A Door between Us Read online

  By the time the banquet hall started emptying out and Sarah and Ali were escorted to Ali’s white Mercedes Benz, Sarah was exhausted. Her feet hurt and her corset hadn’t let her take an easy breath all night.

  It wasn’t easy negotiating all the fabric surrounding her body. As Sarah sat in the car, the sheetlike chador started pulling back, and she had to awkwardly bump her bottom up a few times to pull it over her head while trying to keep her dress from riding up along with it. Warmer than she liked to be, she asked Ali to turn on the AC.

  “Chashm, azizam.” Ali turned it on full blast. Then he backed out of their parking spot and pulled over to wait for their families. Traditionally, close friends and relatives would accompany the bride and groom in a long procession of cars to the new home, where yet another party would be thrown before the exhausted couple was finally left to enjoy their first night together. Ali and Sarah had convinced everyone to forgo this additional event, given the strained relations between the two families as well as the many street demonstrations that had made it increasingly difficult to travel about Tehran. Their parents would accompany the newlyweds to ensure their safe arrival home but would then take their leave at the door.

  “What a night!” Ali exclaimed as they waited.

  “Oh my God,” Sarah was ready to focus on the hilarity of the evening. “Aunt Mehri, poor thing, rolling around on the sofreh aghd !”

  Ali chuckled softly and then took Sarah’s hand. It was the first time he was touching her, and Sarah was surprised by how soft his thick fingers felt.

  “I hope she’s okay,” he said, his voice subdued. “Those boys . . . they’ve been worse than usual since Ibrahim left the house.”

  Distracted by the tingling sensation Ali’s touch had ignited, Sarah asked absently, “What do you mean?”

  “So many of his friends have been arrested, Azar told Ibrahim to leave town before he got picked up too. The boys are taking it hard. Akh!” Ali rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “I don’t know why they had to mix themselves up with all of this. It just causes problems for everyone.”

  Sarah didn’t know what to say. She agreed with Ali’s sentiment but didn’t want to seem overly eager to criticize his sister and brother-in-law. She opted for what she hoped were sympathetic listening noises as she played with Ali’s fingernails

  “When your mother pulled you away . . .” Ali’s tone softened as he squeezed her hand. “I thought I might never see my gollam, my little flower, again.”

  Ali pulled Sarah’s hand to his lips for a sweet kiss, his breath on the back of her fingertips jolting something in Sarah’s belly.

  “I love my sister,” Ali went on after a pause. “But I don’t know if I would ever have forgiven her if I’d lost you because of her.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Sarah said, conveniently forgetting how close she’d been to complying with Maman-joon’s request. “You could never lose me.”

  As Ali smiled at Sarah in response, flashing headlights behind them announced that their parents had arrived. Ali started off with the two cars behind them.

  The parking lot’s exit onto Khodami Street was blocked by a huddle of unkempt young men gesturing to a tall, slim man Sarah recognized as her cousin Sadegh, Aunt Mehri’s youngest child.

  Sadegh held out a hand to command Ali to stop as he continued listening to the men around him.

  “What’s up?” Ali asked Sarah as he traced delicious circles on the inside of Sarah’s palm with his thumb.

  “Nemidoonam. I have no idea. These must be some of Sadegh’s Basiji men. Maybe something’s happened.”

  Ali rolled down the window, let go of Sarah’s hand, and leaned his head out of the car. “Agha Sadegh, ejaze mifarmayid? Would it be possible for us to pass by?”

  No answer.

  “Agha Sadegh, I’m sorry to interrupt you. Would you mind stepping to the side?” Ali tried again.

  Sadegh glanced toward their car and lifted a long finger to signal they were to keep waiting as he carried on with his men.

  “What exactly does he do with them?” Ali asked Sarah.

  “Who knows? One of his friends, an old teacher of his, I think, is with the Basij and Sadegh helps out. Sometimes they do checkpoints or break up those parties with alcohol and drugs and stuff. These days I guess they’re doing things related to the demonstrations, but I don’t know why they’re outside a wedding. Did you see him in the men’s section, or has he been outside the whole time?”

