perhaps a memory of you remains in their mind, and sometimes they may repeat the memory for their children and grandchildren. Then, even if a person no longer exists, he will continue to live in their memories and minds. Unfortunately, there are always one or two SAVAK agents among the students. What are they doing?”

“They report,” Hasti said, “and because they report, they will not have this memory.”

“Perhaps,” the professor said, “what you teach will break and shatter something in them. Then their memories of you will be more colorful than those of the others.”

Hasti had to walk to the corner of Pahlavi Avenue. Every now and then she had stopped and put her hand out for a taxi or a minivan. She even thought of buying a bus ticket, but the long line of those waiting for a bus dissuaded her. Three buses came and passed by without stopping. Those waiting moved a bit, but after the buses had passed, they were still in the same place they had been.

The streetlights came on. A car honked its horn. Hasti went to the sidewalk and took a few steps. She sensed that the car was coming along with her. Hasti sped up. She had decided to take refuge in a shop or to turn down a small side street when a man called her name. She turned around and saw Salim’s black BMW and he himself in a blue wool sweater behind the wheel.

Hasti sat next to Salim and they set off. She breathed easily again. She guessed that Professor Mani had telephoned Salim so that he would come look for her, and Salim confirmed that he had. Salim spoke about the antiques, the long-lasting love of Professor Mani and his wife, and the fact that he was still working. Hasti noted that one day a week he comes to the Office of Artistic Creation to consult and that she herself had invited him.

“You mean artistic creation also has an office?” Salim asked.

“Here, everything has an office.”

“Professor Mani believes he gets energy from associating with youth,” Salim said. “He said that he wants to die while painting, on the condition that his wife is by his side.”

Hasti laughed and said, “Simin wants to die while writing a love story full of joy and hope.”

They had arrived at the midpoint of Pahlavi Avenue. “Do you have anything to do tonight?” Hasti asked.

“No.”

“Then come see us.”

Before they arrived at Reza Shah Avenue, Hasti made a request: “Can you stop here so I can do a little shopping?”

“What do you want to buy? I’ll go myself and buy it for you.”

Hasti pointed to a sandwich shop and said, “Next to that sandwich shop . . . But I want to shop myself.”

Salim was shocked. “This is no place for a woman. It’s full of rough, drunk men. They come in the evening to, in their own words, ‘get wasted.’” But he stopped.

Hasti opened the door of the car, hurriedly entered the shop, and stood in front of the counter. In fact, there was not one other woman there. Some hands busy, others extended, smoke and moist, stale air, and voices calling out:

“A beer and a chicken sandwich.”

“A Coke and hearts and liver.”

“Sausage, pickles, and white bread.”

“And to drink?”

“A small Qazvin vodka with ice.”

“Potato salad and . . .”

A man in white coveralls was standing behind the counter. He had a pen behind each ear, and a notepad and several pieces of carbon paper were in front of him. He wrote price slips of the orders and gave them to the customers. He gave the second copy to one of several men who were moving around him. They also wore white coveralls, and they were working hard. Apparently, one of the pens was out of ink. The man with the pen behind his ear threw the nonworking pen on the table and said, “What is this?”

The bowl of potato salad was empty. One of the men pulled another bowl out of the cooler.

Hasti looked behind herself. Next to a long, dark table that was attached to the wall, the men were, as Salim had said, “getting wasted.”

“To your health.”

“Thanks.”

“Cheers.”

“Good health.”

“Tops up.”

“Pass that hot sauce.”

“Monsieur, the ketchup is finished . . .”

“Mustard . . .”

At last, Hasti was able to give her order. “One cooked chicken, five white bread rolls, pickles, bologna . . .” A man in street clothes came up and whispered to the man with the pens behind his ear, who now had no pen behind his ear, and waited. The man wrote up Hasti’s order slip, separated the first copy, and gave it to the man in street clothes. That pen was no longer working either, and monsieur threw it down, too.

Hasti’s eyes followed the man carrying the order slip who sat behind the cash register, and in that fog and smoke she saw Salim standing next to the cash register. Salim came over to Hasti at the counter and said imperiously, “Go sit in the car, please. The door is unlocked.”

