“It is sometimes embarrassing to me to bring people up here, but the views are spectacular,” Rashidi said. “I must say, I grew up quite poor. I never imagined anything like this as a child, and I certainly don’t need it now. But Iran Telecom wants me to use it for entertaining clients, and who am I to say no?”
He laughed and snapped his fingers. A servant, a man probably about Rashidi’s age, smartly dressed but without a tuxedo, stepped out from the kitchen.
“Drinks,” the CEO said, “and some snacks.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said.
Rashidi sat down in an ornate, upholstered chair, evocative of a throne one of the shahs might have used in ancient times. Then he turned to David, who settled on the couch beside Esfahani.
“First of all, Reza, allow me to apologize for Abdol,” he began. “He is a dear friend and trusted advisor. But he is not always as diplomatic, perhaps, as a senior executive at Iran Telecom should be.”
David glanced at Esfahani, who was staring out at the Tehran skyline, stoic and unrepentant.
“I wanted you to hear it directly from me,” Rashidi continued. “I am grateful for your professional conduct through this whole matter. Personally, I would not have asked Ms. Fischer to leave the country. We are a free nation. We have great respect for all people, regardless of their race or gender or station in life. We don’t want to frighten off those who have come to genuinely help us. That is not our standard operating procedure and certainly not my heart. But I respect your decision and hope all this hasn’t dampened your desire to work with us.”
“Not at all, Mr. Rashidi,” David replied. “Ms. Fischer is very able. She is an asset to our company. But I believe she will be much more useful to MDS and Iran Telecom back in Dubai and Munich than here. We should have realized it sooner. Please forgive us.”
“All is forgiven,” Rashidi said, looking pleased. “Let us not think of it again. We have far more important matters to discuss.”
David breathed a sigh of relief and couldn’t wait to let Zalinsky know they were back in the game.
The servant stepped back into the room, pushing a cart carrying all kinds of treats, including a large ceramic bowl filled with a variety of fresh bananas, oranges, apples, strawberries, and blackberries, which he set on the large glass coffee table in front of them. He also set out a dish of small cucumbers and a saltshaker beside it, along with small dishes of pistachios, cashews, and walnuts. Then he retrieved a variety of freshly squeezed juices and steaming pots of tea and coffee from a small counter.
David immediately felt at home. His parents had held countless dinner parties over the years that had begun precisely the same way. In the summer, he would have expected sweet cherry juice, as well as grape, cantaloupe, sweetened blackberry, and watermelon. Given that it was only February, however, the options were a bit more limited.
“Apple, orange, or pomegranate, sir?” the servant asked.
Rashidi chose apple, as did Esfahani. David wondered if the protocol was to follow the boss’s lead, but he took a risk and asked for pomegranate juice. He hadn’t had any in years, and it brought back memories of his childhood.
“Three times more antioxidants than red wine,” David said with a smile as a glass was poured for him.
A glance between Rashidi and Esfahani made David immediately realize his faux pas.
“Which is good,” he quickly added, “since I don’t drink wine.”
“Good for you,” Rashidi said, visibly relieved. “You strike me as a very pious, earnest young man. Were your parents devout Shias?”
And so began the interrogation. It didn’t feel harsh. To the contrary, David found both men-but Rashidi in particular-more warm and engaging than he had expected. But it was clear that they wanted to know everything about him. It was a social ritual, to be sure, a rite of passage. It was also another test that David was determined to pass. Helping himself to a handful of pistachios, he launched into his cover story, suddenly grateful for all the time he’d had to practice over the past few days.
He told the story of growing up in Alberta, Canada, as his father worked in the oil sands industry and his mother begged him to take them back to Iran. His eyes grew moist as he shared how his parents died when their Cessna stalled out and crashed just outside of Victoria, British Columbia, when he was only seventeen, and how a policeman had come to his high school to tell him the news. It was, he realized, the first time he had actually spoken the cover story out loud, and he was struck by how much his pain over his mother’s cancer now helped him tap the emotions he needed to make his lies sound real.
Both men offered their condolences for David’s loss.
“It was a long time ago,” he replied, using a napkin from the coffee table as a tissue to wipe his eyes.
“It obviously still affects you a great deal,” Rashidi said with a tenderness David would not have expected. “I lost my parents when I was very young as well. It was a boating accident. I was only seven, but I know what you’re going through.”
David nodded with identification.
Esfahani then asked if he had any siblings. David looked down and said no. He was the “miracle” child in the family, he explained, the only one born after several miscarriages and multiple fertility treatments. When Rashidi asked why he went to college in Germany, David explained that he had never felt comfortable in Canada, that it was too influenced by the immorality and godlessness of the Americans. “What I really wanted to do was come to Iran.”
“Why didn’t you?” Rashidi asked.
“I didn’t know anyone,” David said. “All my grandparents passed away before I was born. And I was offered a scholarship to a school in Germany.”
“Your family, they were all from Tabriz?” Esfahani inquired.
“Yes,” David confirmed, “but I had never been here before. I had no money. It just seemed like first I ought to get some schooling, develop some skills, and make a little money. Then I hoped I could find a way to come back here and reconnect with the land of my fathers and see if there was something I could do to… you know, to help.”
Rashidi looked at Esfahani and then back at David. “I hope I’m not the first to say it, but welcome home, young man.”
“Actually, Mr. Rashidi, you are, and thank you,” David said. “I can’t explain what a joy it is to finally be here and what heartache it has been for me for the past few days to think that rather than being a blessing to you and your great company and this great country, somehow I might have brought dishonor.”
“No, no,” Rashidi said. “No more of that. It was a simple mistake, and it is all behind us now. We must move forward.”
“Thank you, sir,” David said. “I would like that very much.”
Before long, David’s mouth was beginning to water as the aromas of all kinds of dishes began emanating from the kitchen. Fortunately, within a few minutes, it was announced that dinner would be served. Rashidi guided David around the corner to a beautifully appointed dining room with a large table set for three with fine china and pressed linens. To one side of the room there was another table perhaps three or four meters long, covered with a variety of dishes, far more than they could possibly eat in one night. There was an entire roasted lamb on a silver tray in the center of the table, surrounded by pots of all kinds of stews-pomegranate, eggplant, herb, okra, and celery-and a fava bean rice dish with sheep shank.
But best of all, and much to David’s surprise, there was a large bowl of Shirin Polo, one of his favorites and his mother’s specialty. It was a beautiful, colorful dish of steaming basmati rice adorned with sweetened and slivered carrots, almonds, pistachios, orange rind, and saffron. David couldn’t wait to dive in.