|
This story is about an adult subject. If you are under
18 and happen to read this, talk to an adult afterwards. And ask lots of questions.
 Sarvenaz diaries -- Part 4
Sad almond eyes
The way he avoided looking or talking to me spoke volumes
By Sarvenaz
February 22, 2002
The Iranian
I stood there for a few minutes peeking at Banani and Leila who were deeply engaged
in the mechanics of their afternoon rendezvous. Then, feeling tired and silly about
my nosiness, I turned around and walked silently but quickly out of that house. As
I was shutting the gate I saw a Nissan Patrol belonging to the government intelligence
or komiteh (revolutionary guards or police). A man with black hair and a clean cut
short beard stepped out. My heart skipped a beat in fear.
"Khanom in khaaneye keeye? Faameele shomaast?" ("Is this the house
of a relative of yours?")
I started thinking quickly: do I ask this guy for an i.d like they do on American
TV shows, or do I just answer his question? I knew he was from ettelaa'at
or security police from the signature car and the way he was dressed in an off olive
suit, Nehru collar, and an aghate ring with a prayer on it on the small finger.
I decided to ask, "Aghaa, bebakhshid, shomaa kee hasteed?" ("Who
are you sir, if you do not mind me asking.")
"Maa aaghaaye Banani ro khoob meeshenaasim, baahaashoon kaar daashtam, vali
shomaa az man beshn: injaa digeeh nayaa." ("I know Mr. Banani well. I have
some business with him. But you should listen to me and not come here again.")
I told him that I was a friend of the Khanom of the house and that there was no
one in the house right then. But the man in the pale olive suit looked at me knowingly
and asked me about the BMW inside. I told him I had dropped it off because a mechanic
of the Bananis was going to look at it. He smiled ever so faintly and told me that
I must be a good friend of Mrs. Banani.
He was not too tall but strong looking. He had beautiful deep dark eyes you could
get lost in, if only he would let you look into them. He avoided my eye like most
of these hezbollahi types do -- but he did not exaggerate. He seemed to genuinely
not want to trouble me with his gaze.
Then, as if reading my change of mind about him and not wanting to make me too
comfortable, he said in that exaggerated masculine, accusatory and menacing voice,
"You should watch out with these people, they are no good -- corrupt inside
and out."
That patronizing tone upset me. I did not think highly of Banani either but who
was this guy to tell me whom I should see. How much did he know them anyway? What
was this about? Did he know about Leila in there? Did this have to do with something
else? Did Banani write an anti-mullah poem or something?
I tried my best to look him in the eye and said, "Look mister, if you have any
business with Mr. Banani why not speak to him yourself tomorrow when they come back?"
He said he was planning just that. But he believed that Banani was home as we
spoke and that he was going to go in right now and see him in fact. He told me he
knows that car belongs to Banani's friend who looks quiet different from me. He took
a couple of steps towards the gate.
I, thinking of Leila and Banani and how horrible it would be if this man busted them,
had to do something. I said, with as big a reconciliatory smile as possible, "He
is not there. Beh khodaa, there is no one in the house. Why do you not give me a
ride instead? I have no car and am very tired and not feeling well. It is getting
late and I am afraid of walking in the street alone. Khaahesh meekonam aaghaa."
He looked passed me toward the gate. I thought I was going to have a heart attack
right there. Visions of stoning adulterers and that dog of a Banani buried chest
deep in sand flashed through my mind. As vulgar as these people were they do not
deserve to be stoned to death! Leila, my cousin, who had given me all her Barbies
when she went to boarding school and whom I loved despite her bitchiness was in danger!
So I mustered up the sweetest tone I could and said in the highest voice possible,
sounding like a little girl on the brink of tears and in need of protection, "Khaahesh
meekonam mano beresoonid khooneh."
He kept looking at the sidewalk -- down and to the side and did not say anything
for what seemed like forever. "Very well. Get in. Banani got lucky today because
of you."