When Salim came to the car, he put the package of purchases on the seat. Hasti was enraged. She was tempted to get out right there as Salim was starting the car. Silence, until Salim said, “Really, that was no place for you.” From now on, Hasti thought, forbearance . . . “O bergamot girl, don’t be offended by me.”

“The three wise monkeys,” Hasti said bitterly. “Be blind, be deaf, be dumb.”

“How does that story go?” Salim asked.

“One day Professor Mani showed a picture of the three wise monkeys on the classroom screen. It’s a well-known image in Indian art, mostly in the form of statues. One of the monkeys has his hands over his eyes, one over his ears, and the last one over his mouth. That describes the condition of women in our little world.”

“In no way do I deny the efforts of women,” Salim said, “or of men, but it should be in a righteous way.”

When they arrived at the house, Hasti said, “Please, come in. We are your guests.”

Shahin came to greet them, and Hasti made introductions. “This is my brother, Shahin, the long-necked, the big-nosed,” she said playfully.

Salim and Shahin went into the living room. Hasti saw Grandmother engaged in the evening prayer in the bedroom. She put the package of food above her prayer rug and said softly, “Salim is here.”

To confirm that she heard her, Grandmother said loudly in the middle of her prayers, “God is great!”

Hasti turned on the stove and put the kettle on the burner. She washed her hands and face and put on a touch of makeup. Other than plates of butter and cheese and a few eggs, there was nothing in the refrigerator.

When Hasti brought tea, Salim and Shahin stood up. Shahin’s golden hair sparkled in the lamplight, and Hasti noticed that Shahin had also lit the Aladdin kerosene heater.

“Mr. Farrokhi,” Shahin was saying, “it appears that you are a follower of Dr. Ali Shariati.”

“No. I prefer Jalal Al-e Ahmad.”

“A chubby professor,” Shahin said, “who uses big words so that no one notices how short he is, analyzed Jalal in class one day. He said, ‘In his short life, how often he changed opinions . . . ,’ and he arrived at the conclusion that Jalal was not a normal person. Very angrily, he said, ‘May he be damned before me.’”

“Jalal was searching . . . ,” Salim said. He got up and stood next to the picture of Jalal. He shook his head and murmured, “His bandaged, broken hand on top of a cane. Jalal’s hands were indeed broken and bound.”

He came back, sat, and continued. “In any case, Al-e Ahmad did not fall into Buddhist mysticism. He was not under the influence of Jewish literature. In the end, he found himself on the path to salvation. He had even put his commitment to Kasravi and Khalil Maleki behind him.”

“Another day,” Shahin said, “the same chubby professor analyzed Maleki and said, ‘Maleki was a Tudeh Party member, and he remained one until the end of his life.’ He said that he had heard with his own two ears, from Maleki himself, that if, after the split, Radio Moscow had not abandoned them, the party would have completely fallen into the hands of the reformists. We booed the professor.”

Hasti was relieved that Shahin, with his childish behavior, had not revealed that it was Morad who had booed the professor and the others had followed his lead.

Shahin was saying, “The chubby professor took his overcoat from the back of the chair and hurriedly left the room. Then he returned to the class victoriously with the head of the faculty. The head of the faculty went to the pulpit—that is, behind the podium, and gave a lengthy lecture that students must be like this and like that, and more of this type of nonsense.”

“I’d like to know,” Salim said, “what the head of the faculty said in more detail.”

“He said, ‘You should be lenient and tolerate the opinions of others.’ One of the students . . .”

Hasti thanked God that, again, Shahin did not mention Morad’s name.

“ . . . probed the root of the word lenience and proved that lenience means ‘carelessness.’ The head of the faculty said, ‘No, my dear; lenience means ‘forbearance’; that is, civility. In India, temples, mosques, and synagogues are side by side on the same street.’ That student was quick with an answer. ‘Religious lenience,’ he said, ‘is different from tolerating someone putting a brand on the forehead of great people who have had the most painful destinies, especially Maleki, who is no longer alive to defend himself. Slinging mud on Maleki doesn’t make either the professor or you a great person . . . ’”

“My notebook is in the pocket of my jacket . . . ,” Salim said.

