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Shirine: a thousand and one nights. (short story)
Klein, Rachel; 01-01-1998
Shirine's English has only a trace of an accent. What gives her away is an
occasional hesitation, as if she is sifting through a pile of words until
the right one appears. And her sentences have a peculiar rhythm; practically
every sentence is punctuated with an exclamation: "I swear to God!" "I
promise you!" Sometimes these expressions are pronounced with great emphasis,
other times merely in passing, like a cough.
It's not surprising that her English is nearly natural. She was sent to
school in England when she was thirteen, so that she could learn the
language. Her father, an influential politician under the Shah, wanted her
to grow up to be the Indira Gandhi of Iran. To do that, she needed to speak
at least five languages fluently. Unfortunately, when it came to math she
was hopeless, and that infuriated her father. He had no patience with her.
He wanted her to do everything flawlessly, as he did. When she was young,
she had to study calligraphy with a bamboo pen for two hours each week, so
that her handwriting would be impeccable. Now she writes with an
extraordinarily beautiful hand. She still feels that people will judge her
by the marks she makes on a piece of paper.
In Teheran she played the piano with a Russian teacher, and she
continued to study when she went to
England. She loved to play the piano because it was something that
belonged only to her, and because it
was not useful. But forty years later, the piano playing is lost.
When she thinks of the music of her
childhood, she thinks of the setar, the reed flute, the tambourine,
of a voice that is played like an
instrument. When she hears that music, she weeps for hours. She's
weeping over memories. She is also
weeping from joy. The people sitting with her are always
uncomfortable when she weeps. They think
something must be the matter. They don't understand that sorrow is
the companion of joy. Shirine is only
mourning the loss of Eden, her exile.
She feels obliged to recite the stories of her life to others, to
anticipate their doubts, to explain to them
why she never fulfilled her father's expectations, although they
wouldn't even think to ask. She tells the
stories compulsively, but not in the way of women who are always
exposing themselves and the things it
would be better to keep hidden. None of these confessions is
humiliating. The stories are strangely
separate from her, as if they were legends, like the tragic story of
King Khosrow's love for the Armenian
princess Shirine. She is a story teller. That fate she can't escape.
It's impossible to get her to start at the
beginning of her life and relate it in one continuous thread to the
present. It's a series of unresolved tales
that overlap, shuttling back and forth in time. Certain details
change: her grandmother had seven boys and
two girls, or six boys and two girls. "My stories are all
fabrications anyway," she says. "If you check
with my father or mother or sister, you'll find that they have
different versions of every story."
Recently, she dreamed about a waterfall. She was walking into the
water, abandoning herself to its
coolness, to the secret space behind it. Her grandmother caught hold
of her skin and pulled her back.
When she turned around, she saw her grandmother reaching into her
breast and taking out a white dove.
Shirine awoke in tears. She needed to know what lay beyond the
waterfall. All day, she could think of
nothing but the image of her grandmother holding the white dove,
which upset her deeply, but she was
unable to tell anyone about it. Finally, she couldn't stand it any
longer, and she went to a spiritualist. She'
d much rather consult a fortune teller than a therapist. The woman
rambled on with vague predictions for
the future. Shirine didn't pay much attention. Then at the end,
almost as an afterthought, she added: "Your
grandmother was the guiding light in your life. She is holding a
white dove." Shirine remembers what she
learned as a child, that the meaning of a woman's dream is the exact
opposite of what it appears to be.
Until she left for England, Shirine saw her grandmother every day of her
life. She went to her house for
lunch and then again after school. Her grandmother, Khanom Shahrezad,
died six months after Shirine left
for England, as if she understood that there was no reason left for
her body to remain alive. After all, her
body was just an overnight lodging for an eternal spirit. By then,
she was in her late eighties and had
outlived several of her children. The first child to die was her
daughter, at twenty-one, from a bacterial
infection just two weeks before antibiotics were brought to Iran.
That death devastated her, to lose her
beautiful child when she could have been saved so easily. It was
worse for her than her husband's death.
After her husband died, she had been too busy taking care of her
children and running his huge estates in
Esfahan to think about him being gone. Eventually she sold the land
and moved her entire family to the
city.
Shirine has made her grandmother repeat many times the story of how
she married her husband at age
nine. She arrived at the house of her husband, Abu Ali Khan, with her
dolls in her arms. He was
twenty-seven at the time and naturally didn't know how to approach
his wife-child. But she was very
religious, and she performed her wifely duties. She bore her first
child just a few years later.
Despite her piousness, her sons were all loud and free in their
conversation. In the afternoons, after
lunch, the servants set out striped mats and floral cushions on the
carpets and brought braziers full of
burning charcoal, opium bowls, and pipes. Shirine loved to listen to
their conversation, to be around her
affectionate, jolly, obscene uncles. "If you fuck a woman the night
before," they would joke, "she'll bring
you tea and toast in the morning. If not, you better watch out. She'
ll wake up in a bad mood and throw
something at you." She sat to the side, trying not to attract
attention, listening to the sound of the water
rushing from the fountain and her uncles' laughter. She was
absolutely content, but inevitably one of the
women would notice her, scold her, and send her back to school for
the afternoon.