In Iran favors, even little ones, are rubbed in your face. Even people who squat
in other people's homes demand money before leaving, for having maintained the property,
as if the involuntary nature of the contract was a mere technicality. If you did
not know how to bribe, you could not run a business in Iran. Imposed social codes
of conduct were the least of the problems here. Iran had become a Mafia nation --
a den of thieves and hustlers.
I was very relieved that this man backed down. I wanted to shake his hand and thank
him. He did not even look at me. Telling me that he spared Banani because of me was
as flirtatious a statement as I was going to get from a hezbollahi intelligence agent.
Maybe the high tone of my voice did the trick. Maybe there is some truth in the Islamic
notion that a woman's voice is very provocative. Or maybe this man was just kind
and wanted to give me a ride. And maybe he did not really want to bust Banani on
a charge that he was not really after. They never sent these guys to track adulterers:
there would simply be too many people to arrest in this city, bustling in sin, under
the gray hejab of its own pollution. He was probably there spying on Banani for some
other problem that the poet may have been facing. One never really knew about people's
business dealings in Tehran.
I got into the front seat of the Nissan Patrol. He told me to take the back seat.
It was not "appropriate" for me to sit with him in the front. Sometimes
I forgot little details of the code of conduct here -- Farhad, my ex, used to tell
me, "There is too much New York in you."
I sat in the back and noticed him looking at me through the rearview mirror. He turned
his gaze the minute I looked so that I caught only the tail end of those almond eyes
so big and hard to catch. But even that nano-second was enough to reveal an incredible
sadness. What sorrow did they hide? He looked away, no doubt, ashamed. Devote Muslim
men, like him, were at once shy and repressed, self-righteous and bullying. This
combination of repressed sexuality and self-righteousness in these men is especially
menacing when they are equipped with weapons and work for a government that is devoid
of any accountability. There is an anything can happen fear that permeates
the atmosphere in Iran and covers it like a blanket. Those who live here are so used
to it, they can ignore it; but those of us who are tourists cannot help feeling it.
This man with the sad eyes, however, had a quality about him that was different from
the others I had encountered here and there. His eyes revealed a kindness that his
ego did not want to expose. Sometimes pain leads you to humility and tolerance, sometimes
the opposite. Here in Tehran you saw it turn people every which way. Some tried to
sedate it. Some used it to power their anger and hate. Others peddled pain for pity.
Every one felt it to some degree or another. The pain of a devastating war, the pain
of the lack of liberty, or money, or opportunity, or of missing loved ones -- or
of all of it put together like a lump in the throat that cannot be swallowed.
The way he avoided looking or talking to me spoke volumes and made me feel at once
feminine and ashamed in a way I never had before. It was as though he would ejaculate
right there and then.
I must admit it was a great boost to the ego to think that someone could be so turned
on just by the sight of me. In New York it seems like half the men are gay and the
other half need Viagra. In Iran I always felt more of a woman. Here there were all
these eyes trying to avoid you as if the mere sight of you would give them erections.
The younger men, who were genuinely trying to avoid a woman's sight rather than merely
feigning it, had these bent to the side necks and cast down eyes that revealed guilt
and shame towards their own virility. Truly it is a shame to have all this national
flow of testosterone suffocated with so much guilt, and repression. How much anger
was all this pent up sexuality responsible for?
I started to talk because the silence was scaring me. "Are you from Tehran?"
"I am from Mashad," he replied.
"I have been wanting to go to Mashad for a zeeyaarat. I made a nazr (vow)
to go when I got a scholarship to my University (This was true. I am a superstitious
agnostic who loves to nazr all the time!)
"You go to university in America?""
I nodded.
"Good for you. I wanted to go to study engineering but it did not happen.
Inshallah maybe someday. Is there a lot of Fessaad (moral corruption) there?"
"I think people are more honest there. But there is more freedom if that
is what you mean?"
