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Lover forever
High school love affair
in Khorramshahr
July 23, 2003
The Iranian
My son often tells me that I am a typical Iranian
because, in his words, “who makes a big deal about everything?” Of
course he means his accomplishments, which to him are nothing to
boast about. For this reason he often avoids telling
me about his projects until the day before, so I won't have time
to invite Iranians to come and see.
For the past three weeks I had been dealing with
some really new, (and unknown to me at the time), personal matters
of the heart, so I was not
really paying that much attention other than noticing that he was
speaking to himself in a French accent, acting as though he was
an old man. He often does voices in different accents while on
the phone so I was not surprised.
A few times I noticed
he had a book by the French playwright, Moliere, in his hand and
he was reading some stuff to himself out
loud. I had to pick him up every evening, but because I am so used
to his after-school projects (Japanese
club or music group) it did not seem strange to me.
Then last Monday he told me, “Mommy, there is a play that
I play a role in and you can come on Wednesday night, which is
for the press and the parents to see it.”
Tuesday evening I decided to find out what was going
on. Rather than wait in the parking lot, I sneaked into the dark
auditorium and stayed by the door. The play was in progress.
My jaw dropped when I saw my kid entering the stage
with a cane and using an old, trembling voice, talking in
a French accent,
and walking like a crippled. When they finished I went up
to the drama teacher and introduced myself. I was proud to see
that my kid had inherited some of my talents.
The next night was not very crowded and I enjoyed
seeing my kid with the white curly wig and all padded up. He really
looked like
an old French merchant! He asked me not to come when the public
was there the next night, but to simply pick him up so I wouldn’t
make him nervous. The next night I went to pick him up and was
impressed at how many people were there. My kid asked me to simply
sit and wait while he talked to people who “liked his acting.”
There were many teen-age boys and girls, and as
I sat and observed some of the girls coming on to the boys, my
mind drifted back to
my high school days in Khorramshahr.
I went back to fall of 1969. We had a new classmate.
She had milky white skin, auburn hair, and very calm demeanor.
Everyone was talking
about how pretty she was, but they made sure to make the stupid
comment “but she is from a poor family.” I had interjected
with my usual, “So what? Who cares whether she is poor or
not as long as she is intelligent and not too proud of her looks?”
In one of our classes the teacher and I made our
usual rounds about love in Persian Literature, and as usual, my
views had made the
poor man blush, because “a young lady should not have such
outrageous thoughts as slow dancing with her head resting on her
lover’s chest on a boat in the middle of the Karoon River,
or reading poetry in a paddle boat while her beloved gently paddled.”
During the break, the new girl came up to me and
introduced herself as Mahtab (moonlight). She told me that she
had known about me
since we were 5 years old and she really liked my attitude.
I was curious because I had never seen her and I
have always had a good memory.
She told me her dad was the guard at the “club” and
he often talked about my mischief when I went to play with my friends
in the garden at the Gomrok’s (Customs) club.
She had loved the time I had kicked a little girl
from the swing who turned out to be Shah’s niece staying at the Governor’s
mansion which had an entry into the garden. Of course, at 5 years
old, all I cared was that the little snub insisted to sit in that
swing because she was a “princess”, which made me mad
enough to slap her and then kick her hard. I could not understand
what all the fuss was about with those men in uniform and then
finally having me go inside the mansion to talk to a man dressed
in very nice suit. He asked me a few questions and offered me candy,
which I declined and told him I liked “pretzels” instead.
He wanted to know if anyone had asked me to kick her and of course
I answered she was too whiny and stupid for anyone other than me
to want to kick her.
The man had laughed and said, “You are just like what your
dad told me.”
I thought, “He is going to tell my dad” so I said, “What
did my dad tell you?”
He smiled and said, “You will not tolerate anyone who bothers
you or goes against your wishes.”
I felt better and said, “Specially when a little stupid brat
thinks she is better than us.” He asked me if I knew what
a princess was and I said yes, I had seen some on TV. “That
fat whiny brat is not a princess.”
The man chuckled and told the men in the uniform “she is
just a child” and then turned to me and said, “Because
I am your dad’s friend and I know you love him very much,
may I ask you to please play with my daughter?”
I said, “She can play, but if she starts bragging, I will
beat her up this time.” He smiled and said, “I will
talk to her,” and then looked at the men in uniform and said, “If
she starts being bratty simply take her away from the garden so
she won’t disturb this young lady and her friends.”
I liked him calling me “young lady.” The
thought made me smile.
Mahtab interrupted my thoughts as she said, “You know, I
share many of your interests.”
I was really curious now.
She went on. “I loved your idea about love and romance, especially
the slow dancing, lying on a bed of rose petals and reading poetry.