Hasti rose, took Salim’s notebook from beside the bergamot orange, and gave it to him. Salim, whose color until then had been pale, became flushed in the cheeks. “Did you read it, Miss Nourian?” he asked.

Hasti lied.

Salim asked for a pen. After writing a few lines, he said, “You were saying, Shahin Khan?”

“The chubby professor blew up and said, ‘That troublemaker of a boy and his girlfriend come to my class just to cause trouble.’ He pointed toward us and said, ‘These eight people are professional troublemakers, and none of them are students in my class. They are not even students of this faculty. I’m a professor who made the shah laugh. Do you remember? He had asked me, “How long was the beard of Fath Ali Shah Qajar?” “Your Excellency,” I said, “one cubit.” “How much is one cubit?” he asked. I raised my arm and showed him and said, “From the elbow to the middle finger.”’

“The students laughed, even us professional troublemakers. The head of the faculty said, ‘Those who are not members of this class, leave immediately.’ We were obliged to get up, that student and his girlfriend in front, then the rest of us following them. At the door, that student said, ‘Professor, you taught us lenience and civility in practice as a final lesson!’ The chubby professor exploded and shouted, ‘You skinny boy, you go under the trees with your girlfriend . . . ’”

Hasti thought that Salim must have guessed that the girlfriend was none other than Hasti herself. All three were silent until Salim asked, “Hasti Khanom, the other night you said that Maleki spoke about Marxism in simple language and you wrote down what he said. Do you have what you wrote?”

“No,” Hasti said. “When I went to prison, Grandmother burned the notes.”

“Many Marxists,” Salim said, “have not read Marxist literature, but you . . .” Suddenly, Hasti’s words registered with him, and he asked, “Then you have also been in prison? Why did you go to prison?”

“On 16 Azar,” Hasti said, “we sat in strike around the statue of the shah, used toilet paper to wrap the statue in swaddling clothes, and scattered garbage at the foot of the statue. Those on the balconies were also shouting slogans from atop the verandas.”

“Those on the balconies?” Salim said.

“Those on the balconies were the girls, with heavy makeup, dressed in the latest fashion, who were shouting slogans in the strikes. As soon as they sensed danger, they would flee inside and hide.”

Hasti continued. “What a welcome the women inmates of Qasr Prison gave us. They sang songs for us. They had crammed thirty or forty people into one room. At bedtime, so that a few of us could sleep, a number of inmates stood with their back to the wall, singing, ‘Night of the Karun River, such a . . . ’”

“How many days were you in prison?” Salim asked.

“Two months. The first day of interrogation, I was in good spirits and happy. The interrogator said, ‘Are you laughing at us? Now I’ll show you.’ He took a police baton and hit my head. The scalp tore, and blood flowed onto the white skirt and jacket that my mother . . .”

Shahin interrupted. “Hasti was more unhappy about the white jacket and skirt than about her head . . .” And he laughed. But Salim and Hasti didn’t even smile.

It was apparent that Shahin intended, by whatever means possible, to get Salim to like him. The poor kid didn’t know how and with what words and language to find a way into his heart. He started off on one topic. He started another topic, until he arrived at an end that he imagined would impress Salim. “Mr. Farrokhi,” he said, “I do traditional body building. Would you like to see my room?”

“First let me have a cup of tea,” Salim said. He took his cup, stood up, and asked, “Where’s the kitchen?”

Hasti rose from her place, took the cup from his hand, and said, “I’ll bring the kettle and the teapot here.”

In the kitchen, Grandmother was preparing a sauce to go over the chicken. Hasti greeted her and explained that Salim had paid for the supper.

“Hasti!” Touran Jan said. “Send Shahin to buy fruit, lettuce, and tomatoes.”

Hasti turned on the stove, filled the kettle with water, and placed it on the burner. “You mean on a fool’s errand?” she said, “Since he keeps boasting to Salim about Morad and his girlfriend?”

“Has he used names?”

“No, but Salim is not stupid, although he pretends that he doesn’t know.”

