A Door between Us Page 4

  “Bebakhshid khahar. I’m sorry, my sister,” he finally addressed Sarah, “but who was the girl that just left your car?”

  Sarah’s heart beat so violently against her corset she thought it might snap. She wasn’t prepared for this. She’d never been a good liar, and even if she was, she and Ali hadn’t coordinated a story. Should she take a stab at making something up? As she thought through her options, the man spoke again.

  “You should know that my friend is asking your husband the same thing.”

  What could she say? What answer would deliver them? She couldn’t breathe. She really was going to faint.

  A long sigh from the red-eyed man. “Khob. I think I understand.”

  The man rubbed his forehead. “But what should I do with you two? A bride and groom. Why did you have to involve yourselves?”

  Sarah didn’t have an answer. She had no idea what had possessed her to think letting that girl into their car was a good idea. It had been an impetuous decision. There was something about the beautiful girl’s gaze that had mesmerized her. And it was the first time Sarah had felt connected to one of the nameless protesters she’d heard so much about. But it wasn’t as if she had any sympathy for what the protesters were doing to their country. She just felt sorry for that one girl.

  The man opened the door, set one foot out and then turned back to her.

  “Do you know how to drive?”

  Yes, Sarah did.

  “Once this traffic clears up, head straight home. Mobile phones won’t work tonight, so just go straight home to your family.”

  “What about my husband?” Sarah asked in a small voice. A part of her wanted to shriek at this dirty, unkempt, and uneducated man that he had no right to detain her husband and that under normal circumstances he would be lucky if Ali hired him to be his office water boy. But she was scared. She didn’t want to make things worse.

  “Listen to what I say,” the man sighed. “Just go straight home. Don’t wait for him.”

  Sarah did as she was told.

  Roger Cohen, “Iran: The Tragedy & the Future,” New York Review of Books 56, No. 13 (August 13, 2009).

  CHAPTER 2

  Friday, June 26, 2009—fourteen days after the election

  If after every election, the losers take to the streets to protest and then the winners take to the streets in response, then what is the point of holding an election?

  The use of force in the streets since the election is wrong. Because it goes against the principle of democracy and the will of the people. I want everyone to put an end to this behavior. If they do not, then the consequences are theirs to bear.

  —Supreme Leader Khamenei in his first Friday prayer speech after the 2009 election

  Sadegh’s mother greeted him at the door.

  “Sadegh-joon, kojai ? Where’ve you been? You’re late.”

  Maman-Mehri held the house phone delicately within a folded Kleenex, as she often did as a protection against germs. She wore a breezy sky-blue house chador draped loosely around and framing a black headscarf, long-sleeved blouse, and skirt. As always, the air around her carried the saffron smell of her kitchen and the rosewater of her prayer rug.

  “Bebakhshid, Maman-Mehri,” Sadegh answered his mother as he helped Sumayeh and the kids inside. “I’m so sorry. Traffic is awful. Everyone’s headed to Friday prayers.”

  “It’s okay, azizam. I’m just glad you could take time to visit your mother. Between your work at the shop and with your Basiji friends, you don’t seem to have time for me anymore.” Sadegh tried to protest but Maman-Mehri kept talking over him as she greeted Sumayeh and the children, but not her son, with kisses. “Salam, Sumayeh-joon. Salam, little ones. Everyone’s in the living room. Go on in while I finish talking to your Aunt Mahdiyeh. Don’t forget to wash your hands!”

  Sadegh’s mother walked back toward the kitchen, returning the telephone to her ear.

  “She’s talking to Mahdiyeh?” Sumayeh asked. “Praise God, maybe Sarah and her mother called to apologize,” Sumayeh said as she awkwardly removed her heavy black outside chador and unfolded her green-patterned house chador, all while balancing their baby daughter Sana on her hip.

  Sadegh knelt to help five-year-old Mahdi remove the Nike shoes Sumayeh’s mother had purchased for her grandson during her most recent visit with family in Ohio. “Maman-Mehri is too forgiving for her own good,” he said. “Aunt Mahdiyeh better make a proper apology. I swear, If I’d known the full story last night, I’d have . . .” Sadegh got stuck as he tried to figure out what he would have done and simply frowned and shook his head to indicate it would have been bad.

