Camelia (32 page)

He found a vacant apartment building in Sa'adat-abad and convinced the realtor to give him the key. He told me he was planning to show the apartment to his wife. Maybe he was, but he also took me there a few times. He'd lay cardboard down over the bare floor. I remember we spent the morning of Ashura in that apartment, the holy day when the Shi'a mourn the martyrdom of the third imam, Hussein, the hero of Karbala. My mother had asked me to go with her to Jamaran for Ashura, but I told her, “I have something very important to do, I'll join you later. I'll be there by noon.”

Amir picked me up early, not far from my home. The Tehran streets were silent. Everyone was in the mosques or
tekiyeh
s, beating their chests in lamention for Hussein. It was traditional for the pious to prepare meals to share with the masses as a
nazr
to the imam. People would stand outside their doors and invite passersby inside, and mourners would stand in line with pots held out to take the food home to their families. As we drove, I saw that he had a couple of cooking pots on the backseat. He must have told his wife he was going out to collect food for the family, but instead he was driving to Sa'adat-abad to spend the national holiday with me. He giggled like a child getting away with something and then said with a serious voice, “What am I doing with you? This is the first time in my life I haven't been in the Bazar Mosque on Ashura. God forgive me. You are a devil.”

I smiled sweetly, but in my heart I felt awful. The game had gotten
away from me. How could I tell him that after our meetings I'd stand under the shower, crying and washing myself a hundred times, asking God why he'd given me this destiny? As we drove toward the apartment I felt like vomiting. I couldn't say a word. Quietly, I followed him up the stairs to the third floor. . . .

 

It was around noon when he dropped me off at Meidan Tajrish, where I took a cab to Jamaran. Mader-jan had passed away in the spring of 1997, but my mother's family still gathered in her beautiful old home in front of Jamaran's
husseinya
during the Ashura and Tasoa holidays, watching the chest-beaters from the courtyard. It was the first time I'd seen some of my more distant relatives since I'd left prison. Though it had been almost six months, they examined me as though I'd been freed yesterday. Their stares and questions were even harder to bear as I'd come directly from seeing Amir. “God, you've really changed! Your face seems a little swollen—did they beat you?” they asked. Someone looked at my expression and whispered in my ear, “Did they do anything . . .
wrong
to you?” Uncle Ali's widow, Iran-Dokht, told everyone to leave me alone. She walked with me to the mosque and said, “Ask the imam to give you peace. Pray to be happy and free.”

 

I didn't want to act like a good Muslim any longer for Amir. He even asked me to refuse the invitation to my cousin Elham's wedding because it was mixed, with both men and women as guests. I couldn't imagine missing my first cousin's wedding—what would my mother say! I lied to him, telling him that my aunt Avid, the mother of the bride, had decided to separate men and women at the wedding. I danced to the live band all night, dancing so hard that at two in the morning, when my mother, Kai Khosrou, and I drove home, I had to take off my high-heeled shoes to walk barefoot from the car to the front door. I met with Amir the next day, and my stomach
twisted when he asked me about the party. But I coolly replied, “It was nothing special—a quiet, traditional wedding.” I felt sick—I had to stop lying, even if it meant ending my life. I wasn't a journalist anymore. I was no one.

I never told my family about the affair. Even now, I still haven't told my mother and sister all the details. But despite the risk, I decided to seek the advice of someone outside the family who I could trust. Korosh was an influential man I'd known for many years. I visited his office, and he told me, “Go, Camelia, don't stay here a minute longer. You are playing with fire. When he gets enough of you, when he wakes up from your spell—or if you ever reject him in any way—you'll simply vanish. They'll kill you to protect this secret. It will be a car accident, or it might look like a suicide. Think about it. You tell me that he told you himself that he had signed death warrants for young girls in prison not all that long before you were arrested. He might have been ‘in retirement' for ten years, but people like him don't change that much in a decade. These days, he doesn't need to send you to the firing squad. It's easy to kill someone. Find a way to leave as soon as you can—you don't want to play this game out to the end.”

“You teach at the university. I know,” I told him once. Amir looked at me curiously.

“How do you know? Maybe you follow me around instead of me following you! How did you guess?”

“I knew. I knew long before this. From the clothes you wore in prison and the educated philosophical discussions you'd have with me. I can even guess what your field is!”

“That's enough. That's enough. The prying stops here. Believe me, you're the strangest case I've ever worked.”

There were a lot of things I had figured out. I'd figured out that he enjoyed high status in the Ministry as a special consultant, that he was the chief investigator on my case. I'd figured out that only his wife knew that he worked for the Ministry. For the rest of his family and friends, he was an academic. I'd also figured out that the Ministry wanted to do away permanently with reformist journalists and intellectuals—that I had no future in Iran. And with Korosh's help, I'd figured out that I had to end my relationship with Amir before I wound up dead, wrapped in a plastic bag on the side of the road or hanging with a forged note in my hand.

 

My mother found smugglers who would take me across the border for four million tomans (about $4,000). But crossing the border was risky—I knew what would happen if they took me alive. I told my mother to be patient. And I told Amir, “I've been invited to a conference in New York. They want me to participate in a program in America.” It was true. I had sent my request when I was still at
Zan
to attend a special session of the UN's general assembly in New York, “Beijing +5,” and the invitation had arrived in response, though
Zan
no longer existed. Faezeh's office called the conference and asked them to change the invitation to
Saba
, her newsletter, so I could still join the group representing Iran.

