A Door between Us Read online

  But Azar didn’t want to have a fight with her father right now. Eyes still closed, Azar took a breath to calm herself and managed to avoid the bait. “Whether or not they arranged the arrest,” she said, “we have an address, and I’m going to go check it out. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

  “Who said anything about not coming,” her father responded gruffly. Azar relaxed and opened her eyes.

  The first thing she saw was her father’s empty teacup teetering on the edge of the table. She jerked to save it from falling but, in her haste, jarred the wobbly table instead. The teacup and saucer tumbled off the table and Azar tensed in anticipation of their smash on the stone floor. Her father, however, managed to snatch both items from the air, one in each hand.

  “Be careful,” he chided. “You almost broke my cup!”

  * * *

  By 9:00 a.m. Azar and her parents were driving toward the Niavaran neighborhood, which was less than four miles—but more than forty minutes in current traffic—from her parents’ home in Darrous. Azar drove, her mother uncomfortably sitting sideways in the passenger seat after having lost the battle over who should sit in the back and not wanting to disrespect her husband by putting her back to him.

  “I just can’t believe these people!” her mother was complaining about Sarah’s family. “Who could have thought it would come to this? It seemed like such a good match. Mehri-khanoom and my sister were school chums. Imagine! Just like me and Nargess.”

  Nargess was her mother’s closest childhood friend. She was also the daughter-in-law of Grand Ayatollah Montazeri, the man who was once designated as Khomeini’s heir but who had now suffered for years under house arrest for his dissenting views. The mullahs running the country were hard on the people they ruled but even harder on objectors among themselves. Montazeri had been unable to participate directly in politics for years. But after the contested election, he’d noted publicly that no one in their right mind could possibly believe the official results. Azar, Ibrahim, and many other supporters of Mousavi and the Green Wave considered him to be their primary spiritual and political leader. God willing, he would once again have an important role to play in healing the nation once the Green Wave was successful in making the regime respect the will of the Iranian people.

  Azar swung a wide arc to turn right onto Dolat Street from one of the leftmost lanes and bypass the crush of cars inching through the same turn on her right. In doing so, she momentarily blocked oncoming vehicles. A young man with glasses and a mustache pulled his SAIPA close to Azar and rolled his window down to curse at her, further slowing west-going vehicles, which began to toot their horns impatiently.

  Azar refused to look in his direction as she maneuvered her car into another lane. “Ajab ollaghiyeha. Stupid donkey!” she exclaimed. “I blocked the way for less than two seconds, but he wants to sit there all day wasting everyone’s time with a stupid fight.”

  “You shouldn’t have blocked traffic to begin with,” her father reprimanded from the back seat.

  Azar grimaced and considered retorting that this was the only way to get anywhere in Tehran these days given its steadily worsening traffic. But before she could say anything, her mother went on with more complaints about their new in-laws.

  “Besides, at this point,” she said, “the aghd has been read and the marriage has been registered. Do they think that just because they haven’t spent the night together, people won’t think of Sarah as a divorcée? Is marriage, and divorce, taken so lightly these days? Imagine if we’d behaved the same way toward you and Ibrahim?”

  Her mother was right. If marriage wasn’t official until its consummation, Azar and Ibrahim’s marriage hadn’t started until three years after she’d moved in with him and his family.

  She’d refused his bed and slept on the floor of their room for three years. At first, her poor Ibrahim had chivalrously tried to get her to trade so that he would be on the floor instead, but she’d so clearly enjoyed refusing and foiling his various attempts that he’d finally stopped giving her the pleasure.

  They’d settled into a long cold war marked by silent treatments, fierce competition, and a few real or imagined jabs.

  The first year saw the worst of it. There was a period of several months when neither of them could ever find their shoes, keys, or wallets as the other would hide them whenever they got the chance. Another time, the weapon of choice was alarm clocks set to go off at all the wrong times. And using their own bathroom became a perilous activity once they discovered that a flaw in the doorknob allowed it to be locked from the outside.

  The last year or so of this was fueled more by habit than real anger. More and more frequently, Azar found herself admiring Ibrahim for his passionate arguments that democracy and Islam are entirely compatible, for his quick wit and laughter, and for the way his biceps bulged whenever he lifted his arms in prayer.

  One night, rather than change in the bathroom as was her habit, Azar turned her back to the bed on which Ibrahim was reclined, and began unbuttoning her shirt. As she slowly slipped off her clothes, her ears strained for the squeak of bedsprings or rustle of sheets that might indicate the direction of her husband’s reaction. She was heartily disappointed to hear nothing at all and wondered, as she pulled on her soft nightdress, whether he’d already fallen asleep.

  Turning around, Azar was startled by Ibrahim’s hungry stare. For a long moment, he looked her over and Azar felt the blood rush inward from her extremities to her loins like a flower closing its petals to a single point. When Ibrahim pulled her insistently, triumphantly onto the bed, she didn’t resist. And she never slept on the floor again.