  The baby in Sumayeh’s arms was now throwing her body weight toward the floor in a suicidal attempt to get down to where she could practice her new toddling skills. Sadegh took her from Sumayeh so his wife could settle into her new wrappings. Mahdi zoomed off to find his cousins, while Sadegh, Sumayeh, and the baby proceeded toward the living room, where the rest of the family was gathered around a coffee table laden with fruit, nuts, and Iranian baklava made with pistachios. Sadegh’s three older siblings and their spouses rose and offered kisses, handshakes, or nods of the head, depending on the gender composition and relationship of each greeting duo.

  “So did you hear?” Sadegh’s eldest sister Zainab practically crowed. “Ali got arrested last night.”

  Sadegh’s eyebrows rose. “Sarah’s husband? When? What did he do?” Sadegh’s mind flashed on a picture of Ali, still in his wedding finery, throwing a Molotov cocktail.

  Zainab angled back into her chair and grabbed a handful of pistachios. “Ah, that whole family is involved with this Green group. It was only a matter of time before they caught up with him.”

  Sadegh’s second sister, Fatimeh, spoke up. “It might not be that. Mahdiyeh said that they got stuck in a group of protesters. Maybe it was a mistake.” As usual, Fatimeh’s voice was hesitant as if afraid permission to speak might be withdrawn at any moment.

  Sadegh grunted his disagreement. “People don’t get arrested by mistake. He must have done something.” Sadegh took a few juicy nectarines from the big bowl of fruit on the coffee table and started cutting them in pieces to share.

  “God! I can’t believe we’re related to these people!” Zainab exclaimed.

  Sadegh couldn’t help cringing at his sister’s words even as he agreed with her sentiment. Calling God’s name in this way was common practice in Iran, even among religious families. Sumayeh, however, in what was perhaps a holdover from her mother’s Christian upbringing, felt strongly that it was disrespectful, and Sadegh and his family generally tried to respect her wishes in this regard.

  But Zainab was right. It was incredible that Sarah would insist on marrying someone whose family had been stoking the very fires that Sadegh’s friends were risking their lives fighting. Sadegh had heard firsthand accounts of the violent mobs who had dared to attack Basij safe houses. Even Sarah, a girl who was known to make jokes during mourning ceremonies commemorating the deaths of religious figures, should be able to see that this was serious.

  “Maybe not,” Fatimeh spoke up again.

  Zainab narrowed her hawk eyes on Fatimeh. “How’s that?”

  “Well . . .” Fatimeh looked to the right and left as if to ensure children’s ears weren’t present. “Mahdiyeh said they never got to his house. Sarah slept at her parents’ last night.”

  The sisters exchanged meaningful glances and Sadegh thought about the implications of Fatimeh’s words. Sadegh was pretty sure the marriage would have been formally registered into Sarah and Ali’s identification documents. But if the new couple separated before—well, Sadegh didn’t like to think about it, but—before they consummated the marriage, Sarah should be able to remarry easily enough with little harm done. Sadegh wondered whether Ali’s arrest would be enough for Sarah to finally understand what her husband
was mixed up in.

  “Where were they when they got picked up?” Sadegh asked as he arranged the pieces of nectarine on a small appetizer plate, took a couple for himself, and then passed them around to share.

  Fatimeh was clearly pleased at her inside information. She blinked her bovine lashes as she answered. “In the alleyways, across from Park Mellat. Bichareha, the poor kids hadn’t even gotten five kilometers from the hotel. Albate, I don’t know why they went that way. Valiasr Street is always a mess on weekends, even without the protests.”

  Sadegh took a moment to digest this along with another piece of nectarine. He’d been irritated with Sarah when he’d suggested she and Ali take Valiasr to get home from the wedding. He knew from reports coming in that it was flooded with protesters and figured sitting in snarled traffic would serve Sarah right for whatever had happened to make Maman-Mehri leave the wedding early, not to mention the disrespectful way she’d spoken to him. But perhaps the impulse had been more divinely inspired than he’d known. Clearly it had created the opportunity for his comrades to arrest Ali. Sadegh wondered what Ali had done or what he’d been wanted for.

