My Father's Notebook (22 page)

There was no reason to panic. My instructions were to come back in an hour and try again. If he failed to turn up this time, something was definitely wrong.

I parked the car and went into a teahouse. Time seemed to stand still, so I tried walking around a nearby park. After fifteen minutes, I’d had enough, so I joined the crowds in the bazaar and did my best to work up an enthusiasm for the jewellery. This didn’t make the minute hand on my watch move any faster, so I sat down in another teahouse, drank a few more glasses of tea and skimmed through the old newspapers on the table.

At last an hour was up. I left the teahouse, got in my car, drove past the phone box and looked to see if he was there. No, still no one. I drove a couple of hundred yards farther, turned around and checked again. No, not a soul.

My instructions were to leave the vicinity immediately and go to an emergency meeting place. If my contact person hadn’t been arrested, I’d find him there.

I drove to a café outside of town. If all was well, he’d be sitting by the window, and when he saw me, he’d come out and get in the car.

I drove slowly past the café. There was no one at the window. I turned around and drove past again.

Was I scared? Not then. I had a strange, mixed-up feeling. Like a person who’d shouldered a heavy burden for a long
time and suddenly had the weight lifted. Even though it was gone, he still couldn’t stand up straight.

I felt anxious, but fear hadn’t gained the upper hand. Something had definitely gone wrong: either the police were on his tail or he’d been arrested.

What was the next step?

I drove away quickly, because when the police arrested someone, they tortured him until he divulged the names of his contacts.

There was one last ray of hope. I had to wait until the next morning, then make my way to one final meeting with a woman I didn’t know, who would re-establish my contacts with the party.

For security reasons, I couldn’t go home that night. I left the car in a car park and spent the night in a hotel. If this last contact person failed to show, I would have reached the end of the road.

The designated place was a nursery school in the middle of Tehran. At eleven-thirty in the morning, a woman was supposed to be sitting in a car out front reading a newspaper. If I saw her car, I was to park a few streets away, walk back to the school and wait along with the parents until the doors opened and they went in to collect their children. When everyone had left, I was supposed to ask, “Are you waiting for someone, too?”

If she answered, “Yes, I’m waiting for someone, too,” I was supposed to get in the car and she would drive off.

I drove past the school. A few cars were parked outside. There was even a woman at the wheel of a car, though she wasn’t reading a newspaper. I parked and walked back to the group of parents waiting on the sidewalk. I checked out the woman in the car. She looked more like a mother than a political activist. It’s not her, I decided. Or was it? Maybe she wouldn’t take out her newspaper until everyone had left. The
school doors opened and the parents streamed in. To my dismay, she got out of the car and went in, too. Five minutes later, all the cars had driven away.

Five minutes after that, the janitor locked the heavy iron gates.

I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew we were finished. The clerics had caught up with us.

I had reached the end of the road.

From then on I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.

Had I walked into a trap? Were the secret police watching me this very moment? Were they following me so they could nab the others?

In any case, I had to move fast. The most important thing was to get rid of the boxes in the boot as quickly as possible. Then I’d think about the next move.

I jumped in my car and drove off. Oddly enough, though the police could have been on my tail, I was suddenly less scared. My first priority would be to dump the boxes. After that, I’d have to get rid of the stencil machine in my flat.

I looked in the rear-view mirror to see if I was being followed, then drove down a couple of streets and doubled back so I could check the cars behind me. No one seemed to be following me. I got on the motorway, drove as fast as I could, got off a few exits later and waited by the side of the road. Not a car in sight. It would be safe to get rid of the news sheets. The only question was how. Should I toss them in a rubbish bin? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. A rubbish bin was no place for something I’d risked my life to produce.

I saw a bridge. A river would be a good place for my news sheets. I drove under the bridge and waited until there weren’t any cars. Then I opened the boot, took out the boxes and threw them into the river.

I stared at them as the current carried them downstream. Where did the river go? It flowed into a large salt lake near the holy city of Qom.

There was no time to waste. I drove straight home. If the police had arrested my contact person yesterday, I had precious little time. Only the greatest of heroes could hold out for more than a couple of days in the torture chambers of the mullahs. A few of my comrades had chosen to die rather than name names.

My instructions were simple: clean up and get out.

