9

When Morad came, he brought Grandmother a prayer rug, a prayer stone, prayer beads, saffron, and rock candy. He hugged Grandmother and kissed her white hair. Then he hung a large turquoise pendant with a gilded chain on Hasti’s neck and spun her in the air. In front of Touran Khanom, he took off his wool shirt and put on the blue-green sweater knitted for him by Hasti. He kissed Hasti’s hands, too.

Hasti noticed that Morad’s eyes were no longer wandering. His eyes were sometimes fixed upon a distant point, but he wasn’t saying even one word about the hungry in Biafra and India, nor about excessive consumption, guns, Phantom jets, oil, the Gulf, suffocation, or torture.

Then Morad took Hasti out by bus. They got off at Pahlavi Crossroads and stood in front of the cloth an Indian peddler had spread on the sidewalk. The old woman was wearing a sari and bracelets. She was yelling, “Snake oil, coconut oil, pills for secret sicknesses, weight loss pills.”

“‘Secret sicknesses’ means love sickness?” Hasti asked.

“No, venereal diseases,” Morad said.

Slowly they made their way to Sa‘i Park. It was still closed. They returned to the crossroads. They ate barbecued liver at a small store. They sat in a café, and Morad didn’t even smoke.

Next Morad took Hasti to the movies. He bought the tickets from hawkers outside the cinema. It was a Jerry Lewis film. Jerry Lewis spoke Persian as though he were from the heart of lower-class Tehran. Then they went to a John Wayne film at a theater more or less opposite the first one. John Wayne’s Persian outdid that of all the toughs and louts of Tehran . . . And when John Wayne sang from a Persian pop song, “Tonight is a moonlit night, and I long for my sweetheart . . .” Hasti and Morad couldn’t stop laughing. And Hasti didn’t think of Salim or Bijan for even one moment.

On the way back to Hasti’s house, they found neither a bus nor a taxi, so they walked. Hasti was able to bring up the subject of marriage. “What were you doing in Mashhad?” she asked.

“Pondering the meaning of the universe and existence during the day,” Morad said, “and mulling over the memories I have of you during the night.”

“What memories?” Hasti asked.

“Memories of the first day we met, memories of our trip to Sare‘in, memories of those infamous meetings of the art and culture something or other.”

“Let’s get married,” Hasti said, “so that we have all of each other.”

Morad became pensive. Near the house, he said, “Are you crazy? Imagine that we have married. We are already closer to one another than any married couple, aren’t we?”

Hasti didn’t urge anymore. She just said, “Come to the office one day so that we can have lunch together.” She was about to say, “Give me an answer that day,” but she didn’t. Instead, she couldn’t fall asleep that night until dawn. Why, she thought, had Morad changed? Had he been disappointed by politics in Mashhad? Had he gotten married to politics, as Professor Mani’s wife said, and didn’t need any other marriage?

Hasti’s mind was not an organized bookcase such that she could extend her arm and take out from its shelves any memory she wanted. Maybe her mind was like a computer, although she didn’t belong to the computer age herself. Only the lessons of Professor Mani and Simin had organized files in her mind because she took notes. She also took exams in their classes, and she always wanted to get an A from them. Actually, her acquaintance with Simin started this way, when, in the second semester, Simin had asked, “Who is Hasti Nourian?” With a racing heart, she had stood up. Simin had said, “You have written very well, young lady. You will become someone in this world.” Simin was and is talkative. “As long as I am alive,” she had added, “I will follow up on you to see how far you will go. But don’t exhaust and waste yourself.”

Am I exhausting and wasting myself? Hasti asked herself. Is the path I am traveling now going nowhere? Are the tunes that Salim and Morad are playing distorted? Are they twisted? What if I leave them both and learn from Bijan how to shrug my shoulders and practice laughing at loneliness in my solitude? But no, Morad was closer to her than all the Salims and the Bijans of this world. She took Morad’s cold hands in hers and rubbed them so much that they became warm.

That day it was snowing. The male students of the Faculty of Law attacked the female students of the Faculty of Fine Arts with snowballs. One of them hugged Hasti, put a snowball down the front of her shirt, and wanted to kiss her. Hasti struggled, slipped, and fell. Snowballs were raining down from every direction. A boy took her hand and helped her up. The boy wiped the snow from Hasti’s winter coat. Hasti’s leg hurt. “I hope my leg’s not broken,” she said.

“Don’t be so delicate,” the boy said. Hasti leaned on him, and he took her to the Department of Architecture studio. He seated her on a stool and made coffee for her. He played Chopin’s Nocturne on the phonograph. He said himself that it was Chopin’s Nocturne. The boy sat on the floor, took off Hasti’s shoe, and rubbed her ankle. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Your leg’s not broken.”