Shahrezad's holiness meant compassion for the poor and acceptance of
others. When her oldest son
married a "loose" woman, there was an explosion of gossip behind the
woman's back. Shahrezad insisted
that all her daughters-in-law respect their relative and not gossip
about her. Her servants worshipped her,
and her house was always full of their relatives, come to receive
help. In her last illness, Shahrezad lay in
a coma for ten days, without responding to anyone. Her maid kneeled
at the side of the bed and prayed,
"My beloved mistress, may God give me all your suffering." Shahrezad
was not suffering in any way. At
the very end, she emerged from her coma, sat up in bed, saw the
saints come through the door in a
procession, said her prayers, laid her head down on the pillow, and
died a serene death.
When Shirine thinks about it, she would give anything to surround
herself with her grandmother's
holiness, as if she were wrapping herself in a chador. She needs her
grandmother's faith in that invisible
God, everywhere, all the time: God with her serving tea, God in the
garden when she walks. It's
impossible for her to believe in a God like that. She doesn't know
what she is. She was raised a Muslim
but is no longer one. She will chose her own religion in the end. She
doesn't even consider herself
Iranian, not the way her parents do. That belongs to them; they don't
need anything more. She believes
only in the details of her childhood, in fresh walnuts piled up in
the courtyard, soaked in water until their
skins slid off, and served for breakfast. On the streets in the
winter, they ate baked beets with yogurt and
came away with pink stains on their fingers.
When she was a child, though, she held long and intense conversations
with God every night before
going to sleep. She related to him the smallest details of her day,
so that he would know everything about
her and miss nothing. She no longer prays to God, instead she ponders
Rumi's words: "To really pray is
to be as an angel." She remembers that at one time in her life the
angels were real.
Her mother took her on a pilgrimage to Iraq, to visit the most revered
Shiite shrines. They went to
Karbala and saw the shrine of Imam Hoseyn, grandson of the Prophet
Mohammad, martyred by the
Omayyad caliph, and to the shrine of Ali, the first Shiite imam, at
Najaf. In those magnificent and holy
spaces she felt in the presense of God. But now she is unsure whether
she was in touch with His
presence or merely in awe of the glitter of candles reflected in the
mirrored walls. Everyone fell silent
when they set foot in the shrines, whether or not they were true
believers. Her mother was born with
faith; she had inherited it from her saintlike mother and never
thought to question it. She even went on a
pilgrimage to Mecca, and each year she gave away one fifth of her
wealth to the poor.
When Shirine first took acid, she went into the forests along the
Caspian Sea, and surrounded by huge
trees draped with moss, she sensed that God was embodied in those
immobile giants. She embraced the
trees and called them her grandmother. She kissed the earth and
called it her mother. Her body was as
transparent as the air.
Shirine was sent to England, and she left behind a trunk filled with her
grandmother's clothing. In
England, she used to sort through the contents of that trunk in her
mind. There was the tiny wedding
dress of the child bride, of gauze embroidered with gold flowers and
with a big collar of shocking pink.
The veil was of mauve and gold stripes, embroidered with pink and
emerald green flowers. Now Shirine
holds up the clothes, whose delicate threads are beginning to
disintegrate, and imagines her grandmother
as a little girl. She was like a princess, yet terrified of leaving
her family, her dolls, and her little sisters.
The thought of her sacrifice to marriage and motherhood makes Shirine
weep, even though her
grandmother never voiced any regret for her childhood, and even
though the trunk is full of velvet cloaks,
lined with sumptuous silks, striped, floral, of clashing,
unbelievable colors. There is a jacket in the trunk
with a lace ruffle at the collar. It is a copy of a jacket, a vest,
and a blouse that her grandmother had seen
on an English woman in Teheran, but the Iranian tailor had sewn it
all in one piece. Her grandmother
wore it under a veil because she hated to be seen by any man other
than her husband. She was distraught
when Reza Shah Pahlavi forbade women to wear the veil and encouraged
them to be European in
appearance. He was copying the Ataturk, she said, who likewise
mistakenly believed that the salvation of
the East lay in the West.
Shirine never wore a veil; she wore a bikini. Iran was free then.
Naturally, her father disapproved; he had
a very strict religious upbringing. Shirine hated it when anyone said
that she looked like her father's sister,
because she wanted to be associated only with her mother's family,
with the bon vivants. Her father
worked all the time, anyway. He was never around when she was a
child. He industrialized Iran. He
believed in progress.
As a child, Shirine was always with her favorite uncle, Amir Ali, her
mother's oldest brother. After the
Shah overthrew Mossadeq's government, he spent the rest of his life
either in jail or under house arrest.
He had been the speaker of the parliament under Mossadeq, had
supported the nationalization of the oil
companies, and taught law at the University of Teheran, where he was
later turned into a hero by the
students. For years, Shirine carried her uncle's lunch to him in jail
every day. After he was released, he
went to live in a small village outside the city, in a house that he
owned with Shirine's father. It seemed to
make little difference that the brothers-in-law were on different
sides of every political question. They
agreed on one fundamental tenet, that it was only an accident that
put one inside a jail and the other
outside. They were as inseparable as two sides of a coin.
This simple life suited Shirine's uncle, who became more content the
less he had. He often quoted the
Sufi sages, as if he knew them personally. "Truth is a hard road," he
said many times to his wayward
neice. He worked in the village and helped build a school. He adopted
five orphans. In his apartment there
was a sofa, a dining table and chairs, a bed, and lots of books. In
the closet hung his three suits. Why
would he desire more?
Shirine remembers how when she was very little and used to sleep on a
mattress on the roof in the
summer, her uncle would tie a rope around her ankle and around his.
That way, she would not be able to
get up and wander in her sleep, which she often did.
