Deliverance (5 page)

My footsteps barely make a sound on the sidewalk; actually, it seems as if nothing is making any noise anywhere. Like the sounds of a city of over eight million people have suddenly become muffled and distant. My heart beats faster and I spin to look behind me more than once because the hair at the back of my neck is rising like someone is following me. Yet every time I see the same sight: a nearly empty street. I slow beside the alley I usually take home, but it doesn't feel like a good idea. I hesitate a moment longer, and keep moving. The shiver has spread along the rest of my body. I hurry my pace.

I'm a few steps from the sanctuary of my apartment building when the ding of my phone startles me. An incoming text message. I swipe my finger on the screen apprehensively to unlock my phone and look around to make sure I'm alone. There is no indication of any danger anywhere and suddenly I'm feeling kind of sheepish and paranoid.

The message is from Ehsan. I smile and open it.

"Are you okay, azizam?"

I take another look around me. Is he here? Why is he asking this? I start walking towards home again, typing as I walk.

"What do you mean?" 

Fast as lightning, another text comes in.

"I didn't hear from you all day. I missed you."

This is why he’s perfect. We've been dating for just over a week and he’s already so attentive. He texts again and says if he can't see me for even one day, he will die. A little melodramatic, I know, yet it affects me and makes me feel all warm and toasty inside. I tell him I miss him too and before I even get through the front gate, he’s already replied asking if I want to go for a quick coffee.

I weigh my options. I don’t actually want to go out. I'm tired. But he’s so sweet and I don’t want him to stop inviting. Just thirty minutes out won't kill me, and I warned my parents I may go to a café with Leyli anyway, so why waste a good alibi. I text him back, and we make plans for him to pick me up.

Of course he shows up right on time. I wouldn't expect anything less from Ehsan. He steps out of his sleek silver Benz and gives me his signature cocky grin. My heart flutters. He wears his shades even though it's night time, and his hair is perfect. He looks around to make sure no one is looking and opens the passenger door for me. I appreciate the chivalry, but I would prefer if he just let me get in on my own. No reason to let the whole neighborhood know I'm getting in the car with a boy. What if my parents were to find out? They would be so disappointed with me, not so much for going out with a boy – I honestly don’t think they’d care about that – but for not being careful and discreet about it.

I lean back in the comfortable seat, turn my head to face him and smile. He takes my hand in his and smiles back. I reach towards him to play with his hair, but I’m interrupted when my phone rings.

"Alo?"

"Nakissa jan, could you help out your poor mother and pick up some bread for dinner?"

I look around. We are already driving in the opposite direction to where Maman likes me to buy bread. I hate asking Ehsan for a favor, but I can't tell my mother no, so I tell her I will and hang up.

"What's wrong?"

"My mother wants me to pick up some bread for supper."

"No problem, baby. We'll go to the coffee shop for a few, and then we will swing by the bakery and pick up some bread. I know the best place in town."

It's not exactly what Maman wanted, but it should be okay. I'm sure we won't be that long at the coffee shop. And I’m happy Ehsan doesn't mind at all to help me out. I'm so lucky to have him. I watch him as he drives. He leans forward in his seat to see something better and runs his fingers in his hair without messing it up. I wonder what he’s thinking about as he looks at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. Does he think I’m boring? Maybe I should say something interesting.

"What do you think about the new Fetid Crimson song?" I ask.

He shrugs. "It's okay," he says. "I just think he's better when he records his stuff in America, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," I say, even though I’d never noticed a difference in the sound between what he recorded in Tehran and what he recorded in Los Angeles. I'm not about to admit it.

Since Ehsan and Leyli have some friends in common, we end up going to the same coffee shop she had asked me to come to. The Laleh Café is small but airy. The tables each hold a little bouquet of tulips, the flower from which the café takes its name. The walls are painted in cool shades of cream and cucumber and thick, flavorful smoke from the water pipes – the only traditional element in this modern café – fills the air.

Leyli spots me and waves at me to join them. She’s in a corner partially obstructed from view by the clean and modern water fountain that graces the middle of the shop with its sharp lines and abstract curves. The other guys are all heavy into conversation. I can hear someone talking politics, though most seem to be talking about music and fashion. Slightly apart from everyone else, Mostafa and Fereshteh exchange glances while they talk, obviously the beginning of a romance.

I sit at Leyli's table with the girls, while Ehsan sits with the boys. Our tables are so close to each other that they (and we) are nearly touching.

"So, did you call them?" Leyli asks.

"Call who?" Ehsan says. Under the table, he rubs his finger gently on my knee.  

I can't concentrate on either his or Leyli's question. I just notice the feeling of his finger on my jeans, how the thick fabric separating our touch is just an extension of us.

"The band. Didn’t Nakissa tell you about it?"