  “Bacheha, I’m so sorry. That took longer than I thought.” Maman-Mehri’s phone call had ended, and she joined them in the living room as she spoke. “Let’s eat. You all must be starving.”

  “Hala . . . what did Mahdiyeh say?” Zainab asked what everyone was wondering.

  “At the table,” Maman-Mehri promised.

  * * *

  The children were called from various corners of the house. Sadegh washed Mahdi’s hands and got him settled at the children’s table in the kitchen, where Fatimeh and Zainab’s girls, as the oldest cousins, would watch over the little ones with the help of Soghra-khanoom, Maman-Mehri’s live-in servant. The baby, too young and difficult to be left in the kitchen with her cousins, was already in the dining room with Sumayeh.

  Sadegh left the kitchen and followed his mother through the short hallway into the dining room. Just inside the entryway, Maman-Mehri’s indoor sandals caught on the fringed edge of the thick carpet. She might have successfully righted herself, but, instead, she twisted violently away from Sadegh’s instinctively outreached hand. She toppled over—carefully protecting the knee she had hurt in the previous night’s fall—and Sadegh’s brother Alireza jumped out of his chair and pushed forward to help her up.

  “Oh! What did I do!” Maman-Mehri straightened her scarf and chador as Alireza brought her slowly to her feet.

  “Oh my goodness! What can I say?” she gasped. “Look at me, I’m such an old lady now. I can’t even walk right! Mersi, Alireza. Sadegh-jaan, mersi, azizam.”

  Maman-Mehri dropped Alireza’s hand as soon as she was stable. She continued to thank Sadegh profusely. And as soon as they sat to begin their meal, she made a point of serving him first.

  Sadegh understood. But, as always happened on those rare occasions when the difference between himself and Alireza was forced to the surface, he was stung by the reminder that he was not, in fact, Maman-Mehri’s son.

  * * *

  Maman-Mehri shook her head and said, “Mahdiyeh is a mess, poor thing,” in answer to Zainab’s repetition of her earlier question about their aunt.

  The nine of them sat around the French-style rococo dining table in their usual configuration. Maman-Mehri was at the head of the table where she could observe and converse with everyone and also call orders to Soghra-khanoom in the kitchen as needed. Along the right side of the table sat Sadegh and Alireza flanked by their wives, with Sumayeh sitting beside Maman-Mehri. Zainab sat to Maman-Mehri’s left followed by her husband, Fatimeh’s husband, and then Fatimeh who sat across from Alireza’s wife. The chair at the very end of the table was empty but, as always, a place was set in memoriam of Maman-Mehri’s late and beloved husband who had died nearly fifteen years ago.

  “Mr. Ali’s parents have been looking for him all night,” Maman-Mehri continued as she filled plates with the delicious lubia polo of lamb, green beans, and tomatoes mixed into lightly spiced rice. She used a silver kafkir rice-serving spoon that came from the new shipment of utensils Sadegh and his brother had just imported for sale at their kitchenware stores. “They went to Vozara, Evin, and police stations but haven’t been able to get any information. Mrs. Rahimi, Mr. Ali’s mother, and her daughter went to Mahdiyeh’s house this morning to pressure her into letting Sarah go with them—Sadegh, hand me Alireza’s plate. They think people might be more sympathetic to a new bride looking for her husband. But I told Mahdiyeh”—Maman-Mehri paused to shake her finger for emphasis—“not to allow it.” Maman-Mehri resumed filling plates. “And she was smart enough to keep Sarah sleeping, so she didn’t even see them. Our only chance of ending this thing is to keep Sarah away from that family.”

  With no more dishes to fill, Maman-Mehri set the serving spoon down and lifted a hand to her chest. She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. “Oh, my children, God is big. Never doubt it. Last night I was heartbroken! Mahdiyeh was making a horrible mistake. These Green Wave people are a danger to our society. A danger to Islam! And, not that it’s important, but naturally I was a little hurt about the way I’d been treated. But see how God”—Maman-Mehri pointed to the ceiling—“intervened to save Sarah and make things right. And Mahdiyeh called this morning to beg my forgiveness. It is all due to faith and prayer. The one thing I ask of you—as your mother, who has the right to ask anything—is to hold tight to your faith and worship and never forget God, so that you will always enjoy his protection the way that I have throughout my life. Now, what are you waiting for? Eat, eat, before the food gets cold.”