In those days, her mother was a happy person, a total contrast to her
cold father. She laughed all the
time, along with her wild brothers, and the loud laughter came from
deep down. After the accidents of
history put her behind bars, she was never the same again. The
revolution took something from her
besides her wealth, and she never got it back. Of course, they all
lost something in the revolution: their
country. But Shirine had already lost that. She thinks that getting a
divorce is worse than going through
the revolution.
In those days her mother was a happy person, and her children were
happy. Every weekend, the entire
family, with lots of cousins, uncles, aunts, congregated in the
country outside of Teheran. There were
four houses and lots of animals. The children made caravans on the
donkeys or drove around in old
British Jeeps. They ran free from morning to night, only checking in
at lunch and dinner. They carried
baskets to fill with cherries, peaches, pears, grapes and water to
wash the fruit. The baskets always
returned empty; they ate everything they picked. When they got hot,
they jumped into the huge reservoir
that served as a swimming pool. The water was so frigid that it took
half an hour to work up the nerve to
jump in, and once you were in, you couldn't stand the cold for more
than two minutes. Your body ached.
After those two minutes, you felt cool for the rest of the day. Her
father, of course, swam methodically
back and forth in that reservoir for at least an hour each day.
At thirteen, Shirine and her sister, Leila, said good-bye to their
mother on the train that would take them
to Crofton Grange. As soon as their mother left the compartment, the
two girls fell into each other's arms
and wept. They were going off to a strange school in a strange
country where they knew no one. They
barely spoke any English. The taxi let them off in front of the manor
house, which looked enormous. It
was surrounded by huge copper beeches whose heavy branches swept the
ground. The black leaves
terrified them. They instinctively grabbed one another's hands. They
would have stood there forever,
hands clasped, on the gravel turnabout, with their luggage arrayed
next to them, if the heavy wooden
doors had not swung open.
The sisters, only a year apart, were separated immediately. They saw
each other for five minutes each
day, when the entire school gathered around the piano in the front
entrance hall to receive mail and their
morning apple. Shirine practiced the piano for an hour before the
mail was handed out, so she always
managed to steal an extra apple for her sister.
The food was impossible to get used to. It had a faint musty smell and
tasted like wool. The girls lived on
apples and chocolate, which they bought with the money their parents
had given them. Six months later,
the sisters went down to London to see their parents, who had come
from Iran to check up on them.
When their mother opened the door to their hotel room, she didn't
recognize her children. Then she
started to cry. They were wearing woolen suits that she had bought in
Italy, navy blue pleated skirts with
matching sailor tops. The girls had gained at least twenty pounds,
and they could barely fit into their
outfits, which looked like stuffed sacks. Their cheeks were puffy and
their skin pasty-looking. The next
day, they went shopping at Harrod's for new clothes in the department
for "ample" children.
The girls at school could never get over the fact that Shirine was
Iranian: her skin was dark, her hair was
black, she spoke bad English with an accent. At first, she could not
pronounce "th" and was always
confusing words. One night, just before lights out, she asked the
matron to wait to turn out the light
while she "washed her feet in the sink." For this offense, she was
called before the headmistress, who
said, "In England, it is considered uncouth to wash one's feet in the
same place where one washes one's
hands and face. Do you understand?" No amount of stammering could
convey that Shirine had wanted to
clean her teeth.
In her classes, Shirine was utterly lost. The other girls and the
teachers assumed that her only fault was
that she was hopelessly stupid. The one person who wanted to help
her, other than her piano teacher,
whom she adored, was her English teacher. Miss Robinson, a wrinkled
spinsterish woman, must have
had at least forty twin sets of cashmere sweaters, in every color,
which she wore with a plain gray wool
skirt and brown oxfords. She had infinite patience with Shirine and
devoted hours to teaching her English.
Before the year was out, Shirine was reading the Brontes. At last she
could talk to her schoolmates. They
had many questions for the foreigner: "Do your tents have any doors?"
" Do the camels in Persia have red lights?"
Reading Jane Eyre, she discovered that schools just like hers had been
around forever, a particular
English nightmare. They were up at six every morning to air out their
sheets and fold them. If you
cheated and folded your sheets and blankets together or were not tidy
enough, you had to carry scuttles
of coal to the school building from the shed down the road. In the
beginning, it seemed as if Shirine
would have to do this every day.
By the time she had grown used to this existence, and was finally made
prefect so that she, too, could
have her turn at torturing the younger girls and forcing them to
carry scuttles full of coal, her parents had
decided that their daughters were not learning anything. Crofton
Grange was not good enough for a
future leader of her country, so they sent both girls to another
school, Tortington Park, which was really
much more pleasant and where there were other Iranian students. Here
the lonely Bronte sisters at last
had company: Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Browning. How
different this poetry was
from the writings of the Sufis, which her uncle had been reading to
her from the time she could first
understand him. When he recited their words, he seemed to spring from
the Earth and to look back at it
from a great distance, as if he were keeping company with the angels.
The English poets, on the other
hand, always seemed to be saying to her: "You are here, now, in this
world and no other."
When Shirine first arrived in England, she received a letter from her
uncle in which he wrote: "So that my
little niece does not forget the many happy hours we spent together,
reading and talking, I will enclose a
lesson from Attar of Nishapur.
The Heart
Someone went up to a madman who was weeping in the bitterest possible way.
He said:
'Why do you cry?'
The madman answered:
'I am crying to attract the pity of His heart.'
The other told him:
'Your words are nonsense, for He has no physical heart.'
