Chapter 33

Outside, before turning to go home, an idea came to me. Mostafa, the landlord of the house where Reza and I rented an apartment before we moved to Abyaneh, had strong connections to the clergy through his mosque. He was a compassionate man. He might be willing to use his connections to influence the mullah in charge. Hoping for that, and also wanting to visit his wife, Golnar, who was exceptionally supportive and kind after I lost the baby, I took the metro to the house.

When I entered the alley, I found that some of the uneven cobblestones were replaced by bricks; it seemed the mayor was making the alleys safer. The door to the house was open, and I walked into the courtyard. The morning-glory vine I once planted was still alive, its blue flowers climbing the wall. Long-stemmed daisies in the flower bed swayed gently in the breeze. Butterflies were circling around the sunflowers that Golnar had planted.

I noticed their daughter, now older and even prettier, sitting with another girl on a rug spread on the ground next to the pool. The other girl had bright henna-red hair and henna-tattooed red spots all over her arms. The two girls were poring over the contents of a thick book, probably Hafiz’s poetry. The girls would pause on a page, trying to see their future in words written six hundred years ago. I quietly slipped past them and went up the steps to the porch that extended from the row of rooms where the landlord and his family lived.

The living room door was open, and I saw Golnar sitting on a carpet, polishing a silver tray. The red flowers woven into the carpet made it seem as if she was sitting outdoors in nature. The tapestry on the wall behind her, featuring a lake with two swans floating on it and a vast blue sky above, only enhanced that impression.

“Roya joon,” she exclaimed. “I’m so happy to see you. When did you come back? Is Reza agha with you?”

I shook my head no. She invited me inside and served me sharbat in a gold-rimmed glass matching the one she was half-finished drinking from. The silver tray she had been engaged in polishing revealed little bird designs scattered on its surface. She was as striking as before with her long black hair, full of ringlets, and she was wearing a yellow dress with black poppy designs. She hadn’t finished high school, but she read magazines and newspapers and books by classical Iranian writers and poets.

“Tell me, where are you living now?” she asked. “You left in a rush . . .”

I sank into myself for a moment, trying to think of what to say. Finally, I said, “We’re living in Kashan, near Reza’s family. He has cousins and nieces there. And he found a good job teaching.”

Then, quickly, I changed the subject to Tala’s condition, the car accident that killed her husband and landed her in a sanatorium, suffering from shock, and then dying there, Tavoos being in Mercy Home.

“Oh, how devastating,” she exclaimed. “I’m really sorry. It all must be so hard to take.”

I nodded and filled her in on the custody situation. “Golnar joon, can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

I told her the clergy had the final word on the situation and asked, “Do you think Mostafa agha can use his connections at the mosque if the custody issue becomes a battle in court?”

“Sure. I will ask him. I want to help.”

The muezzin began to call people to prayers. Golnar prayed regularly, so I thanked her and stood up. “I’m so grateful to you,” I said. I gave her the phone number at the house.

As I went through the porch and down the steps into the courtyard, the two girls were still reading Hafiz. I wished I could believe in the ancient poet’s prophecies and reach out to him for guidance. In the alley, a young man riding a bicycle and whistling took my mind back to Reza riding his bicycle to work when we lived there. I felt an ache being separated from him.

At the mouth of the alley, I looked for Gholam, the one-eyed vendor who had told me about Reza being taken away in a Mercedes. The public baths for women, the mosque, and the stationery store were all the same, but Gholam’s spot was empty. Was he arrested for one reason or another? Then I noticed a man resembling Abbas, Reza’s friend. It was him, I realized, as he said, “Roya, nice to see you. Are you and Reza back in Tehran?”

“No, just me. I came here to take care of . . .” Before I could finish, a car stopped at the curb of the street and the driver called to Abbas to get in. Abbas whispered to me quickly, “Tell Reza to be careful. A few journalists were just arrested. And Hossein . . .”

The man in the car honked loudly. Abbas said goodbye to me and rushed to the car before he finished his sentence. I wished I could ask him questions about the journalists who were arrested and what he was going to tell me about Hossein, but the car sped away and disappeared from my sight.