First the stencil machine, then the car.

There was no sign of any suspicious activity near my flat. No strange cars were parked nearby.

I parked, lingered deliberately by the door, then went up the stairs. It was hard for me to accept that my printing operation had come to an end. I gathered up the documents and the ink, stuffed them in a bag and put them in the car, leaving the boot open. Then I hurried back upstairs.

I dragged the machine out of the wardrobe, wrapped it in a blanket and tipped it onto the bed.

I was afraid that if I bent down and lifted it on my back from the bed, I’d never be able to straighten up again. What if my back muscles seized up like they had the last time and the pain was so intense that I couldn’t move? There had to be a better way.

I shoved the table next to the bed, then stood on the bed and manoeuvred the machine onto the table. That was better.

I remembered reading about a mother in France who, when she saw her child trapped beneath the wheels of a lorry, lifted up the lorry and pulled her child to safety.

I bent down and lifted the stencil machine onto my back, then staggered to the door and the stairway. It didn’t matter
if anyone saw me now. Holding the machine tightly with one hand and gripping the banister with the other, I started carefully down the stairs.

A flat door opened. I heard a man’s footsteps. Don’t panic,

I said to myself.

“What are you doing, neighbour?”

“Just carrying something to the car,” I calmly replied.

“What on earth is it?”

“Would you mind giving me a hand? I don’t want to ruin my back.”

I sat down on one of the steps and lowered the machine.

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?” he said.

“I didn’t want to disturb you. Besides, I didn’t know if you were home.”

The two of us carried the machine down the stairs.

“Whew, it’s heavy,” he moaned. “What the hell is it?”

“Just … uh, er … a piece of junk,” I said as casually as possible. “A kind of hobby of mine. You know … uh, er… repairing old machines. Life’s expensive and the extra cash comes in handy. But there’s not much room in my flat, so I’m … uh, er … getting rid of the junk. Here we are, the boot’s open. Thanks, I appreciate your help!”

We lowered the machine into the trunk. My neighbour went back upstairs. I slammed the boot shut and drove off.

After I’d written about stowing the stencil machine in the boot of my car, I put down my pen and went to my local shopping centre. It dawned on me that it was December. The last December of the century.

There was a man selling Christmas trees in the square. I watched as he unloaded his trees, and a couple of children, with a nod from their mother, picked one out. The shop windows were all decorated. I hadn’t really noticed them before. Somehow Christmas seemed different this year, as if this were the first Christmas I’d ever spent in Holland. Why had I paid so little attention in the past?

I bought a tree—a light green fir. My wife usually took
care of such things. Why did I suddenly become aware of the holiday preparations and why did I buy a tree?

When I took it home, my wife exclaimed, “Look, Ishmael bought a Christmas tree!”

Was it just a coincidence?

Maybe I was relieved to be nearing the end of my father’s notes. Now that the Dutch version of Aga Akbar’s notebook was almost finished, I wanted the book to have a Christmas tree—one decorated with coloured lights, angels, hearts … and golden bells.

These last few weeks had been so tiring that I needed to get away. In past years we’d packed our bags and gone off to visit friends in Germany, Belgium, England or Sweden. This year I wanted to stay in Holland. We went from one travel agency to the next, hoping to book a cabin for the Christmas holidays, but the travel agents stared at us in disbelief. At this late date?

I’d read all kinds of maths books when I was studying physics, so I knew that, according to the laws of statistical probability, there had to be at least one cancellation among the thousands of bookings.

Sure enough, there was. Somebody had just called. The cabin was expensive and too big for the three of us, but luckily my wife was good at resolving problems like this. She immediately phoned a friend of hers, who said that she and her daughter would be delighted to spend the holidays away from home. We were all set.

We left and I took my father’s notebook along, hoping to finish the story.

The cabin was located on a campground in Friesland, somewhere between Drachten and Leeuwarden. When we got there, the fog was so thick we couldn’t see the surrounding countryside. For the rest of the afternoon and evening, we looked out on grey fields.

I liked the idea of celebrating Christmas and the New Year with my wife’s friend and daughter, because it would add to the festive spirit. We started to decorate the house. As it turned out, we could have left our Christmas tree at home, because the cabin already had one.