"You are not afraid of talking are you?""
"Why should I be? You seem very nice," I replied, smiling and looking
in the mirror for his eyes that never looked up.
"You saved your cousin today," he said.
I fell silent. Now I was terrified. He knew Leila was my cousin and that she was
there in the Banani house. Had he seen her bent over doggy style?
"Why do people engage in this kessaafat kaari (filthy deeds)? I cannot understand,"
he said.
He looked at me for a quick second. I felt a sense of shame go through my body.
I thought of myself in a zippered bathing suit from Henri Bendel with Jafar's head
on my naked lap. If I had not been so dark from the summer sun I would have blushed.
How far in thinking could we be -- this man and I? The thought of the vast desert
of difference between us only made me want to cross it. I loved culture shock. I
was an expert at it. ("Too much aggressive New Yorker in you Sarvenaz!")
I asked him what made him go to work for the government? He replied that he had been
at the front as a soldier and that his colonel in charge had gotten him a post in
Tehran, which eventually led to this. It paid well. I told him that no matter how
much I was paid I would not spy on other people. He seemed shocked. People did not
talk to him like this often and I knew it. I knew my American honesty would be disarming
and I used it. It usually worked like a charm. Iranians are so tired of lies and
deceit that when someone shows them some degree of sincerity they really cherish
it -- it is like giving candy to children that have been long deprived.
But there was more at stake here. I had to talk to this man to avoid the fear
I felt, both real and not. He could make my life, and my friends', miserable. I could
disappear and never show up until they find my body somewhere. Often I had nightmares
about my parent's friends who just disappeared one day and were found dead in a forest
a few weeks later, all chopped up. The government people told the son not to hold
a funeral for them. He has never been told the reason behind the fate of his parents.
He has just been told not to ask any more questions. He obeyed, Like most of us would.
Maybe talking to this guy was the only way I felt like I was able to control him.
Or maybe I wanted those dark eyes that tried so hard to avoid me, to look at me again.
"Do you enjoy waiting outside people's homes taking down what they do?"
I could not believe my own audacity. Sometimes we are brave out of fear -- fear of
showing our weakness and surrendering.
"I don't like doing this either," He said and I knew he meant it.
"Why do you not stop?"
"And who will pay the bills then. My father is dead and my mother and sister
depend on me. I am the only son left." He still did not look through the rear
view mirror behind.
"Can you not get another job?"
"Khanom, it seems like you have been away from here too long. There are no
jobs."
"Why are you following Banani?"
"I cannot say but it has nothing to do with your cousin."
I cringed at the thought of him having seen Leila with the heels and the garter
belt. He looked at me through the rear view mirror, when he uttered her name. I looked
away. Our eyes seemed afraid to meet.
We arrived at the door of my parent's house and he parked across the street and
up a little. He knew my address! I said thank you and started to get out of the car.
"Azyateshoon nakon," (Don't bother them) I said in a very flat no longer
girly voice.
"His uncle is a big shot Ayatollah they will not do anything to him."
"You are not afraid to speak like this?"
"I learned it from you," he looked me straight in the eye.
I looked back. The eye contact took a long instant. But for that fleeting second
it felt so incredibly right to be swimming in those beautiful eyes. That second lasted
longer than it should have. I kept thinking of those eyes for days. Women have a
weakness for sad men.
"What is your name?"
"Mohammad," he replied.
"You know mine don't you?"
"Khodaa haafez Sarvenaz Khaanom," he said as he rolled up the tinted
dark window of the silver Nissan and left me pondering if it was relief from fear
alone that had made me smile.
***
I walked into our house and only then realized how scared I had been during that
whole ordeal. I wanted to be back in the liberating anonymity of Manhattan where
people only bother you for money. My father and my uncle Ahmad were sitting in the
terrace with their vodka and maast-o-khiar (yoghurt and cucumbers). I decided I was
not going to tell anyone about my encounter with the ettelaa'aati but Banani
himself. I went straight upstairs and phoned his house.
