I went outside through the lobby and asked the dispatcher to find me a cabdriver who spoke some English. He returned a few minutes later. “Sorry, nobody speaks English, but there’s one who speaks a little German.”
“That will do,” I said. When the nightingale is too busy to sing, even a crow will do.
“Take me to see the city,” I told the driver as I got into his Mercedes taxi. “Let’s start with Golestan Palace.” He started the engine and we left the hotel.
I looked at the guidebook. “During the reign of the Safavid Shah Abbas the First, a vast garden called Chahar Bagh (Four Gardens), a governmental residence, and a Chenarestan (a grove) were created on the present site of the Golestan Palace and its surroundings,” it read. I looked through the cab’s side mirror to see if we had company. Not a big surprise. There was a car just behind us at all times, with two men. Why were they so close? It seemed too obvious, rather unprofessional. Maybe they wanted me to know I was being watched. But why? Obviously, they didn’t know who I was, because if they’d had just a shred of suspicion, I would have been in prison with mice and cockroaches as my cellmates. I continued to play along, taking several pictures of the palace with my camera.
“Please take me to the bazaar-I’ve heard so much about it.” Situated in the heart of southern Tehran, built under a roof, the bazaar is a city within the city, at once beautiful and chaotic. When the Shah razed old but precious traditional buildings during the oil boom in the seventies and replaced them with ugly high-rise buildings, the bazaar had been spared.
After getting dropped off, I walked slowly, mindful of the crowds and the slippery pavement. There were unwritten traffic rules, I noticed: people kept to the right to avoid porters of merchandise, who sped through the crowd. I was overwhelmed by the different faces I saw. Iranians and Arabs, Mongols and Azeri, a very colorful and exciting mix of colors, smells, and cultures.
There were two types of people in the bazaar: oglers and hagglers. I crossed the definition line and bought a few pieces of bric-a-brac, and bargained on the prices like a typical tourist, using sign language or the little English a few merchants knew.
“These things are from Abadan,” said one merchant. “My family came from there. Believe me, they’re special.”
A well-built young man in jeans and sunglasses stood next to me watching me haggle with the shop keep er. Not wanting to lose another customer, the merchant interrupted our conversation and asked the man something in Farsi, and he responded in two or three words. I picked up one word, but that was enough. “Adadish,” he said-police.
I took a deep breath, turned my back to the young man, showed particular interest in a backgammon set, and left the store. From the corner of my eye I could see him following me. I was still just an innocent tourist returning to his hotel.
Erikka was standing near the reception desk in the lobby. “Good timing,” she said. “I’m expecting a classmate. Want to join us?”
As a well-dressed man walked into the lobby, Erikka whispered, “Here he is. Farshad Shahab!” she exclaimed and ran toward him with her arms stretched to embrace him.
Visibly uncomfortable, the man stepped back. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s not allowed in public.”
“I’m sorry,” said Erikka. “It’s just that I’m so glad to see you.” I was uneasy. How could she be so heedless?
“Same here,” he said. “But things have changed.”
“Farshad,” said Erikka. “I want you to meet Ian Pour Laval. Ian is an author who is currently writing a novel on a romance between an Iranian Muslim man and an Austrian Catholic woman. I’m helping him with his cultural research.” We sat in the lobby and ordered cherry juice. Erikka excused herself and went to the ladies’ room.
“Difficult subject,” said Farshad, looking at me with interest. “Why?” I asked.
“Because of the cultural gap and the religious clash. Where does the romance take place?” he asked.
“In Tehran,” I answered.
“That makes it particularly complex,” he said. “The love must be very strong and the couple very per sis tent for the relationship to survive.”
“The Iranian society, as a whole, will not accept a European woman marrying an Iranian man?”
“Many will accept, to an extent,” he said. “But the price for the woman will be high. She’ll have to convert and adopt all tenets of our religion and culture. That means she’ll have to give up her past and become a Muslim woman, not only by adopting our traditions and religion, but also in the way she conducts herself and raises her children. She’ll have to forego many of her values, her culture, and-most of all-her beliefs on women’s place in the society.”
“Will there ever be a change?” I asked. “I mean, will Iranian women ever be treated as we treat women in Canada…equally?”
He shook his head. “The Muslim Revolution gave us pride, but it also took us back in time, as far as human rights and women’s rights are concerned. Religions don’t change.”
That was a bold statement, I thought. The little devil in me took notice. “Back in time?”
“Yes. I’m not criticizing it, of course. The so-called ‘modernity’ that the Shah and his corrupt followers brought exposed the Iranian society to Western-style ‘values,’ but the Iranian people much prefer the old style.” He uttered the word values with visible disgust. I sensed it was an overkill gesture, as if he knew somebody was watching.
Erikka returned, and she and Farshad commenced with their conversation reminiscing about old times. I didn’t want to interrupt. I excused myself and returned to my room.
An hour later I went back to the lobby. Farshad and Erikka were still chatting.
“Ian,” said Erikka. “Farshad just started telling me about what it was like to be here during the Islamic Revolution. Why don’t you come listen? Could be interesting background for your book.”
With a serious face Farshad said, “Please don’t mention you’ve met me, and don’t use my name in your book.”
The request was odd, given that they had been chatting publicly in a hotel lobby for more than an hour. I was sure the Iranian security services already knew about his contact with foreigners.
“Of course, you have my word,” I said. “I just need background information to understand the political and social atmosphere at the time. My novel starts about a year after the revolution.”
Farshad relented. “It was exciting and frightening at the same time,” he said. “As a young Iranian I was proud that there was a popular uprising hoping to topple the crooked regime of the Shah, but as a moderate Muslim I was concerned at hatred I saw in the extremists. Instead of promoting a political change, which most Iranians supported, the mullahs took over, and instituted a theocracy intolerant of any other opinion.”
I registered surprise, in my suspicious mind, to hear that. “Where were you when the unrest began?” asked Erikka. “That whole period is so blurred in my memory, but I remember well the beginning. It was on ‘Black Friday,’ September 8, 1978. I was a senior at our high school and had plans to go to the U.S. for college.”
“Yes, I think you told me about that plan at the time,” said Erikka.
“I was in my room at home and heard noises-gunfire and shouting. My parents didn’t allow me to leave the house; I was under a family-imposed curfew. So I climbed to our rooftop and saw flames. Parts of southern Tehran were on fire. The student-led revolution against the Shah had begun, but I didn’t know it then. The Shah had declared martial law, and a citywide curfew was enforced by armed soldiers. Just to make sure he’d maintain control, the Shah also turned off the power every evening to the entire city of Tehran. That made the nights very quiet, except for bursts of gunfire.”