  * * *

  Reluctantly, Azar abandoned the still-arousing memories of that first night with a husband she loved. It was time to focus on the upcoming confrontation. As Azar negotiated the car into the alleyway, she wondered what their approach should be. Should she do most of the talking, or should she leave it to her father, who though male, was perhaps too elderly to be taken seriously? Or, alternatively, would it be best to have her mother speak in hopes that they might be softer with her? Should Azar be deferential and seek to flatter their sense of importance? Or, as was her preference when representing cases at court, should she seek to confuse and intimidate them by refusing to be cowed by their bullying?

  It was hard to know who or what one was dealing with in the Basij. Like everything else associated with the revolution, it was a beautiful concept that had been badly distorted by corrupt leaders after the death of Imam Khomeini. The original Basijis were faithful young men and women who had responded with pure hearts to Imam Khomeini’s call for volunteers to defend the nation from Saddam’s brutal invasion. These days, however, the Basij had been unleashed on Iran’s own population and they weren’t shy about using force to control or even kill peaceful protestors, like the beautiful young Neda. Azar had been moved to tears by the disturbing footage of her final moments that had been shared throughout Tehran and the world.

  Azar was sure that nowadays most Basij “volunteers” were simply poor and uneducated men looking for the perks and paychecks associated with membership. The involvement of someone as wealthy, educated, and connected as Mr. Sadegh was a surprise to Azar and increased the mystery surrounding this shadowy paramilitary force. What would this Heydari be like, Azar wondered. Once again, she wished she could talk to Ibrahim. He would know how to handle the situation.

  Azar found the house number she was looking for. From the outside, there was nothing to indicate that the beautiful villa served as a Basij station, and Azar wondered whether any of the neighbors in this upscale area were aware of the building’s true use.

  Azar parked the car, stepped out, and opened the back door to help her father. Of late, he was not always steady on his feet, and the deep gutter she was parked beside could prove a hazard. As usual, the challenge lay in helping him without being so obvious abo
ut it that her father, who detested any form of coddling, would snap at her to get out of his way.

  As they crossed the street, Azar said “Listen, let me start off doing the talking. If it doesn’t go well, then you take over, okay?”

  Azar pressed the intercom buzzer outside the gate.

  No answer.

  Azar pushed again, this time holding the buzzer longer.

  “Befarmayeed. What do you need?” The voice didn’t come from the intercom but from the other side of the wall where, apparently, a guard was waiting.

  “I need to speak with someone.” Azar said with the loud voice she often used to project more confidence than she felt.

  “What is your business?”

  “Let us in and I’ll tell you,” Azar answered.

  “Tell me now.”

  Azar thought for a moment. She needed to say something that would get her past this guard so she could talk to the people who made the decisions. “We’re here to see Mr. Heydari. He asked us to come.”

  “Ah. Come in,” was the immediate response.

  The door swung in. Azar wondered briefly whether she ought to go in first to place herself protectively between these people and her parents or whether she should follow the usual protocol of politely standing aside to let her parents enter first. As she hesitated, her father moved through the door so Azar turned to guide her mother in ahead of her as well.

  They crossed the courtyard on stepping-stones spaced too close together to correspond to a comfortable gait so that every other step was in the cracks. The path was lined with stunning, sturdy orange and red tulips, the kind Azar had heard was being imported from Holland. God, it was disgusting how this government was burning through cash for things like tulips when so many Iranian children lacked proper medical care or schools. God willing, their days were numbered, and soon experts and economists like Ibrahim could steward the country’s economic resources in a more responsible manner.

  The villa’s door opened onto a hallway lined with closets. There they were greeted by a small man with a short white beard trimmed neatly around full lips that were the deep purple color of a three-day-old bruise. He introduced himself as Heydari’s assistant and politely ushered them into a waiting area, where they sat on uncomfortable chairs. The man wore a thick silver agate ring that he twisted around his finger as they spoke.

  “My friends, I’m afraid that Mr. Heydari is busy this morning,” he said. “I wonder if there’s anything I can do to help. Can you tell me why he asked you to come in?”

  Azar, a bit ruffled by this man’s politeness and friendliness nonetheless responded firmly. “No sir, we will wait for Mr. Heydari.” She knew it was always best to talk to the person in charge.

  “Of course. I understand madame.” Heydari’s assistant responded politely. “Well, why don’t you write down your names for me so I can let him know you’re here.”

  Azar thought a moment. By writing down their names, Heydari and his assistant would surely realize she’d lied about Heydari inviting them to come in. On the other hand, he would know their names eventually.

  The man handed Azar a pen and notepad. She wrote her name and her parents’ names.

  “Write down your husband’s name as well,” the man prompted.

  Azar paused. Like most Iranian women, she hadn’t changed her name after marriage so her connection to Ibrahim, who she feared these men might recognize, wasn’t yet obvious. She really didn’t want to bring her husband into this.

  Noting her hesitation, the man softly said “It’s not important. Perhaps your business doesn’t involve your husband.”

  Azar nodded brusquely. “Our business with Mr. Heydari has to do with my brother, not my husband.”

