parents, for Ahmed’s sake.
A few nights later, at dinner, my mother mentions a rumor she’s heard about a sweet young girl in a nearby neighborhood who is being forced to marry a man she doesn’t love. “I don’t know her,” Mom says, “but I feel horrible for her.” I listen hard, but keep my face still. “I hear that she has locked herself in a room and refuses to come out, eat, or speak to anyone,” Mom reports.
My father shakes his head. “It’s time for the parents in this country to learn that the souls of their children are more important than tradition,” he says. “You young people need to assume responsibility for your own futures,” he tells me. “If someone’s old enough to be married off, then they’re sure as hell old enough to decide who they should marry.” My mother nods in agreement.
Sitting out on the roof after dinner that night, I smell Ahmed’s cigarette and hear his steps on the stairs long before he settles down beside me.
“Do I have a star up there?” he asks. I know he isn’t expecting an answer, so I remain silent. “I see yours,” he claims, pointing at a brilliant star far from the horizon. “It’s blinding!”
“That’s not me,” I argue, my face warming imperceptibly. “Too bright. Must be Faheemeh. The light is stronger because she’s thinking of you.”
Ahmed sighs as he stretches out on his back and closes his eyes. I follow suit, knowing that the hushed symphony of night noises won’t be nearly loud enough to rescue us from our worries. I breathe in the scent of wet asphalt, enjoying the way the night breeze brushes my closed eyes.
Winter of 1974
Roozbeh Psychiatric Hospital, Tehran
I wake just enough to turn over beneath the covers, missing the heat my body leaves behind as soon as my skin hits the cool, unused sheets on the other side of the bed. I lie still with my eyes closed because my mind feels too weary to process anything I might see. Sounds draw my attention—the hollow click of a cane followed closely by the drag of slippers on linoleum, the muted ticking of a wristwatch in the drawer of the bedside table—but the relative silence wakes me. I am alone in the room, feeling lost without the old man’s rhythmic chanting. I turn to my other side, only to find the sheets already chilled, and wonder if I’ll ever open my eyes again.
It is either a few minutes or several days later the next time I am conscious. I notice pink patches of healed skin on my hands and forearms. The new skin looks tender, but doesn’t hurt. Was I burned? Why? How? Did someone try to kill me? Not that I care. The back of my skull aches to the dull beat of my pulse, while each slow breath I draw between my sore ribs feels as if it is struggling to lift a weight.
My days and nights begin to be plagued by dreams. Dark clouds roll over the roof of our house near enough to touch, and lightning strikes so close that the thunder knocks me off my feet. I open my eyes to see the wheelchair on the other side of the room. Can I walk? Am I paralyzed? Maybe I fell off the roof, as my mother always feared. Or did someone push me off? Why? More shivers, more hours of unconsciousness.
The next time I’m awake the clouds are even darker. I am still on the roof. I see a man dressed in a black suit looking up at me from the alley. His predatory eyes glint. His face is bloated. He howls into a radio clutched in his hand. A muffled sound fills the air, more like an angry roar matching the thunder in its ferocity. A cold wind blows through the alley, whirling up dust and debris as the color of everything turns into winterish gray. I can’t tell if it is the man down below or the dark clouds overhead that send a chill down my spine.
3
Summer of 1973 Tehran
The Red Rose
It’s difficult not to like Doctor. His thick round glasses slightly magnify his smiling brown eyes and his tidy appearance makes him look like a young professor. His calm demeanor and strong, gentle
A few nights later, at dinner, my mother mentions a rumor she’s heard about a sweet young girl in a nearby neighborhood who is being forced to marry a man she doesn’t love. “I don’t know her,” Mom says, “but I feel horrible for her.” I listen hard, but keep my face still. “I hear that she has locked herself in a room and refuses to come out, eat, or speak to anyone,” Mom reports.
My father shakes his head. “It’s time for the parents in this country to learn that the souls of their children are more important than tradition,” he says. “You young people need to assume responsibility for your own futures,” he tells me. “If someone’s old enough to be married off, then they’re sure as hell old enough to decide who they should marry.” My mother nods in agreement.
Sitting out on the roof after dinner that night, I smell Ahmed’s cigarette and hear his steps on the stairs long before he settles down beside me.
“Do I have a star up there?” he asks. I know he isn’t expecting an answer, so I remain silent. “I see yours,” he claims, pointing at a brilliant star far from the horizon. “It’s blinding!”
“That’s not me,” I argue, my face warming imperceptibly. “Too bright. Must be Faheemeh. The light is stronger because she’s thinking of you.”
Ahmed sighs as he stretches out on his back and closes his eyes. I follow suit, knowing that the hushed symphony of night noises won’t be nearly loud enough to rescue us from our worries. I breathe in the scent of wet asphalt, enjoying the way the night breeze brushes my closed eyes.
Winter of 1974
Roozbeh Psychiatric Hospital, Tehran
I wake just enough to turn over beneath the covers, missing the heat my body leaves behind as soon as my skin hits the cool, unused sheets on the other side of the bed. I lie still with my eyes closed because my mind feels too weary to process anything I might see. Sounds draw my attention—the hollow click of a cane followed closely by the drag of slippers on linoleum, the muted ticking of a wristwatch in the drawer of the bedside table—but the relative silence wakes me. I am alone in the room, feeling lost without the old man’s rhythmic chanting. I turn to my other side, only to find the sheets already chilled, and wonder if I’ll ever open my eyes again.
It is either a few minutes or several days later the next time I am conscious. I notice pink patches of healed skin on my hands and forearms. The new skin looks tender, but doesn’t hurt. Was I burned? Why? How? Did someone try to kill me? Not that I care. The back of my skull aches to the dull beat of my pulse, while each slow breath I draw between my sore ribs feels as if it is struggling to lift a weight.
My days and nights begin to be plagued by dreams. Dark clouds roll over the roof of our house near enough to touch, and lightning strikes so close that the thunder knocks me off my feet. I open my eyes to see the wheelchair on the other side of the room. Can I walk? Am I paralyzed? Maybe I fell off the roof, as my mother always feared. Or did someone push me off? Why? More shivers, more hours of unconsciousness.
The next time I’m awake the clouds are even darker. I am still on the roof. I see a man dressed in a black suit looking up at me from the alley. His predatory eyes glint. His face is bloated. He howls into a radio clutched in his hand. A muffled sound fills the air, more like an angry roar matching the thunder in its ferocity. A cold wind blows through the alley, whirling up dust and debris as the color of everything turns into winterish gray. I can’t tell if it is the man down below or the dark clouds overhead that send a chill down my spine.
3
Summer of 1973 Tehran
The Red Rose
It’s difficult not to like Doctor. His thick round glasses slightly magnify his smiling brown eyes and his tidy appearance makes him look like a young professor. His calm demeanor and strong, gentle
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