As it had been for months, the weather in Tehran remained gloomy during Cyrus’s stay. Day after day, week after week, the stationary cold and smoggy weather intensified over the city and made breathing ever more unsafe for children, the elderly, and those with asthma or heart disease. There was no wind to push the smog away. There was no rain to cleanse the air and rinse the streets. After his visit with Reza in the morning, Cyrus spent the afternoon with his mother, who had begun to regain her appetite. No one was home when Cyrus finally returned to Maryam’s house. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and climbed upstairs to his room. There were two books and a note from Parviz on his desk. “Cyrus, I thought you might enjoy these mystical poems by Rumi. It may be difficult for a physician who deals with science and biomedical causation for emotional upheavals, love and death to believe in miracles but I’m eager to see how you will challenge the ones I have marked.” Cyrus was amused by the note. He picked up the top book, turned several pages, and stopped at the first bookmark. He perused two poems and savored Rumi’s longing for deep love, and for knowing the unknown without experimentation, but only by meditation. But Cyrus’s mind returned to Reza. He felt the weight of her gift in his pocket. Just as he pulled his tape player out of the suitcase, he heard voices in the hall. Habib was calling him. Reza had warned him not to let Habib know about the Ayatollah Khomeini tape. He dropped the tape into his suitcase and shut it. The voices of Bahram and Shirin approached. He could hear their steps on the stairs, and then a knock on his door. “Please, come in.” Bahram opened the door, Shirin right behind him. “I hope we are not disturbing you.” “Not at all. I’m improvising a theme on a poem by Rumi.” “We are going to study together tonight, but we have a few minutes to chat. May we join you?” Bahram asked. “Sit, please,” Cyrus said, “What’s up?” “Nothing much. Just the boring weeks of our final examinations,” Shirin laughed. Bahram was interested in Cyrus’s poetic improvisation. Cyrus assented readily. “Why not? Writers revise and poets recite!” The young people gave him their full attention and voiced their approval at the end. “I’m from a secular family,” Shirin said. “My father especially cares little about mullahs and even less about Ayatollah Khomeini. He only goes to the mosque when there is a funeral of a friend or relative.” Bahram looked fondly at Shirin. “That’s why I like her so much,” he said. “Both of us are against the heavy-handedness of the clergy. We believe in separation of religion and government. Mullahs can stay in their mosques and pray as much as they want, but they should not get involved in politics. They need to learn to live and let live and respect other people’s religions.” With plenty of studying to do, they soon excused themselves and left. Maryam returned home a short time later, accompanied by several women who followed Maryam into the kitchen and settled down for a chat and a cup of tea. “That was a great speech, Maryam! I think your nomination as our representative in the Women’s Caucus is paying off,” one of them said. Maryam was pleased. “Queen Farah was smiling at you the entire time!” another lady commented. “It will be good for women teachers to have strong representation,” Maryam said. “I hope Her Majesty heeds our request.” “She will.” “If I get selected, I shall do my best to make our concerns heard.” The Women’s Caucus had twelve members and was chaired by Queen Farah, who only attended their meetings during the opening of the annual meeting and when there was a visiting foreign dignitary; otherwise, Her Majesty would assign one of her aides to attend in her place. Maryam had been on the board of the National Organization of Women Teachers for several years; her colleagues liked her because she was bold and well informed about women’s rights and issues. In meetings she was always firm, polite and accurate.