I can't believe I haven't. I was so pre-occupied with Ehsan and impressing him, I forgot to tell him my exciting news. The one thing that happened to me that would make me seem more interesting.

"I was asked to join a band," I tell him before Leyli can spill more of my good news.

"What do you mean join a band?"

"They want me to play harp for them." I take the now-slightly-crumpled paper from my pocket and place it on the table in front of me.

"You play harp? That seems so..." he pauses, searching for the right word, "traditional..." The setting of his chin and curling of his lips makes the word into a bad one.

"The music is very modern," Leyli interjects.

I share a look with her. We hadn't even heard Farâsoo play yet.

"So why haven't you called them?" Ehsan asks.

I shrug. I haven't had the chance to make up my mind about it, but I don't want to tell Ehsan that. "I don't know."

"I'll call them for you!" Leyli holds out her hand and I place the paper in it. She walks to a quieter corner of the coffee shop and takes out her mobile phone. She comes back two minutes later. "We have a party to go to," she announces.

"I can't. I have to pick up bread for Maman and..."

"Don't worry, azizam. It's not until later, of course. We'll sneak out after bed time."

I'm about to argue that I can't really sneak out from my apartment, when I notice the approving look on Ehsan's face. I don't want to disappoint him, so I nod to Leyli.

“I’ll read our Hafez fortunes before we go,” Leyli announces.

A knot twists in my stomach. Whenever Leyli gets me to pick a page at random in her Hafez poetry book, things get weird. She has a way of interpreting the poems in the strangest ways so they always seem to come true.

Having completely exhausted my leads, I retraced my steps from the previous days, hoping that I had missed something somewhere. When I passed by the old general store where I'd heard Nagissa's song, I realized there was one lead which I hadn't yet pursued. Nagissa herself. She and Ramtin had had a relationship of sorts, though I never understood it. She seemed to hate him, but her fate was ever intertwined with his. She should have been my first lead, but I was too focused on the present. I couldn’t dwell on the past. With as much history as I carried, the past would crush me. I had also always hated associating the two of them together, always hoping to ignore that connection. I had wanted her to be mine.

But this wasn’t about my broken heart. It was about finding Ramtin and possibly even saving the world. If it meant finding the love that had gotten away, maybe it was my destiny. I walked lighter as I stepped into the old building and scanned for the sales guy, who eventually came out from the back room. My experience with underground parties, studios and the like made me extra perceptive to what was around me. The merchandise's haphazard placement wasn't due to laziness, but because the store owner wasn't invested in this business. It was just a front for something else. It could have been any number of illegal operations, especially here in Tehran, but the harp I'd heard the other day and the way the shopkeeper had hinted that his last customers were musicians indicated something music related.

Even if this store did not prove to be a link to Nagissa, it may still bring me to Ramtin.

"Is this the recording studio that Fetid Crimson recorded their latest song in?" I bluffed.

The man eyed me warily, rubbing his goatee. "No, it isn't, my friend. Does this look like a studio?” He hesitated. “Is there something else I can help you with?"

"I don't know if you remember me. I came here yesterday. I’m visiting Tehran."

He raised an eyebrow. I was getting somewhere. It was safer talking to tourists.

“Yes, you were interested in the harp.”

Of course, a sizeable purchase would oil some wheels as well.

“I was, but it’s in very bad condition. It would cost me over a million tomans just to get it restored.” I planned to overpay for the instrument, but it didn’t mean I wanted to get completely ripped off. This was about building trust with the man and I wouldn’t do that if I appeared to be a complete idiot.

“Yes, yes, and of course my price reflects this.” Once he realized I was serious, he entered bargaining mode. “I can make you a very special price.”

We negotiated for a while in the timeless manner I had used in the bazaars over three hundred years ago. By the time I finally bought it, I had only paid a few thousand tomans more than it was worth and we were both satisfied.

I had bought a harp. I tried to convince myself it didn’t mean that Nagissa was finding her way back into my thoughts.

“So where are you from? America? Your Persian is very formal, as if you learned it from an old book.”

"I'm from Canada, and I guess you could say I learned my Persian from an old source," I told him in English. "Someone told me I could find a recording studio here. I was trying to track down Ramtin Zardooz from Fetid Crimson, or the harpist Nagissa."

"Do you mean Nakissa?"

"Nagissa."

"Nakissa? Tall, slim, pale olive-tone skin and large light brown eyes? Plays the harp like an angel?"

Other than the different consonant, it did sound like we were describing the same person. "Yes, but her name is Nagissa."

The shopkeeper shrugged. "Perhaps she was trying to be clever, make her name sound more traditional."

 "Any idea where I can find her?"

"She should be at a party tonight. I can take you there."

This was one thing I loved about Iran. Everywhere I went, people were only too happy to extend their hospitality. I’d been invited to dinner, to parties, even to strangers’ weddings. The shopkeeper, Davood, and I exchanged information and phone numbers and I left.