Sky of Red Poppies Page 5

  A few voices rose, but Jenab raised both hands. "I'm not finished!"

  He then lowered his voice adding, "Like the power in a whisper, the splendor of Behrangi's story is indeed in its simplicity."

  None of that trash in my house, Pedar had said.

  I raised my hand.

  "Yes, Miss Afshar?"

  "Why was it banned then?"

  A murmur followed in support of my question.

  Jenab dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Cynicism has caused the ban of numerous works of art. If indeed this book is not simply out of print, if it has been banned - and I'm not saying that's the case - it's a pity, indeed a shame."

  A heated discussion followed while Shireen sulked in silence. When the bell rang, she stood and said to Jenab, "I'd like to know if there's an ocean out there at all? And if so, which one of us will dream enough to dare swimming in it?"

  Jenab continued to gather his books, so Shireen shouted over the classroom noise, "Sir?"

  Jenab didn't even look at her, as if he had not heard the question altogether.

  That evening before dinner, Mitra and I were doing homework in her room. I didn't have a separate desk, so we shared hers.

  "I have one sky of reading to do," I complained, paging through my Physics book.

  She looked up. "What was that?"

  I laughed. "Sorry. Shireen and I have this silly code, 'one sky,' to mean beyond measurement, like the abyss. It's from a poem that mentioned one sky of red poppies."

  Mitra put her book down. "You know that poem?"

  Overwhelmed that for once I knew something she didn't, I started to deliver with pride, "You are not there, and how many flowers are—"

  "Did that girl teach you this?" She sounded furious.

  "Teach?" I chuckled. "We share poetry."

  "Not that one, you don't."

  "And why not?"

  "Because you're not a follower of Behrangi."

  "You don't even know what you're talking about," I said and went back to my book, but her hand came down on the page.

  "That poem was written in honor of Samad Behrangi and is being circulated among his followers," she said and poked a finger into my chest. "You're not one of them."

  "That's silly. I bet Shireen doesn't even know that."

  "She knows."

  "She never said a word."

  "Good!" Mitra picked up her book. "And neither will you."

  Much like Nelly, my sister tried hard to sound informed. She considered herself an intellectual, read forbidden books and discussed social problems over a caffe glasse. But I saw right through her facade because she showed more concern for a broken fingernail than the lives of people like Zahra. Intellectualism to Mitra was nothing but another fashionable import from France.

  I let her read for a while. "Speaking of Behrangi," I said at last, trying to sound casual. "I'd like to read that Fish book, if you still have it."

  She stabbed her book with her pen. "What's gotten into you?"

  I had to tell her about the discussion in Jenab's class, but I tried to dilute the intensity and surprised even myself at how calm I sounded. "I think if I had read it, I would have understood today's review much better. It sounds like a good read."

  "That Mr. Elmi is really asking for it," she said, and added in a softer tone, "Even if Pedar had let me keep it, I wouldn't give it to you. There's a reason they ban such books."

  "You're just mean."

  "Better mean than stupid," she said and turned back to her studies.

  I returned to my textbook. The words on the page made no sense at all. Somehow, Mitra had awakened me to danger lurking over my favorite teacher. She had a point. At a time when people got into trouble for speaking up, why would Jenab take such a chance?

  The following day it rained and rained. All along the hallway where muddy shoes had left their marks on the mosaic, people left their umbrellas open to dry. At recess, Shireen and I stayed in class and she gave me a copy of Hafez, opened to a marked page.

  "Will you test me on this poem?"

  "Why?"

  "My father makes us memorize at least one a week."

  I studied it and found the verses rather hard to read, let alone memorize.

  "This is so intense. Do you ever do anything silly, just for fun?"

  "Does fun have to be silly?" Then as if regretting that, she said, "Reading can be fun, too, not to mention the interesting debates it can spark."

  "What kind of debates?"

  "You know, discussions, exchanging ideas, even taking sides."

  "On poetry?"

  "No, not just poetry. It could be anything: headline news, art. Anything, really."

  I laughed. "Sounds like school to me."