The madman answered:
'It is you who are wrong, for He is the owner of all the hearts which
exist. Through the heart you can make your connection with God.'"
Shirine thinks of this letter and wishes she could ask her uncle,
"Who owns my heart?" Even then, she no
longer talked to God fervently before she went to sleep. Each night,
she fell into bed, exhausted, anxious,
sometimes despairing. Each morning, after preparing her bed, she was
ushered with the other girls into
the chapel for morning prayers before an inedible breakfast of
porridge. She stood in the dim, cool
chapel, a worn blue prayer book open before her, and mouthed the
words to the hymns. She did not dare
to keep her mouth closed. She studied the image of Jesus Christ on
the cross and marveled at how pale,
how tormented he appeared. This god was not a happy god. Each morning
she wondered why something
that had once come as naturally to her as breathing now could not be
summoned even with the most
strenuous effort.
At twenty, Shirine announced to her father that she wanted to marry her
boyfriend, a sweet Englishman
who was studying at the London School of Economics. "Over my dead
body," was her father's response,
and it was not rhetorical. He still had hopes of seeing her in the
prime minister's seat. She was living in
London with her sister and her cousin, studying with a tutor and
trying to pass her 0 levels, so she could
go to Oxford. At twenty-one, with one exam left to pass, she returned
to Teheran, as she did every
summer. At a dinner at the American Embassy, she sat next to an
Embassy official, who managed to
convince her in the space of two hours that she was crazy to return
to England for school.
"Oxford," he said, "is not for you, Shirine. England is a cold, damp
place where everyone cloaks their
feelings, cloaks their words. Someday five, ten, fifteen years from
now you'll be walking down the street.
You will have forgotten the particulars of their bland and
unregenerate racism, or maybe chalked it up to
ignorance. Those comments like, 'Well, Shirine, it must be
interesting to be in a country where everyone
wears shoes,' always expressed with such tact and delicacy, they were
jokes, you think. You'll be
walking down the street and suddenly you' ll remember something
someone said to you at Oxford, a
remark you hardly noticed at the time, and you'll realize that it was
an insult, meant just for you. I'm sure
you already have a storehouse of those remarks."
The next morning, Shirine went straight back to the American Embassy and
asked for information on
colleges in the United States. She took applications to Radcliffe,
Wellesley, Smith, and Mt. Holyoke. They
were vaguely familiar names, or perhaps she liked their sound. The
woman behind the desk watched her
stuff the papers into her bag and finally suggested that she might
want to have another choice, as a
"backup," since it was very difficult to gain admission to those
schools. She would be glad to give Shirine
some advice. She herself had attended a small college in Ohio. It was
a "friendly" place.
Three months later, Shirine found herself at the College of Wooster, a
place that seemed even stranger to
her than rural England. The United States was a huge place, and each
new name sounded more exotic
than the last. She imagined Wooster as a place of many enchantments,
with deep forests and glittering
streams. Ohio was a place of flat, colorless fields, farmers who
scarcely spoke, and highways. The other
students sprang from this landscape. They had trouble understanding
Shirine when she spoke, and she
had trouble understanding them. She filled the air around them with
words, and they looked at her with
blank faces. She missed the English sarcasm immediately. This was the
first time in her life that Shirine
had made a decision on her own, and she realized at once that she had
made a disastrous mistake. She
became convinced the woman at the American Embassy had played a trick
on her.
During Christmas break, she came to New York for a weekend to visit a
cousin and stayed. Her cousin
took her to clubs every night, to Ungano's, the Filmore East, the
Cafe Wha, and introduced her to his
Iranian friends, who were wild and free like her uncles. Each day she
put off returning to Ohio. After
three weeks, the college reported her missing to the Iranian
consulate. Shirine talked a doctor into writing
a letter claiming that she was having trouble "adjusting to college
life." A week later she was back in
Wooster. Somehow she managed to complete most of her courses. Her
bags were packed before her last
exam.
By the end of her first year at Columbia, Shirine had not completed a
single course. Every night she met
her friends for dinner and went to parties or dancing at clubs. She
rarely went to sleep before six and
never made it to any classes that met before noon. When she got out
of bed in the morning, the first thing
she did was light up a joint.
After a few months, the dean of foreign students called Shirine into her
office. She explained to Shirine
that attending classes was required for graduation and that some of
her professors claimed they had never
set eyes on her. Shirine talked about her anxiety over school, her
insecurity, and complained about her
peptic ulcers. She knew that the woman didn't believe her for an
instant. Still, the dean wasn' t ready to
give up on her entirely. Shirine wasn't as bad as most of her Iranian
friends, who saw their time at college
as an extended vacation in New York. They were being prepared for
exile, and they might as well have
fun while they were at it. They never went to class and paid people
to write their papers for them. Shirine
had not sunk that low. She felt it was more honorable not to pretend.
Besides, she never really recovered
from Crofton Grange, where she discovered that it is dangerous to
take other people seriously. It is better
to be punished than laughed at. The woman sensed that; she wanted to
save her.
Shirine loved her film course, went to all the lectures, and spent
entire days at Fellini and Bergman
festivals. Her professor of Islamic literature had given her glowing
reports. Luckily that class met in the
afternoon, and Shirine attended religiously and did all the work. She
studied with that professor for two
years. If she actually learned something at school - and she wonders
now how anyone can teach another
person anything - it was with this man. Her other teachers wanted her
to read, when she already
understood that words were inadequate. Only experience teaches. Error
teaches. What was the first
lesson her uncle had given her? She couldn't have been more than ten
years old when he recited Rumi on
the inablity of language to express true feelings: "When it was time
to write about Love, the pen was split
in half and the paper torn."