Shahin went ahead to his room to turn on the overhead light and the table lamp, and Hasti and Salim followed. Dumbbells, chains, and a push-up board were in the corner of the room. A picture of Mosaddeq on trial that Hasti had drawn years ago and had given to Shahin as a gift was pinned to the wall above Shahin’s bed. The face of the old man, mouth open, one hand raised and pointing, eyes astounded, all reflected a shout of anger, incredulousness. It was a historical allusion, a legendary allusion—a memento to centuries past and current that at the same time illustrated Mosaddeq’s firm will and wisdom.

Salim was staring at the picture. “Is this a charcoal drawing?” he asked, then added, “No doubt Hasti Khanom drew it.” He also asked why the picture didn’t have a frame and glass over it and said that it would be a shame if all that effort were wasted.

Shahin made excuses, saying that he had not had an opportunity yet to frame it. What he didn’t say was that he didn’t have the money and that Grandmother, although she has money in a savings account for Shahin, had postponed so often giving him the money to buy a frame for his idol, Mosaddeq, that Shahin had let it go.

Salim was not taking his attention away from the drawing. “Hasti Khanom,” he said, “may your hands be steady, your eyes always sharp, and your mind always keen.”

Hasti laughed and said, “May it be so!”

Salim continued. “You have summarized the whole existence of Mosaddeq in this drawing. Even more, the drawing is the essence of all the Mosaddeqs that this country has seen. Brave old man!”

“I look at the other side of the case, too,” Hasti said. “Didn’t the shah and his sister suffer by submitting themselves to such plots? Even for one moment? Suffer from their own plots and from going along with the plot of foreigners?”

Salim turned and looked at her. His eyes remained lost in Hasti’s eyes, and thunder and lightning were reverberating in Hasti’s heart. Tonight, because of his blue turtleneck sweater, his eyes appeared more blue than gray. If Hasti could get those eyes on paper, perhaps she would be freed from them. But those eyes that seemed to be on the route to the presence of God, what harm could there be in them?

“All of them wanted money and power,” Salim said. “Money and power turn a person’s heart to stone.”

On two other walls, all sorts of pictures of the wrestler Takhti reminded the viewer of another champion: Takhti on a champions’ platform. Takhti while wresting. Takhti with his new bride. Takhti in suit and tie. Even an image that had been cut out of the newspaper of Takhti’s lifeless corpse. Salim went from one picture to another, and Shahin recited the slogans, “‘The world champion Takhti.’ ‘Champion of champions.’ Winner of three gold medals—with that modest appearance. Child of the poor, south side of town. Idol of young men.”

Salim’s attention was drawn to a photo that showed Sha‘ban Ja‘fari’s body-building club. Sha‘ban Ja‘fari was in the middle, and the athletes were standing in rows next to and behind him and on the steps. Their upper bodies were bare, and from the images of those in front, it appeared that they all wore tight, traditional body-building leggings. Those situated in the front had chains in their hands. The last figure on the right was Shahin, who appeared to be younger than the others.

Salim put his hand on Shahin’s shoulder, and, as though he were dealing with a young child, said, “Let’s see, my dear. When you place a drawing of Mosaddeq above your head, and here and there on your walls the images of Takhti . . .”

Shahin interrupted Salim and said, “I have ten more pictures of Takhti. Do you want to see them?”

“No . . . ,” Salim said. He took his hand off of Shahin’s shoulder and added, “I mean a photo of brainless Sha‘ban has no place in this room. Sha‘ban Ja‘fari’s title is Crown Giver.”

Shahin pouted. He took the picture from the wall and tore it to pieces. He had hung it because he wanted to have his own picture in the room too. “Besides,” he said, “no one saw brainless Sha‘ban in the club. One only heard the sounds of his yells and shouts that echoed under the arches. Anyway, it was the only traditional body-building club here.”

At dinner, Shahin really took over center stage. First, he agreed with Salim and said, “I’m in the fourth year of political law, but I’m stupid and dull-witted.” Then he reminisced that the same chubby professor, much before he talked about Jalal and Maleki, had, in his words, “analyzed” Mosaddeq’s personality. “Mosaddeq,” he had said, “had thrown himself into the lap of the Tudeh Party, and his being a leftist was the cause of his downfall.”

