THREE

FARRIN DIDN’T TAKE a bus home. Her father always sent his car.

‘I’m paying the driver anyway,’ he would say. ‘He might as well earn his pay.’

‘If I am driven everywhere, how will I learn my way around the city?’ Farrin would say. ‘You’re treating me like a child.’

‘We’re concerned for your safety,’ her mother would declare.

Three lies, Farrin thought as she crossed the yard to the street where the driver always parked.

Lie number one was that her father paid the driver, a thin, hollow-eyed, middle-aged man named Ahmad. He was an Afghan, one of the millions of refugees in Iran and one of the many employed by Farrin’s father. Ahmad worked for food and a mat on the floor of the little stone room by the gate. Her father built his construction empire with nearly free Afghan labor. His workers slept right out at the work sites, which saved her father the cost of hiring security guards. With no other place to sleep, the workers lay in heaps of rags spread out on dirt or on the hard cement. If they asked for a raise, Farrin’s father had them deported.

Farrin had even seen him do it once. They’d had a gardener who asked for a salary so he could send the money back to his family in Afghanistan, to help them escape the war. Her father smiled, told the gardener to take a seat, then called one of the buddies he’d bribed in the police force. He was still smiling when the police took the gardener away. He made sure that as many of his workers as possible saw their coworker taken.

Lie number two was that Farrin wanted to take the bus home so she could get to know the city. Her real reason was that she wanted – and some days desperately needed – a break from the adults who had control over her life. Going directly from school to her house made her feel like she was in a cage. If she took a bus, she could get off at a different corner, look in some shops, eat some pizza, or just sit and think her own thoughts.

Lie number three was that her mother was concerned for her safety. ‘Mom is more concerned about how I look than she is about my safety,’ Farrin often muttered when she saw Ahmad sitting in the car after school, particularly when it was a fine day with air that had a taste of freedom to it. Her mother only cared about what the ladies in the neighborhood would say if they saw Farrin riding the bus with ‘the rabble.’

After watching Sadira climb into a bus, Farrin felt even more resentful than usual. If Ahmed wasn’t waiting, she could have gotten on the bus too. So what if it was going in the wrong direction? She and Sadira could have talked more. She had a feeling this new girl had things to say. And maybe she could have left the bus with Sadira, and maybe walked with her to her house, just to see where she lived. That’s what friends did, according to the smuggled American television shows she watched.

Farrin spied her father’s car, right where it was supposed to be. The sides and roof had been polished so they glowed, and the chrome sparkled in the sun. Ahmad must have had a slow day. If he wasn’t busy, he washed and polished the car so that he would look efficient. He worked hard for his plate of rice and his hard bed.

Ahmad spotted her and hopped out of the car. He opened the door to the backseat and held it open for her.

‘Rich girl,’ one of the students sneered at her as she passed by with a group of giggling friends.

In America, if they called you rich, it would be considered a compliment, Farrin’s mother would say if she told her about it. Only in Iran would it be an insult to be called rich! Not just Iran, Farrin knew. In Cuba and in other countries too. She’d learned a few things in her revolution class. But she never argued with her mother about that. Doing so would be like slipping down a black hole of shrill, shrieking tirades.

Farrin leaned against a lamppost, next to the torn remnants of an illegal women’s rights poster. She looked across the street at Ahmad. He stood ramrod straight beside the car in his bright white shirt and dark trousers, the closest thing her mother could find to a chauffeur’s uniform. He looked puzzled that she was standing and staring instead of crossing the road and getting into the car. But he did not wave or call to her or make any gesture that showed he was impatient.

He’s afraid of losing his job, Farrin thought. But that wasn’t her problem. Her problem was how to find a few moments of peace and freedom, away from her mother’s control.

She crossed the road, taking her time.

‘Miss Farrin, please speed up. I must get you home.’

‘What’s the big hurry? Nothing is happening at home.’

‘After I take you home I must go to your father’s building site.’

‘Take me to the site with you,’ Farrin suggested. ‘I don’t need to go home right away.’

She got in the backseat and closed the door.

Ahmad hesitated then climbed behind the wheel. ‘Your mother told me to bring you right home.’

‘I’d like to see my father,’ Farrin said. ‘Come on, let’s go. He won’t mind, and it will be an adventure.’

‘Your mother will not want you to have an adventure.’

‘My father will,’ Farrin said. When Ahmad didn’t start the car, she added, ‘And he’s the one who hires and fires. Didn’t you say you were in a hurry?’

Ahmad started the car.

They drove north, past the shops and the pizza place that Farrin longed to explore on her own. They passed the turnoff to Farrin’s house and kept on going. The houses and apartment buildings soon gave way to scrubland, where Afghan refugees camped and the Alborz Mountains looked like they could fall right over and crush everything whenever they wanted to.

