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Overview
Anna, a young American studying in Chicago falls in love with fellow-student Nouri, the son of a wealthy Iranian family. Despite their cultural differences, Anna, whose parents are divorced and remote, eagerly moves to Tehran where she is embraced by Nouri's family. A few months after she arrives, however, in February 1978, the Shah is deposed and the Islamic Republic of Iran is formed. Life turns upside down for the couple as men, but especially women, are restricted in their activities, clothing, and behavior. Arrests and torture are frequent, education for women is not permitted, and Anna cannot travel without her husband's permission. Although she tries to conform to please her husband and new family, Anna chafes under the oppression, while Nouri seems to embrace it. Anna grows increasingly unhappy, and as events become more explosive, so does Nouri. Anna is desperate to return home to America, but Nouri refuses to allow it. Tension builds until a shattering event changes everything and plunges Anna into the vortex of a tumultuous-and dangerous-crisis, raising the possibility she will never leave Iran alive.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781938733727 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Red Herrings Press |
| Publication date: | 12/04/2020 |
| Edition description: | 2nd ed. |
| Pages: | 328 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.73(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Summer, 1980
Anna was deeply asleep, which was unusual for her. She generally tossed and turned until the desperate hours of the night passed. But tonight she'd succumbed almost immediately.
The first knock seemed like part of a dream, and her brain started constructing a story around it. As she swam up to consciousness there was another knock. The sound left a residual imprint in her ears, and for an instant she tried to figure out its intent. Was it an angry thump? A frightened plea? A perfunctory tap? She checked the clock and grew immediately wary.
She threw the covers aside, grabbed her chador, and draped it over her baby doll pajamas. Nouri was not home. After what had happened earlier she wasn't surprised, but it meant she had to answer the door. Still, she hesitated. Whoever was there would see her sharp features, pale green eyes, and blonde eyebrows. They would know she wasn't Iranian. They might even suspect she was from the decadent West, perhaps the Great Satan itself. And if that happened, whatever mission brought them would be tainted with that knowledge.
She carefully pushed the curtain aside and looked out. It was summer in Tehran, a hot, arid time that reminded her of the dog days of August in Chicago. She and Nouri lived on an upscale street in Shemiran with walled-off houses set back from the road. At this hour the street was quiet and dark, save for a black Mercedes parked by the gate. The engine was off, but its headlamps were still on, and two precise beams of light illuminated tree trunks and overgrown bushes.
Three uniformed men, all bearded, crowded the door. One had his hands planted on his hips. The other two stood hunched over, arms folded around machine guns. Somehow they'd been able to break through the gate. Fear pumped through her veins. Revolutionary Guards. She had no choice. She had to open the door. If she didn't, they would break in, claiming knowledge of crimes she'd committed against Islam and the Republic. They might confiscate her books, her makeup, and Nouri's stereo, for starters. She didn't need that. Not now. Not with all the other troubles.
She padded out of the bedroom in her bare feet. Clasping the folds of the chador under her chin, she took the steps down, cursing inwardly at the garment's awkwardness. How could any woman manipulate the yards of heavy black material without feeling clumsy? When she reached the first floor, she slipped into a pair of black ballet slippers she kept by the door. If the Guards saw her toenail polish, they could report her.
She held the chador with one hand and opened the door with the other. One of the men's hands was high in the air, as if he was just about to knock again. He stepped back, looking startled.
"As-Salâmo 'Alaikom, Sister," he said stiffly, lowering his arm.
She gave him a curt nod.
"You are the wife of Nouri Samedi?" he asked in Farsi.
Her heart caromed around her chest. She and Nouri had argued viciously, and he'd threatened to have her arrested. Is that why they'd come? She nodded again, more uncertainly this time.
The men appraised her. Women were supposed to keep their eyes down in the presence of men, to be submissive and quiet. But men had no such limitations, especially Guards. They were free to ogle. Make demands. And if those demands were not met ... she shivered, recalling the stories she had heard.