  Ali shrugged. “I can’t remember, azizam. There were so many people in there.”

  Sarah wished Ali would take her hand again. She could still feel a slight tingle from where his fingers had been interlaced with hers.

  After a brief pause, Sarah continued, “Sadegh would probably go full-time with the Basij if he didn’t have to run the family shops. He’s just like Aunt Mehri.” Sarah shook her head with irritation. “He loves telling people what to do.”

  “Shhh. Mishnaveh . . . he’ll hear you,” Ali warned, reminding Sarah that the car window was still down.

  But Sadegh was still busy with the men, who were now listening as he gave orders. Sarah watched as he leaned into an aggressive posture and suddenly grabbed the man in front of him. Sadegh bunched the man’s shirt into his fist and pulled him close as he yelled something that Sarah couldn’t make out. Then he pushed the man away and stalked toward their vehicle.

  Sadegh leaned into Ali’s window. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said in a gruff voice that belied his slim frame. Then he took a breath and changed his tone. “I wanted to give my congratulations to the new couple.”

  Ali answered, “Mersi, Mr. Sadegh. Thank you so much.”

  Sarah didn’t like how deferential Ali’s voice sounded. She bit her teeth and kept quiet.

  Noting Sarah’s silence, Sadegh congratulated her again, “Mobaraket, my cousin, may the two of you grow old together.”

  Sarah nodded her head slightly and managed a cold smile, “Mersi, mahremat ziyad,” she said, using the overly formal words of thanks to indicate her irritation in a subtle Iranian way. She was desperate to get out of the parking lot and to her new home where she and her husband could begin their life together, and she was furious with Sadegh for delaying them further. It was hard to remember that there was ever a time that she’d actually had a crush on her cousin. She’d been fourteen years old, and Sadegh seemed so smart and handsome, not to mention the fact that he was one of the only marriageable males she regularly interacted with. The crush had been short-lived. When Sadegh complained to his mother, Aunt Mehri, that Sarah was flirting with him, the ensuing humiliation was enough to transform her budding attraction into a dislike bordering on hate.

  Sadegh continued looking at Sarah in a pointed, almost inappropriate manner. Sarah returned his gaze steadily. In the dark, the pale green eyes that Sarah had once found so mesmerizing seemed to give off a light of their own. Sarah silently cursed him as she held the stare defiantly. Couldn’t he just let them go?

  Sadegh stroked his beard. “My mother and Sumayeh left early. What happened in there?” he asked.

  Perhaps if the day hadn’t been quite so long, if she’d managed to eat or drink something, or if her corset wasn’t trying to strangle her at the waist, Sarah’s answer would have been more typically polite. As it was, she surprised herself and her new husband by snarling. “Nothing happened! Aunt Mehri ruined my wedding, that’s all. Now can we go?”

  Ali laughed nervously, “Ey baba . . . the wedding wasn’t ruined. There was a . . . misunderstanding. And I hope the poor bandeye khoda didn’t get hurt when—”

  Sadegh’s eyes had darkened to a deep teal. He cut Ali off abruptly. “Kheyle khob, okay. I’m sorry to have taken your time.”

  Sadegh backed away from the car and signaled to his men to move out of the way. Then he turned back to the new couple. “Be careful out there to
night. Avoid Modarres Highway and take Valiasr Boulevard and you should be fine.”

  “Mersi, agha Sadegh,” Ali responded as he bowed his head repeatedly.

  Sadegh inclined his head in farewell, and the small caravan exited the parking lot.

  * * *

  But Sadegh was wrong. Just north of Vanak Square, traffic slowed to a snail’s pace.

  “If we can get to the next alleyway,” Ali said, “I’ll head into the neighborhoods and see if we can find a way around this mess. Call our parents and let them know.”