Looming ahead, still dwarfed by the mountains but bigger than everything else, was Evin Prison. High walls surrounded it. Farrin caught brief glimpses of the buildings that made up the prison compound as they traveled up hills, but lost sight of them again when they dipped into the valleys.

‘My principal is an interrogator at the prison,’ Farrin said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The principal at my school,’ Farrin said. ‘In her spare time, she goes to the prison and interrogates people. Probably tortures them too.’

She could see Ahmad’s face in the rearview mirror. His eyes were wide.

‘What are you saying? She tortures people and she is allowed to be principal? Around children? How is this possible? Do your parents know?’

‘It’s a joke,’ Farrin said quickly. ‘She doesn’t really do it. People say she does it because she’s so mean to everybody. It’s a joke. Don’t you have jokes in Afghanistan?’ she added meanly.

Ahmad’s eyes went back to their normal size. ‘Prison is nothing to joke about,’ he said.

‘Have you been to prison, Ahmad?’

‘It’s nothing to joke about,’ was all he would say.

He turned off the highway that led through the mountains to the Caspian Sea and onto a track road that was all dust and potholes.

‘You’ll have to wash the car again,’ Farrin said as the dust rose up around them like a fog.

There was war damage along the side of the road – bombed out military trucks so thickly covered in dust that they almost looked like giant boulders.

Farrin’s mother was born to privilege; her father was an important general in the Shah’s army, and they counted members of the royal family among their social acquaintances. As the revolution heated up, Farrin’s grandfather read the signs and fled the country with her grandmother. But they left her mother behind. Farrin’s mother had married someone they disapproved of, so they abandoned her to her fate.

Farrin’s mother never let her father forget what she had given up for him.

Farrin’s father had been a soldier on the military base where Farrin’s mother lived with her parents. A member of one of Iran’s nomadic tribes, as a child he had rolled into a campfire during his sleep. The burn fused the skin on the fingers of his right hand in such a way that he could not fire a gun, but this did not exempt him from military service. He was made a quartermaster in charge of distributing supplies. He found he had a knack for organization.

His wife’s connections found him a good government job after he finished his military service, but the revolution put him out of work.

When Farrin was a little girl, her parents would argue over dinner. ‘You’re a useless sand-lover,’ Farrin’s mother would call him. ‘I’m surprised you know how to use a fork. Because of you, I had to sell all my gold.’ It was a common refrain. Both Farrin and her father learned to continue eating their meal and just let her mother rant.

A woman’s gold was her treasure, her protection against the rough course of the future. She’d be given pieces throughout her life, and they’d form part of her dowry. It was wealth that was solid and tangible, and could be worn to show everyone what she was worth.

‘North of the city the land was empty,’ Farrin’s father used to say. He delighted in telling and retelling the story of the route they took to their new wealth. ‘This land was cheap. It was rocky. It was no good for crops and not at all pretty to look at. No one wanted it. No one but me, that is!’

Gold changed hands and the land became theirs. Farrin’s father knew nothing about construction, but he studied everything he could find at the library. More gold went for building supplies. Although the Afghan refugees’ labor was cheap, a number of them were educated and skilled. The first house went up, solid and beautiful. It sold for a good profit to a wealthy family eager to escape the overcrowding of the inner city. Farrin’s father bought more land and more building supplies, and the family became entrenched in the building business.

‘Are you sure your father will be okay with you being here?’ Ahmad asked.

‘Don’t worry. He’ll be happy to see me.’

That much, Farrin was pretty sure she could count on. Her mother always looked a little pained when Farrin came into view. Her father generally smiled. She got out of the car.

They were standing in what was going to be a whole new neighborhood. Some of the homes were half finished, others were just cement blocks and rebar. The air was filled with the sound of hammers. A crane lifted supplies into the air.

Farrin spotted her father across the yard, deep in discussion with one of the workers. They were looking up at the shell of a building and didn’t notice Farrin as she walked up to them.

‘Hello, Father,’ she said.

He was surprised to see her, but still he smiled – all the while looking questioningly at Ahmad.

‘I told him to bring me,’ Farrin said quickly. ‘I wanted to see you.’

‘Why come all the way out here?’ her father asked. ‘You’ll see me this evening.’

Farrin searched her mind for an excuse. She looked around at the building supplies and all the activity – and then she had an idea. ‘I just thought it was time I learned more about what you do. Do you have time to show me around? Maybe I can go into the business when I get through with school.’

Her father’s smile grew into a grin. ‘You absolutely can! I don’t have a lot of time today, but we can make a start. I am so happy that you are taking an interest in this!’

For the next twenty minutes, Farrin was stuck hearing about foundations and framing and how to save money on roofing tiles. At first she kicked herself for opening her mouth, but then she started to take an actual interest. At least it was something different.

‘Maybe when you get older I’ll bring you into the business as a partner,’ he said. Then he winked. ‘No need to tell your mother about that part!’

Farrin agreed, although it was a stupid secret. There was no point to it, really. Her mother wouldn’t care if she were interested in construction. Her family just liked to keep secrets.