Parviz and Tooraj came later that evening to visit Cyrus. Habib had been reading the newspaper in the kitchen, but immediately invited them to the living room for cocktails. Knowing that Habib’s early evening drink was vodka with Coke, Parviz and Tooraj asked for the same. Tooraj went upstairs and persuaded Cyrus to join them. Habib was the only one who didn’t approve of Cyrus’s improvised poems. “This is prose, my man, not poetry. A poem should have rhyme and rhythm, sound and harmony, not just words arranged into irregular and broken lines.” Tooraj defended his friend’s version. “Well, to me it sounds like a rhapsody, and I think it’s great!” Parviz also liked the new poems and offered a toast to poetry. Tooraj immediately expanded it: “Let us forget about all pagans, prophets, gods and goddesses and drink to life!” Habib joined them in the toast to life; even if he did not like the poems, he always liked a friendly drink. Parviz contemplated Cyrus thoughtfully. “Let me offer you, my dear younger brother, some free advice. It would be wise for you to leave a little room for God, just an escape in case we’re all wrong and there is such a creature in the universe.” He continued, “Have you ever wondered whether all these millions of people who believe in Him could be right? Who knows, God may be up there in Heaven right now, hearing your rebellious comments and writing notes about you.” Tooraj, an agnostic, Jew was surprised by Parviz’s speculation. “Are you saying that we ought to leave the door to Heaven ajar and make some room in our mind for a belief in God?” “Well, I’m not worried at all,” Cyrus waved them off. “Who are you referring to? To a heroic entity, or an enormous force that can create, manage, and lead this colossal and immeasurable universe?” “I’m talking about an entity that is enormous in power and gigantic in size,” Parviz said. Cyrus laughed. “Then He is so powerful and so busy with running the gargantuan universe that our actions are meaningless to him. After all, He must be pragmatic, mathematical, and frugal in order to manage this vast world successfully. In that case, I’ll bet you that your suppositive God is democratic and will respect differing opinions. And if I were wrong about Him, He would come down from Heaven to the solitude and darkness of my grave, sit next to me, introduce himself, and enlighten me. He wouldn’t punish anyone, not even for saluting idols; after all, they were His predecessors, His ancestors.” Amused by Cyrus’s theory, Tooraj declared him a winner in this debate, and offered a new salute: “Let’s drink to life again, to life, to life, L’Chaim.” Habib laughed out loud. “But let’s also drink to God, the creator of the universe who is powerful, kind, liberal; and who respects the opinions of all His creatures, including Cyrus, Parviz, Tooraj and me!”
Two days before Cyrus’s scheduled departure from Tehran, Cyrus went with Bahram to the Passport Office of the Foreign Ministry to obtain his exit permit. Cyrus had become an American citizen several years ago. Although it was not a crime for Iranians to become citizens of other countries, they could only enter the country with their Iranian passport, and needed an exit permit to leave. At the Passport Office he presented his airline ticket, his Iranian passport and a completed form requesting an exit permit. An official reviewed the documents, leafed through the passport, and saw the visa to Hungary that had caused Cyrus so much grief and trouble in the past. But the note from the Iranian immigration official clipped to one of the passport pages saved Cyrus renewed interrogation. “Go to the Airport Police Office two hours before your departure time to pick up your passport,” the official said. “How about the exit permit?” Cyrus asked. “If it gets approved, it will be in the passport.” “Do you anticipate any problems?” The official scrutinized the passport pages again and pointed to the visa to Hungary. “What was your reason to go there?” “To attend a medical meeting.” Cyrus pulled out another copy of his certificate of attendance at the medical meeting in Budapest and gave it to the official. “That should be fine. You’ll leave Iran without a hitch.” He placed the note in the passport. “It is normal procedure for us to keep your passport until the day of your departure.” Bahram maneuvered the car through the heavy traffic but got stuck between two large diesel trucks which were spewing black smoke in the air. The thick and nauseating smoke entered, forcing Bahram to roll up the windows. Cyrus was coughing, and his head began to throb. He pulled two tablets of coated aspirin from his pocket and swallowed them dry. Bahram observed him and said, “Doc, one of these days you will have a big ulcer. Let me stop and get you some water.” It took them some time to find a place to buy a bottle of Pepsi. “They shouldn’t let these diesel trucks enter the city streets.” Cyrus couldn’t reply because of another paroxysm of coughing. “You have become really tolerant of officious behavior. I expected you to raise hell back there in that office. How many times should they harass you about that old Hungarian trip?” Bahram said, angrily. “This passport business is embarrassing! You see why we need a better government.” Cyrus said, “It doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m used to it.” “Well, it bothers me. No country in the world is as restrictive as Iran!” “Believe me, it is not as bad here as in some other countries I have visited.” “What countries are you talking about? There is no way conditions elsewhere can be worse than here.” Cyrus explained, “Restrictions are worse in the Soviet Union and in East Germany. In the Soviet Union, for example, freedom of the press and individual rights are much more limited than here in Iran. For an ordinary citizen of the Soviet Union, it is almost impossible to travel abroad.” Bahram’s face reflected his disbelief. “How can you know that?” he asked. “I’ve been there and I have seen it! And it is even worse in East Germany. People die crossing the wall that divides the city of Berlin. They get shot attempting to escape from East Germany.” Bahram refused to accept Cyrus’s description of the conditions behind the Iron Curtain; he was certain nothing could be worse than the oppression in Iran.