Every month her friends' parents sent them money, as did hers, and they
all did what they liked with it,
which was mostly buying clothes and drugs. They got high and wandered
through Bendel's, leaving
fitting rooms littered with clothing and reeking from hashish and
strong cigarettes. She was also into
Quaaludes and mushrooms. The first time one of her friends died from
an overdose of heroin, she
understood that somewhere along the way she had become a different
person. She had lost the lightness
of childhood, when she had been absolutely free and her uncle had to
bind her to the Earth with a cord
around her ankle. Still, she wasn't ready to give up drugs, no matter
what they did to her and her friends.
She needed them to escape the lodging where she was trapped. In the
end, seven of her friends overdosed.
By the spring semester of her second year, rather than throw her out of
school, the dean of foreign
students insisted that she see a psychiatrist. He was a short, rotund
man with only a few wisps of reddish
hair left over his ears and above his collar, like something
forgotten. He chain smoked throughout their
sessions and wheezed loudly from his emphysema. After two months, he
had a heart attack and ended up
in the hospital. Missing their weekly session, during which they
mostly smoked cigarettes together,
Shirine arrived at the hospital with a huge basket of fruit. It was
hard to talk to him without a cigarette in
her hand. After her visit, the psychiatrist called her every day to
ask when she was coming to see him
again. Shirine thought it best to skip the doctor.
Somehow - the word has attached itself to Shirine's life - somehow, she
managed to graduate. She
moved her life downtown to the Village, where she shared a house with
more Iranian friends. It wasn't
really a crash pad, because the rent was so high and the house was so
big. When Shirine says she was a
hippie, she knows that she just likes the idea of total freedom that
the word implies. There was no school
to get in the way now. In the house there were always people moving
in and moving on, sleeping on the
couch, passing through and passing out. Everyone was temporary. One
was a man named Paul
Somebody, who was in New York, editing a film about something or
other. Shirine' s friend had put up
the money to finance the film. Paul lived there for six months before
he was called back to Texas by his
mother. He returned home in time to witness his father's death and
never finished the film.
This Paul struck her as not a person but an impenetrable wall. They
never talked. He liked silence and
manipulated it, very much like her father, who was still capable of
reducing her to tears simply by looking
at her sternly. Her father got angry at her when she cried, as if it
were a personal offense, a sign of her
weakness and failure, and she cried every time she saw him.
Once she drove upstate with Paul and several friends. On the ride up,
she asked Paul to stop so that she
could go to the bathroom, and he replied, "I don't want to stop now.
You'll have to wait."
She cursed him all the way to Woodstock.
Six years later, this was the first thing she thought of when she ran
into him at the Norton-Ali fight. She
started a relationship with him immediately. On the surface, he had
mellowed a bit. He had taken over the
family's oil business and forgotten his ambition to be a film maker.
But he had not given up drugs. They
shared that. Still, that doesn't explain why she fell in love with
him, or imagined she had. She has had
plenty of time to puzzle over this, and by now she has to call it
fate. How else to explain something which
in Persian is not an excuse for wrong decisions but a force, a stream
that cannot be diverted? Who
knows where it will lead in the end? Not necessarily to happiness.
There may be another purpose. And
who can know true happiness when it is upon us? No one is happy until
the moment he dies content and
without pain, her father often admonished her.
When Farhad, Shirine's closest friend since childhood, was killed in
a car crash in the middle of the
desert, a crash that was like an explosion of light, Shirine knew
that she, too, should have died in that car.
Just a few weeks earlier, she had gone with Farhad to the twin Seljuq
tomb towers on the Kharraqan
Plain. The two tombs stood by themselves on the immense plain, their
tan stone fading into the earth, the
rubble, the mountains. When Shirine came close to the octagonal
buildings, she saw their surface was
constructed of raised bricks that formed complex geometrical
patterns. These patterns changed
constantly with the shifting light. Farhad, who was an accomplished
photographer, had brought Shirine to
the Kharraqan Plain to instruct her. He stood her before the tombs
and said, "Look carefully. The light of
the sun is melting away the materiality of these structures. It is
removing the heaviness of matter, of the
solid bricks."
Shirine had dropped a tab of acid in the car. As she stared at the
towers, they disappeared and were
replaced by luminous, translucent angels, floating just above the
surface of the ground. She felt herself
growing lighter and lighter, preparing to float. Shirine developed
the photographs she took that afternoon,
and as the images began to materialize on the surface of the paper,
she saw at once that they were
washed out. The paper was nearly blank.
Shirine was in Teheran at her parents' house, where she still spent
every summer. When she called Paul
in Texas to tell him that she was planning to go back to the desert
with Farhad to try once more to
photograph the towers, he became furious and insisted that she not
go. Shirine was taken aback by this
sudden, inexplicable jealously. >From the first, they had agreed to
lead independent lives and not to be tied
down by one another. They were free.
After Farhad's death she didn't know whether Paul had urged her to
remain in Teheran in order to protect
her or simply to control her. She couldn't help feeling that she owed
her life to this person. Perhaps he
knew things, or was the agent of an obscure destiny. On the other
hand, should she have died in that
crash? Was it her time to experience a painless death? What if that
visit had been her only chance to be in
the presence of the Divine, to witness the angels' descent into the
material world? To capture the
immateriality of light on a piece of film is as difficult as seeing
the Invisible. What happens to those who
resist their fate? She thinks she has an answer to that question.
