The Alley of Love and Yellow Jasmines (8 page)

“When you are in harmony with your partner, you are in love, and the universe is on your side,” my grandmother Bahar al-Sadat once told me. Her words were so true.

We went to the bazaar the next day. I had always loved visiting the old bazaar in Tehran, so I was looking forward to this one as well. Aydin wanted to see if he could find calligraphy in a cellar of an antique dealer. I wanted to get some souvenirs, including kaftans, semiprecious stones, and silk fabrics for my cushions.

We went through a couple of corridors in the bazaar, walking through the reflection of the sun in the columns of light pouring through the ceiling’s openings.

A shopkeeper told us where we could find a trader who sold calligraphies, and we went to look for him. It was the exact kind of place that Aydin was looking for. There was a good amount of calligraphy inside, all reasonably priced. Aydin fell in love with two of the most expensive pieces, a beautiful piece by Mir Emad and another great one by an unknown artist. The look on Aydin’s face was priceless. His eyes were shining, and he looked like a young athlete holding his first trophy.

NEXT UP WAS
Algeria, another beautiful and mysterious country. We arrived in the afternoon and got to our full room around three o’clock. It was a huge room facing a valley of tall trees set against the white sky. It had dark wooden shutters, a huge chandelier delicately carved in wood, antique-looking furniture, and a vast balcony.

We started to unpack and noticed that Aydin’s American edition of
Playboy
was now gone. Aydin collected the magazine, read and spoke English fluently, and always said, “Those who are opposed to
Playboy
refuse to understand that the magazine’s articles are far more substantial than its young ladies.”

We were wondering where we left it, and remembered that our luggage and bags were brought to our room by a shy and hairy young man. Aydin said he was not going to make a fuss about it. He decided that the young man deserved to keep the magazine more than he did. Besides, while we could buy it again, the young man could not in a million years. Not in Algeria and not in those days.

We ordered a couple of nonalcoholic drinks, and when I turned around to tip the bellhop, I was astounded by the view. The sun was setting on the horizon, and it looked humongous; its color was a golden red-orange, and it seemed as if it were setting right on our balcony. I could feel it in my throat. Its golden rays were celestial as it gracefully retired for the day.

WE DINED IN
that night and made love, and went to bed early to start fresh the next day. As we set out to explore the historic sites, we were told that there were no rental cars in Algeria. Our only choice was to negotiate with a cabdriver and have him take us to our designated sites.

We found a cabdriver, but he only spoke Arabic. Aydin did his best to tell him what we had in mind. He looked at us and smiled.

“Tourist place?” he asked.

“Yes, tourist place,” we said. And he hit the gas. As we drove through the mountains, I asked Aydin if we were going in the right direction.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. We arrived at the beach after almost an hour. We looked at each other and got out of the cab. We had not expected to be taken to a beach.

“What is this? Why are we here?” Aydin said.

“Look, look,” said the cabdriver. “Brigitte Bardot,
la maison
.”

He had taken us to a posh area with grand villas to show off Brigitte Bardot’s house on the beach.

We could not help but burst into laughter and finally showed him the list of the sites that we had intended to see.

WHEN WE LEFT
Algeria to go home, I was thinking of the future as a sure thing, feeling happy and content, in love and being loved, and doing what I always wanted to do: acting.

At home, though, an undercurrent of rebellion was brewing.

11

Fervor

B
ecoming a regular at the workshop opened my eyes to the reality of life beyond my sheltered world. A few of my fellow actors, mostly in their twenties, had already dealt with the sort of poverty that I had visited in childhood with my grandmother, and a few had already been interrogated or harassed by SAVAK, which was tirelessly looking for traitors, mostly members of the underground Communist Party who were said to have connections to Russia. My family was not bothered by SAVAK, as we had not been involved with politics since Grandfather died.

Iran was thriving. The Shah had managed to maintain an excellent relationship with America and Europe, and also to earn a fairly good reputation in Iran as a progressive leader. But his opponents thought he was megalomaniacal and an American puppet planted to convert Iran to an anti-Communist state during the cold war. Nevertheless, the Americanization of Iran had begun, and my generation was witnessing, under the Shah, the country’s most glorious days. We experienced the Persian Spring, which meant Iran’s transformation from a tribal and religious society into a modern society. We walked freely through the so-called truce alleys, or as my generation used to call them, the love alleys, the narrow alleys that only fit two people walking through shoulder to shoulder, holding hands, celebrating Iran’s evolution. My generation was now an American generation. This was a time when love was not forbidden, and being young wasn’t considered a crime, as it is today.

THE WORKSHOP LIVED
up to its reputation as the most avant-garde theater. Members tended to be educated young liberals who more or less believed in true democracy. Their young and inquisitive minds did not shy away from discussing politics in public, nor were they afraid of the ramifications—until they were visited by SAVAK.

One actor was taken away for further interviews during my time there. The interrogations took place at SAVAK secret offices in a room containing only a simple desk and two chairs. Those who had experienced these sessions said that the long hours waiting in those rooms were far more terrifying than the actual period of questioning.