Heavy traffic forced their car to inch its way slowly toward the intersection of Pahlavi and Takht-Jamshid Streets. Smoke and fumes entered their car again, rekindling Cyrus’s cough. Despite the aspirin his headache had intensified and he was feeling nauseated. “They need to do something about the pollution as well,” Bahram said, “Surely you will at least agree that all of it is the Shah’s fault.” They both laughed. Bahram parked near a café on Pahlavi Ave. “Let’s have a cup of coffee. Shirin is supposed to meet me here.” Cyrus felt the full force of his migraine and needed to get out of the traffic fumes, so he welcomed the break. Anyhow, he had no plans until dinnertime. “Great idea! I would certainly enjoy a cup of coffee and a chat with you and Shirin.” They locked the car, crossed a wooden passage over the narrow stream of water between the rows of maple trees, and entered a small café packed with young students. They found a table near the window overlooking the sidewalk. A waiter brought them the afternoon menu that offered tea, coffee, sodas, ice cream, and pastries, and they both ordered coffee. Bahram was puzzled by Cyrus’s statements about the Soviet Union. He was sure life in the Soviet Union was quite different from Cyrus’s description. “Cyrus, I think you have been brainwashed by the American propaganda machine,” he said. “Life in the Soviet Union is much freer than you say.” “Believe me,” Cyrus said. ”I’m speaking from experience. I’ve been there myself and was shocked by Communism in action. It’s totally different from what you read in Communist publications.” Bahram was astonished. “How did you visit Moscow? You couldn’t go with an Iranian passport, unless you had special approval from the Foreign Ministry.” “I went with a group of American physicians to tour medical facilities and attend a health care seminar in Moscow. We visited Kiev and St. Petersburg, too,” Cyrus said. “As an American citizen, I can go anywhere in the world except to one or two hostile countries.” Bahram was eager to hear more; his questions poured out rapidly. “How was Moscow? Did you meet any Russian students? What did you talk about with the Russians you met?” “What surprised me the most was that every student I met asked me for help to leave the Soviet Union and come to the U.S.” “I don’t understand why they would want to leave!” Bahram exclaimed. “They live in a country with true liberty and economic equality. Freedom without economic equality is not really freedom. Why would they be interested in moving to the U.S.?” “The majority of Russian students seemed more interested in our American life-style than in Communism. People openly expressed their criticism of the Soviet government; they were tired of coping with the frequent shortages of food and many daily necessities. And they definitely do not enjoy freedom of the press.” “Did you meet any members of the Communist Party?” “I am not sure, but our tour guides were government employees and probably members of the party.” “What did they talk about?” “Every single one of them approached one or more members of our group and sought their help to get a visa to the U.S. They would gladly pay their life savings to get an immigration visa to the U.S.” Bahram couldn’t believe that Cyrus was painting a true picture of Soviet society. His political mentors had taught him that every Soviet citizen enjoyed social and economic freedom and justice. Now, he insisted on repeating what he had heard: “There is no upper-class or boss in Soviet society. Nobody owns anything and there is no unemployment. Everybody has access to free education and health care.” As he spoke, it became clear that Bahram held an image of Soviet society as an ideal community, a utopia rimmed with love and peace, where the grass was always green, the meadows covered with large fragrant red flowers, gardens filled with roses and rosemary, and people who looked healthy and content, beautiful and strong. In Bahram’s version of Soviet society nobody was poor, sick, or old. No one died of illness or suffered from hunger or malnutrition. There was total equality with music and poetry in every neighborhood. Bahram envisioned that community was better than Heaven. Cyrus was astonished by Bahram’s naïve view of the outside world, especially his ignorance of the realities of life in Communist countries. “Bahram, you are getting absolutely wrong information. I was there and saw it with my own eyes. Even their best medical clinics lacked basic medications; their examination tables were scrap lumber from World Wars I and II. The rate of postoperative infection in the Soviet Union is higher than in many developing countries,” Cyrus said. “In some ways, you have access to better medicine here in Iran than most people in the Soviet Union.” “Only under Communism can an ideal society exist,” Bahram insisted. “Economic equality produces true democracy.” “When you find one call me,” Cyrus said. “It is certainly not in the Soviet Union.” “When the government eliminates private ownership of land and factories and lets workers and farmers manage everything themselves, then justice, happiness, and liberty will prevail.” “Look, private ownership of farms and factories was abolished decades ago when Stalin was ruling the Soviet Union, but now nobody has any incentive to work hard and move the country forward,” Cyrus said. He wanted to elaborate more on the value of individual ownership and its effect on productivity but decided to halt this fruitless discussion. It was obvious that Bahram’s brain was totally soaked in Marxism and would accept neither arguments nor data. “You talk like a genuine capitalist,” Bahram ridiculed Cyrus. “I chose to go to America, and after I lived there