We agreed that if I did the grocery shopping, the women would do the rest, which meant I could work for a few hours every day. I wanted to have the book done before the new century began.

“Where are you?” my wife called.

“Here, upstairs.”

“Come on down. I’m making coffee.”

I came down.

“I was looking out the upstairs window,” I said. “The cabin seems to be floating on clouds. There’s grey fog everywhere. I don’t think it’s ever going to lift. What are you lot planning to do?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” my wife said. “After we’ve unpacked, we might go into town with the children. Do you want to come along?”

“No, I’d rather stay here. According to the camping guide, there’s a village with a café about three or four miles away. I think I’ll walk there.”

They decided to take the bus to Leeuwarden.

I put on my hiking boots, grabbed a writing pad and set off to find the café.

Although I followed the route given in the guidebook, it came to a dead end at a river, or maybe it was a lake. Anyway, a ferryboat suddenly loomed up out of the mist. A bearded old man slowly steered the boat towards the shore.

“Get in,” he said in some kind of dialect.

“Get in? Where are you going?”

“To the other side.”

“But I want to go to the café.”

“Get in!” he said.

I got in.

“I thought you could walk all the way,” I said.

“You can,” he said, “though in that case you should’ve taken a different route.”

After a few minutes the ferry reached the other side. The ferryman pointed: over there. Through the fog I saw a faint gleam of light.

It was a quiet village, consisting of two rows of old and not very large houses. In the village square, I saw a café with a Heineken sign. I peeked inside to see if anyone was there. An old man, presumably the owner, was standing behind the bar. Otherwise the room was empty.

“Are you open?” I called from the doorway.

“Sure. Come on in!” the owner said.

I went and sat by a window, so I could look outside.

“How about a cup of coffee?” I said.

The café was quiet—a good place to write.

“Do you need cream and sugar?” the owner asked.

“Black is fine. No, wait, with cream, please.”

I took out my pen and notebook and began to write.

Now that the stencil machine had been safely stowed in the boot of my car, I drove off. How would I be able to get rid of the thing in a busy city like Tehran?

Actually, considering the danger I was in, I shouldn’t have been driving my own car.

I wanted to do everything right. Not like a frightened rabbit, but like a freedom fighter who’s reached the end of the road. If I left the stencil machine on the pavement and tiptoed away, I’d not only feel like a coward, but the machine would no doubt wind up in the hands of the secret police. I
wanted to avoid that for two reasons. One, they would dust it for fingerprints, and two, they would conclude that we’d abandoned it because we were scared—so scared that we were dumping everything and running away in panic.

I was of two minds. Deep down, I rejoiced at the prospect of being liberated from the stencil machine, but at the same time I didn’t want to let it go. It seemed as if my life were inextricably bound up with the machine. As long as it was in the boot of my car, I had an anchor. The moment it was gone, however, I would be adrift—a nobody, superfluous.

No, I refused to throw it away. Someone might need it later on if the party ever decided to start printing again. Why not take it to the salvage yard where I found it?

I’d have to hurry. It was five-thirty, and I didn’t know what time it closed.

On the way there, I thought about what I would say. Maybe I wouldn’t say anything, just drag the machine back to the shed where I’d found it. I decided to play it by ear.

It took me an hour to reach the salvage yard. A light was still on in the office. I parked the car and got out to see if the gate was locked. It was.

“Is anyone there?” I shouted. No answer.

I looked to see if there was a back entrance by the shed, but there wasn’t. My only alternative would be to leave the stencil machine at the gate and drive off.

Just then the office light went out. I waited. A figure emerged from behind the wrecked cars, but I couldn’t tell if it was a guard or an office worker. As he came closer, I could see that it was an old man in a cap—clearly the guard.

“Good evening,” I called.

“Good evening,” he said with an Afghan accent. No doubt one of the thousands of Afghan refugees who had fled to our country.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“No. A couple of months ago I took a stencil machine out of the shed. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need it any more, so I brought it back, but the gate was locked. I’ve got it out in the car. I live far away, so I’d rather not make another trip. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me put it in the shed.”

He thought it over.

“Who let you have the machine?”

“A friend of mine arranged it. He said I could just take it out of the shed. It’s an old machine that should actually be scrapped. That’s why I’ve brought it back.”