One of the other men stepped up to the door. His lips curved in a predatory smile. She tightened her grip on the chador, for once thankful it covered her body. If she was back home, she would call the police, report them as intruders. But here these intruders were the police. Or what passed as security.
"Your husband ..." he said, his voice dripping with scorn.
"Do you know where he is?"
She shook her head and looked at the floor. Oh god, were they going to beat her up? She knew people who claimed they were beaten during nighttime visits by the Guards.
"You are certain you do not know his whereabouts, Sister?"
She stole a look at him. His smile had disappeared, replaced now with a scowl. "You have been home all night?"
She nodded. She never went out much, certainly not alone.
His eyes narrowed in disbelief.
"What is it? Has something happened?"
"You already know."
Always the charades. The brinkmanship. Anger roiled her gut, but she could not show it. "No."
"Your husband is dead. His body was found in an alley nearby. He was stabbed."
She gasped. A steel gate plunged down the center of her brain, separating her emotions from her thoughts. She wished she was wearing a burqa to hide her face as well as her body. Her jaw dropped open. Through her fingers she heard herself cry out, "No!"
Despite the Supreme Leader's admonition to limit eye contact between the sexes, the men stared hard at her. If she were Iranian, she would cry out, collapse, even faint. But she was an American, and Americans were not demonstrative. Odd to be thinking of cultural differences at such a moment.
She drew a ragged breath. "That cannot be," she lied. "He was with his friend Hassan tonight. Hassan is a Guard," she added, as if that gave her legitimacy. "He said he would be home late, because —"
"We have notified his family. They are coming to identify the body."
What game were they playing? She was Nouri's family. But she said nothing. At least they do not call her on her lie.
The man who'd been talking suddenly shoved the door open wider and barged in.
Panic tickled Anna's spine. "What are — where are you going?"
He and another Guard pushed past her and went into the kitchen. She started to follow them, but the third man aimed his machine gun at her. "Stop," he barked. "Don't move."
She froze.
She heard murmurs from the kitchen. Then a cry of triumph.
The first man returned from the kitchen, brandishing a steak knife. She and Nouri didn't eat much red meat, except lamb — in kababs and meatballs, but she'd brought the wooden block of knives from the States with her when she came. It reminded her of home.
"There are only five knives," he said. "Where is the sixth?"
She stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about." He nodded and the man with the machine gun shoved her into the kitchen.
"Six slots. Five knives. You see?"
He was right. She turned to him. "It's been missing for a while. I don't know where it is." She bit her lip. A weak excuse. They could tell.
A victorious smile curled his lips, as if he knew he'd won. "Ah, but we do. We have it. It was the murder weapon. You murdered your husband. Killed him so you could escape Iran and return to America. Now you will never leave. You will die in Iran, just like your husband."
CHAPTER 2January 1977
The dusty smell of books, both new and used, was reassuring. Anna wound through the store's narrow aisles, thinking of the hours she'd spent in the library when she was a little girl. She had never been popular; her schoolmates kept their distance. So she'd spent a lot of time by herself. But her governess — or nanny, as they called them here — permitted her to ride her bike to the library after school, and it became her refuge, a place to lose herself in the stacks. The children's librarian would suggest novels, which she wolfed down like a starved animal, sometimes two or three in as many days. It wasn't long before she'd tackled Gone With the Wind and A Tale of Two Cities, at which point the children's librarian handed her off to the adult fiction section.
Now, as she closed in on the poetry section in the back of the store, the collected knowledge on the shelves comforted her. She shrugged off her down jacket and pulled out her syllabus for Middle Eastern Literature. She was an English major at the University of Chicago. Her father, a scientist, had not been pleased with her choice.
"What sort of job can you get with an English degree?" he sniffed when she told him. "A teacher? Do you have the patience to teach spoiled American teenagers who are only thinking about the next rock concert or marijuana cigarette?"