Grandmother and Hasti were shocked by Shahin’s next statement, because Shahin attributed to himself Morad’s words in answer to the chubby professor and also his words after class. Hasti remembered that for several days after that class, Shahin was very agitated and had become ill from the fact that he had not known or said these things himself. However much Grandmother consoled him, saying, “Dear boy, you too will grow up and develop opinions,” he did not believe it, not until Teimur Khan, at Grandmother’s request, took him to Sha‘ban Ja‘fari’s club.

Salim’s color seemed paler than before, but he ate supper with a good appetite. Touran Jan had fixed her eyes on him, and her prayer chador had slipped off her head. I hope, Hasti thought, she won’t bring incense to burn for Salim, swing her fist full of incense around Salim’s head, then put it on his shoulder and heart and repeat her incantation, “May the evil eyes of the jealous be destroyed, both those of the family and those of others.” She had burned incense for Morad three or four times, and Morad, with laughing eyes, was attentive to her words and gestures. She had done this hundreds of times for Hasti, Shahin, herself, Mehrmah Khanom, Teimur Khan and his wife and children, and even Akhtar Iran . . .

Shahin did not let up and again repeated Morad’s words. “Mr. Farrokhi, in my opinion the British, with the rich archives of their Ministry of Foreign Affairs and their government as a whole, caused Americans to be frightened about communist influence . . . The government always makes a bugaboo out of the Tudeh Party and . . .”

“That’s right,” Salim said, “but the Tudeh Party will not be the agent that changes the status quo. The Tudeh Party, no; the masses of the people, yes. It will be the masses of the people with their well-rooted beliefs and in spite of their ignorance, poverty, and lack of resources.”

Salim thought, scratched his beard, and continued. “You should have said to that chubby professor that Mosaddeq, even though he had royal blood and was from the aristocracy, was a nationalist, a democrat, a liberal, and a radical. Therefore, he couldn’t proclaim the Tudeh Party illegal. Mosaddeq’s associates were also not of one mind and not organized. A strong Iranian and nationalist party was not supporting him.”

Hasti was close to saying “you use so many foreign words,” but she didn’t. She brought up Maleki and his supporters, saying that they knew what they were doing. She added, “It was for the same reason that, after the fall of Mosaddeq, they sent Maleki to Falak al-Aflak Prison and put him in the same cell as his archenemies—that is, the fanatical Tudeh Party members . . . What agony . . . One of them wanted to kill Maleki in the middle of the night. Maleki told me himself. And if he had killed him, how much agony he himself would have borne. I know him.”

“Is he still a Tudeh adherent?” Salim asked.

“I don’t know,” Hasti said. “But I do know that the attraction of Marxism remains in a person’s mind for a long time. Governorship of the proletariat . . .”

Grandmother began to speak. “God forbid.” She pulled her prayer chador onto her head and said, “I never become tired of discussing Mosaddeq.” She turned to Hasti. “Hasti, how many times did I go to Ahmadabad to see him? With this backache and leg pain of mine? I used to tell myself, ‘If I have to go on my knees, I will still go to see him.’ I also went the day of his funeral procession. I’m proud of the fact that my son was martyred for the old man.”

Suddenly she cried and recited Akhavan-Sales’s poem for Mosaddeq,

My heart burned for your pain and patience.

O gardener, spring did not come.

Hasti rose and drew Grandmother’s head to her chest. She pulled a tissue from the box on the table and wiped away her grandmother’s tears. Salim lowered his head. What secrets did those eyes now reveal? Grief, uselessness, disillusionment, perplexity, disgust for oppression? Hasti thought, The Mosaddeq era addressed to some extent the disorientation of the Iranian people. She said, “Too bad that Mosaddeq didn’t proclaim a republic. In any case, politics dirties a person’s hands. If Mosaddeq had smashed the idol of himself . . .”

“Meaning,” Salim said, “that he should have abandoned his idealism and puritanism?”

Hasti surprised herself. How logical and relaxed she had become. Bitterness and hopelessness had left her at peace. Was that condition due to the blessing of those eyes that were no longer moist but had glued their lashes together?