  "No, it's a lot of fun. We have our laughs, munch on snacks, and play poetry games. My father gives us cash rewards to make it worthwhile." She smiled. "But Agha-jan can be tricky. Whenever we start to gain on him, he switches to Rumi, a topic he knows more about than the rest of us put together."

  Even though others called their fathers Agha-jan, meaning "Dear Sir", to hear Shireen refer to hers that way sounded formal.

  "So, that's why you know so much," I said. "My family mostly reads magazines, and the debate is over who gets to do the crosswords first." I laughed.

  The profound difference in our experiences should have been enough to imply that Shireen and I lived in divergent worlds. Like parallel lines, we walked side-by-side, together, and yet alone.

  From Shireen's descriptions, I imagined her father to be someone worth knowing. But her mom remained a mystery. Whenever Shireen mentioned her, I sensed caution. And one day in the midst of telling me about an argument, she exclaimed, "I'm afraid of Maman."

  "Of your own mother?"

  Wide-eyed, she nodded. "She can be frightening."

  I thought of my mother, bed-ridden and weak, yet smiling angelically. I could still remember putting my head on her bed to receive the gentle movement of her fingers stroking my hair. Weren't all mothers a symbol of tranquility and the source of unconditional love?

  "You're just angry," I had said. "Soon you'll both forget about this."

  "My mother never forgets."

  Shireen seemed increasingly at ease around me and began providing details of her family life. After a while, I thought maybe it was time for me to enter the next level of friendship, the one where I could finally let her inside my "thick shell" as she put it.

  With final exams approaching, I stayed home and worked hard to memorize the Latin names of fossils. Sitting under a tree, I read my biology book, ignoring the strong scent of jasmine and honeysuckle in order to concentrate.

  My father took pride in having one of the best gardens in town. He had hired Mammad to take care of it and often invited his friends over to show it off. A brick driveway ran down the middle of two large flowerbeds with metal arches overhead to support red climbing roses. Well-manicured flowerbeds burst with pink geraniums, white petunias, and dahlias of all colors. The surrounding high walls were covered with fragrant honeysuckle, isolating this private paradise from the world outside.

  The blare of a horn interrupted my reverie. At the sight of my father's car, I was grateful for an excuse to quit studying. The car halted in the middle of the driveway and Mammad rushed over to open its door for my father.

  "Salaam, Pedar," I shouted and ran to him.

  "I see my smart daughter is studying again." Pedar wrapped one arm around me and I saw an older gentleman in the back seat. Turning to his guest, my father said, "Mr. Sa'ad, let me introduce my youngest, Roya."

  The man's dark lips opened to a denture smile and he stepped out. He was tiny and, judging by his cotton-white hair, too old to be Pedar's peer. Then again, Pedar seemed to know many of the prominent seniors in our town.

  "Your father has been raving about you," he said, catching my hand in a firm handshake. "The valedictorian?" He turned to Pedar. "I must say, Rafi-khan, you have every right to be proud of this youn
g lady."

  I thanked him and felt the heat rise to my ears.

  My father looked as pleased as when he showed off his garden. He tapped my back. "Dear Mr. Sa'ad, when she becomes a famous doctor, we can all be proud of her."

  As they walked away, I gathered my books and went up the back stairs to the family room. The French doors led onto the semi-circular veranda and I opened them wide. My father's room also connected to the veranda, at a right angle, and I could hear the faint trick-track of dice from a backgammon game. I grabbed a cushion and stretched out on the floor of the family room, in a patch of sunlight in the doorway.

  "Rajab!" my father called out to his manservant.

  I heard the sound of a latch being opened and glimpsed Rajab appearing at my father's doors. Now with both sets of doors open, only the width of the veranda stood between my father's room and me.

  "Bring me my iron box," Pedar said to Rajab.

  For a while the rolling of dice was all I heard. With the warm sun on my eyelids, I imagined Rajab going down the hall to retrieve, from the closet, my father's heavy safe. That closet was in fact a small pantry that served as storage for nonperishable food and household supplies, as well as a few family heirlooms. It had two keys, of which my aunt kept one, and Rajab the other. What Pedar called his "iron box," was a large steel case with gold paisley designs, containing Pedar's documents, cash, gold coins and such. He alone had its key. Though no one spoke of it openly, we all knew he also kept his stash of opium in there.