She didn't argue. She had no good answer except that she suspected a grounding in literature, especially that of other cultures, would give her a solid base for whatever she eventually pursued. Sometimes it was anthropology, and she saw herself authoring a breakthrough study of some obscure Native American tribe. Sometimes it was law, and she imagined herself a female Clarence Darrow. Other times it was film. She would be a highly sought after director, the American Lina Wertmuller, whose Swept Away Anna had seen three times, each time reveling in the brutal but magnetic sexuality of Giancarlo Giannini.
She scanned the books on her syllabus. The first few books she'd need were The Selected Poems of Rumi; Ghazals from Hafiz; and The Poetry and Philosophy of Omar Khayyam. She plucked the Rumi book from a shelf of brightly colored volumes and thumbed through it. The introduction described Rumi's background as a Sufi and mystic, his erotic energy, how reading his poetry was like making love. A smile curled her lips. This would be fun.
"I gaze at the porcelain of your face and my heart lights up ..." A male voice cut into her thoughts.
She spun around. A young man was watching her. He was tall — taller than she — and slim. Straight black hair, curling below his ears. A flat chin and aquiline nose balanced his face, and his skin was as pale as hers. But it was his eyes that took her breath away. Pools of rich brown, they flashed with hints of amber and were surrounded by thick black lashes.
"Your gentle nature teaches me to float into your embrace ..."
Her insides went warm.
As if he knew his effect on her, he smiled. "It is from the Divan, the collected works of Rumi in his middle years."
She noticed how the bulky blue sweater under his jacket emphasized his shoulders, how his tight jeans did the same for his buttocks.
"There is no better poet to fall in love with."
He bowed and gestured with a flourish. "I am Nouri." He straightened up, smiling. "And you?"
She tucked the book under her arm and extended a hand.
"Anna."
He took her hand and held it a beat too long. His skin was soft. Not a speck of dirt under his nails. "Anna is a beautiful name." Her cheeks felt hot. She knew he was trying to pick her up, and she knew she should be wary. But she also remembered how, in The Godfather, Michael Corleone was hit with a thunderbolt when he met his Sicilian wife for the first time. Was this what it felt like?
She watched him take her in. She considered her own looks average, but he seemed pleased with her long blonde hair — that could hide her face with a shake of her head — her frank green eyes, sharp chin, and athletic build. "May I see your syllabus?"
She handed it over, aware that apart from her name, she hadn't yet spoken a word.
He studied it. "Rumi, Hafiz, Khayyam, Ferdowsi." He nods. "Yes, these are all masters. Is your professor Persian?"
"I ... I'm not sure." She grimaced mentally. Her first words should have been more confident, more assertive.
He didn't seem to notice. "I am from Iran."
"Are you a poet?" she asked shyly.
He laughed. "I'm studying engineering. At UIC."
The University of Illinois at Chicago campus was a few miles north of Hyde Park. "What are you doing down here?"
He gestured toward the shelf. "This is one of the only bookstores with a decent collection of Persian literature."
An engineer with a love of literature. She smiled a little. She couldn't help it.
His dazzling grin made up for her puny effort. "Will you have tea with me?"
She considered it. The wintry, frigid afternoon was threatening snow, and light was already slipping away like a thief in the night. She could think of nothing she'd like more.
* * *
"Nouri Samedi," Anna said, stirring her tea thirty minutes later. They were in the lounge of the student union, a nondescript university building with brick walls, linoleum floors, and plastic furniture.
He looked pleased that she'd spoken his name as he picked up his cup. "Anna Schroder," he said. "Samedi and Schroder. You see, our names have their own rhythm. It is a sign."
She swelled with pleasure. She had never met a boy like Nouri. American boys were either preening Marlboro men or disco rats. "Are all Iranians this romantic?"
"If they're Persian."
"Of course. I'm sorry."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Romantic, poetic, and fatalistic."
"Fatalistic?"
"We Persians have a tragic view of life. The rose withers. The butter-fly dances its way to death. We love to mourn. We wallow in misery and martyrdom."