I love Hafez and Forogh Farokhzad.”
I liked this girl. She was into books and unlike
the other pretty air heads that I often blasted, she was very sweet
too. We became
friends fast.
I had practice nearly every day. There was a comedy
I was in. I sang with the band and performed in a few salons invited
by local
municipalities; I was a relay runner, and of course, I competed
in the “World Literature” competition, which was my
favorite. In this competition there would be small passages from
a book and you had to name the writer or the book and it included
literature from Iran and the world.
I did catch up with Mahtab and when I had a chance,
I visited her, but my dad requested that I go with our driver because
they lived
in a very poor neighborhood and my dad did not want me to spend
too much time walking, because I would then come home really upset,
cursing the Shah and his family for being so extravagant when there
were so many poor people in our land.
I had gone to Ahvaz for a state competition and
had a blast imitating the accents of people from Dezful and watching
the look on their
faces so confused. Nobody remembered to ever have seen me there!
I also had a blast portending to have dislocated my ankle so I
could be carried to the tent hospital, because there was a young
and very handsome medical student from Jondishapour University
assigned as the doctor who took care of minor nicks and cuts.
I
had to hold myself hard not to burst into laughter as his face
kept turning red from being exasperated trying to figure out what
was wrong with my ankle. He very cautiously touched my ankle and
asked where it hurt and of course I kept saying “ there”,
pointing to different spots on my leg. He caught on to the joke
and gave me a really sad look as he said, “There is nothing
wrong with you, but you are having fun ridiculing me.”
I simply shrugged my shoulders and did not feel
rotten. I just smiled and said, “For God’s sake, you are going to
be a doctor; you cannot get all embarrassed by touching a girl’s
ankle.”
I never forgot the look on his face but have no
regret because it was clean fun.
On Saturday when I went to school I noticed Mahtab was beaming
and seemed very anxious. The minute the class finished, she grabbed
my arm and nearly pulled me outside.
“Guess what, Azam?” “What, what?” I asked.
“I am in love. I have met the man of my dreams.”
The word “man” caught my attention.
“Okay
Mahtab, tell me about this person.” “Well,” she said, “He had seen
me and liked the way I looked and followed me to find out where
I lived. He had then
gone and talked to my dad and asked his permission to come to
our place to meet me. You should have seen the neighbors’ envious
looks as he parked his car in our alley. He had a big bouquet
of flowers and some boxes of chocolates. He did not look down on
our
place even though I was worried about him in his expensive suit
sitting in our patched up chair.
“He talked to me and asked me about what I
liked. Oh Azam, he loves poetry and reads poetry books every night!”
I was dying to know about this man so I said, “Mahtab, you
are killing me! Tell me his name.”
“Albert,” she said lovingly.
I gasped. “That is an Armenian name. Wait
a minute... I have many Armenian friends and I go to their parties;
the only Albert
I know among them is about our age and he is not into poetry
or books.”
Mahtab smiled as she lowered her voice. “He is 35 years old.”
I was caught by surprise and said, “Oh my god, he is 21 years
older than we are.”
“I don’t care,” she said.
“That does he do?” I asked.
“He has a great job and you know who he is.”
“No!” I said. “Albert my single neighbor? Oh my god,
my dad once asked me to invite his sister who was visiting to
come and eat with us. I thought he was a hermit!”
“Listen Azam, I love this man. He has rocked my world. He comes
to our house every night bringing presents for everyone. He sits
and asks me to read poems for him and he reads some to me.”
“Mahtab jaan, please be careful. You are from
two different worlds. I have many Armenian friends and although
they mingle with Moslems
they usually marry their own kind. It is their tradition.
I don’t
want you to be heartbroken. I want you to follow my philosophy
and set yourself up for 50% failure so in case he dumps you,
then you won’t be devastated.”
Mahtab smiled as she placed her hand on my shoulder. “Listen
Azam; there are no such rules for love. You give it your all and
in your heart you are convinced it will be forever and that is
how I feel about him.”
She had a romantic story to tell every time we spoke.
For her birthday he had covered the seats in his car with rose
petals
and he had
even bought them a house in a much better neighborhood and
all new furniture.
She was drinking wine with him at his place. She
talked about slow dancing in his arms as they listened to music.
He read
poetry to
her, combed her hair, and kissed the comb. All this talk
about love made me queasy, especially the fact that she was
living
my dream, but in my heart I kept feeling something bad was
going to
happen.
Mahtab had changed. She acted more mysterious and
secretive. There was a look in her eyes that I could not describe,
but
many years
later when I became a woman I recognized as the look of being “completely
fulfilled.”
She had pretty jewelry to show off which he had
bought for her. Then Nowruz 1965 arrived and we were off from school.
