“I remember that,” said Erikka. “I was so frightened.”
“The uprising was spreading,” continued Farshad. “Other citizens joined the students. Most people were staying home and obeying the curfew. But many others climbed on their rooftops chanting and praying. Angry soldiers loyal to the Shah interpreted that as defiance and were shooting anyone seen on the roofs. I heard people chanting ‘Allaahu Akbar’ -‘God is Great.’ Those incidents spread from southern Tehran, which is heavily populated by poor people, to the northern parts, where the rich and powerful live. My father was an ethnic Iranian, but he was fearful for our safety, because my mother is Italian. So two weeks later he sent me with my mother to Rome to stay with my maternal grandparents.”
“That means you weren’t here when the revolution toppled the Shah?” I asked.
“I returned to Tehran six months later when his regime was already doomed.”
“From what I know, the hatred was directed against the U.S.” I said.
Farshad nodded. “But those who captured the U.S. Embassy weren’t the real fanatics.”
You can say that again, I thought. Even he doesn’t believe it. I saw their hatred on TV. If that mob wasn’t fanatic, then I’d like to see who are fanatics, in his opinion.
“They were protesting against the U.S. for agreeing to let the Shah undergo cancer treatment in the U.S.”
“What happened to your plans to go to college in the U.S.? Did they ever materialize?”
“Yes, I was lucky. I went to the University of Nebraska in Lincoln.”
I smiled. “Not too many people like to leave that beautiful state, unless they have to. But you returned to Iran.”
I regretted that statement immediately. It was too sarcastic. But he didn’t seem to mind.
“I agree,” he said. “It was difficult, but my family needed me here, so after spending just two more years in Nebraska after my graduation, I returned home.”
“Was it hard? I mean shifting from the Western-style society in Nebraska to a different culture in Iran?” I chose my words carefully to make them as benign as possible.
“Only for a short period. After all, I’m Iranian, and I was returning home.”
“Farshad is a mechanical engineer and works for an oil company,” said Erikka, looking at me. Turning her head toward him, she added, “You’ll prepare the list for me, won’t you?”
“Sure,” he said. “But I know only a handful of graduates who are in Iran. Many who were brought up in a school such as ours couldn’t cope with the changing atmosphere in Iran and left.”
“Where to?” I was really curious.
“Some went to the Gulf States, some to India and Pakistan, and some went to the U.S.” A boxing-ring bell rang in my head. However, I decided not to press the issue at this time. In that kind of subtle questioning, less is more. I hoped that Erikka wouldn’t pose the follow-up question, Who went to the U.S.?
“Who is sponsoring the reunion?” he asked. “Seems that you’re spending money on that project.”
“A Swiss bank,” said Erikka. “They want to be able to sell their services to the alumni and their businesses, and besides, the expenses are really low so far. My trip here was paid for by Ian’s publisher.”
There was a moment of silence, and then he said in a friendly tone of voice, “I’ve always wanted to visit Canada, but never managed to do it, although I lived in Nebraska. Where did you grow up?”
I had my script meticulously rehearsed, so I was able to answer the questions that followed without missing a beat. Still, I had the feeling that I wasn’t being questioned, but rather subtly interrogated. I was becoming even more suspicious. Why was he so openly critical of the regime, daring to talk about it with a complete stranger in public? Hoping to provoke me to jump on the bandwagon and say something negative? And those questions about my background…I would have to remember his name.
I excused myself again to go to my room. I’d be wiser when I saw the list he promised. When I crossed the lobby on my way to the elevator I had that funny feeling that I was being watched. I entered the gift shop and walked around, pretending to look at the merchandise. There was no mistake; a man was standing outside the store looking at me, making no effort to disguise his interest. I had to react contrary to my training, which said, Dry-clean him. But if I did that, I’d expose myself as a trained intelligence officer, rather than remaining Ian Pour Laval, a bona fide author. So I continued with the normal behavior expected of a tourist. I bought a local English-language newspaper and went up to my room.
It was clear that if a follower had been assigned to monitor my movements, there could also be electronic devices planted in my room. The author wouldn’t care less, but the intelligence expert under my skin was on the alert. However, with no countermeasures to discover any hidden microphones or cameras, and with no suspicious activity or material to conceal, I crawled into bed, acting out the “I couldn’t care less” attitude. Good thing they couldn’t read my mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next day, we had to run errands. First, a visit to the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance to see if the note I received at the Iranian Embassy in Vienna was sufficient to conduct book interviews in Iran. They told me that legally, if I wanted to travel outside Tehran or visit any university or museum, among other sites, I first had to obtain a permit. I had to undergo a one-hour interview by a stern-looking bureaucrat about the content of my book, and supply a list of people I wanted to interview.
“We will let you know,” he said at the end.
Next, I suggested that Erikka help me trace my roots in Iran. We went to the Civil Registration Department, which manages Iran’s data related to births, deaths, marriages, and divorces.
“You’d have to be more specific,” the skinny and short clerk behind the counter said with Erikka translating. “‘Pour’ is a very common Iranian name, and if your grandfather left Iran in the 1920s, I don’t believe we can help you, unless you remember names of other family members.”
I rolled up my eyes, pretending that I was trying to remember. I thought about using the information I memorized from the brief “family tree” with which the Agency had equipped me, but I thought I should first try showing him that I was un-prepared, as not to arouse suspicion.
“I remember my mother telling me, from stories she heard from my father, that my grandfather was a shoemaker in southern Tehran. Will that help?”
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t record professions. Do you know any cousins on your father’s side?”
“I only heard of one cousin, who went to France. I think his name was Javad Yaghmaie,” I ventured, hoping my earlier research was accurate.
“Now, that’s a beginning,” said the clerk, who turned out to be a fairly friendly fellow. “I’ll try to find this person. Do you know how old he should be now?”
I hesitated. “I know he was related to my father somehow, but I’m not sure how. Can we search his name first?”
The clerk went through a side door to the archive. Ten minutes later he returned holding a dusty carton file. “I may have found something,” he said joyfully. He opened the file. “This is the file of Javad Yaghmaie.” He leafed through the thin file and said, “Javad Yaghmaie was born on 16 Azar 1309 in Neyshabur, in northeastern Iran.”
“It’s not far from Mashhad, the second largest city in the country,” volunteered Erikka.
I gave the clerk a puzzled look. “1309?”
“That’s December 7, 1930,” he said. “His father was Ibrahim, and his mother Fatima. That’s all we have.”
I wrote down the information, thanked him and left. Now, I’d at least satisfied the initial appearance of a person genuinely seeking his roots.
“We may have to go there,” I told Erikka.
“I’d like that,” she said. I made a half turn, and from the corner of my eye I could see my shadow staring at me. I said nothing to Erikka.