In the middle of the night, Shirine called Paul with the news of the
accident. She could hardly talk, she
was crying so hard. Paul's response was unexpected. He suggested that
they get married. Marriage would
make her life easier. She would gain her father's approval, if not
his affection.
After the incident with her English boyfriend, Shirine had lost interest
in the idea of marriage. In fact, she
thought of it as a kind of joke, and she had said so to Paul. Her
father, on the other hand, had been
pressuring her to marry this rich young oil man from Texas. Having
finally given up on his dreams of
turning his daughter into his political heiress, he thought it best
to marry her off well. Given the political
situation in Iran, marrying a foreigner was a good idea. It was no
different than putting one's money in a
bank in Switzerland or buying real estate in Pads. Like all shrewd
politicians, he, too, had been hedging
his bets.
The families of Shirine and Paul met in Paris for the wedding a month
later. Shirine's father had made
sure to reserve rooms at the Georges V for his guests, but he had
neglected to get a marriage license. The
French officials said they would have to wait for months to arrange
the papers. The American Embassy
said it would take at least two weeks. Shirine's father, sensing that
his daughter would change her mind if
she had a chance to think, was determined to have them married at
once. He arranged with a mullah in
Teheran to marry them over the telephone. First Shirine's father,
then Paul got on the line with the mullah.
She had no idea what the mullah said to them, and she never asked.
The next day the documents were
delivered in Paris, and Shirine signed them. Alas, she had begun to
think. She felt as if these two men had
snatched control of her life while she was elsewhere divining her
fate. She sought it one place, and it
appeared behind her. As Shirine and her new husband said good night
to the guests after the wedding
dinner, her mother pulled her aside and said, "Remember, my daughter,
you greet your husband in your
wedding dress and say farewell to him in your shroud."
Shirine hated San Antonio from the start. Everyone there was always
saying "My granddaddy did this..."
"My granddaddy owned this oil field..." In the living room of the
ranch was a magnificent tiger skin, from
an animal that her mother-in-law had shot on safari in Africa. When
she went to the houses of her
husband's business partners, she stumbled over tables made from
elephant feet. The walls of the houses
were lined with heads of animals. There was a lot of money then; she
didn' t have to think. Paul had
money. She had money coming in from Iran. In the winter they
traveled; they went skiing or to the
Caribbean. In the summer she went back to Teheran for months. Fate
was only the moment multiplied to
infinity. Her uncle was wrong about truth being a hard road.
Shirine's daughter was born in the middle of the night. She talked with
her mother in Teheran at four in
the morning. They discussed a name for the baby. Her mother suggested
the name Tara, a Kurdish name
that means star. Shirine's last words to her mother were, "I' ll
think about it."
hirine fell ill with pneumonia. When her sister called to tell her that
their mother had been
arrested and taken to jail, Shirine was so weak that she could barely
hold up the telephone.
Her mother was placed in a cell with two other women. She knew one of
them slightly, a Bahai woman
who had been the headmistress of the school her daughters attended
before they left for England. For the
time being, Shirine's mother, Avideh, was protected by the reputation
of the very brother who had been in
jail under the Shah. He had been involved in the opposition National
Front until his death. He was a hero
now. In the bazaar the merchants always gave her bargains on rugs
because of who she was. She was
also an incredible bargainer, but it was the spirit of her brother,
hovering over her, that sealed every deal.
She was proud of that connection, as proud as she was of her own
husband. She lived with that
contradiction inside her. In jail, as in the market, she was treated
with deference. The door to her cell was
left open.
When she was questioned about her husband's whereabouts, she answered,
"If you kill me, I won't ever
give you the pleasure of that information." She meant it, and she was
ready to die. This was, after all, the
same woman who had sat behind the queen with her legs crossed, in
defiance of the royal etiquette. A
newspaper photograph had captured her transgression, and she had
saved a copy of it. When it first
appeared, people called her all day long to congratulate her.
Each evening, however, as the sun set and the light disappeared, Avideh
lost hope. Her defiance
evaporated. A crushing weight settled on her; it was not lifted until
dawn lightened the skies. She lay on
her mat, with cotton balls soaked in rose water on her eyelids.
Meanwhile, her Bahai cellmate performed
her ablutions and prostrated her body on the cold stone. For hours on
end, the woman prayed to God and
to Her Holiness Fatemeh. "Oh, Fatemeh, save me." Perhaps the
hundredth time - or the thousandth - she
would finally be heard. Avideh had to keep herself from turning on
the distraught woman. The night
before the woman's execution, she performed her ritual ablution with
dust that she had scraped up from
the floor rather than with water. This night her supplications were
replaced by questions: "Oh, God,
where have you gone? Why have you left me?" At dawn, she was taken
away. The next week, the other
cellmate was gone. Silence returned to the cell. "May God's will be
done," whispered Avideh to the empty
cell. Their places were taken by high-class prostitutes dressed in
the latest Parisian fashions. Avideh
passed her time talking with these women and discovered the
preferences of all her husband's friends. At
the age of sixty, she received her sexual education in jail. She felt
that it was only a matter of time until
her turn came and a prostitute slept in her spot.