"Why is that?"
"It started with Husayn ibn Ali, Mohammed's grandson. He is as important to Shi'a Muslims as Moses is to the Jews. But he was beheaded. You will learn about him in your class."
She tapped her spoon against her cup. She hesitated before asking her question. "Are ... are you observant?"
He shook his head. "I am Muslim in name only. I reject all orthodoxy, no matter what its source."
A surge of relief ran through her. She was a Christian but a nonbeliever.
"The fatalism ..." he continued. "It also comes from the fact that Persia was conquered so often. It is ironic: Persian culture has survived because the conquerors assimilated our culture, rather than the other way around. Still, we always worry."
"The other shoe theory of life," Anna offered.
"Pardon?"
She explained. She always waited for, indeed expected, the other shoe to drop. For things to go bad.
"Exactly."
"But Iran is quite modern now, isn't it?"
"Oh yes. The shah has made sure of that." A shadow moved across his face.
Anna caught it. "You don't approve?"
"The shah has modernized quickly. Some say too fast. But his regime is repressive. If you disagree with anything, SAVAK will find you. Many have disappeared. It is, in some ways, a reign of terror." He pressed his lips together. "And the US does not help.
They continue to support a dictator."
She paused. "I am an American citizen — I was born here. But that doesn't mean I always agree with my government." She told him about her anti-war days. Taking over the principal's office with twenty other students, all of them puffed up with arrogance and self-righteousness. It wasn't that long ago.
The shadow on his face disappeared, and the amber in his eyes flashed. "I am glad you feel that way. You know, with a civil engineering degree, I can help rebuild democracy in Iran. Put structures in place — electricity, running water, bridges, and roads — that will improve lives. Give people a sense of community and entitlement. Like Mosaddeq."
"Mosaddeq?"
"He was prime minister of Iran's only popularly elected government. He nationalized the oil companies to plow profits back into the country. For the people instead of the privileged few. But your CIA and the Brits didn't like that. They accused him of being a Communist. In fact, they staged a coup to overthrow him and brought back the shah." He blew out air. "Poof. The flame of democracy was extinguished."
He was lyrical even when he was critical. Still, she bristled. "It's not my CIA." She told him about her intellectual journey from Hegel to Marx, and then Marcuse. How she was anxious to come to Chicago, in part because of Saul Alinsky. Over the past few years, though, she had backed away from social action, focusing more on observation and analysis. On good days she called herself a chronicler. But she left unsaid the nagging fear that on bad days she was nothing more than a blank slab of stone.
Nouri was swept up in the conversation, his eyes so intense they seemed to be lit by tiny candles from within. His voice sank to a conspiratorial whisper. "I too have read Marx. The shah has banned his books, you know."
Anna leaned forward. "Tell me, Nouri. Why engineering? You are so knowledgeable. And articulate. Why not politics? Or teaching?"
He snorted. "My parents expect me to become a
Mohandes."
"Mohandes?"
"It's a title of respect for an engineer. Like a doctor. They insist. And I am good with numbers. I like to make things."
"What does your family do?" She suspected they must be wealthy if he was able to study abroad.
His expression turned sheepish. "My father is a senior officer with the National Iranian Oil Company."
Somehow she was not surprised. "So he supports the shah."
"They know each other. Socially." A flush crept up his neck. He cleared his throat. "What about yours?"
She chose her words carefully. "My parents are ... European. But they met in the States. I spend summers abroad. My mother lives in Paris. She pretends to be an artist. They're divorced."
"And your father?"
"He is ..." She paused. "... a scientist."
"Ahh." His smile was equal parts sunshine and desire. For Anna, it was a heady mix.
She sipped the last of her tea. "Tell me. How did Persia come to be named Iran?"
"It is from the word 'Aryan.'"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "A Bitter Veil"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Libby Fischer Hellmann.
Excerpted by permission of Allium Press of Chicago.
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