“OK, go and get it. But you can’t take it to the shed—it’s too dark back there. Just put it down here. I’ll bring it to the shed myself tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.”

I hurriedly opened the trunk, hauled out the stencil machine and lowered it to the ground. Then I dragged it in its blanket over to the gate and left it just inside.

“More coffee?” the café owner asked.

“Yes, thanks. It’s good coffee.”

“Are you keeping a journal?”

“No. Yes. I mean, I suppose it’s a kind of journal.”

“You write fast. Have you lived in Holland for long?”

“I may write fast, but I make lots of mistakes. When I go back home, I’ll have to go through it all again and correct it.”

“Your Dutch is good. Where do you come from?”

“Iran. Persia.”

“No kidding! Look, I’ve got Persian carpets on my tables. Not real ones, of course, but nice all the same. They brighten up the place, make it look smarter. Well, I won’t disturb you any more. I expect you’re staying at the campground.”

“Yes, I’m here with my family.”

The fog had lifted. The villagers were walking down the main street in festive clothes. A group of older men, about my father’s age, came into the café. They greeted the owner, then started talking loudly to each other in dialect. It made the café a lot more cheerful.

The owner brought me a fresh cup of coffee and said, “I suppose you won’t be able to write any more with all the—”

“No problem. I’ll manage.”

Now that I’d disposed of the stencil machine, my instructions were to park the car somewhere and abandon it.

You agree to follow instructions like these without realising you might actually have to carry them out one day.

I had to do as I was told. Otherwise I could endanger the lives of others. I knew a lot about the party and I knew where a number of my comrades lived. If I were arrested, the police would drag the information out of me, bit by bit. This was no time for hesitation. A deal was a deal. I had to dump the car.

Without a car, though, how was I going to get around? And what were my next instructions?

As I drove through the darkness, I had a brilliant idea: I could park the car at my father’s house. No, that was no good. It might sit there for months. What about behind the shop? There was a tiny plot of land where nobody ever went. It would be perfectly normal for a car to be parked there for a long time. Spare parts were so hard to find during the war that people often left their broken-down cars outside their homes.

I turned the car around and took the road to Senejan. I’d arrive in the middle of the night, which was good, because my father would be at home and the streets would be deserted.

It was almost quarter to one when I reached the city. I drove to my old neighbourhood. I saw a dog sniffing at a dustbin, but when he heard the car, he crept back into the darkness. I drove past my parents’ house. The curtains were drawn as usual, but the lights were on. Were they still awake? Tina’s silhouette suddenly moved across the curtains. She’s up, I thought. What’s going on? I felt a sudden urge to stop, but the house was off-limits. Whatever was going on behind the curtains was no longer my concern. And yet, I thought, it ought to be possible to drop in for a moment, say hello and leave.

I parked the car and was just about to get out when I saw my father’s silhouette on the curtains. He threw up his hands and disappeared.

I had no right to know what was happening in their lives. I’d better go—I had come here for another reason. I started the car and drove to my father’s shop.

I was used to seeing a light on in the window. This time it was dark. I drove slowly past the shop, then turned right at the corner so I could park behind it. Because I didn’t want to wake the neighbours, I stopped, switched off the engine, got out and tried to push the car the rest of the way. It wasn’t easy, but I finally managed to push it under an old tree. Suddenly there was a flicker of light in the window of the lean-to where we’d once hid Jamileh.

I thought I must be mistaken, that my imagination was playing tricks on me.

I took out the vehicle registration papers and locked the car doors. What should I do with the papers and the key? I probably wouldn’t need them for a long time. Maybe never. I went over to the lean-to so I could slide the key and the papers through a crack in the window frame.

Tomorrow, when my father saw the car behind the shop, he’d realise what had happened. Eventually he’d also find the key and the vehicle registration papers in his lean-to.

The papers slipped easily through the crack, but the key wouldn’t fit. Since the window frame was rotten, I gouged out a hole with the key, then pushed it through. As the key fell to the ground, I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure inside. “Don’t worry,” I whispered quickly, to calm whoever it was. “It’s OK. Everything’s all right.”

Who could it be? Golden Bell? A friend of hers? Did my father know? I had no idea and it was none of my business. I was the stranger here. I needed to disappear, to get away from my father’s shop.