When the holidays were over and we went back to
school, Mahtab did not show up.
I was worried, so I stopped by at the gate of the club, which
was only a few hundred feet away from the entrance to the
area I lived.
I asked Mahtab’s dad, who seemed even older and more tired
than usual, what had happened. His eyes were filled with tears
as he said, “Mahtab is in the hospital.”
I went home and told my mom I was going to see Mahtab.
As I walked into the hospital I became really angry. I was told
that there
were only certain visiting hours and besides, I had to be
accompanied
by an adult. I told them that the owner of the hospital was
a good family friend and I would make a scene unless I was
allowed
to
see her.
A young man in white coat came up to me and introduced
himself as Dr. Farshid.
“Please come to my office,” he said.
I was nervous and somehow he must have felt it.
He said, “Do
you know what a nervous breakdown is?”
I was insulted and said, “You don’t have to be a doctor
to know that, but I guess as a typical doctor you have no brain
for common sense.”
He smiled and said, “I am sorry. I did not mean it as an
insult, but her condition is very critical. She is in a very fragile
state and should not be excited.”
I mumbled, “That son of a bitch did it and I am going to
kill him.”
He looked alarmed and shocked. I figured it was
because of my cursing, but he said, “Whom are you talking about?”
“I am talking about Albert, the love of her
life who promised her the world. I bet he is responsible for this.”
“Do you know Albert?” he asked.
“Yes, he is my neighbor,” I said.
“All right, Ms. Nemati, please try to remain
calm. You want her to get better not worse.”
I looked at him
and said, “Listen doctor, I want her to get better so she
can destroy the son of the bitch for deceiving her.” I was let into the room. I hated the smell of medicine
and death in the hospital. She looked like an angel lying there,
so fragile. I held back
my tears and
tried to seem cheerful as I reached for her hand. She opened her eyes
and a faint smile
appeared.
I tried to sound playful so I said, “What are you doing
here, scaring us all to death?”
“I wish I were dead, Azam, it would be less
painful.”
I swallowed my anger and tried to sound calm. “What
happened?”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds and took
in a deep breath.
“I have lived in heaven since Albert came into
my life. I never wanted it to end but it did. The last time I saw
him was the evening of Nowruz. He brought presents
for everyone and took me back to his apartment. He poured wine
and as we danced
he kissed
me more intensely than before and when we made love he cried as
he kissed me.”
I was shocked at my realization that she had been
making love to this man the way grown-ups do, but tried to hide
my surprise.
Mahtab continued in her barely audible voice. “He kissed
me from head to toe and told me he worshiped me, but his mother
wants him to marry an Armenian
girl or she would disown him.
“He loves his mother and he worships me but
he had to go on with the charade. He told me he would love me to
the end of time and then brought
me back to our house. The next thing I knew I was here.”
“Have you heard from Albert?” I said.
“No, he is away.”
I tried to change the
subject as she talked about ending her life. I made sure to tell
the doctor afterwards, so they could keep an
eye on
her. The
doctor
thanked me. When I got home, I was fuming. I told my dad that
I was going to hide in the bushes and jump at Albert and stab him
with a knife.
My dad
seemed alarmed but tried to remain calm.
“Come on sweetheart; you cannot kill people for having to follow their
traditions.”
I was mad even at my dad, and I yelled “Oh yes, then how
come the son of the bitch did not care about stupid traditions
when he chased her and promised
her the world?”
My dad tried hard to calm me. “Beautiful lady,” he
said. “The
world is not fair often but one must be careful and see the end
of the road. Mahtab knew that her chances of being with him were
so remote. Besides, my dear,
not everyone has the heart to break with traditions.”
I
disliked my dad at that moment. He was not on my side. I visited Mahtab every day and she seemed to get
better except that she was given Valium to relax her, and it was
obvious she
was addicted.
She
asked
me if I had
run into Albert and I said no. I had found out that he had another
apartment facing the beautiful Karoon River and that is where
they had met and
had those love-filled moments.
I ran into Albert and realized he avoided my eyes.
But one evening I blocked his way, but continued to walk. I called
him a coward
and a “naa-mard”,
a not so honorable man. Mahtab was moved to their house and continued
to recover. I visited her, read poems to her, and she kept talking
about Albert returning
to her.
Then one Friday I saw Albert’s wife. She looked
old and not very friendly. She was walking with Albert but they
seemed worlds apart. He simply said hello
and I nodded. Mrs. Biglary, our other neighbor, had made Albert’s
wife’s acquaintance
and came to share the information. “Her name is Annette.
She is from Jolfa in Isfahan and she is 29-years old. She has a
college degree and her uncle introduced her to
Albert’s family.”