“Are you a bonesetter?” Hasti asked.

The boy laughed and said, “No, I’m Morad Pakdel.”

“And I’m Hasti Nourian.”

“We’ll take vengeance,” the boy said. “We’ll gather the male students of the faculty and attack the female students of the Faculty of Law.”

Maybe it was that very day that they fell in love. Or maybe it wasn’t. Whenever it was, now this love couldn’t be erased from their hearts. It couldn’t. It couldn’t.

What had Sohravardi said? He had said, “The commander of love sets up a tent in the heart.” Hasti had read Sohravardi’s On the Reality of Love several times, thanks to her secretary, Fakhri, who had photocopied it for her. Maybe Sohravardi didn’t intend his text to say what Hasti had understood it to say. Hasti’s interpretation was that love is the greatest mystery of creation—for love is liberating—for love gives one focus. It is not accompanied by sorrow, although attachment might have its own risks.

That day Morad had not shown up for the meeting of the Council on Artistic Creation. Hasti and Professor Mani had teamed up and convinced the council to approve Morad’s membership. Professor Isa and Dr. Zandi were against it. Professor Mani described the former as someone without character, and he thought the latter was probably a member of SAVAK. And Hasti was certain about it. Always and everywhere, a Dr. Zandi, either with glasses or without, was present. The Dr. Zandi of the Council on Artistic Creation had glasses. Hasti had even seen his ID card. One day, when he was taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, the card came out too and fell on the floor. Hasti bent down and picked up the card from under the table. OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER. And she saw Zandi’s alias, NEJABAT. She put the card in front of Nejabat. Nejabat stared at Hasti from above his glasses. “Look, if you say anything to anyone, you’re done for.”

Hasti was worried about Morad. Stupid Morad, why don’t you come? What if they have arrested Morad? Hasti thought. Because on a previous day, when they were discussing choosing the best carpet design, gilding, engraving . . . for the competition, Morad had said so many things that he shouldn’t have. “Which one of them,” he had said, “is about to marry now and is thinking about her trousseau?” And, “Has Ardeshir Khan once again come to take the best ones to America and present them as gifts to American senators and to Elizabeth Taylor? Perhaps caviar is not enough, since they eat it and forget about it.”

Professor Isa had said, “No sir, we will display them in Kamal al-Molk Museum,” and Dr. Zandi had taken notes.

Professor Mani had said, “O young man, you are naïve.”

A thousand thoughts rushed into Hasti’s mind. Finally, she calmed herself down, thinking, Well, perhaps he’s in his father’s rooftop room drawing a front-view picture of me. He had drawn a side-view picture of me that I lost. Well, maybe he’s drawing a picture of the homeless people that he so loves. Destitute people never set foot in a painting exhibition, and the nouveau riche who do set foot there have no place in their homes to hang such paintings. They don’t match their furniture and curtains.

Hasti and La‘l Banu were close. One day Hasti had taken La‘l Banu and Sir Edward to see the second exhibition of Morad’s paintings. Sir Edward and La‘l Banu stood looking at a painting that depicted a ragged old man. The old man was sitting before a fire on the sidewalk in front of a multistory building. The lights of the building were on. Chandeliers and tall standing lamps with china shades, some flowered, some not, were shining through several windows in the painting.

“La‘l Banu,” Hasti asked, “would you like to buy it?” La‘l Banu looked at her husband.

“Absolutely not!” Sir Edward said. “Flaubert depicts an aristocratic ball and the frozen children of the poor who have stuck their noses on the window of the palace ballroom. Since time immemorial, this subject of poverty and affluence has been put forth.”

“And it still is,” Hasti said. In her heart, she was pleading, Come on, stingy people, buy a painting. If you don’t want it, throw it in the garbage bin. Hang it in the bathroom. But Sir Edward had already bought from Professor Mani the painting of a Qajar woman for his wife.

Hasti couldn’t take it any longer. After the Morad-less council meeting, she had asked Fakhri, her secretary, to call the carpet company and ask for Mr. Pakdel. Fakhri called many times, until finally she was able to ask Morad’s father whether his son, Mr. Morad Pakdel, had been ill that he hadn’t come to the council meeting. Morad’s father had said, “Other than his brain that’s defective, he has not been ill.”

Morad came to the next meeting earlier than the others, and he was in a good mood. “My dear lady,” he said to Hasti, “now you are spying on me and calling my father?” But in the council meeting, he exploded. They were choosing the best carpet design. Morad said, “For the price of one of these carpets, one can demolish a slum and build in its place inexpensive housing.”

