“How do I contact you? I mean in case of emergency?” “For one, we’ll see any emergency and will come to your help. But if we lose contact for any reason, call this number and say that you’d like to purchase Kashan carpets.” He handed me a piece of paper.
“Who gave me that number, in case someone asks?”
“An Iranian you met on the plane coming here. You don’t know his name.”
“Do I identify myself on the phone?”
“No.”
“What about Erikka?”
“We aren’t following or protecting her, unless she’s with you.” He opened the car’s trunk, and I saw three rolled carpets. “I’ll show you these carpets now. Look as if you’re interested.”
“I thought you said I’m not being watched.”
“Just in case.” He pulled the carpets out and laid them on the pavement.
The carpets were magnificent. For a moment I even entertained the idea of actually purchasing them. Bad timing for shopping, I told myself. I stood there for a few more minutes admiring their beauty.
“Kashan is a city in north-central Iran that was producing Persian carpets at royal workshops at least since the seventeenth century,” he said. “But the best Kashans come from Ardistan. These carpets came from Yazd, but they’re almost as good.” He rolled up the carpets and put them back in the trunk. He shook my hand and drove away.
In the afternoon, I got hold of Erikka in the lobby.
“I have two cancellations,” she said. “They postponed our meetings until tomorrow.”
“In that case, I’ve got an idea,” I said. Why don’t we visit the family of Reza Nazeri? They’ll probably hear about the reunion you’ve got coming up, and it might hurt them to be left out. The right thing to do is pay them a personal visit.”
“You mean right now?” asked Erikka.
“Yes, why not? We have time. I’m sure they and the rest of the alumni will appreciate the gesture.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You know, I’d love to see his mom again. She was always so kind to me.”
“Visiting an Iranian family at home will be a good experience for me-it’d help me understand a lot for my book,” I added.
“I still remember where he lived, after all these years. It was on Darband Street, in northern Tehran,” said Erikka. She called information for the telephone number. It was unlisted. “Do you want to take the chance they’re still living at the same address?” she asked hesitantly.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “Cab?”
It took us through Imam Khomeini Boulevard, past the National Archaeological Museum of Iran, and arrived at a pleasant residential area. Erikka buzzed the intercom and a woman answered. Erikka said something in Farsi, and after a pause, the door opened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Inside the spacious, well-appointed apartment, Mrs. Nazeri stood alongside her maid. She appeared to be nearly seventy, and was clad in a black dress without a head covering. Her eyes were puffy and lined. When she saw Erikka they both burst into tears and embraced, murmuring in Farsi.
After a moment, they seemed to remember I was there, and stepped apart politely.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Mrs. Nazeri, in English. Erikka smiled. “I forgot how good your English was.” “You haven’t changed a bit,” Mrs. Nazeri told Erikka. Erikka smiled again. “I’m not that young anymore. My daughter is already nineteen years old.”
“You’re lucky,” said Mrs. Nazeri.
They continued talking, shifting from Farsi to English and back, until the maid brought a tray with silverware, a teapot, and delicious-looking cookies sprinkled with white powdered sugar.
Many long minutes later, during which they talked in both languages about personal things, Erikka said, “As I was saying, I’m using a professional visit to Iran to help Mr. Pour Laval in his book research, to organize a school reunion.”
“It’s a nice idea,” said Mrs. Nazeri, turning to me.
“I only heard yesterday about Reza,” said Erikka delicately. “I wanted to come and see how you were, and to offer my condolences.”
“That’s so kind of you.”
“Perhaps you’d like to include some information about Reza in the brochure they’ll be making,” I suggested. “They have a Swiss bank sponsoring the event, and one of the ideas is to collect pictures of alumni taken during their school years, include a short resume, and publish it in a bound format, like a yearbook. It might be a good opportunity to commemorate the memory of Reza.”
Erikka looked at me, surprised. I had again broken the rule of not leading the direction in the alumni matter, but I just couldn’t resist that opportunity.
“I’d love that,” said Mrs. Nazeri. “Let me see, just one moment…” She went to the other room and returned carrying two photo albums. “It’s all here. I’ve been left only with memories.”
I leafed through the pages of the albums and saw Reza, a skinny, light-complexioned young man, at family events, smiling and happy.
“What happened to him?” asked Erikka in a soft voice.
“Last month he was killed in an accident in New York.”
“Did he live in America?” asked Erikka.
“He left Iran soon after the revolution. He said he was hired by a company to do business in Switzerland and America. I didn’t understand much of it.”
“It’s so sad. Careless drivers are everywhere,” I said.
She looked at me with sad dark eyes. “It wasn’t a car accident. Some crazy person pushed him off the subway platform while Reza was waiting for the train.”
There was a shocked silence. “How awful,” I said after a moment. “Did they catch the lunatic?”
“No, he escaped.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Was Reza married?” asked Erikka.
“No. He told me it was difficult having a family with his lifestyle.”
“You mean traveling a lot?”
“Yes, between Switzerland and the U.S., but he used to come to visit me every few months.” She looked at me. “He was my only son. His father died when Reza was just a young child. Now I have nothing.”
Erikka wiped a tear away.
“Take any photos that you like, but please return them, as I have no copies,” Mrs. Nazeri said.
Erikka began poring over the photos. I suggested that she take photos depicting Reza when he was in his twenties and thirties.
“This is how I’d think people will remember him,” I said. When I saw a picture that looked recent, I added, “And show his friends who haven’t seen him in many years how he looked just before he died.”
“Mr. Pour Laval…” said Mrs. Nazeri hesitantly. “I need some help in the United States; perhaps you can help me. It is very difficult for us to get information from the United States. Because of the animosity between the countries, communications are slow and unreliable. Here they open many letters sent from foreign countries, and it delays delivery for days or even weeks.”
“Well, I’m Canadian, but I visit New York frequently, and I’ll be happy to help you.”
“I need a lawyer in New York to handle Reza’s estate. Can you recommend a good one?”
This was a golden opportunity I wasn’t going to miss. This was my entry card into Reza’s life and activities in the U.S.
“Of course-you mean a wills-and-estates lawyer? I know a very good one who doesn’t charge a lot.”
“Can I trust him?”
“I do,” I said. “He handles all my American friends’ estate matters. I know he’s very reliable. I intend to be in New York soon and can call him.”
“In that case, let me give you some information the lawyer may need.” She opened a black leather folder with documents. “Reza lived at 45 East 78th Street in Manhattan. He owned the apartment. He had at least one bank account that I know about in Chase Bank, but there could be others. Apart from that, I know very little about his business affairs.”
“Did he leave a will?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I hardly think so. He didn’t expect to die so soon, and other than me he had no family.”