  Sumayeh was touched. “Mersi, Maman-Mehri. I feel so blessed to have such a mother-in-law, whose only request of us is for our own benefit.”

  Sadegh agreed and felt ashamed at his momentary hurt. Maman-Mehri was a devout and devoted servant of God who had done more for him than he deserved to expect. He had been only a little older than Sana, who was playing in Sumayeh’s lap, when his own mother, his father’s second wife, had abandoned him. But Maman-Mehri had raised him with so much love and special attention that his older siblings had sometimes resentfully referred to her as Maman-e-Sadegh or “Mother of Sadegh.” It was only out of an overabundance of religious caution that she began avoiding physical contact with him once he became a man at the age of fifteen. And it was only then that Sadegh had learned she wasn’t his mother by blood.

  Under the table, Sadegh squeezed his wife’s knee discreetly to indicate his thanks and approval of her words. She looked at him and smiled. The baby in her lap was unusually calm, sucking her thumb contentedly and reaching her other hand up, as had become her habit, to trace the jagged and jarring purple scar that dominated the right side of Sumayeh’s face. Sumayeh took hold of the pudgy hand and put it to her lips for a kiss. Again, Sadegh reproached himself for his childishness. With such a woman by his side, how could he ever feel sorry for himself ?

  Sadegh’s attention turned to Zainab, who was asking questions as everyone else dug into lunch. “I still don’t understand what made Mahdiyeh change her mind. Last night she acted like she couldn’t care less about us when she sided with that Azar.”

  Maman-Mehri pointed skyward again to indicate it was God’s intercession, but it was Fatimeh who answered, “Zainab dear, I’m not sure you’re being entirely fair.” Fatimeh’s slow, soft voice had become strained and high-pitched as it always did on those rare occasions that she dared to disagree with her older sister. “She couldn’t just leave all her guests and go with you. But she did talk to Sarah and tried to convince her to call things off even in the middle of the wedding. It’s just, well, Maman-Mehri, I’m sure she explained to you that Sarah, well,” Fatimeh appeared a bit flustered as she went on, “she and Ali were . . . well, Sarah thinks she’s in love with the boy. She refused to listen.”

  Zainab’s eyes narrowed on Fatimeh in a way that cinch
ed her narrow face even further. “She and Ali were . . . what?” she asked.

  Fatimeh didn’t say anything but stared at her sister stupidly for a long second.

  Maman-Mehri intervened with a disapproving look at her younger daughter, “You shouldn’t have brought it up in front of everyone.” Fatimeh started and ducked her head. “But, yes, it’s true,” Maman-Mehri continued. “Mahdiyeh told me all about it just now. Sarah was talking alone on the phone with this boy all along and had gotten . . . attached.”

  Sadegh shook his head in disgust. He shouldn’t be surprised. Sarah’s character in this regard was obvious from the time she was barely a teenager and had flirted so shamelessly with him that he’d felt obliged to tell his mother. He would have hoped she’d have learned some propriety since then, but clearly she hadn’t.

  “I know it isn’t easy Zainab dear,” Maman-Mehri continued. “Especially after the way I was treated, but we must be forgiving. I can truthfully say that I am completely over my hurt feelings and am only worried for Mahdiyeh. Up until last night she was willing to tolerate that family for Sarah’s sake, but now that she can see what they are, she is looking for any way to end it. Oh, I forgot to tell you. That horrible woman, Ali-agha’s sister, that divorce lawyer, actually implied that I had something to do with her brother’s arrest and that his being taken in was a way of getting revenge for my treatment at the wedding. These people are crazy!”

  Sadegh felt the blood rush to his face with anger. He wasn’t sure what he found more disgusting. The implication that the Basij would arrest someone for no good reason, or the woman’s pretension that her family had done nothing worthy of arrest; this despite the fact that everyone knew her husband had been involved with Mousavi and his campaign.

  “Clearly, I’ve been disappointed with Mrs. Rahimi,” Maman-Mehri was saying. “I’m heartbroken to see how she’s allowed her children to fall under the influence of these Western ideas. But I absolutely won’t allow that rot into our own family!” Maman-Mehri slapped the table with her crooked fingers.