The Ministry of Guidance Invites You to Not Stay: An American Family in Iran Read Online Free PDF Page B

at their fingertips; each would pull a sheet out of his file and wave it in the air as if it were a piece of evidence being presented to a judge. I kept glancing at the sweating jug of water, wanting to pour some for myself but refraining from doing so, not wanting the two men to think I was nervous. In my mind, I praised the power of American antiperspirants.
    “You Iranians who live abroad think you can say anything, unconcerned with our national security, don’t you?” the worse cop said toward the end. “Have you changed your mind now?”
    “About what?” I asked, careful to say it politely.
    “About your writing!” He was almost shouting.
    “Well, um,” I replied, “I change my mind frequently about things as I learn something new, yes. But I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “Oh, so a ‘journalist’ can change his mind? Really?” He said the word journalist mockingly, as if he really wanted to say spy .
    “Well, yes,” I said.
    He merely grunted, unconvinced.
    When they finally closed their files, I knew we were almost at the end of the interrogation, and besides, it was past lunchtime and no one in Iran, not even secret policemen on a mission, will miss their lunch.
    “Who have you seen while you’ve been here?” asked the worse cop, leaning back and hissing through his teeth again.
    “My friends Khosro Etemadi [an old college friend whom I often stay with in Iran] and Mr. Kharrazi [a former diplomat and powerful, albeit reformist, political figure].” I don’t know why I didn’t mention Ali Khatami—I suppose I thought the name Khatami might send them into convulsions—and I was a little surprised that they didn’t bring it up themselves.
    “Which Mr. Kharrazi?”
    “Sadegh.”
    He curled his lips, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t going to disparage a man close to the Supreme Leader, no matter what his opinion of him was. “And when are you leaving?”
    “Tonight. Actually, the flight leaves after midnight, so technically tomorrow.”
    “Don’t miss your flight,” he said firmly.
    “So this NBC crew you came with,” said the bad cop. “They are interviewing Dr. Jalili?”
    “Yes, and hoping that they can visit the Tehran nuclear reactor.”
    “And you want to go with them?”
    “Yes, I do, but if it’s not possible, then I won’t. I’ll just see friends and family.”
    “No, it’s okay,” he said. “You can go with them.” The worse cop, the younger man, was turning into a veritable good cop now.
    “Really?”
    “Yes, why not?” He squinted at me as if he were sizing me up before a boxing match.
    “Okay.” I stood up as they did and shook their reluctant hands. “One other thing,” I said. “I won’t have any trouble at the airport—leaving, I mean—will I?”
    “No,” they both said, shaking their heads. “It’ll be taken care of,” added the now-good cop.
    “I’m coming back in a few weeks, with my American wife and child, for an extended stay,” I said. “I won’t have trouble at the airport then, or will I?”
    “Why should you have trouble?” asked the worse cop, with a sneer. “What are you coming for? To cause trouble? Or maybe to gather information?”
    “To spend time here with my family,” I said. “Not as a reporter.”
    “Then you won’t have any trouble,” he said. “Now, you won’t write about our little meeting here, will you? As a journalist?” he added. It wasn’t a question. “You won’t, because you want to come back with your wife and child.” He stared straight into my eyes.
    “No, I won’t write about it,” I lied.
    They left the room and closed the door, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what to do. My session had been remarkably mild, I thought, compared to what others had gone through, especially the political prisoners who had been interrogated at Evin, the notorious prison, in the aftermath of the 2009 elections. But the meeting still spoke to the extreme paranoia the regime felt since those elections.