Banani answered the phone. I told him in as short and quick a way as possible what
had happened. Leaving out the fact that I had seen them. He just thanked me for calling,
and told me not to tell anyone -- that he would make some calls and take care of
the situation. I did not tell him that the guy had given me a ride. Then Banani asked,
"Why were you at our house?"
"I was looking for Goli." I replied knowing that he wanted to know if
I had seen anything. There was an embarrassing pause. I thought of Goli and her smile.
"She is gone to Lavassan. She loves that place. You should call her there.
Do you have the number?"
"She gave it to me at Leila's party," I said surprised of myself for
dropping that name.
"Ghorbaanat Sarvenaz joon. Thank you so much for dealing with this guy. Do
not worry it is not important. All these guys can be bought with a few dollars."
"It's wonderful to see the children of the revolution blossoming." I
replied, wondering if Mohammad was the kind who took bribes -- no way. Or maybe he
did, and that is why his eyes were so sad.
I went back in our garden and sat next to my dad and my uncle, elderly gentlemen,
eloquent conversationalists, who gave me vodka and told me stories. Men of the old
school who knew the Shahnameh by heart and spun a web of conspiracies around
the world of politics to make Le Carré jealous. I needed them that night,
more than anyone else. The company of old, graceful men with low levels of testosterone
was the best prescription to cure the fatigue of an all too exciting day!
I sat in the garden with the fountain in the middle, lit and making a beautiful trickling
noise, and listened to my father and my uncle's dialogue. I asked pertinent questions
when appropriate, like a good student, or the curious Little Daddy's Girl that I
had always been, which made my father very proud. He always told me I was not like
the other girls when I was growing up -- he still told me that. I took it the way
he meant it -- as a compliment. The same way Jafar told me that I drank like a man.
I was on my third shot of vodka and second bowl of mast-o-khiar when the doorbell
rang. I jumped a little still afraid that it might be the man, whose eyes I liked,
in the Nissan Patrol.
In came Leila and Jamshid and Jafar giggling. "We've come to take Sarvenaz to
a party," declared Jafar with fraternal jollity. I protested that I was really
too tired and offered them some drinks instead. They all sat down and sipped on vodka
with my father who was in the middle of telling a story of an old shaazdeh princess
who had eloped with a servant some seventy years ago.
Jamshid looked at me and smiled with an Americanized ease that was welcoming after
the strange encounter earlier. I looked in his eyes and left my eye on his for the
comfort that it gave me. He blessedly smiled a friendly smile and did not misinterpret
it. I was amongst my people and it felt good. He was very kind and polite towards
my father and Uncle Ahmad, showing just the right amount of interest and care.
After a polite sitting the three of them talked me into going to the party. I
agreed partly because I did not want to think about that man in the Nissan, partly
because I had heard so much about the wild parties at Roya and Hamid Jabari's house.
I wore my gray dress that opened in the back to the rising curve of my buttocks.
I thought of Mohammad the agent as I picked up my Koran and ran a finger over it,
thanking god that the afternoon encounter had turned out alright.
The party was in Niavaran under the bosom of the majestic Alborz mountains that cradle
Tehran. There were many cars in the driveway. This was Roya's house. She was one
of the friends who had introduced me to the term Escada at Leila's party. It was
a colossal villa that could have been in Beverly Hills where Roya and Hamid, her
husband, also had a house. Hamid was an import-exporter. Rumor had it that he had
made lots of money dealing arms during the war with Iraq. I saw no other way to explain
the massive fortune that they had amassed in so little time.
Hamid's dad had been a pharmacist in Tabriz who no doubt had not left him a fortune.
In Tehran money has taken over in primacy from all other prejudicial notions of class
and status. No one really cares how people get their money as long as they get invited
to their parties. Everyone gossips but all tolerate. And the more money they see
the more they kowtow. Only people of the old school, like my parents, still only
frequent people they know from long ago or what they call "aadam hessaabee"
or quality people.