“All cities have squatters,” Professor Isa said. “These are people who have invaded the cities from the villages.”

Morad pounded on the table and said, “They have invaded the cities because there is no work for them in villages. Dear America delivers us wheat.” He swallowed and added, “And what do they do in cities? They sell lottery tickets. They clean pools. They run errands. They guard parked cars. They carry loads.”

Professor Isa turned to Morad and said, “The purpose of this council meeting is to choose the best carpet design, not to talk nonsense, nor to spout political slogans.”

“Why are you so afraid of politics?” Morad asked.

“I’m not afraid of politics, but your political talk is insipid. The brains of people like you are feeble.”

What if Professor Isa is right? Hasti thought. And Morad’s father is also right? She looked at Professor Mani, who had put his hand on his heart. Hasti rang the bell and ordered the servant to bring herbal tea . . . She corrected herself, “Herbal tea for Professor Mani, and regular tea for everyone else.” She noticed that the servant looked into Morad’s eyes and gestured with his eyebrows.

Professor Mani put on his glasses and picked up the designs from the table one by one. He held them far away, brought them up close, and gave them to the person next to him. And with what respect and reverence he held them, as if each design were a page of the Holy Book.

Bahadori’s design came in first. A bird with colorful feathers had nested in the bitter orange tree in the center of the carpet. The bird was neither a hoopoe, nor a peacock, nor a phoenix, nor a griffin, nor a bird of faith. For sure, it was not a heron. It was a bird from the heavens that had descended upon the mind of the artist like a revelation, and it had said, “Record me.” The bird was ready to fly, but Hasti well knew that the warp and weft of the carpet will trap it, and the arabesques, the lotuses, the flowers, and the leaves of the design will not allow it to escape. Its wings were repeated in the triangles of the four corners of the carpet, its beak and feet lost amidst the flowers and leaves of the margins. You had to search in order to find them.

Morad made them hesitate in choosing the second-place design. He put his finger on Sadeq’s jeweled lotus design. Rather thick lines surrounded geometric shapes, such as triangles, diamonds, and trapezoids, and the colorfulness of the shapes reminded one of the windows of Chehel Sotoun Palace in Isfahan, which were inlaid with small pieces of colorful glass.

“The brown color of the lotuses has overshadowed the color of the geometric shapes,” Professor Mani said.

“We can tell the artist to make the lines of the lotus narrower.” Morad said, and he bought Sadeq’s design for the carpet company.

The design that Morad had drawn himself was ranked second. Morad didn’t vote on his own design. Many large and small stars had been scattered on a dark blue background. Stars with tails, stars with halos. Moons of various shapes were key to the unity of the design. All phases of the moon had been included, from the crescent moon, as narrow as the eyebrow of the beloved, to the half-moon, to the full moon. There was no new moon. Morad’s design was a deep night full of stars and moons, in which the stars and the moons had chosen their own spots. It was a night of another planet within another galaxy.

Professor Mani turned to Morad and said, “From such a harsh man as you, such a poetic work is very unexpected.”

“Mr. Pakdel,” Sohrab said, “hides his idealism under a veil of harshness.”

Professor Mani instructed Hasti to write a note to the building engineer and ask him to come to see Morad’s design and to decorate the ceiling of the dining room according to that design, such that the floor and the sky of the room are coordinated and they both reflect this unearthly night. The sky with lights and the floor with warp and weft.

Morad stood, grabbed his design, and shouted, “Didn’t I say that it would be the trousseau of one of the favorite children . . .” His lips were trembling. “I don’t want my design to be under the feet of those who cannot understand . . . They don’t understand what eyes, hands, and minds they are setting their feet on. Didn’t I say that?”

“Calm down, dear boy,” Professor Mani said.

Morad turned to Hasti and asked, “Did you know, Miss Nourian?’

“Yes.”

“And you too?”

And Professor Mani corrected him. “And you too, Brutus?”

Morad wrote his resignation letter while standing there, took his design, and left.

“Thank God,” Professor Isa said, “that we are rid of this devious boy.”

“This boy is not devious,” Professor Mani said. “Whatever he says, he does.”

The inlay motif design that had been sent from Tabriz was selected for the office. Professor Mani told Hasti to give the order for the desk and its accessories to the inlay workshop, to show them the design, and to emphasize that the decoration of the desk and its accessories must be made with wires of ivory and gold.

Professor Mani had another sip of herbal tea and said, “The owners of these works are not eternal. In the end, all these will be placed in museums. Young people are impatient. When you get old, you yearn to stay on the scene so that you will forget old age. You want to set forth ideas in the same way. That’s when you mess things up.”