When they got up from supper, Salim put his hand on Shahin’s shoulder and said, “You are neither stupid nor dull-witted.”

“Because,” Shahin said happily, “my favorite professor, Hamid Enayat, taught us reflection and deliberate assessment of matters.”

Salim turned to Grandmother and said, “You have raised bright and knowledgeable children. These two should fill your son’s empty place. I think you have shed enough tears for that deceased . . .”

Grandmother corrected Salim. “For that martyr. But every time talk of Mosaddeq comes up, I start to cry. Yet I’m certain that Mosaddeq moved the heart strings of the Iranian people, and, in the end, they will do wonders!”

“God willing,” Salim said.

Hasti believed this was a way of saying good night to two bothersome people who, until then, had not let him and Hasti be alone.

Hasti was sitting in the living room in the armchair watching Salim, who had put his hand on his back and was pacing. “The weather is unpredictable,” Hasti said. “I wish you had put on your jacket.”

“I was in a hurry,” Salim said, “but I’ve had this backache for a while.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” Hasti asked.

Salim answered, “Each doctor says something different. One doctor says, ‘It’s arthritis; exercise.’ Another says, ‘It’s a slipped disc; don’t move.’ A third says, ‘Back pain is a nervous affliction.’”

Hasti offered her own opinion. “You’re not a nervous person. You’ve caught a cold. I’ll go get the hot-water bottle.”

Salim asked that she kindly bring a blanket, too.

When she turned on the kitchen light, Grandmother raised her head from the kitchen table and asked, “Did you get a proposal?”

Hasti searched in the kitchen cabinet for the hot-water bottle. A kettle full of boiling water was on the Aladdin heater in the living room. She heard it gurgling.

Movement appears at the bottom first. There’s news. One bubble rises from the bottom to the surface and confirms the news. The second bubble joins it and pulls it to the bottom. Small bubbles at the sides and sometimes in the middle swear that the news was correct. They give way to large protruding bubbles. And they are not even jealous. No one has ever been jealous of bubbles. Large bubbles join together, separate, and join again. Like waves in the sea. It is as though the languages of heart and mind have been mixed. Bubbles sparkling at the top in happiness. The water in the kettle has come to a boil. Open the lid of the kettle. You see the steam. Steam doesn’t have the shape or color of water, but its essence is water. Just like reality and art.

Hasti asked Touran Jan, “Which blanket should I take? Our blankets are all worn out. A clean, new potholder. A dishcloth . . .”

Touran Jan slapped her own face and said, “God, give me death. I put the evil eye on the poor child.”

Hasti went to Shahin’s room. The light was on and Shahin was sitting on his bed with his hand under his chin. When he saw Hasti he said, “Should I say ‘Congratulations’?”

“Oh, Shahin,” Hasti said, “you show-off. Stand up now.”

She took Shahin’s blanket off the bed, shook it, and began to fold it with the side that looked newer on the outside. Shahin apologized. “Sister, to make amends for our poverty, I claimed knowledge. It’s true that these words were not my words. Also, Morad said most of these words later, not in class.”

Hasti came to the living room with a hot-water bottle, a used dishcloth, and a blanket. She poured water from the kettle into the hot-water bottle and watched Salim, who had closed his eyes and appeared to be at peace with the world. It seemed as though his spirit had separated from his body—that he had taken refuge in the city of God. His breathing was calm and harmonious. Hasti went to pull the blanket over him. His eyes opened. He stood, put the hot-water bottle on his lower back, and wrapped the blanket around himself. Hasti went toward the wall heater to turn it on, too, but the heater was out of kerosene. She didn’t know whether they had kerosene in the house.

“Had you fallen asleep?” she asked Salim.

“No. I was concentrating my thoughts to chase away the pain. You call this kind of state ‘spaced out.’”

Hasti sat in an armchair and was silent. What kind of people are these men? she thought. Just when they see the girl becoming a little gentle, they become agitated. Man, I was waiting for you to say, “I was deep into spiritual contemplation.” But when you came out of that state, you brought me a bouquet of thorns.