Ashur would not be stopped by SAVAK’s threats. He had finished writing his first two plays,
Chess
and
Dolls
, by the time we returned from our vacation. Rehearsals started immediately. It was only the two of us in the plays. This time I did not have to share Ashur with other actors. I had him all to myself and learned more from him than ever before.

The themes of the plays revolved around men and women struggling to connect but ultimately unable to. Ashur and I portrayed six characters: a man and his wife, a lover and his beloved, and finally the role of parents. The conflict that Ashur was pointing out in every relationship seemed fundamental and almost impossible to resolve.

“The performances are great, but the play needs some work,” one critic wrote. Another claimed that Ashur might be a “brilliant director” but he is not necessarily a “brilliant playwright.”

Ashur was an intellectual and pretty fair-minded. He agreed with the critic and said, “Hear the critic out. If he is referring to something that you know is right, learn from it. Throw it in the trash can if it is wrong.”

12

Loyalty

A
friend of mine, Shirin, had wanted to see me for a while, but I had been so busy at the workshop. We finally set a date, and when I opened the door to her I knew something was terribly wrong. Her big green eyes were red. Her face was puffy, her long curly blond hair was a mess, and her belly was swollen. Despite looking like she had gained weight, she seemed malnourished.

She burst into tears as she came in and explained that she was three months pregnant, out of wedlock. Her parents were extremely conservative and had no idea that she’d had a boyfriend, let alone had gotten pregnant.

“My mother would kill herself. My father would have a stroke, and my brothers would kill me. What am I going to do?” she asked me.

I felt sorry for her. I knew she was right. I asked her how she had managed to cover it up so far. She said by pretending to be ill. She said she was going to go to the Caspian to stay with her aunt, a single woman in her seventies who would understand and be able to help her.

She had tried to get an abortion, but no doctor would do it. “It is too late,” she kept hearing.

I told her that she could stay with us as long as she wanted. But it was impossible. We lived in the same neighborhood as her parents, and her brothers were all over the place. They were respectable people and well known in the area.

I told her she must talk to her boyfriend. She said she did and got nowhere. He was not ready to get married and had his own problems. He was addicted to heroin, and his father, a retired general, had done his best but had to let go of him when he refused to quit for good.

Shirin’s boyfriend was very handsome, somewhere between James Dean and Troy Donahue, with blue eyes. He was tall and charming and was kept alive by friends. He partied every night and crashed on different people’s couches.

I told Shirin I would talk to him.

He came at lunchtime. I made him some soup, knowing he had lost four of his front teeth in a car accident. He looked pathetic and kept telling me about the gutter he lived in. He had rented a room in a slum. He said he could not take care of himself, let alone a baby. But he was willing to reconsider the marriage, if Shirin would go to the Caspian and give him time to do the right thing.

That night I asked Aydin if he would accept the child and marry my friend as his second wife. He was stunned. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he asked me twice if I really meant it, and I said, “Yes, yes, yes. It would save her life and the child.”

He laughed and said he would do no such thing. I said we would keep it quiet, but he still refused.

“Do you love me? Sometimes I wonder,” my husband said. “Be it quiet or not, I do not want to do this. I do not believe you. Do you know what you are getting involved with? It’s dangerous.”

I kissed him and whispered, “But you will do it if she gets into harm’s way, won’t you?”

“Let’s hope she will find a way out of this,” he replied.

Fortunately Shirin found her path and I did not have to share my house with a second wife. She finally told her mother the truth and went to stay with her aunt near the Caspian Sea for a while. Her boyfriend decided to marry her and would eventually take her to his parents’ house, as they were willing to take care of her and their grandchild.

Aydin kept teasing me for months for being so naïve. He told our friends how I had begged him to take a second wife. Everybody laughed their hearts out. People still caught up in old traditions in Iran at this time did have two or more wives, but the modern generation thought it was archaic.

I WAS THRIVING
and my career was booming. Aydin was very happy. His business was successful, too, and his collection of calligraphies was growing larger. We were attending parties and clubs during the weekends and stayed home during the week to enjoy each other’s company—except for Thursdays. We decided to leave Thursday nights for our close friends. We would have them over for dinner to discuss politics, philosophy, and life over glasses of wine.

Shirin’s husband, and another mutual friend of ours, the son of a famous jeweler, had invited us to my favorite nightclub, the Key Club. They wanted to thank us for taking care of Shirin.

The Key Club was private and was founded by a socialite. It was located in northern Tehran and was a hangout for the royal family. The club’s regular clientele knew one another well, as did the doorman, Mr. Mohammad. He knew everybody by their full name and titles, and no one could get past him without being approved. Our hosts were running late, so we spent time talking with our other friends until they arrived.

We immersed ourselves in a nice meal, the club’s specialty, called “Abgoosht”—a lamb-shank soup—while listening to the reggae band J.J. Cale. It happened to be the winter solstice and the longest night of the year, known as “Yalda,” and the first night of a long weekend. Finally our hosts showed up and we stayed until one o’clock in the morning and then called for a cab home.