  Pedar never smoked opium in the presence of his family, though we were all too familiar with its strong smell. Once, when two of Pedar's friends were over, I had asked Auntie, "What's that stench?"

  My aunt dismissed my curiosity with a wave of her hand. "Distinguished male guests enjoy being treated to an occasional puff.”

  Whenever Pedar was home for more than a few hours, especially if he sent word that he did not wish to be disturbed, I expected that smell to rise. None of us dared discuss the subject - as if by denying it the whole matter would become less real. But ever since I had started to examine things in the way Shireen might have, denial seemed to become increasingly less possible.

  Pedar's voice had a hint of pride as he now proclaimed, "Nothing but the best for my good friend."

  I peeked. At first, the bright sunlight blinded me, but then I saw them, sitting on the rug across from a silver brazier. Pedar's back was to me, leaning on his side over a rolled pillow. Now in their loosened shirts and with no jackets, both men seemed more relaxed. Pedar sat up and his keys jingled as he unlocked the safe. The box opened with a single sound of a bell.

  He reached into the case and removed a box. "They don't get any better than this," he bragged.

  Mr. Sa'ad took the cigar-shaped object. "Nice color," he said and, passing it under his nose, he gave an exaggerated exhale. "Ahh. Really nice."

  Rajab came back with a tray, placed a glass of tea before each man, and put the teapot on the brazier. "The charcoal should be ready, sir," he said, and started to untie the cord from around a leather pouch. Out came an assortment of long pipes and jingling little gadgets. I had seen those pipes before, when Rajab cleaned them. They resembled a porcelain egg attached to a long wooden stem.

  Mr. Sa'ad picked one up. "The Qajar pipes are hard to find."

  "True," Pedar said. "But even if there were many left, who'd dare show them in their store?"

  "True," Mr. Sa'ad replied. "Especially now. I wish I knew what's going on."

  I listened for more, but they seemed too absorbed in Rajab's preparations.

  "I thought we had seen the end of it after they got rid of Mossaddegh," my father finally said. "But now, even I worry."

  I had heard about the ex-Prime Minister and the conspiracies to get rid of the Shah, but with Mossaddegh long dead, I didn't know what Pedar was referring to.

  "Are you worried about the land reforms?" Mr. Sa'ad asked. The Shah had a new plan to divide farms among farm workers.

  "Not really," Pedar said. "The land I fear for is that of the whole country."

  Conscious of my eavesdropping, I closed my eyes and prayed they could not see me. With my heart ready to explode, I waited a few more minutes before curiosity made me look again.

  Rajab heated the porcelain pipe on the charcoal, cut a piece of the opium stick and, using what looked like a doctor's pliers, held the piece over the charcoal before putting it on the pipe. Pedar poked at it with a long needle before passing the pipe to his guest. I shuddered with unease. Something was awfully wrong with this entire poisonous ritual. I wanted to leave, but the magnetism of the scene held me.

  Mr. Sa'ad took a long drag. He blew the smoke toward the French doors before giving the pipe back to my father, who took a longer drag and inhaled. That dreadful smell filled the air again - bitter coffee mixed with tar and burning charcoal.

  "You know something, Rafi khan? I haven't touched this stuff in two months."

  Two months? Something in the casual way my father's guest said that horrified me. Pedar seemed to smoke the stuff every time he had a chance. How wrong my aunt had been. Pedar's opium habit was far beyond "an occasional puff."

  Shireen feasted her eyes on the last poppies of the year and said, "Soon this will go back to being just an ordinary roof."

  "That roof will never be ordinary," I replied. "The flowers may be gone, but the roof is their home. It keeps a part of them, season to season. Year to year."

  "You're right. They may seem fragile, but their lifeline is strong," she said. "Other flowers can only dream of such freedom."