All this Shirine learned later. At the time, she knew only that her
mother, her sister, and her two nephews
were in Teheran and couldn' t get out. Her father was in Paris. He
had left Teheran with two suitcases the
day before the Ayatollah Khomeini's return. He never dreamed that he
wouldn't be going back. Shirine's
mother had been ready to go with him, but at the last minute she
decided to stay with her daughter and
her two little grandchildren.
It turned out that Shirine's father had taken the last flight out of
Teheran. As the former head of the
Pahlavi Foudation and prime minister twice under the Shah, he would
certainly have been executed after
the revolution. No one could have protected him. The irony was that
the Shah, in a desperate attempt to
remain in power, had replaced him, the conciliatory prime minister
with close ties to the Shia leaders,
with a military government. One afternoon after lunch her father was
listening to the news on the radio,
and in that way he learned that he no longer had a job. Soon
thereafter, at New Year's, he went to the
Shah's palace to pay his respects with all the other politicians. Her
father stood at the head of the line.
Even though he had been replaced, he was still considered the most
senior official. That afternoon, the
Shah apologized to him in person for firing him and, actually, saving
his life by allowing him to leave the
country.
Avideh was not killed; she was released from prison. What's more, even
though her house, her
possessions, her money, all were taken away from her, she was allowed
back into her house one last
time, to take away what she could carry. She was accompanied on this
last visit by several mullahs, who
spent their time rifling through the clothing in her husband's
closet, examining the rows of lifeless suits
and dusty shoes, and accusing him of the crime of materialism. "My
husband was not a flea-ridden
mullah," she retorted. "He was prime minister. He had to attend
official functions. And he bathed." In the
end, Avideh left the house with two old suitcases, which she had
pulled out from under the bed in her
husband's study. It was the bed on which he napped every afternoon.
The suitcases held her husband' s
collection of gold coins, dating back to the first dynasty.
It took Shirine's father years to arrange to have the gold smuggled out
of Iran. The first smuggler took
his money and then promptly died of cancer. Her father had to begin
again, looking for someone new. In
the meantime, Avideh and her daughter survived by selling coins, one
by one, through family. It was
dangerous because she was on a list that prevented her from having
financial dealings with anyone.
After five years, her father finally arranged to have his family brought
out of Iran. Shirine felt as if she
had spent the entire time sitting by the phone, waiting for the call
that would tell her they were free.
Nothing else happened during those years. And once she learned that
her family had left Iran, the country
no longer existed for her.
Her mother and sister and two nephews left Teheran at night and drove
to the border of Turkey. There
they were handed over to the man who was going to smuggle them out
and were given filthy Kurdish
clothes to wear. They spent the next two days hiding in a barn,
avoiding the skirmishes between the
Kurds and the Islamic militants. From there they went on horseback,
traversing narrow mountain trails
that skirted steep precipices. The little boys were six and eight at
the time. They were too terrified to utter
a word. They sat together on a horse, clutching one another. Every
time their horse rounded a bend and
disappeared from sight, their grandmother would let out a piercing
scream. There was no one to hear it.
They made it across the border, where they boarded a bus for a back-
road journey to Ankara. They had
no passports. It was critical that they not be stopped by the
authorities. In Ankara, they had to wait yet
another month for their false papers.
One week after Shirine's family left Ankara, Turkey signed a treaty with
Iran agreeing to send back all
refugees. Is it any wonder that when people around her are talking
about politics, Shirine talks about fate?
Just after Shirine arrived in Texas, her husband's family sold their
ranch; four thousand acres were
divided into subdivisions. They looked for a new house, but Shirine
never found anything she liked as
much as the old ranch house. It was not particularly pretty and had
been extended haphazardly over the
years, but its haphazardness reminded her of her family's estate in
the country near Teheran. The new
houses in Texas were just dwellings, without any spirit. They were
uninhabitable. In the end, she and
Paul took the house and thirty acres. So she lives in a little oasis,
in the midst of suburban sprawl. The
highway passes two miles from the house, and along the highway there
is a mailbox and a gate opening
directly onto the road that leads to her house. For years, each time
they returned from a trip, they would
find a new house in the middle of the road. They would just drive
around it in their Jeep, making their
own road. Now there is a new road that skirts these obstacles. From
their house, Shirine cannot see any
of the houses that continue to spring up all around her. She refuses
to put curtains on the windows, so
that she can always look out on the enormous oak trees that surround
the house. She can always imagine
that she isn't quite where she is.
One day, their locked gate was left open. As Shirine drove home, she
came upon four neighborhood boys
on bikes, who had Shuck in to explore the mysterious estate. She
drove up slowly behind them, rolled
down her window, and called out, "What can I do for you fellows?"
The boys were terrified. She could see that they wanted to run, but one
of them managed to say, "We
just rode in. The gate was open. We only wanted to see the house."
She invited them to follow her. As the boys stood on the grass staring
at her house, the same boy turned
to Shirine and blurted out, "Can I ask you something?" Without giving
her a chance to reply, he went on,
"Are you an Arabian princess?"
"No, I'm not an Arabian princess," she answered.
She has discovered that her husband has no heart. But for her parents,
escape from the marriage is
unthinkable, unless she is prepared to put on her shroud. Besides,
she has sunk all her money in her
marriage, or lost it in Teheran. There's a little story that Shirine
likes to tell about her husband, when she
is far away from him, which she contrives to be as frequently as
possible. Paul invested a considerable
sum of money in an oil well speculation with a partner who was a
close friend. His partner put up three
quarters of the money. After they drilled four wells and came up dry,
his partner decided to cut his losses
and pull out. Paul was forced to sell his share at a loss. The buyer
drilled a half dozen more wells and, of
course, struck oil. Now twenty-one wells are pumping. "That's not his
fault," says Shirine each time she
tells the story. "I don't blame him for that."