  Cellphone service had become unpredictable since the election unrest, and none of Sarah’s calls would go through. They turned to use hand signals to communicate their intent and realized that the car behind them belonged to neither set of parents.

  Ali decided to try the shortcut anyway. Their parents would be able to find their own way through the snarl, and they’d meet up again at the home they were being chaperoned to.

  Theirs wasn’t the only car to ditch the main streets for the alleyways. Traffic was still heavy, but at least moved forward by yards instead of mere inches. For almost ten minutes, they weaved and wound through one side street after another before coming to a full stop on a one-way alley just south of Esfandiar.”

  Ali switched off the car.

  “We’re low on gas,” he explained.

  The night’s heat began to seep into their air-conditioned bubble. Sarah tried to distract herself by flipping down the sun visor and examining herself in the mirror. The makeup artist had done a good job. Sarah liked how she’d used shading and false eyelashes to make her small slanted eyes look so much bigger. With her mother’s eyes and her father’s flat nose, Sarah had an almost East Asian look, like that Japanese Iranian girl, Roxana, who’d been jailed for spying.

  She flipped up the sun visor and loosened her chador to let some air in. Sarah had never been a particularly sweaty girl. Even in black coverings on a simmering August day, a bit of dampness under her arms was all her body produced. Tonight, however, she seemed to be suffocating in rivers of perspiration. The soaked silk of her corset wrapped around her like a boa constrictor intent on squeezing the breath out of her, and the awkward satin chador added another layer of insulation hugging the heat to her body. She envied Ali, who had not only shed his suit jacket but also rolled up his sleeves and undone the top buttons on his shirt.

  The muggy air was made more oppressive by the fact that they were hopelessly stuck in this narrow alleyway with cars and buildings pressing against them from all sides, blocking any conceivable escape route. For a moment, Sarah wondered if she might faint.

  She was distracted by the sight of a young woman hurrying in their direction from up ahead. The girl didn’t wear a chador but had a black maghnaeh head covering, the type Sarah had worn in high school, that was paired with a black, relatively long manteau worn over jeans and white tennis shoes.

  Sarah wondered whether the girl was a driver who’d abandoned her trapped car in frustration. But why was she breathing so heavily, moving in such a hurry, and looking over her shoulder so frequently? And then, suddenly, she wasn’t the only one. Dozens of young people were now moving swiftly through the alleyway, turning sideways to squeeze between vehicles, leaping over hoods, and maneuvering the mashup of cars like water over a pebbled surface.

  With a jolt of adrenaline, Sarah realized they were afraid. They were running from something. Or someone.

  It didn’t take long to identify their pursuers. Looking further up the street, Sarah could see the black-clad riot police, batons swinging, moving methodically down the alleyway.

  As the police came closer, the stream of runners became eddied and confused. The girl Sarah had first seen, who’d run past them seconds earlier, passed them again but in the opposite direction.

  “Ali, what are they yelling?” Sarah asked.

  Ali cracked the window to listen, but visual clues proved to be more enlightening. Through the rear window, Sarah saw a new group of police rounding the corner into the alleyway from the southern end. The demonstrators were trapped.

  The newlyweds watched in silence as the young people’s faces registered their situation and they began searching the walls, the alleyway, the skies, for some escape. Sarah watched them pound on doors—some of which eventually opened—begging for admittance. A garbage dumpster became sudden home to three young men, while others tried to hide under cars. The girl in the black manteau and maghnaeh simply stood still in front of their Benz, resignation mixed with defiance settling on her face. She saw Sarah watching and nodded her head slightly in greeting.

  The girl was beautiful. Her light-green eyes shone in the dark much as Sadegh’s had just an hour ago. But hers were further accentuated by well-sculpted eyebrows, cheekbones so prominent they left hollow spaces beneath them, and perfectly shaped lips. How could someone so exquisitely beautiful have gotten mixed up with these rioters? Sarah felt certain it must have been a mistake or a bad twist of fate. Maybe she was in love with one of the young men. Or maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All Sarah knew with absolute certainty was that the girl didn’t deserve whatever the security forces would be meting out. The panic that the girl refused to show began to rise in Sarah’s own throat.