Grandmother entered with a full fist and the wire mesh on which she steamed rice. She put the wire mesh on the Aladdin heater, which no longer held the kettle. She circulated her full fist around Salim’s head and recited her incantation. When the incense smoke had filled the room, Hasti asked Grandmother, “Do we have any kerosene?” Grandmother motioned with her head that they did and kept moving her lips.

Hasti returned with the kerosene container. She was lighting the heater when she thought of chamomile incense. She knew that whatever they might not have at home, they had chamomile flowers. They also had a clean, glazed bowl. She carried the kettle and the space heater out of the room. The scent of chamomile filled the room.

“If you could please bring a cup,” Salim said, “I’ll drink some chamomile tea . . .”

Hasti brought a ladle, a tea strainer, and a cup on a tray to the living room. Luckily, Salim’s eyes were closed this time.

Hasti’s eyes were fixed on Salim’s gift, the bergamot orange, not yet shriveled, under her father’s photo. Salim had followed her gaze. “The bergamot girl,” he said, “is looking at her twin sister.”

Hasti smiled and said, “Grandmother wanted to make jam from its rind, but I didn’t let her.”

How quickly she had forgotten Salim’s spaced-out state! How quickly she had come out of this thought that people are like trees, each one alone in the desert.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“A little.”

“Salim Khan, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About political struggle.”

“For the moment, j’étudie.”

“Studying,” Hasti said. “When you speak, it is as though you are reciting poetry, even when you use old Persian. But you spoil your poetry with foreign words.”

Salim fell deep into thought. It was a while before he asked, “What’s your political opinion?”

“I’m neither here nor there. Sometimes I think I’m a leftist humanist and a follower of Khalil Maleki, and sometimes I think I believe in the power of religious momentum, or, as you might say, religious dynamism, and am a follower of Jalal Al-e Ahmad. Sometimes I think I will resort solely to art, art with a correct political and social take, but which take is correct? I don’t know.”

“For the moment, I recommend the latter.”

“Is political struggle exclusive to men?”

“No, but you don’t have the potentiel and capacité for political struggle. Resort to art, provided that, from the metaphysical world of balance, equilibrium, and refinement, you make way for reality, you inject reality.”

“I believe in my own personal God,” Hasti said.

Salim leaned his head on the arm of the chair and said, “Tell me about your personal God.”

“My personal God is the first letter of the alphabet—that is, the source of human knowledge and art, the great player of creation, and we in this world are no more than puppets . . . It’s possible that what I’ve said is not my own, that I have read or heard it somewhere. But I believe in these words.”

Salim lifted his head and said, “And the giver of moral courage, the breath of eternal happiness, the first energy, the deliverer of wanderers, most of it by Sathya Sai Baba—so you have read my eighteenth notebook.”

Caught in the lie, all of Hasti’s body started to burn. She was close to tears. She remembered the phrase half-slaughtered chicken as if it were she herself. The intelligence and memory of Salim came out in a frightening form for her, and she was helpless. She sighed. She could only say, “Shame is the worst condition afflicting humans. If we don’t move heaven and earth to make amends, we will burst.”

“Shame?”

Salim consoled Hasti this way: “I intentionally left my notebook so that you would read it. You said you didn’t read it . . .”

“Don’t be magnanimous; that makes it worse.”

“And don’t idolize me.”

Salim continued warmly, “Dear Hasti Khanom, we are all a mixture of strengths and weaknesses. No one is absolutely bad or good.”

Hasti held her tears and said, “There are scoundrels and rogues who are absolutely evil.”

“That’s true, but only God is innocent of all sins. God is absolute goodness. Now tell me, did you give your friend an ultimatum?”

“No. He’s gone to Mashhad.”

Salim sat up straight and said, “Mashhad?” He asked why Hasti’s friend had gone to Mashhad this time of year. Hasti was surprised at Salim’s curiosity. She thought that she only needed to give Morad an ultimatum. She thought that Morad’s answer would be negative—that he would not take up the ball and chain of marriage to Hasti. Then it would be only Hasti and Salim. Salim, with his meticulousness, moral support, and helpfulness in addition to his magnanimity, helped her to clear thoughts of Morad from her mind. Now, what did it matter that he had said, “In your view, I was spaced out,” that he had mentioned to her face her lie that she hadn’t read the eighteenth notebook, though she had read it? One cannot always be courteous, especially when one also has a backache. Hadn’t he said himself, “No one is absolutely bad or good?” I also think that if I were absolutely good, I would be boring, and I would no longer be lively and cheerful.

