A Door between Us Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Ehsaneh Sadr

  E-book published in 2020 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design by Zena Kanes

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-982618-20-9

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-982618-19-3

  Fiction / General

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  To Niloufar,

  whose love and beauty will always be remembered,

  and the 175 individuals with her on Flight 752.

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  hojjati family

  • mehri—sixty-year-old matriarch of the family

  • sadegh—Mehri’s adopted son who was born to her husband’s first wife

  • sumayeh—Sadegh’s half-American wife

  • zainab—Mehri’s oldest daughter and confidant.

  • fatimeh—Mehri’s younger daughter

  • alireza—Mehri’s son

  bagheri family

  • sarah—nineteen years old and engaged to marry Ali Rahimi

  • mahdiyeh—Sarah’s mother and Mehri Hojjati’s sister

  • abbas—Sarah’s father

  rahimi family

  • azar—thirty-five, a divorce lawyer, mother to Hossein and Muhammadreza

  • ibrahim jafari—Azar’s husband, an economist

  • ali—Azar’s brother, engaged to marry Sarah

  • mr. & mrs. rahimi—Ali and Azar’s parents

  tabibian family

  • roksana—Azar’s secretary

  • leila—Roksana’s daughter

  basijis

  • ganjian—Sadegh’s former teacher and friend, leads a Basij unit headquartered in Sa’adat Abad

  • heydari—member of the Revolutionary Guards

  PART ONE

  Three Days in June

  While there was intense attention to the June 12 presidential election and its potential impact on Iran’s internal balance of power and foreign policy, no serious analyst or scholar predicted the series of events that has transpired in the wake of that ballot.

  —Suzanne Maloney, Iran Expert at the Brookings Institute,

  June 26, 2009

  CHAPTER 1

  Thursday, June 25, 2009—thirteen days after the election

  Baton-wielding riot police in thigh-length black leg guards swarmed from the shuttered Interior Ministry in the early hours of June 13. They went to work beating people.

  —Roger Cohen, “Iran: The Tragedy & the Future”1

  Sarah was bored at her own wedding.

  The blind mullah apparently couldn’t pass up an opportunity to lecture a captive audience on an obscure topic nobody cared about. He’d been flown into Tehran at great expense, ostensibly due to the prestigious nature of his association with the Imam Reza shrine, Iran’s most important pilgrimage site and also, Iranians were fond of noting, the largest mosque in the world. But what Sarah cared about most was the man’s blindness, which meant that as soon as the sigheh marriage contract was finalized, she could immediately remove the slippery satin bridal chador that covered her like a white cocoon from which only her face was visible. Sarah was eager to stand before Ali uncovered for the first time so he could admire the way her thick black ringlets grazed her bare shoulders and be even prouder of the wife he’d fought for. If the mullah took much longer before getting to the sigheh, Sarah’s ringlets were going to go flat and frizzy and the four hours spent doing hair and makeup that morning with one of Tehran’s most sought-after beauticians would have been entirely wasted.

  As the blind mullah rambled on about a happy family life, which could be preserved by taking care to enter various rooms with the right or left foot—bathrooms with the left, bedrooms with the right—Sarah admired the exquisite sofreh aghd wedding spread laid out on the floor before her and Ali like an ornate picnic blanket. There were the Swarovski candlesticks and a rhinestone-encrusted Venetian mirror her mother had purchased for her on a trip to Austria back when Sarah was still a toddler. A Quran on a hand-carved wooden rehal was open to Chapter 30, Verse 21, about the love between spouses being another sign of God’s mercy. There was a bowl of honey for when Ali and Sarah would use their pinkies to feed each other a small taste of what would hopefully be a life full of sweetness. The rest of the spread was filled with decorated candies, eggs, nuts, herbs, gold coins and other symbols of piety, fertility, and prosperity.

  All the female relatives from Ali and Sarah’s families had left their tables and were crowded around the sofreh in a semicircle with Sarah, Ali, and the mullah seated on a raised platform at one end. Sarah recognized some of the women from their shoes. She wished she could look at everyone and enjoy their congratulatory and admiring glances or even a few teasing eye rolls. But she knew Aunt Mehri, the family matriarch, wouldn’t approve, and Sarah wanted to be particularly respectful of the old woman’s feelings today. Best to stick to the role of the dutiful, shy bride with her head firmly bowed.

  “So now we come to the marriage contract,” the mullah said.

  Finally, thought Sarah.

  “In Islam, of course, there is no compulsion in marriage just as there is no compulsion in religion. See how advanced Islam was at a time when little girls were being buried in the desert? The Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him and his family, was the first person to recognize the rights of . . .”

  The mullah launched into yet another lecture. Was there no way to stop the man? Sarah was sure her father would have prodded him to finish thirty minutes ago. Baba had no patience for grandstanding. But Maman-joon was too timid to ever consider interrupting anyone, let alone a respected mullah. And Aunt Mehri, who might have stepped in under normal circumstances, had washed her hands of the whole affair.

  They were lucky she’d even agreed to attend the wedding.