for almost six years I chose to become an American citizen. It’s one of my rights to choose where I want to live. I love the American Constitution; it talks about life, liberty, and happiness, not about hatred and vengeance. It’s not a perfect society, but it’s an exciting country with lots of things to do. You are free to participate in sports, visit museums, attend concerts, or play chess in the park, and no matter what age you are, go to academy and get more education. It’s really fun to live in America.” “Nonsense! You can’t buy happiness in the market.” “But you have the constitutional right to pursue it,” Cyrus said. This concept was new to Bahram, so new that he thought it was silly to specify a citizen’s right to pursue happiness in his country’s constitution. He thought happiness was a very private and personal matter and could not be manufactured. “How can the U.S. or for that matter any government produce happiness?” he asked Cyrus. “The U.S. government doesn’t provide happiness. The U.S. Constitution guarantees the right of its citizens to pursue happiness, and that comes from being free, as free as a fish in an ocean, or a bird in the clear blue sky.” Bahram looked at his watch and wondered when Shirin was going to show up. Tired of the political conversation, he asked Cyrus about his family and finally wondered, “Are you really happy living in Texas?” “Of course I am. Otherwise I would have packed my belongings and moved elsewhere. Look, you can find all elements of American life in Texas, from centers of high culture to rodeos and dude ranches to noisy sports arenas. You can choose your hobby from hunting or fishing to writing and reading, playing golf or tennis, or any other endeavor. The Texas economy, similar to Iran’s, is strongly tied to the petroleum industry. The oil wells on many ranches are privately owned. Like Iran, Texas has a varied climate and lots of friendly people.” Bahram had another sip of coffee and looked at his watch again. “Shirin should be here any time now,” he smiled. “Shirin and I have become good friends. I like her mother, but I can’t stand her father. He is a real bourgeois and owns a big construction company in Tehran. As a hard-working fellow who has done well economically, he naturally supports the policies of this government.” “Then don’t talk politics with him.” “He is very unfriendly to me, hostile to my opinions and hates to see me around his house.” “How does Shirin manage this problem?” “She is independent and doesn’t let her father get involved in our relationship.” “She must be a very courageous person.” “It’s not that hard. Her mother likes me a lot. Her mother tells me, ‘Please don’t talk politics in our house.’” Bahram was looking through the window and saw Shirin approaching the café, passing the bridge over the fast-flowing stream. “Here she is.” Bahram waved and Shirin smiled cheerfully as she joined them. The waiter brought more coffee and cake for the three of them. When Shirin finished her coffee, she looked into the empty cup with great interest. She tilted and rocked the cup in a circular way and seemed absorbed by the different swirls of thick coffee at the bottom. Cyrus was amused and asked her, “What are you doing?” “I am reading the cup because I want to see what the future has in store for us.” Cyrus laughed, “You are funny, Shirin! Now I understand why you like socialism so much. You have probably seen it in the bottom of your cup.” They chuckled companionably. Shirin had turned quiet, suddenly. Then she whispered, “I am seeing something here.” She looked closer and added softly, “I see an image.” Bahram says, “Are you seeing me?” “No, I am seeing Cyrus. I see him climbing a mountain and falling into a deep ravine.” Cyrus was astonished. “That’s a big picture for such a little cup.” Bahram was now perturbed by the comment and looked Cyrus straight in the face. “This is not as trivial as you think. Shirin sees a lot of images and they always sound beautiful and poetic, but not today.” “Do you see anything else?” Cyrus asked Shirin. “I see you are walking again, trying to get back to the pass.” “I am glad Cyrus is still alive,” Bahram said. “Am I limping?” Cyrus asked. “That’s all I see,” Shirin said. “I cannot see anything else.”
“It Had to Be You.” The Western music in the coffee shop was one of Billie Holiday’s songs. Cyrus looked around and saw young couples talking intimately, looking into each other’s eyes, holding each other’s hands. Bahram and Shirin were sitting closer together, and Cyrus saw they were enjoying the music. He thought it was time for him to leave, leave these two lovebirds alone. He got up. “Good bye, my friends. I’ll take a taxi to Maryam’s house.” Shirin objected. “Don’t go yet, I have brought you a gift.” “Please, just wait a second,” Bahram said. “This is from both of us.” Shirin handed him one book titled The Garden of Mirrors, a recent anthology by Ahmad Shamloo. Then she gave him a second book and said, “This one is by a female poet who wrote in free verse; this author is my favorite poet. She was killed in a car accident when she was still very young. She was courageous, sensational, and wild, and her verses are romantic and very meaningful. I just love her poems because she wrote so expressively about the desires and fantasies of women.” In the taxi Cyrus leaned back and casually leafed through the books. It had been a long day and when he finally entered Maryam’s house, he was still suffering from a pounding headache. In the room, he took some migraine medication, turned off the lights, and went to bed. The dark, quiet room and a capsule of Darvocet brought some relief, and soon Cyrus was asleep.
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