“I know what you were thinking,” Salim said.

“What was I thinking?”

“You were thinking of answering me this way: ‘My friend has gone to Mashhad on pilgrimage, and he will bring me gifts of a camel load of love, prayer beads, and veils.’”

Hasti froze, smiled bitterly, and said, “And a kilo of camel milk and one top-quality lizard.”

Salim laughed and closed his eyes. “Excuse me. When this back pain begins, I become agitated. But bergamot girl, they bring camel milk and lizards from Arabia, not Mashhad. Your friend will bring from Mashhad saffron and rock candy for Grandmother.”

“Do you want an aspirin?” Hasti asked.

“Yes, please; two.” Salim took the aspirin. He closed his eyes and said, “Tearing myself away and leaving this house are difficult for me. Meanwhile, I’m very curious to know what you were thinking about.”

“It wasn’t a thought, really. It was just a notion that passed because there is no possibility of putting it into action.”

Salim insisted, and from Hasti’s mouth emerged, “For a moment I had the notion to come sit next to you, put my head on your shoulder, cry, and say, ‘Salim, help me,’ and then kiss your eyes.”

Salim stood up abruptly and let go of both the blanket and the hot-water bottle. He went to the heater, sat on the floor, and glued his back to the warm side of the heater. He put his hand on his beard, combed his hair with his fingers, and said nothing.

Hasti respected his silence at first. Finally, she couldn’t wait longer, and she asked, “Then, what would you have done?”

“I don’t know. I would have been torn. My heart would have said, ‘Dry her tears and embrace her,’ but my mind would have said, ‘Softly take her head off your shoulder and sit to one side. If this is the first act of her giving her heart to you, there will be enough time for embracing when she becomes your wife.’”

“Will your heart,” Hasti said, “or, in Grandmother’s words, your lust, win or your mind?”

“I don’t know.” He thought and said, “Hasti, come, right now, let’s get married. While my rival hasn’t come back and taken you from my grasp . . .”

“How?” Hasti asked. “This time of night, notary offices are closed.”

“We ourselves can execute a temporary marriage,” Salim said. “You say, ‘I give myself,’ and I say, ‘I accept.’ Then we write our holy union on paper and we both sign it.”

“It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple. The union of husband and wife in Islam is the most progressive of unions. The agreement of the parties alone is sufficient.”

“The rival,” Hasti said, “will not take me from your grasp. It is several years that he has been leaving me waiting. But in any case, I owe him the opportunity of an ultimatum. He will show up on the fourth day of the New Year. I didn’t tell you that the fourth is my birthday.”

Salim asked forgiveness in advance for his impudence and then asked, “Have you ever fallen into such a temptation with that friend of yours?”

Hasti remembered Professor Mani’s warning. “Absolutely not! In all these years we have not even touched each other.”

“I guessed as much.”

Hasti laughed in her heart. Was she laughing at Salim or at the thought of how easily men believe certain lies—lies that show their superiority and satisfy their pride?

When saying good-bye, Salim did not extend his hand to Hasti. Hasti didn’t have such an expectation, either. “Hasti Khanom,” he said, “we can have a happy life together.” He paused and added, “Really, why did your friend go to Mashhad? I was set to go as well, but I stayed to see where our relationship would lead.” Then he asked, “Your friend’s name is not Hadi, is it?”

“No.”

“It’s not Farhad Dorafshan?”

“No.”

“Firuz Dorafshan?”

“No. Only I did have one classmate by the name of Farkhondeh Dorafshan. The kids gave her the nickname ‘Wishing Tree.’”

“Why ‘Wishing Tree’?”

“She was always saying, ‘I wish I knew what I should do.’ ‘I wish I knew what should be done.’ ‘I wish I knew what can be done.’”

“I’ll wait for your phone call,” Salim said.

Suddenly, he remembered the chamomile water. “The chamomile water has boiled away, and your glazed bowl has been scorched.”