  “So now it is time to ask this young lady if she will give me permission to perform this marriage to enter her into a marriage contract with—”

  “Yes!” Sarah exclaimed, cutting the mullah off before he even finished asking the question. Sarah was determined to move things along, and she hoped the mullah would get the hint.

  There was a beat of silence. What was the mullah waiting for, Sarah wondered. Why didn’t he get on with asking Ali to accept as well?

  Then Sarah heard a sound that started off as a cough but turned into laughter that spread across the group of women gathered around the bridal spread. Sarah realized that she’d answered the mullah much too soon. In this part of the ceremony, the bride wasn’t supposed to answer the first or even second request to marry, let alone cut him off before he’d completed the question. Sarah should have remained silent, playing hard-to-get, as the female wedding guests answered the mullah in a traditional singsong chant that the bride was out picking flowers, Aroos rafte gol bechine. Then the mullah would have to try again, three times, before she finally consented.

  Sarah’s cheeks grew warm at her too-quick response. How embarrassing!

  Yet even as her cheeks burned, Sarah wished once again that she coul
d lift her head and join in the laughter herself. After the mullah’s long sermons the ladies needed some entertainment, and Sarah didn’t mind providing it, even at her own expense.

  Had Ali been amused as well? Provoking his amusement had become one of Sarah’s chief goals and unexpected pleasures during the few months they’d been engaged. The first time she’d accomplished the feat had been entirely unintended. In their only private moment during the traditional first meeting of khastegari courtship. Sarah had primly announced that she had no intention of marrying Ali or anyone else and that she’d only agreed to meet him because of her parents’ pressure and Aunt Mehri’s insistence that he was a good match from a good family. It was Ali’s surprised chuckle and friendly encouragement that she should pursue what she wanted independent of her family’s wishes that made her notice his honey-colored eyes for the first time.

  Straining her eyes to the left as far as they’d go with her head still down and constricted by her chador, Sarah could just see Ali’s profile in her peripheral vision. Ah, there it was—his clean-shaven cheeks, so unlike those of men in her own family in the way they revealed every facial expression, had a slight fold that meant he was definitely smiling.

  Sarah felt a rush of love, joy, and pride. She would gladly endure much worse embarrassment to amuse her sweet, stubborn Ali, who had wanted her, and only her, so much he refused to let Sarah go, even when the whole mess of the election brought their families’ political differences to light. Sarah wished she could look directly at him and admire how handsome he was in the Brioni suit her father had purchased for him in Italy. The suit’s light-olive color made Ali’s honey eyes look almost green, and its tailored design narrowed his oddly thick neck so that, if not quite elegant, at least it didn’t look wider than his head.

  Yes, Sarah was happy to have amused everyone. She was in love with her husband-to-be. And she was proud of the opulent wedding party her parents were throwing in one of Tehran’s most expensive hotels. The banquet hall was stunning, with its gold-trimmed ceilings and oversized chandeliers. And the food was exquisite. Earlier, when guests were settling in and waiting for the ceremony to begin, they’d been served a variety of flaky pastries that exploded a cool sweet cream with every bite, along with cardamom-infused black tea and a variety of fruits like strawberries, kiwis, peaches, plums, grapes, and small cucumbers. If the mullah ever finished, they would be treated to succulent dishes of lamb shank with dill-flavored rice, chicken, beef, and lamb kabobs, and, of course, the traditional sweet rice of weddings with slivers of orange peel, almonds, and pistachios.

  Aunt Mehri’s sudden reversal regarding Ali’s suitability as a groom had been accompanied by dire warnings about the bad omens associated with insisting on marrying someone who’d fallen out of divine favor. But thus far, the wedding party itself had been a spectacular start to Sarah and Ali’s life together and a fine testament to God’s blessing on their union.

  The tittering died down, and the mullah cleared his throat to announce, ahem, that he was starting over. As he took a breath to launch into his next lecture, Sarah heard Aunt Mehri’s sotto voce insult, “Che ajale dare . . . she’s certainly in a rush,” that was predictably followed by Cousin Zainab’s tsk of distaste over Sarah’s too-quick response and its implied eagerness for her husband’s bed.

  Sarah knew without looking that Aunt Mehri would be standing next to her eldest daughter and confidante, Zainab, who by virtue of her domineering personality as well as the seniority of being two years older than Sarah’s mother, was the family’s deputy matriarch who supported and enforced all her mother’s decrees. The mother-daughter pair would be wearing matching rose-colored indoor chadors, pulled tight around contrasting body types that were as different from one another as their characters were alike. Tall and rail-thin, Cousin Zainab made a perfect number “1” whereas short and round Aunt Mehri was a “0.” The “10” they created together had ruled the family for years, and Sarah knew Aunt Mehri’s remark was her way of meting out punishment over the unusual experience of having been disobeyed.

  “We’re in a rush too,” someone said.

  It was Ali’s mother, Mrs. Rahimi. “We just can’t wait to have such a lovely daughter-in-law,” she said, her voice beaming with warmth.

