For six days, Martin had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to Omar, but there was always someone else around. Worse, he still didn’t know what he’d say. Sometimes his worries turned to white-hot panic, as if Omar might be scheming to induct his son into a cult of murderous Aryan supremacists, an Iranian Ku Klux Klan. Sometimes the whole thing shrank into insignificance, as if it were just a neurotic tic, a laughable fastidiousness over language.
Lying in the dark, watching the photos cycling beside Javeed’s bed, Martin wasn’t even sure how much of his fear was about his son’s future and how much was about his own death. He had seen his parents die, peacefully, and the world had not come to an end. He had witnessed the violent deaths of dozens of strangers, and the world had not come to an end. The only thing that could be done for the dead was to protect and care for the survivors. But would he have been so blind, for so long, to the impossible trade-offs that the Proxy had entailed if he’d been thinking only of Javeed? He had not merely wanted Javeed riding through Zendegi with a trusted companion to watch his back and offer good advice; he had wanted to be that companion. Even with his thoughts dissolving into fog each time they parted, it would have been a kind of survival.
Martin heard someone walking through the house; he recognised Omar’s throat-clearing cough. He climbed out of bed and opened the door; he could see light spilling into the living room from the bathroom. He walked to the kitchen in the dark, filled a glass with water and stood drinking.
The toilet flushed and Omar emerged, sending a shaft of light through the adjoining rooms. Martin didn’t turn but the light stayed on and he heard Omar’s footsteps approaching.
‘Martin jan, are you all right?’ Omar whispered.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you need anything?’
Martin shook his head. ‘I can’t sleep, that’s all.’
Omar hesitated, perhaps wondering if he should press his guest to be more forthcoming. Then he said, ‘Wait.’
He walked back to the bathroom and turned out the light, then he switched on a small lamp in the living room. He approached Martin again. ‘Come and sit here. We can talk for a while.’
Omar ushered Martin into Mohsen’s armchair, then sat on the couch beside it. He was wearing an Iranian national football team jersey and tracksuit pants. Behind him on the wall was a painting of Imam Ali; a yellow light shone through the clouds around the Imam’s green turban while chains of flowers and ornate calligraphy filled the bottom of the frame in the foreground.
‘You’re worried about the operation?’ Omar asked.
‘Just a bit.’
Omar tssked. ‘Everyone is praying for you. It will be all right.’
‘The surgeon’s good, but the patient’s not so great.’
Omar reached over and squeezed Martin’s forearm. ‘Come on, don’t talk like that.’
Martin said, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘I don’t want to bring back bad memories…’
Omar frowned, but he was puzzled, not warning him off. ‘It’s okay, you can talk about anything.’
‘When you were in Evin,’ Martin began, pausing to look for some sign that he was overstepping the mark, ‘why didn’t you tell them about me?’
Omar looked confused; he rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. ‘Tell who what?’
‘When you were being questioned,’ Martin persisted, ‘why didn’t you give VEVAK my name? Nothing too bad would have happened to me; I would have just been deported in the end. It might have made it easier for you, if you’d given them something.’
Omar stared at him blankly for a second. Then he laughed softly, mindful of the house full of sleeping people. ‘You mean, about the hospital? Why didn’t I tell them that the only way I got that faggot out of the hospital was because some crazy foreign journalist gave me his clothes?’ He looked down, shaking his head with mirth. ‘Do you think they would have believed that? They would have been sure that I was lying, and they would have beaten me even harder.’ He leant back on the couch, one hand over his mouth, trying to control himself. ‘It’s lucky they didn’t arrest you. If you’d tried to tell them the truth about standing in the cupboard in ladies’ clothes, they would have beaten you black and blue.’
Martin grinned back at him as if he shared the joke. The truth was, he felt a mixture of relief and humiliation. He was glad that Omar hadn’t actually suffered needlessly to protect him, but he felt like a fool for holding the wrong idea for so long.
Omar seemed to sense his discomfort; he became serious. ‘I’m not laughing at you, Martin; you did a good thing. But don’t blame yourself for anything that happened to me in Evin.’
Martin said, ‘Okay.’
‘I wish I had a photo, though,’ Omar said. ‘When I sent my friend to give you the clothes, I should have told him to take a picture first.’
They sat talking for almost an hour. Martin kept waiting for the meandering current of the conversation to take him to the right place, but Omar’s eyelids were starting to droop. Martin felt the tightness in his chest growing; if he missed this chance he might never have another one.
He said, ‘Javeed’s got a new friend at school, an Afghani boy. You don’t mind if he invites him over to the house?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Are you sure?’ Martin pressed him. ‘It’s just that I’ve heard you say some things about Afghanis-’
Omar stiffened. ‘My problem is with the criminals. Any friend of Javeed is welcome here.’
Martin said, ‘So how do you know which Afghanis are criminals?’
Omar regarded him with an expression of mild irritation. ‘They’re the ones who are stealing things and murdering people.’
‘So thieves and murderers are the problem, not Afghanis?’
‘They’re wild people,’ Omar insisted. ‘And this isn’t their country. So what do you expect?’
Martin said, ‘Is Iran my country?’
Omar recoiled. ‘You’re an honoured guest! You didn’t abuse our hospitality.’
‘Nor did Javeed’s friend, or the boy’s family.’
‘And I told you: Javeed’s friend is welcome in my house, as often as he likes.’ Omar glared at him, wounded.
Martin said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
Omar’s expression softened. ‘It’s nothing. We’re both tired, and you’re worried about tomorrow. You should get some sleep.’
‘Yeah.’
Back in the guest room, Martin lay cursing himself, running through the conversation in his head, trying to imagine how he could have put things more tactfully. But he’d lost his chance; there was nothing he could say now. If he raised the subject with Omar again it would already be too tainted with a sense of grievance.
Javeed had permission to take a day off school. Martin woke him at five o’clock, an hour before they needed to leave.
‘Why are you cooking breakfast?’ Javeed asked sleepily.
‘You don’t like pancakes?’ Martin spread his arms around the stove possessively. ‘I can eat them all if you don’t want any.’
‘No!’
Omar joined them. He kept Javeed distracted, swiping food and messing around with condiments so Javeed didn’t notice that Martin wasn’t actually eating anything.
The rest of the family rose just before six. Martin still felt like an interloper around Mohsen and Nahid, but they both offered a few gruff words of encouragement. Rana shook his hand, Farshid embraced him briefly, everyone mindful of not making a big scene in front of Javeed.