Camelia (28 page)

Then a couple of days before I was scheduled to leave for America, Calhoun asked to speak with me in private. He was playing with something on his desk to avoid eye contact with me. “I'm very sorry to tell you that there is strong opposition to your working here. The women who work here say that if we hire you, they will resign. You have such close ties to Iran that they're afraid you'll disclose their identities. Unfortunately, I have to tell you that I can't offer you the job.” It is always hard to hear such a thing said to you—to lose a job, to fail an exam—but as my father once told me, those losses don't make your life. I shrugged my shoulders, strangely more relaxed at first than angry, strangely glad to be released from the decision. I realized then that I wanted, more than anything else in the world, to be in Iran working at my newspaper. But I was also afraid, as I realized that the reason I hadn't turned down the offer originally was that I was nervous about returning to Tehran. My voice had been broadcast over a foreign radio station. Certainly
Faezeh would help me, I assured myself; when we met in America I could explain everything to her. Yet I pictured the faces of the women I'd worked with at the station. Had they lied about their fear out of jealousy? Or was I really the only one ready to take such a risk? I was suddenly furious.

“They'll have my scalp in Tehran. Why did you let me produce a radio program for you? Why did you let my voice be broadcast? These people who wear black overcoats and hats to come to work so they won't be recognized, these people who are afraid to even sit by the window in case they are targeted for revenge by agents of the government . . . How did they not think that it's possible I might get into serious trouble in Tehran just like they would?” I looked boldly at Calhoun. He was playing uncomfortably with his fingers.

“You produced the show under the name Nakha'i. They won't know who you are.”

“How many Camelias do you think there are there in Iran? And Nakha'i is my family name.” The story of our name was told daily in our household when I grew up, the tale of the famous feud surrounding my grandfather, and we all struggled between the two last names, introducing ourselves as “Entekhabifard,” then immediately explaining, “We were Nakha'i, but our grandfather changed it over a family fight.” The Nakha'i name was well known and respected, and many of us were angry to lose it. I'd long wished I could become a Nakha'i again, and the broadcast was a way to become, in that moment, the person I'd always wanted to be. I didn't believe Calhoun was ignorant of the significance of my last name and certainly must have known the threats I'd face returning to Iran. I went back to my room, and of all the friends I thought I'd made at the radio station, only Ardalan called to help calm me.

I'd met Dr. Hushang Amir Ahmadi on my first trip to America, when I'd interviewed him for
Zan
. He was a close supporter of Hashemi Rafsanjani and had taken a stance against Khatami, proclaiming he was a powerless figurehead and that the real money was behind Rafsanjani. It was Rafsanjani, according to Dr. Ahmadi, who had the power to warm relations between the United States and Iran. He had devised an elaborate program to bring Faezeh to New York, to speak at Asia Society and to meet a number of congressional representatives in Washington as well as the first lady, Hillary Clinton. I'd flown directly from Prague, and as I walked into JFK international airport, I saw FBI agents waiting for Faezeh, who they expected would be coming with me.

But Faezeh wasn't due to arrive until the following evening. I was awakened in my hotel that morning by a panicked call from Dr. Ahmadi. “Camelia?” he frantically asked. I'd developed a nasty cold overnight and had a high fever. In a weak, muffled voice, I replied, “
Salaam
Agha-ye Doctor. I'm very sick.” He wasn't listening to me.

“I'm done for! Faezeh's not coming.
Zan
was shut down. Tomorrow evening I have a thousand guests coming. I'm screwed! My reputation will be ruined . . .” It sounded like he was screaming underwater.

“Hang up and I'll talk to Tehran.” I dialed Faezeh's cell phone number.

“No, I'm not coming. My father is against it. The newspaper's been closed, and I have a thousand people being held down at the Revolutionary Courts. We're all out of a job.”

“Amir Ahmadi is going to give me hell,” I said.

“Fuck Amir Ahmadi and his guests!” Faezeh snapped. “You worry about yourself. Sit tight for a few days while this whole thing blows over. They're saying that you obtained the Nouruz greeting from Farah Diba and that you faxed it to the paper and that running
it was your idea. I have to take the fax down there and show it to the Revolutionary Court and say that it wasn't you . . . You take care of yourself and stay in touch with me.” I was devastated.
Zan
was my last hope, and I had been waiting for Faezeh to arrive so I could tell her about all my disappointments in Prague. I wanted to cry like a frustrated little girl and hide behind her chador so she could take me home to Tehran. Now nothing was turning out as I'd expected, and I cursed Calhoun, the women at the radio station, Amir Ahmadi, the Revolutionary Court, and my terrible luck all at once.

I asked Amir Ahmadi to call off the event, but he convinced me to speak in Faezeh's place. “I can't tell all these guests that the evening's been canceled. All the dinner arrangements have been made.” Quite a crowd turned out, and I stood on the stage and apologized to everyone for Faezeh's absence and answered questions about
Zan
and the reformists. Sick and overwhelmed, I thought of
Zan
being closed down, and I wondered if I'd ever be able to return home. I couldn't stand any longer, and they had to bring me a chair to sit in to finish the talk.