  Sarah was touched by these generous words and would have smiled her thanks at her soon-to-be mother-in-law if she hadn’t been worried about further angering Aunt Mehri. Mrs. Rahimi was so loving, gentle, and kind, just like Maman-joon. The two womens’ statures and speaking voices were so similar that, in their black chadors, shopkeepers kept mistaking them for one another during the many joint excursions where Sarah got to pick out one beautiful wedding item after another. In the drama of the past few days, Sarah had forgotten how well the two women had initially taken to one another.

  The mullah cleared his throat again. “Now, Miss Sarah, take your time and think carefully about this important decision. Do you or do you not allow me to conduct this marriage contract for you with the honorable Mr. Ali?”

  This time, like millions of Persian brides before her, Sarah sat quietly as the ladies crowded around the sofreh aghd answered for her.

  “Aroos rafte gol bechine! The bride is picking flowers!”

  It was a funny phrase. Sarah had heard it and even shouted it hundreds of times at other weddings. Where had the tradition come from? It might have made sense in, say, a village where the bride’s relatives were teasing the groom by pretending she was out picking flowers when he came for her. But in modern times when the bride was obviously sitting right next to the groom, it was a little silly to pretend she wasn’t there. It did, however, give the guests a way to participate. Maybe that was the point.

  In the midst of the women chanting, Sarah heard someone shouting something different. She strained to catch the words. What else could anyone be saying? It wasn’t as if there was another version of the ceremony.

  The mullah asked a second time whether Sarah would consent to the marriage. The ladies sang out, “Aroos rafte golaab biyare! The bride is bringing perfume!” ostensibly referring to the rosewater the bride was now making out of the flowers she’d picked.

  This time, Sarah could hear the discordant voices more clearly.

  “Marg bar diktator! ”

  Death to the dictator? Sarah was so shocked, she lifted her head immediately to see who would dare utter such treasonous words in present company. Ali’s devilish nephews, nine- and ten-year-old Muhammadreza and Hossein—who, unfortunately, were young enough to be in the ladies section—had their little fists raised as they chanted words they’d surely heard at one of the street demonstrations that had racked Tehran over the past two weeks. Even more unfortunately, they were sitting cross-legged on the floor right in front of Aunt Mehri and Cousin Zainab.

  At another time or in a different context, Sarah might have thought it was funny to see two little boys alleviating their boredom by disrupting a wedding ceremony. But now she felt something bordering on panic. She didn’t need anyone, least of all Aunt Mehri and Cousin Zainab, to be reminded of the political differences that had almost derailed the wedding.

  Two months ago, it had been Aunt Mehri herself who’d decided Ali—the nephew of her childhood friend Mina, the friend who’d always brought Mehri sweets from her father’s chain of bakeries and who grew up to marry a diplomat that was currently representing Iran at the United Nations in New York—would be a good match. Over Sarah’s objections, Aunt Mehri had convinced Baba and Maman-joon that Ali’s family was too good a prospect to pass up and that they should agree to at least one courtship khastegari meeting.

  On that khastegari day that would change the course of Sarah’s life—when she met Ali and started falling in love with him within minutes of having turned him down, and had furtively given him her email address so they could circumvent Aunt Mehri’s overzealous rules about whether and when they could communicate—the upcoming president
ial election was the last thing on anyone’s minds. Sarah would have been hard-pressed to name all of the candidates vying to defeat the brash populist President Ahmadinejad, who was favored by the country’s supreme leader.

  But after Sarah and Ali were formally engaged and the election neared, surprising political differences began to emerge. Sarah’s family were all Ahmadinejad supporters due to their longtime loyalty to supreme leader Khamenei. But Ali’s sister Azar and her husband Ibrahim, the parents of the little boys now disrupting the wedding, were outspoken supporters of Mir-Hossein Mousavi, the candidate who repeatedly implied that the supreme leader and his favored candidate had led the country astray from the original intent of the Islamic revolution. Azar’s husband even began working directly for Mousavi’s campaign during his hours away from Sharif University, where he taught economics.

  Still, it wasn’t until the actual election that things got really tense. Aunt Mehri’s youngest and favorite child, Sadegh, started spending every spare moment with the Basij volunteer militias that were trying to keep security in the streets and protect the nation from violent rioters. Aunt Mehri, beside herself with worry over Sadegh’s safety, had been deeply offended to learn that Azar’s husband had led a mass resignation of 120 university professors to protest the supposed ill treatment of students by government forces.

  But the final straw was when, at a ladies-only party hosted by Cousin Zainab, Azar had insisted that the election had been rigged, that the Green Wave protesters were simply standing up for their rights, and that the government crackdown was violent and immoral.

  “Did you see what happened just yesterday?” Azar had asked, waving a picture on her phone in the air. “A young woman, a peaceful protester, Neda Soltani, shot in the chest with live bullets. I have the video right here. Any human being would be outraged.”

  What made things worse was that, Mrs. Rahimi, who Aunt Mehri had known since she was a child, who was the youngest sister of one of Aunt Mehri’s oldest friends, hadn’t bothered chiding or even trying to quiet her daughter when she was so obviously insulting their hosts. Not only were the family’s politics wrong but its members were ill-mannered to boot.