  "Freedom?" I chuckled. "They're as stuck in that mud as we are in this Godforsaken school."

  "Think again. No florist harvests them, they aren't bought or sold and they will never be forced to spend their last days in a vase." She bobbed her head, just like the poppies. "Absolutely free."

  What did Shireen know of their poison? The vision of my father, hunched over his silver brazier, was as vivid as the day I'd actually seen it. I could still feel the air in his room, heavy with the essence of poppies. My father's addiction, with or without his elegant pipes, humiliated me. I wished I could talk to Shireen about it, but the shame of it prevented me.

  One sky of sorrow.

  In her poetic way, Shireen had given me a phrase to gauge the immeasurable. At an age when nothing made sense, our days went by with one sky of anxiety while a simple word from Jenab could fill our hearts with a sky of joy. We exploded with one sky of rage and yearned, equally, to escape our oppressive surroundings.

  Maybe the poppies' secret, their significance, indeed what made them so unique, lay in their brief existence. Like the misty memory of my mother, something about the poppies both dazzled and troubled me.

  Shireen saw their freedom and resilience.

  I saw only their vulnerability.

  Four

  LOOKING BACK, the monotony of my uneventful teenage years is hard to believe. But as boring as the majority of remembrance may be, where Shireen is concerned I have to probe deep and try to understand where things went wrong. Our friendship began as softly as drizzle, and little did we know that if a light rain lasted long enough, it could turn into flood.

  I entered my classroom seconds before Miss Bahador arrived. Expecting Jenab, I thought the Geography teacher had made a mistake, but she walked to the desk and put her purse down.

  "Mr. Elmi and I have switched classes this morning," she said.

  A few students mumbled protestations. I noticed Shireen had taken out her Phillips diary, an indication that she had something to talk about. When Miss Bahador turned to the blackboard, Shireen wrote something down, then slid the diary across the desk to me.

  "School is facing a serious problem," it read.

  "What?" I whispered.

  Miss Bahador glared in our direction.

  Before Shireen could respond, there came a crackle from the speakers above the blackboard, followed by Mrs. Saberi's shriek. "Shireen Payan to the offi
ce immediately."

  The entire front row turned to our bench. To be called to the principal's office was never good, but after what Shireen had just written, I panicked.

  Miss Bahador nodded and Shireen flew out of the room.

  Students murmured, but the teacher started her lesson and soon everyone seemed to be listening. I watched the door and prayed my friend would return soon. I had no reason to fear SAVAK, but somehow since the day they took Alieh, I imagined any call to the office related to them. I listened carefully to sounds coming through the window, but other than distant traffic noise and the usual come and go in the schoolyard, I heard nothing, and certainly nothing that would validate my qualms.

  At recess, I noticed Shireen had left the Phillips diary open where it lay. Knowing she'd not want to leave it unattended, I took it from the desk and carried it with me while looking for her. She was nowhere around.

  As I passed by the office I could hear the teachers' chitchat. Acting casual, I peered through the open door, but saw no Shireen there either. I felt sick when she didn't show up for the rest of that morning's classes.

  School went on as usual, indicating others hadn't heard about the problem Shireen had mentioned. Maybe I had misunderstood her. But when one of my classmates said that Jenab had not made it to any of his classes, I became more deeply concerned. Before going home for lunch, I looked for Shireen in the prayer hall, but no one was there.

  I had never been to her house. Given our social codes, that wasn't unusual. I treated most of my school friends as just that: Friends whom I saw at school. Most girls were allowed to socialize only with friends known to their families. I could visit Nelly any time, but Shireen? If it weren't for her address being on the first page of the diary, I wouldn't even know where she lived.

  Akbar was waiting for me in the yellow Dodge. I copied the address out and passed it to him. "Would you mind going by my friend's house? I have to return her book."

  I heard him mumble something, which made me think the detour was an inconvenience, but he made a U turn anyway.

  Shireen had written that the school was in trouble, but what kind of trouble? Being called to the office could possibly be unrelated to whatever she meant to tell me. Maybe the school needed some document for her file or something, and had sent her home to get it.