Perhaps that is because she has plenty of other things to blame him for.
In the last few years, there have
been difficulties, financial irregularities. Shirine doesn't know the
details exactly, and how would she be
able to judge? She has remained loyal to him, but it hasn't been
easy. Friends of theirs, whom they invited
for dinner several times, turned out to be working undercover for the
FBI, collecting information about
her husband. The man even slept with her husband' s secretary to get
access to important documents.
Paul was arrested. His bond was set at one hundred thousand dollars,
and then raised to half a million
because he was known to use drugs. In the end, the case was thrown
out for lack of evidence, but his
banking business was destroyed. How could Shirine possibly stay in a
place where people even now
come up to her at cocktail parties and whisper in her ear, "I know
your husband was guilty, even though
he wasn't convicted."
Shirine takes her marriage very seriously, even though she wants more
than anything for it to end. She
was at her husband's side during the trial.
Even at fifty, Shirine still spends the summer with her parents. Only
now she comes to New York not
Teheran. Shirine is still a child, unable to explain to her parents
who she is. She is a child, but with an old
person's awareness of life's bitterness and suffering. Whenever she
hears stories about the horrors that
happen every day - children abused, people slaughtered in war,
natural disasters - she feels as if her heart
will break. Like Hafez, she thinks: "I was an angel and paradise was
my abode, / It is Adam who brought
me into this flourishing monastery in ruins."
Her two daughters are growing up. She is getting divorced. She hasn' t
slept with her husband for years,
ever since he beat her and broke her rib. They continue to live in
the same house, but only out of
convenience. They can't untangle their lives. She needs money to live
by herself. He's ready to let her go,
but he doesn't want to give her anything. They don't see one another
for more than five minutes a day.
When she told her mother than she wanted to divorce her husband
because he once beat her, her mother
responded, "Well, he doesn't beat you now." Of course, that is not
really why she wants a divorce. She
no longer loves him, if she ever really could have loved someone so
untenanted. She no longer cares
about winning the affection of those recalcitrant men, her husband
and her father, anyway. She has fallen
in love with a Cuban painter, who lives in New York. She comes to
visit him for weeks at a time, but she
can't tell her parents that she is in New York. She calls them from a
few blocks away and pretends that
she is still in Texas. This lying is very hard on her. Her sister,
who supported her in her divorce but feels
uncomfortable knowing about her lover, said that it would kill her
mother if she found out. So she leads a
double life; she lets her father chastise her when she visits and
bursts into tears at the breakfast table each
morning.
Her mother never did recover from the revolution, even though her family
and many of their friends also
came to New York. She is dying of cancer, but they don't have the
heart to tell her. She thinks it has just
spread under her arm, when in reality it has invaded her entire body.
Her arm hangs like a weight by her
side, pulling her down. She can't lift it. Shirine has to help her to
bathe and to dress. Her arm becomes
infected, and in her delirium she shouts at her daughter, "You're the
reason all this is happening to me. It's
your fault." When Shirine thinks back on her mother as a younger
woman, she always sees her laughing
with her brothers. Now talking to her is like going on a safari of
the human body. It is a strange country
where nothing is as it should be. The rules of the body have all been
broken. She is terrified that her
mother will die before she has figured out how to talk to her. Then
she will only be able to communicate
with her in her dreams, where she will repeat the same
incomprehension over and over.
In New Mexico, she and her lover have gone on a pilgrimage to the
monastery of Christ in the Desert.
While he meets with a monk, Shirine climbs the cliff behind the
monastery. The soft sandstone crumbles
under her feet as she climbs. There, on the summit, she comes face to
face with a rattlesnake. She
learned in Texas that it is impossible to run away from a
rattlesnake. When the snake senses the heat of a
living body, it strikes and never misses. She imagines herself dying
all alone on the mountain. No one will
find her. She will disappear from the terrestrial world without a
trace. Her body will become insubstantial
and float up to paradise. She will abandon her children. They will
never know where she has gone.
Shirine's life has become a long and arduous pilgrimage, as the Sufi
masters teach. She wants to do
something meaningful with this existence, but simply living it has
become all she can do, the only
meaning she can know. Finally, she understands why her uncle recited
so many tales with sad endings. It
always upset her when the hero died without fulfilling his quest or,
worse yet, caused pain or suffering to
another person. She knows this is inevitable if the aim is not
absolutely right. On the other hand, does
death signify defeat, or freedom and release?
Up on the cliff, the light seems to be teasing her, leading her on and
then deserting her in the middle of
nowhere. In the thirteenth century, the astronomer Nasir al-Din Tusi
wrote: "Just there, where people
imagine the world to be stable, just there its reality slips away
instant by instant. Think of the shadow of a
tree, which the traveler reaches at last, after miles of walking in
the blazing sun. He desires only to rest in
its shade, which to him seems permanent and immobile (for its motion
cannot be perceived by the
senses). But no sooner has he fallen asleep than the shadow moves on
and passes over him, and he
wakes to find himself in the heat of the sun." After seven centuries,
Shirine wonders, what more is there
to learn?
Klein, Rachel, Shirine: a thousand and one nights. (short story). Vol.
44, Chicago Review, 01-01-1998,
pp 58(23).
©Copyright 2001, Chicago Review
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