  “Ali,” Sarah whispered with urgency, “let her in the car!”

  Her husband’s eyes were wide as he looked at her. “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes! Hurry, oh God, please hurry!”

  Ali unlocked the doors, and Sarah used her eyes and eyebrows to direct the girl, who was still looking at her calmly, toward the car’s back door. The girl took a moment to comprehend the lifeline that had been extended before dropping to the ground, crawling along the length of the Benz to reach the back door, and then clambering inside.

  “Mersi!” she whispered.

  “Stay low,” Ali warned the girl. “The windows are tinted, but someone still might be able to see you.”

  Outside, the scene proceeded with surprising calm. The police at the south end of the alley were sweeping the operation, flushing the runners out of their hiding places and prodding them forward. At the north end of the alley, their comrades were lining the young men and women up against the wall and escorting groups of them back toward the intersection where, Sarah assumed, police minibuses were waiting to take them to Evin Prison.

  The southern line of police moved northward, ever closer to their car. Sarah looked to the back seat and saw the girl crouched down with Ali’s jacket over her face. She wondered how well the inside of their car was concealed and whether it would be obvious that the girl was one of the demonstrators. She wondered, with a start, whether the danger she’d feared for the girl was now a possibility for herself and Ali. Surely, even if they found the girl, the police would realize they were simply newlyweds on their way home and had nothing to do with these rioters. Perhaps they could claim they hadn’t even noticed her crawling in to begin with? Was it too late and too cruel to ask the girl to leave? What had she been thinking, Sarah admonished herself, to insert herself and her husband into this mess?

  Black sleeves and baton-wielding hands could be seen out of the driver’s-side window. A twin pair of sleeves, hands, and batons passed on the right. Both were followed by more of the same as the police line streamed around their car. Sarah tensed, waiting for a rap on the window or door that would indicate one of these black-clad men had noticed the girl.

  But they all moved on without stopping.

  Relieved, Sarah released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  “Raftan,” Ali announced with his own exhale. “They’re gone.”

  “Oh my God,” the girl whispered from the back seat. “Thank you so much. God bless you both. Okay. I’ll slip out now.”

  “Why don’t we give you a ride?” Sarah offered. She was feeling generous again now that the danger ha
d passed.

  “No thanks,” the girl declined as she opened the back door. “I don’t live far. I’ll get there faster walking. God grant you a long and happy marriage. Thank you again.”

  When she was gone, Sarah wished she’d asked the girl’s name. It would be nice to have a name when telling this story. Sarah could already imagine how impressed her school chums would be by her brush with danger.

  “You okay, azizam?” Ali reached over and pinched her cheek softly.

  “Is life with you always going to be this eventful?” Sarah teased her husband. “What a wedding night!”

  “Just you wait and see what I’ve got planned once we get—”

  Ali’s rejoinder was interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. Sarah looked to see if the girl had returned to the car before realizing that it was actually the driver’s door that had opened.

  A burly man with an ample belly, unkempt black curly hair, and disturbingly red eyes had opened the driver’s-side door and was looking in.

  His voice was soft and respectful. “Agha befarmayeed payeen. Please get out of your vehicle.”

  Ali protested “Yanni chi? What do you mean? What for?”

  “Befarmayeed payeen! Out! I don’t want to ask it again.”

  Ali stepped out, still protesting “This is crazy. We’re just trying to get home from our wedding, and we got stuck in traffic that you people created. And now you’re giving us a hard time over nothing. Vellemoon kon. Leave us be!”

  Sarah watched the red-eyed man pass Ali on to another plainclothes Basiji and return to the car. Her heart raced as he sat in the driver’s seat, fiddling with levers to move the seat back and make room for his belly. Sarah noticed food stains on his beige button-up shirt and dirt-colored pajama-like slacks.