“Ha!” He looked at me in disbelief. “The one time I let you go was a mistake. We're not having anymore coming and going. You need to get to work right here.” But I arranged through a connection of Korosh's to buy plane tickets and planned to again call on Jean during the London stopover to arrange my visa. When I left New York the last time, she'd promised to help me whenever I needed her. I kept putting the bug in Amir's ear. “It's a prestigious program and could be very useful for us. You know that Ayatollah Khomeini's granddaughter Zahra Eshraqi-Khatami is going as well?” That set off a bell. She was suspicious alone for being Ayatollah
Khomeini's granddaughter, and in addition she was now President Khatami's sister-in-law. It most certainly was of interest to the Ministry of Intelligence to track her.

It was hard to tell my family I was leaving. We had survived in Iran from the day the Shah left through all the infernal trials of the revolution and its aftermath. Now, I was fleeing under threat of death. All they could do was sit and pray. If Amir didn't give in, I might never get another chance to leave the country legally. My mother of course knew something was wrong. How could she not? I'd leave home almost every day with a black chador in my bag, telling her, “I still have more interviews with the Ministry and the courts.”

She'd say, “My stomach is boiling with nerves. You call me if you need to stay out late. Please call me, wherever you are.”

Amir would eye me suspiciously when I'd leave the room to phone my mother at eleven. He'd ask, “What did you tell her? Where did you say you are?”

“With Faezeh.” My mother knew that the line might be tapped. She'd say, in a strained voice, “Thanks for checking in, say hello to your friend.” I'm sure she knew that I wasn't with Faezeh. No matter how late I'd come home, she'd be standing in the dark kitchen, watching out the window for me. She would tell me, “Whatever you're doing, think of your father. Do what he would agree with, were he still alive.”

Then it happened. Amir told me, “Your trip has been approved.” I convinced him I had to leave immediately. I knew I wasn't coming back. At home in my room, I took a last look around at all the things that I loved. I looked at my bed, thinking how I'd never sleep there again; out the window to the neighbor's courtyard and their
beautiful rose garden, which I'd watched so many summers sitting in my room; at my father's clothes still hanging in my closet. I had kept one of his coats and one of his shirts in his memory. I looked at the framed photos on my wall and at my unfinished watercolor paintings. I packed a very small bag. A large suitcase would have aroused Amir's suspicion.

He was waiting for me at the airport. I took the plastic bag he handed to me with presents he'd brought, and when I looked inside I saw he'd given me pistachios packed in a little heart-shaped bamboo box. I knew he was still in love. There was also an envelope with two hundred dollars inside—about a month's salary in Iran. “It's very little, but buy something for yourself with that,” he said. He took my passport over to the immigration officer to be validated, and when he returned, he asked, “What would you say if I told you you couldn't go?”

“Nothing. I'd walk out of here with you.” My whole body was drenched with sweat.

“Go. Go. You're my homing pigeon. Wherever you go, you'll come right back to me.”

There were two Pasdars standing next to the plane. My legs could barely support me. Who could they be after? Did they know what I was doing? Were they going to take me away? My mother was there to say good-bye—she was as white as a sheet. She was turning a
tasbih
over in her hand with her thumb and praying under her breath. She whispered into my ear, “Go, and don't look back. Go, and get out of this hell. Go, and be free. Fly away, my daughter. Fly.”

On the British Airways flight, I covered my eyes until the pilot announced that we'd flown over the border. Then I took off my head scarf.

I haven't returned to Iran. Spring came to an end, and it was summer. Amir had somehow gotten hold of my number and was leaving messages that made my hair stand on end. In Persian and in English, sometimes threatening, other times in a soft, kind tone. The only answer he got was silence. Then the e-mails started.

He wrote that my life and the lives of members of my family were in danger. He promised he would come after me, even in America. Then he said I was free to stay in the United States only if I stayed in touch with him regularly. Once he asked me if I was healthy, if I needed anything he could give me. Another time he wanted to know if I would be returning to Tehran to visit my family for the Nouruz holidays, as he could arrange this visit without any problem—I only needed to get in touch with him. They started summoning my mother to court and threatening her. Should I go back to Tehran? Where did the performance end? Where would my story end?

 

In September 2000, during a session of the General Assembly at the United Nations, I waited in the lobby of the hotel where the Iranian delegation was staying. There was one person I had to tell my story to. I had to talk to Agha-ye Khatami. I looked around, trying to spot the person most likely to help me arrange a presidential meeting. A portly, jolly man appeared in the lobby, and I recognized him from his picture in the newspaper. He was Seyyed Mohammed Abtahi, the president's chief of staff (and later the Vice
President of Iran). He had a big smile on his face, and his eyes glimmered like polished marbles. We sat next to one another on a sofa in the lobby. I trusted him, and I cried as I told him my whole story, detailing the long days and months of crisis and worry.

“I'll help you meet President Khatami. I'm terribly sorry for everything that's happened to you.”

On the day Khatami was to fly back to Tehran, right before they took him to see the Statue of Liberty, it was arranged for him to receive me in his private suite. Khatami kept his eyes down as I spoke, only occasionally looking up and meeting my gaze. It wasn't easy for him to listen to what I had to tell him. I started crying so hard that I couldn't keep talking.

“My daughter, don't cry. God is a friend to those who are wronged. I'll put Agha-ye Abtahi in charge of your case. Stay in touch with us.”