Oh, Reza, I thought, I hope you aren’t going to get into trouble. I turned onto a narrow street lined by peach trees. It was on this street that I took walks with Reza before we were married. I remembered one of the days vividly. The trees were full of buds. It was near dusk, but the sky was still luminous. The trees and houses all had assumed an ethereal quality in that light. The voices of doves, perching on copulas, were audible, in spite of the murmur of traffic from the wider avenues. A mysterious excitement had enveloped me as I walked with him. I loved Reza, no matter the risk he was putting us at.

The family court’s reception room was crowded again with men and women. Some paced, looking agitated and anxious. A few sat on a bench and chairs. A young bearded man was sitting behind a desk in a corner. I went over to him and told him about my appointment. He disappeared into one of the offices and returned quickly. “Mr. Jamshid Sepahzadeh will see you.”

“My appointment is with Haji Saiid Mohamaddi,” I said.

“I’m sorry but he had to leave—family emergency.”

Entering Mr. Jamshid Sepahzadeh’s office, I was weak with anxiety.

“Sit down,” he said in a polite tone, keeping his eyes averted. He was middle-aged, with a pile of white hair and a shaggy beard. On the wall behind him hung portraits of different prominent mullahs, all with long beards and turbans. He didn’t ask me any questions. Obviously, he had whatever information he needed about me.

He got to the point quickly. “Considering Maxim Alexandrov’s criminal activities, you have a good chance of gaining custody of your nephew,” he said. “Parvaneh Jahanbani’s urgency prompted us to move your case to the beginning of the waitlist. A child’s well-being is of great importance in our court.”

“I appreciate your concern and help.”

I was lucky, I thought, that Maxim was caught and established to be a criminal, or else the custody would definitely go to him. My mind traveled to years ago when I had imagined holding Tavoos in my arms and running away with him to our apartment, taking care of him.

“Can you come here on Thursday to meet with Haji Saiid Mohammadi, in charge of final decisions?”

“Yes, any time on Thursday.”

Again, he explained, “We are putting priority on this case otherwise would take weeks, months, sometimes years. The child having been taken away by a man with shady records makes the situation urgent.” His manner and his tone were dry, and he kept his eyes averted. But he didn’t seem unkind.

Thursday was just three days away, but it felt like an eternity. “Is it possible for me to see Tavoos before that?”

“Not until Haji Saiid Mohammadi allows it. Be here at ten in the morning and the clerk will lead you to the right office.”

On Thursday, I was back in the court again. Haji Saiid Mohammadi was sitting behind his wide Formica desk, looking over a document.

He looked up and greeted me and said, “Sit down.”

As soon as I sat on a chair, he said, “I’ve studied your case and we’ll make a decision by the end of this week. You know that you have to stay in Tehran if you get custody of the child.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Your previous landlord has said good words about you. That is going to be taken into consideration. I’ll send my recommendation to the Child Welfare Office and then you’ll get a call or a letter from them with their decision.” He added, “We take our children’s safety very seriously.”

I wanted to ask how long it would be before the decision was finalized but restrained myself.

He volunteered the information. “It shouldn’t take too long, by the end of this week.”

Four more days, I thought; it seemed like an eternity.

Without adding anything else he turned his gaze to the documents on the desk.

I got up, thanked him, and left. He didn’t look up at me, as if he had forgotten my presence. Still, my head was reeling with optimism.

In the house, I called Reza and now with the hope that I would get custody of Tavoos, I told him that I would need to stay in Tehran with him. That was one of the rules in custody laws, that the child adopted had to stay where his hometown was.

He was silent for a moment, and when he started talking, he sounded reserved.

“You want me to get custody of him, right?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice gathering warmth. “We always wanted a baby. You loved Tavoos from the beginning. We will welcome him as our own. But I don’t want to keep our hopes up until you have the final answer.”

“You are right,” I said.

We talked a little longer about the situation and about what he was working on. Finally, we said goodbye and got off the phone. Stirred up, I went out and took a long walk to calm myself.