I cursed Albert secretly. That night there was a
garden party and my dad told me he was taking my brother and I
to mingle with
other
teenagers
and
to have
fun. Albert and his wife were there. Her hair was neatly
bunched up and she only exchanged a few words with everyone.
I went to say hi to my friend Vartan and his fiancé Aida,
and as I sat down, I realized Albert and his wife were coming to
that table. He formally introduced
me to his wife as Azam, their neighbor’s daughter. I don’t
know what possessed me to say, “This
is perfect for being in love.”
Vartan laughed and said, “I
agree with Azam, the moon is shining, the music and the fragrance
of the jasmines and the smell
of the Karoon River makes quite
a romantic setting for love.”
Annette said very coldly, “Those
are romantic notions from books filling people’s minds.”
I
snapped and said, “Those are beautiful and very real thoughts
given by mother universe to people with beautiful souls to match
their beautiful minds.” Aida came to her rescue and said, “Well, I think some of
us are lucky to experience love. Most of us think it is a passing
notion.”
Albert caught us all by surprise when he said, “I agree with
Azam Khanoom! Love is the most beautiful gift of all granted to
those who are lucky to experience
the ultimate happiness.”
His wife seemed annoyed and said, “Those are from the Western
novels and movies.”
I felt contempt and said, “I
do not know where you have been, Annette, but Iranians (I said
it deliberately to imply she was
not Iranian) have the most
beautiful love stories and poetry in the world, but most of us
are too big of a coward to follow our hearts and instead opt
for convenience and what others
determine would make us happy. A man to provide for us financially
and a woman to carry children and take care of the house. Not
a loving soul mate to share
our happiness and sorrows.”
Annette looked at me and said, “Do you read a lot?”
I wanted to slap her face but said, “Yes I do, but my ideas
come from my brilliant mind that belongs to me, and unlike some
idiots who are women in name
only, I do not take my cues from society.”
Vartan grabbed my hand and said, “Let’s dance!” He
pulled me to the dance floor because he knew I was getting close
to snapping.
The next day I went to see Mahtab. She seemed anxious
to see me. “Come
on, Azam, I know about the garden party last night. My dad was
guarding the gate and you said hello to him. So better not keep
any secrets and tell me what went
on.”
I told her. She smiled and kissed my cheek. “I love you like my sister,
and I am telling you, Albert will break up with her. The love between us is still
very strong.” She had a smile on her face.
Then our neighbor, Mrs. Biglary, told us that she
had heard the couple arguing often. There were many speculations
that they
were not getting
along. I kept
it as a secret and did not let Mahtab know. I did not want to
give her false hopes.
Then Annette was gone. Everyone said she simply
had left. Mahtab seemed different when I went to see her. She beamed
and told me that Albert had called her from his office often and
cried while telling her how sorry and
miserable he
had been. Then
he had
gone to see
her and their tears and kisses had done all the talking. He did
not care about traditions and he wanted her “to have and
to cherish.”
Finally, one day when I got home Mahtab was waiting
for me. She jumped and hugged me with so much excitement.
“Azam, my dearest sister, I am going to be
with my love forever.”
I looked at her questioningly.
“Albert is leaving his job in Customs and wants
to marry me and take me to America so we can live our lives the
way we want. We do not have to put up
with the prejudices
of the Armenian community considering him a traitor and we
don’t
have to put up with the Moslem community considering me a traitor.
It will be just the
two of us, and our poetry books. A life filled with love and
passion.”
A month later they left for America. It was sometime
in the summer of 1971. I wondered if he is still reading poetry
to her and whether they dance to slow music now that he is nearly
69 years old and Mahtab,
like me,
is about
to celebrate
her 48th birthday.
I will dream about slow dancing in the middle of Karoon River
even when I reach the tender age of 100!
I marveled at the profoundness of love in my time
and tried to compare these teenagers who were coming up to the
boys in front
of me. God,
how romantic
we were! My thoughts were interrupted by a young man’s voice.
“Mom, are you daydreaming about your high school
days in Iran again?”
It was my son’s voice. He smiled and said, “Oh yes, I know, the girls
in your time did not flirt with the boys and were not half naked
as these in my school.”
Well, I am glad he thinks that way. He will never
experience innocent love like most of us did, all through the window
of our eyes
meeting somewhere
in time.
Not like his generation in America who can easily kiss and
do everything else. I secretly am thrilled that although nearly a golden
girl,
my heart is still
filled with idealistic and romantic notions, as it was when
I was
a teenager.
Perhaps that is why, unlike most people of my generation,
I have not become that realistic and calculating, those
who are
devoid
of romanticism,
and
I do not
carry any baggage. I am ever the optimist with a quest
for the perfect beloved!
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