  “Ah, then write his name down.”

  But Azar was done with writing. She widened her stance and projected her voice “I’d rather speak directly to Heydari.”

  The man licked his strange lips and pressed them together briefly before smiling as he twisted his ring again. “Of course. I’ll let him know. In the meantime, please tell the guards if you need anything at all.”

  “How long will we have to wait?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll hurry things along.” The man said something to the guard that Azar couldn’t hear and then left.

  * * *

  An hour later, they were still there. Both of her parents had been to the bathroom, and Azar was starting to think she might need to go too. Where was Heydari? Or even his assistant? Azar wondered if it had been a mistake not to tell him why they were there. He had seemed willing to help.

  Azar used the time to study the interior of the building. The grimy walls and cheap furniture contrasted sharply with the beautiful outdoor landscaping, and Azar wondered whether the exterior upkeep was simply meant to conceal the Basij presence from the neighbors. She turned her attention to the small waiting room and tried to guess at what the building’s architect would have originally intended it for. It was too small to be an entertaining salon or living room. Perhaps it was supposed to be some sort of cozy den or television room? Azar wondered when the home had last been inhabited by civilians and when it had been taken over by the Basij. Probably, she thought, the last residents were west-toxified taghootis who had fled the 1979 revolution, leaving their home and belongings to be taken over and administered by government bodies.

  While they sat, Azar didn’t see anyone other than the guard, who was flipping through a newspaper at a battered wooden desk, and the errand boys who kept bringing everyone tea. She wondered what these young men thought about what was going on in the country and their part in it. Did they have any idea what the powers they served were doing?

  In the weeks leading up to the election, Mousavi had clearly been in the lead. Everyone knew President Ahmadinejad had been a disaster. Ibrahim and his colleagues had been particularly disturbed by the man’s inflationary and utterly wasteful spending of oil windfalls that, in an unfortunate twist of fate, coincided with the man’s rise to power. Azar had been more disturbed by the family-law legislation Ahmadinejad had pushed to, among other things, make it even harder for women to get a divorce. As the election had neared, Tehran was awash in the deep green color of Mousavi’s campaign. With cries of “Ahmadi, bye-bye!” the capital seemed to rejoice in the opportunity to rid itself of this absurd little man who’d embarrassed the country with his ridiculous claims about the absence of homosexuals in Iran, his special relationship with the hidden imam, and the creation of nuclear power in a young woman’s backyard.

  When Ahmadinejad was declared the victor, shock quickly turned to anger as the Iranian people realized the regime had rigged the results. Millions of citizens poured into the streets for silent protests bigger than any demonstration since Iran’s 1979 revolution. Azar and Ibrahim had taken their boys to several of these gatherings so they could witness and be a part of history being made. That was before the violent government crackdown and all the mass arrests. There was no way she’d take her boys into the streets anymore.

  Sitting now in the station house, Azar wondered whether these young guards had any idea that the regime’s days were numbered. No matter how they tried to suppress the Green Wave, they couldn’t change what was in people’s hearts, and the Iranian people would not allow their voices to be silenced this time.

  Azar was tired of waiting. She stood and moved toward the guard.

  “Could you please call Mr. Heydari’s assistant?” Her words were deferential, but her tone communicated that she expected him to comply immediately.

  The guard didn’t move except for his eyes which he rolled away from his paper to look at her. “Mr. Heydari is busy. He’ll see you when he has time.”

  “No.” Azar leaned onto the desk so she loomed over the boy. “If Mr. Heydari isn’t available, I want to talk to his assistant.”

  The guard exhaled a quick burst of air
that sounded like a chuckle and then turned his eyes back to his paper. “His assistant will see you when he has time.”

  * * *

  Another hour passed. Azar’s father thumbed through the book of prayers he always carried. Her mother leaned her head against the wall and dozed. Azar was livid but unsure how to proceed. Maybe they should leave and go home. Heydari would have seen them by now if he had any intention of doing so. On the other hand, surely this couldn’t take much longer. If they left now, they might lose their chance.

  Her mother’s head jerked as she caught herself from sleepy relaxation.

  Azar decided.

  “Pasho, Maman. Baba, let’s go. I’ll drop you at home and come and wait myself. There’s no reason for all of us to be sitting around here.”

  Azar stood and started helping her parents up.

  Noticing their movement, the guard spoke up. “Kojaa? Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Clearly Mr. Heydari doesn’t have time for us.”

  The guard neatly folded his newspaper and dropped it on the table. Then he stood and walked around his desk so he was standing in front of them. “Take a seat,” he directed. “He’ll be with you soon.”

  “No thank you,” Azar spat. “I’m taking my parents home. They’re too old to have to sit in this place so long.” Azar shepherded her parents toward the hallway.

  The guard blocked their path. “Sit down.”

  Azar lost her temper. “Get out of my way!” she boomed. If Heydari was anywhere in the building, she was sure he could hear her. “I’m taking my parents home. What is wrong with you people making elderly grandparents sit around like this!”