Farrin noticed that the worksite had gone quiet. The hammers had stopped swinging and the saws were silent. Her father noticed the quiet at the same time.

All the men were looking at her.

‘Why are they staring?’ Farrin asked. ‘Is it because I’m a girl?’

‘It’s because you’re a child,’ her father said. ‘They miss their families.’

‘Then it’s good that I came.’

‘Not if it upsets them. I don’t want them thinking about their children. I want them thinking about my buildings. Back to work!’ he called out. ‘Let’s go! These houses won’t build themselves!’

Farrin left her father to his work and headed toward the car. She rounded the corner – and stopped in her tracks.

The trunk of her father’s car was open. Ahmad was handing a box full of food to one of the Afghan workers.

Everyone froze.

Farrin took in the situation. She knew Ahmad earned no money, so the food probably came from the storeroom at home. And she doubted very much that her mother had given him permission to take it.

Another secret, she thought.

‘Need any help?’ she asked.

They didn’t. The Afghans took the boxes of groceries and disappeared into the building site. Ahmad, ramrod straight again, opened the back door of the car. She climbed in and they drove away.

This was an interesting turn of events. Of course she’d keep Ahmad’s secret. She’d even help him steal food from her parents’ house. They had lots. Despite the food shortages caused by the war, her parents had enough money to buy anything they wanted on the black market.

But how could she use this information to her advantage? There must be something she could get out of the deal too.

‘I’ll keep your secret,’ she said.

Ahmad didn’t respond.

She repeated herself as the car slowed down.

‘There is some sort of gathering ahead,’ Ahmad told her. ‘It’s blocking the street. I’m not sure I can turn around here.’

Farrin leaned forward. All she could see were boys, lots of them.

‘I’m going to see what’s going on,’ she said.

‘No! You must not do that! It’s much too dangerous!’

Farrin had already opened the car door. ‘I’ll be right back.’

She pulled her scarf close around her face and checked that none of her hair was showing. After all, she was no fool. She walked toward the crowd, her heart beating hard. This was another new thing, being out in the world alone. Well, Ahmad was with her, but he was a servant. He didn’t count.

It was turning out to be quite a day.

She knew without looking that Ahmad was behind her, keeping a close eye. Losing the boss’s daughter would be a sure reason to get fired!

A small group of women, all in chadors, were standing off to the side. Farrin joined them and exchanged the traditional greetings. It was hard to hear over the boys’ chants.

The street was full of boys. Most were around Farrin’s age, a few older. Many were younger. They all wore red martyr’s bands around their heads.

‘We want to die for the revolution!’ A cleric at the front was leading the chant through a loudspeaker hooked up to a car.

‘We want to die for the revolution!’ the boys cried.

‘Death to our enemies!’

‘Death to our enemies!’

‘Death to Iraq!’

‘Death to America!’

‘We will be heroes in paradise!’

Farrin tried to tune it out. It was just another basiji rally, organized by the militia force to get the boys ready to go off to the front to fight the Iraqi army. She’d seen them before. The rally wasn’t that exciting. Being out of the house without her parents was a much bigger thrill.

‘They look younger with every rally,’ one of the women remarked.

‘What are you saying?’ another woman asked the first. ‘That sounds like criticism. Are you criticizing the government? Are you saying you would rather live under Saddam Hussein?’

‘I’m saying that the pitch of the voices in paradise has risen very high in the last few years,’ the first woman said. ‘Two of my sons have taken their places in paradise. My youngest is in the middle of the rally today.’

‘Is that man following you?’ A third woman interrupted the first woman to speak to Farrin. She pointed at Ahmad, who had left the car and was watching Farrin closely. ‘I think he is. He is following you! I will get the Revolutionary Guard to arrest him.’

‘No!’ Farrin said. ‘He’s with me. It’s all right.’

‘What do you mean, he’s with you? He’s an Afghan. He’s not your brother or your uncle or your father. Who is he?’

To be out in the world with a man who was not a relative could mean serious trouble for a girl. Farrin started to back away. Should she tell them Ahmad was a servant? Would that help or hurt?

Instead of answering, she hurried back to the car with Ahmad at her heels. In seconds, they were both inside.

‘Get us out of here!’ she said.

There was very little room to turn around. Ahmad drove up onto the sidewalk and swerved like he was in a car chase in a Hollywood movie. Farrin saw the women staring at them and then looking around for the Revolutionary Guard.

Farrin didn’t need to tell Ahmad to drive fast. She checked the rear window as they sped away. No one was following them.

‘Maybe one of these days I’ll have a quick look around the shops after school,’ she said. ‘But perhaps you had better stay in the car when I do.’

There was silence from the front seat as Ahmad considered his options.

Then he said, as Farrin knew he would, ‘Yes, Miss Farrin.’

Pleased with herself, Farrin leaned back against the seat.

A pact had been made.