Professor Isa’s voice was ringing in Hasti’s ears. He always arrived before the council meeting and made phone calls from Hasti’s office. He even called long distance. “I have retired, but I have not cut my ties with Persian art.”

“Isa Khan and I were both members of the Committee to Celebrate 2,500 Years of Monarchy,” Professor Mani said. “For the march of Persian soldiers from the time of Cyrus—who Mohammad Reza Shah bid to rest in peace, because he is awake—to the present day, we ordered a ton of curly and straight beards and hair from France, and we spent so much money on the chainmail, arrows, bows, shields, spears, and clothes of the Persian army commanders and soldiers. I was present for the march. It lasted maybe an hour and a half or two hours in all, and the sun was hot. All the heads of foreign countries were sweating, and I, who am from Iran, was sweating, too. The crown prince was too hot, and a Chinese officer who was sitting next to him was fanning him with his hat. Finally, they brought fans and umbrellas, but the march was over.”

Whatever he says, he does. Was this interpretation of Professor Mani the key to setting Morad on the right path and an ordinary life of going out, going to the cinema, eating barbecued liver, laughing at Jerry Lewis and John Wayne? Or had Morad entered the pit of politics and didn’t talk anymore and that is why he wouldn’t agree to marriage?

When they had gone to Sare‘in, nothing particularly significant had happened. Nor did Morad and Jalal’s discussions have anything to do with this change in the nature of Morad’s behavior. But why not? Perhaps they did. Hasti didn’t want to seek freedom in a love of which she was not certain.

Morad had said to Jalal, “Mr. Al-e Ahmad, why don’t you enter the political ring so that we can fall in behind you?”

“I’m already involved in politics,” Jalal had answered, “but my realm is the pen. If I get involved in the way you want, then you will stand aside and say, ‘Go for it.’”

“Don’t underestimate us,” Morad had said.

They went to Sare‘in by bus. Hasti and Morad were sitting in front, and Grandmother and Shahin behind them. Grandmother was going there for her leg pain, and Hasti was going to prepare drawings for her BA project. The bus was struggling to get up Heyran Mountain Pass. One mountain pass after another. The Soviet border was on their right. From Astara onward, the elevated guard posts overlooking both sides of the border were rushing past before Hasti’s eyes. Each guard in one stand, with binoculars in his hand or at his eyes. But the words patience, discipline, tolerance, and ability to control one’s temper did not leave Hasti’s mind.

Hasti felt sick, and at the next mountain pass, she threw up. Morad rubbed the back of her neck and her shoulders. He took his own towel from his bag and asked the driver to stop the bus. The driver replied, “Right here on this slope? Do you want to kill us all?”

The voice of one of the passengers was music to Hasti’s ears. “There are only three more mountain passes to go. Then we will arrive in Ardabil. My wife always feels sick, too.”

If the uncertainties of reality last only three mountain passes, and then one reaches the destination, this is tolerable. But the realities of the world around Hasti are so complex that words cannot disentangle them. They cannot be explained, nor can one defend them. Rue the day we cannot tolerate them!

The next morning, Grandmother and Hasti went to Gavmish Goli—an irregular pool containing boiling hot water from the heart of the earth—giant bubbles, steam, fog, and the smell of phosphorous. Women and children resembling ghosts. Women, some in lungi, a few in underwear, most looking like Eve minus the leaf. Women at the side of the pool were either washing their own hair or their children’s, rubbing their feet with pumice stone, or scrubbing their bodies. Touran Khanom, in underwear, pushed aside the shampoo and soap foam and set her foot in the hot water. She took her foot out, put it back in, and took a few steps forward until the water reached her shoulders. Then she suddenly plunged her head underwater.

Grandmother’s skin was red, as was the skin of other women, and the sun was shamelessly watching the scene. A child was crying and saying, “I have an ouchy.” Another child was not crying, but had an ouchy. Hasti was drawing sketch after sketch. At noon, she told Morad, “It was like Judgement Day.” When Simin saw her painting, she said, “The Apocalypse.” When Professor Mani saw it, he said, “Dante’s inferno.” Later, many years later, when Hasti had no money, he bought this “Dante’s inferno.” What use did he have for all those naked children and naked and half-naked women in different positions? Women sitting, standing, bending . . . All that shampoo and soap foam by the side of the pool and on the surface of the water. All those copper and plastic pitchers. Morad had said, “The red plastic pitchers that you have drawn in several places herald the betterment of this ghostly world where movements resemble the dance of the dead.”