This party was huge. Everyone knew that because of Hamid's connections -- and generous
bribes -- no one would raid the party. Anyway raids had become more rare than last
summer. There were little tables all over the garden and around the pool. Waiters
in black suits and ties served drinks on trays. Small lights in the ground lit the
trees. The pool was strewn with leaves that carried little candles. In one corner
of the vast gardens there was a troupe of traditional musicians, a santoor, a tar
and a dombak player, all looking high on opium and playing an exquisite segah
tune.
Jamshid picked a couple of vodka limes from the tray, gave me one and told me to
follow him inside.
"You want a tour of this place?" he asked. "It's pretty incredible.
They even have a disco downstairs, complete with bar and barstools and a great sound
system." I loved the way he spoke English. It was the non-accented English with
Farsi intonations of those who grew up speaking both of them. He was around thirty
something and came from an ex-illustrious family who had been great landowners.
The disco looked like a scene from a Felini movie. No other way to describe it but
in that cliché, I am afraid. There was loud techno music. Fog was coming from
a cleverly-positioned machine on one of the walls. Strobe lights flashed everywhere.
Jamshid pulled me onto the dance floor but that music was just too much for me to
handle on a simple vodka lime. I held my ears in protest to Jamshid, who took my
hand and led me through the side door and up the spiral stairs. On the midway landing
he stopped and took out a small white pill from his pockets. I knew it was ecstasy
but what shocked me was that this had an Allah insignia on it. In New York I had
seen kangaroos and American flags imprinted on these little pills --but Allah? I
could not believe my eyes. Did they make it in Iran I asked? Jamshid said yes as
he popped one in his mouth. I cut one in half with my nail and put it in my mouth
giving the other half back to Jamshid.
We went back in the garden because I wanted to avoid that disco with the unbearable
techno until I was feeling the full effects of the little pill. Until then I preferred
the trio in the garden. Jamshid saw a couple of friends and started talking to them
and I went on outside. I grabbed anther vodka lime, lit a cigarette and sat on one
of the petit tables around the pool. Jafar came by and asked how I was doing. I told
him that I had just taken half a tablet of X. He smiled and said so had he. He stared
into my eyes shamelessly. I thought of Mohammad and his dark eyes. What a vast desert
of difference, I thought. Jafar said, " You better watch out. These parties
get really wild after a certain hour."
"Do not worry about me. Remember I live in New York. Nothing shocks me,"
I replied, fed up with these big brother flirtations of his. I wondered if he knew
about Leila.
"Do you like Jamshid?"
"He seems very nice."
"Oh that says a lot."
"Well I don't know him that well."
"Maybe tonight you'll get to know him better."
"I sure do hope so." I was feeling the slow creep of the X coming on.
"I'm starting to feel this X coming on. Do you?"
He nodded yes and took me by the hand and we glided inside and downstairs. In
a moment I was on the dance floor of the basement disco moving to the rhythm of the
music with Jafar. I moved with the obsessive repetitiveness of a whirling dervish
completely at one with the music and the visual play of lights and fog. It was like
my skin had been removed and my sense perceptions had been heightened to their maximum
capacity. I was one swaying, rocking body happy to surrender to the chemical dictatorship
of the drug. I was on a one-track mind to increase my buzz, my pleasure and nothing
was going to stop me. I thought of the reflection of the ettelaa'aat agent's
eyes in the rearview mirror of the Nissan Patrol one more time before I started feeling
the effect of the pill in full.