During the troubled days that followed, as I debated whether to return home, I studied English at Columbia University and furthered friendships within the Iranian community in New York. I met Golriz for the first time in person, though we'd corresponded before. She worked for a human rights organization, and when I was working on the series at
Zan
about the mysterious killings of intellectuals, I wrote a piece about her group's plans to investigate the murders. The article caused quite a stir. Now with the typical hospitality Iranians show each other outside the country, she and I often met for lunch.

I was still interested in following the trail of those murders. My research led me to an FBI agent, Jean, and she became my most loyal friend during this difficult period. I was looking into Sa'id Emami, the former deputy advisor to the minister of intelligence and the primary suspect accused of the murders. After his arrest in Tehran, Emami had—or so it was claimed—committed suicide by drinking cleaning fluid, thus evading justice. In New York I'd found an article on the Internet that described how he'd been a student in America during the time of the Shah, attending a school in Washington, DC, where he was a member of the Muslim Student Union. The secret behind the killings had died with him, but I decided to research his tenure as a student and hopefully come up with some stories that could keep the issue alive. One of the surviving reformist papers had expressed interest in the piece. Hesam Zarafshar, a relative of a friend of my father's who I'd met in New York, helped me track down various leads. I even called the former Iranian ambassador to the U.S., Ardashir Zahedi, in Switzerland. It was important to me to keep working, though
Zan
might be lost.

Eventually, a source led me to Jean and Tom, FBI agents who asked to meet me in the lobby of a hotel in Washington to discuss my article. They couldn't find any information on Emami, though, and by our third meeting Tom stopped coming. I eventually abandoned the article on Emami after a series of dead ends, but Jean and I began to meet as friends whenever I traveled to Washington. My English wasn't very good, and she suggested that I read books expressly for the purpose of learning the language. She told me about her family, her dogs, and her beautiful children and their singing lessons, joking that they sounded more like they were chirping than singing. We both knew our friendship had to remain a secret, that it could be incredibly dangerous for me if I returned to Tehran.

Jean urged me to stay in America. And when I called Faezeh weekly, she warned me that the Revolutionary Guard considered me
a prime culprit in the charges facing the paper. I was unofficially charged for interviewing Farah Diba and sending her Nouruz greeting to the paper and encouraging Faezeh to publish it. I was completely innocent—I hadn't even met the Queen yet, though ironically, I would meet her soon after the charge was leveled. But through all this I was burning to return, as students rioted in protests against the government's fresh assaults on freedom of speech. My mother told me that martial law had been imposed in the neighborhoods around the University of Tehran. Students had gathered in front of their dormitories to demonstrate against the shutting down of the paper
Salaam
, and they were taunted and beaten by the Basij. The strikes continued in the hopes of a second revolution. People were waiting for Khatami to stand up and fight—but he remained silent, losing many supporters. I yearned to be in the city so I could report in person at this historic moment. I didn't see myself as an exile; I felt like I was standing by, waiting for the right moment—any moment—to return.

It was a rainy day in May 1999 when I got a call from Kambiz Atabay, the head of Farah Pahlavi's office in New York. I had met him several times in the past months as he arranged my interview with Reza Pahlavi. For monarchists outside of Iran, it seemed unbelievable that Rafsanjani's daughter would approve of my interviewing the “young Shah,” but I'd done it all with Faezeh's full support in the hope that when
Zan
reopened we'd have a unique story in our hands. I'd secreted away my recordings of Reza with a friend in America, and I left them there when I returned to Iran, but
Zan
was never able to publish the piece. The paper stayed closed forever.

I had told Atabay of my ambition to someday also meet Farah, who lived in Paris. But it was still an incredible surprise when he
called the family friend I was staying with in New Jersey and informed me that the Queen would receive me in his New York apartment the next morning. I rummaged through my wardrobe for something suitable to wear to meet a queen and settled on a gray coat and skirt and woke up early to fix my hair and makeup.

The weather was terrible. In between getting off the bus at Port Authority and getting into a taxi, my shoes were soaked, and my hair was a mess. I bought a bunch of red roses at the bus terminal. As soon as I opened the door to get out of the taxi at the appointed block, Kambiz Atabay pushed me back in and got in the cab. He told the driver to keep going; the true location of the meeting was being kept secret from me. I was soaking wet when we arrived. I put the roses on the table in the reception room and went into the bathroom to hurriedly wipe the raindrops off my black leather shoes with a tissue.

Busts of the Shah and exquisite paintings and photos were displayed in every corner of the sitting room. Mina, Atabay's wife, came in with a tray of tea. Lovely fragrant steam rose from the silver teacups decorated with Takht-e Jamshid engravings. She placed another tray of pastries at the edge of the table. I picked up a teacup and a crunchy roll covered in powdered sugar and walked over to the window. I'd taken a big bite of the pastry and was about to sip my tea when Atabay called me from behind. “Camelia.”

Farah was waiting, framed by the doorway. She was stunningly elegant. Fumbling, I put the teacup down. My mouth was so full I couldn't even say
salaam
. I gulped it all down and stood on tiptoe to kiss her. She was tall and beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful up close than in any of her pictures. There's never been a good picture, I thought to myself. I didn't know what to call her. Khanum? Shahbanu? Your Highness?