As I was dancing trance-like I smelt Jafar (he wore Eau de Hadrian) behind me dancing
very close, emulating my moves. He slowly came closer and rubbed his body against
my back. He soon started feeling like he was an extension of me. I wanted to peel
off our clothes and feel his flesh against mine. I wanted him and no one else there
on that dance floor, naked and rubbing against my body till we both fell to the ground
of exhaustion. His body told me he wanted the same. Only his yearning seemed a little
more urgent, hovering over me in the form of a mouth breathing down my neck into
my cleavage, my ears, every hole or crevice that it could find up there. I could
feel a twinge of his desire and mine wrapped into one rocking us to the repetitive
beat of the music. I could feel his erection against my buttocks and wanted badly
to touch it.
I was not so high as to not worry about Leila, or anyone else for that matter, seeing
this techno-tango of mine with her husband. He must have felt the same way because
he stopped when it was getting to be too much and told me to follow him. I did without
a moment's doubt. The drug had lifted all doubts about the efficacy of following
one's desires. We walked upstairs and he got us two tall glasses of water. My mouth
was so dry that I drank the water with the pure primordial joy of someone tasting
this God given blessing for the first time. He took me by the hand like it was the
most natural thing to do and we all but ran up the stairs passed two floors and opened
the door to the terrace. There under the starlit sky, kilims were spread on the floor.
Cushions and pillows were thrown in the four corners of the rectangular terrace where
there were concave built-in semi circles of seating. Each area had a table with pistachios
and nuts and little nibbles. Candles were placed in burgundy and pink Laleh covers
everywhere. I took a deep breath and let it out. "How come there's no one here?"
I asked.
"It's too early. They are about to serve dinner now. They come here late
at night to smoke."
I lay down flat on my back on one of the mattresses. Unable to think. I just wanted
to let the summer air kiss my skin. I could still feel the techno beat somewhere
in my heart and needed to calm down. Jafar was not going to let that happen. He picked
an ice cube from his drink and rolled it down my cleavage. I gasped and sat up, and
slapped his hand like you would a kid who reaching into the cookie jar. He looked
at me with dilated eyes and put the ice on my lips. I let him. It felt like an ice
goddess was kissing me. Water to ecstasy is like tea to taryaak: essential. I closed
my eyes and let him rub ever so gently the ice cube on my mouth. The ice felt cool
and numbed my lips. Soon it melted and I felt his fingers rest between my lips and
push ever so slightly against my teeth. My mouth opened in a silent sigh. He slipped
his finger in my mouth and I held it with my teeth. I opened my eyes and melted in
his. He put his lips on mine and kissed me passionately. First he started with my
lips, then, he pushed his tongue into my mouth slowly but with purpose. I felt our
mouths become one.
I heard the door opening and sprang up. Liela, Noushin, Roya and Jamshid and the
boy from London poured into the terrace like an invading army. Jamshid was the first
in and caught a glimpse of Jafar and I trying to disengage from our embrace. But
the others did not see much.
"What are you two doing here? Smoking a joint?" asked Leila plopping in
the cushion on the other side of Jafar. I moved down a little. Noushin sat next to
the Londoner, her hand in his. Jamshid gave me a "you are naughtier than I thought"
look. Roya was a little tipsy and giggly.
Jafar lit a joint without saying a word.
"Where are Banani and Goli?" I asked feeling immediately like a bitch
for bringing up Leila's lover's name.
"She is in Lavassan and I have no clue where he could be," answered
Leila. She was good at this mistress of the universe.
"Poor Goli alone in Lavassan," said Noushin.
"Why did she not come to the party?"
"Goli is a bit of a loner; she doesn't really like big parties."
An almost physical urge to get in the car and drive into the mountains swept over
me in a drug-induced wave. I wanted to be in the calm of Goli's Lavassan home away
from all this: husbands and wives and drugs and techno music and memories of a pair
of ettelaa'aati eyes.
In Lavassan you could see the stars better. Like they had been washed, polished and
put up on display for you. It was above the pollution of the city. Right then I felt
like I had to go and drive up above the line of smog.
"Why don't we go and see her?"
To be continued...
|
Sarvenaz diaries -- Part 4