"Thank G.o.d I have all my teeth! Anyway, we were pa.s.sing our time in this fashion, until suddenly I got a brilliant idea: I started to walk faster, catching them all by surprise. As they tried to adjust to my pace, I came to a sudden halt, forcing them to almost collide into us. He was genuinely startled but tried to hide it by adjusting to my pace. I made some futile attempts to catch his eyes. Here's what I was thinking: if he gets it and laughs, I'll give it a chance. If he doesn't, that's it-I won't waste my time. I knew every every one of my uncles would have immediately joined me in the game." After this, she fell silent. one of my uncles would have immediately joined me in the game." After this, she fell silent.

Well, what happened? "Oh," she said as if she'd woken from a trance, "nothing." Nothing? "No, the idiot didn't even ask me why I was suddenly walking faster. Out of politeness, he just tried to fall into step with me. After a while I got tired of it and then we said good-bye and I didn't respond to their inquiries until they stopped asking. I'm sure he's by now happily married to a girl with less flesh on her," she said, looking at us merrily. She always loved telling a good story, even when she herself was the b.u.t.t of the joke.

It had been an exhausting week for Ya.s.si, what with this new suitor and her uncle's departure for the States. Every time her uncle visited Iran-and it was not often-he provoked doubts and questions in Ya.s.si, who would be plagued for weeks with vague and uneasy longings that made her yearn, without exactly knowing what for. She knew now that she must go to America, as she had known when she was twelve that she must play the forbidden musical instrument. Her playing of the instrument, her insistence on going to university in Tehran, her choosing to come to this cla.s.s-all were preparations that led her towards her final goal: to be physically where her uncles were and to get a taste of the tantalizing fruit that had always dangled over the lives of her mother and aunts, beckoning and just out of reach. They, the women, had lacked nothing in intelligence and intellect, but they had lacked freedom. Ya.s.si had no choice but to want to be like her uncles-not necessarily like them, but to be possessed of what seemed to her their inalienable rights.

I didn't want her to be married. I wanted her to go through the whole ordeal and conquer the obstacles. The odds were overwhelmingly against her, from family opposition-it was unprecedented for a girl to go abroad to study-to enormous financial difficulties. Then there was the problem of getting accepted to an American college and obtaining a visa. I wanted her to succeed not only for herself but also for the rest of us. I always had a hankering for the security of impossible dreams.

This was a day for gentleman callers; Sanaz, too, was full of stories. After the failure of her engagement, Sanaz went on a spree, going on dates with different suitors and giving us meticulous accounts of the American-educated engineer with a green card-a status symbol-who had picked her out in a family photograph and, on arrival in Tehran, had sought her out and invited her to a Swiss restaurant; the rich merchant who loved the thought of an educated, attractive wife and wanted to buy a whole library for her so that she wouldn't leave home, and so on. These outings were a matter of binge and purge for Sanaz.

"Learn from us," said Azin. "Why do you need to be married?" The flirtatious note had briefly returned to her voice. "Don't take these people seriously-just go out with them to have fun."

My lawyer friend was having a great deal of difficulty in trying to help Azin. At first Azin had been adamant about wanting a divorce. Ten days later she had come to the lawyer's office with her husband, mother-in-law and sisters-in-law. She thought reconciliation was possible. Soon after that, she barged in without an appointment; she was all bruised, claimed that he had beaten her again and taken their little girl to his mother's house. Then at night he had knelt by her bedside, weeping and pleading with her not to leave him. When I mentioned this to Azin, she broke into tears again, saying that he would take the child away from her if she went through with the divorce. That girl was her whole life, and you know the courts, child custody always went to the father. She knew the only reason he wanted the child was to hurt her. He would never care for her; most probably he'd send her to his mother's. Azin had applied for a visa to Canada, but even if her application was accepted, she couldn't leave the country without her husband's permission. Only if I take my own life can I act without my husband's permission, she said, desperately and dramatically.

Manna agreed with Azin, but it was difficult for her to admit it. "If I were you, I'd get out of this country while I can" had been her advice to Sanaz. "Don't stay here and don't marry anyone who'll have to stay here. You'll only rot."

Mahshid looked at her reproachfully. "This is your country," she said, pursing her lips. "There's a lot you can do."

"There's nothing you can do-nothing," said Manna with a firm finality.

"You can write and you can teach," said Mahshid, throwing a pa.s.sing glance at me. "We need good critics. We need good teachers."

"Yes," said Manna, "like Professor Nafisi. Work your head off for so many years, and then what? The other day Nima was saying he would be making more money if he'd become a street vendor instead of spending all those years getting an M.A. in English lit."

"If everybody leaves," said Mahshid, her eyes glued to the floor, "who will help make something of this country? How can we be so irresponsible?"

This was a question I asked myself day and night. We can't all leave this country, Bijan had told me-this is our home. The world is a large place, my magician had said when I went to him with my woes. You can write and teach wherever you are. You will be read more and heard better, in fact, once you are over there. To go or not to go? In the long run, it's all very personal, my magician reasoned. I always admired your former colleague's honesty, he said. Which former colleague? Dr. A, the one who said his only reason for leaving was because he liked to drink beer freely. I am getting sick of people who cloak their personal flaws and desires in the guise of patriotic fervor. They stay because they have no means of living anywhere else, because if they leave, they won't be the big shots they are over here; but they talk about sacrifice for the homeland. And then those who do leave claim they've gone in order to criticize and expose the regime. Why all these justifications? is our home. The world is a large place, my magician had said when I went to him with my woes. You can write and teach wherever you are. You will be read more and heard better, in fact, once you are over there. To go or not to go? In the long run, it's all very personal, my magician reasoned. I always admired your former colleague's honesty, he said. Which former colleague? Dr. A, the one who said his only reason for leaving was because he liked to drink beer freely. I am getting sick of people who cloak their personal flaws and desires in the guise of patriotic fervor. They stay because they have no means of living anywhere else, because if they leave, they won't be the big shots they are over here; but they talk about sacrifice for the homeland. And then those who do leave claim they've gone in order to criticize and expose the regime. Why all these justifications?

He had a point, but things were not that simple: I knew Bijan wanted to stay not because he couldn't find a job or a place in the States-most of his immediate family was there, and he himself had lived there more years than in Iran. I want to stay because I love this country, he told me. We should stay as a form of resistance, to show that we are not out-maneuvered. Our very presence is a thorn in their side. Where else in the world, he asked me, would a talk on Madame Bovary Madame Bovary draw such crowds and nearly lead to a riot? We can't give up and leave; we are needed here. I love this country, he repeated. Did I not love this country? I asked myself. draw such crowds and nearly lead to a riot? We can't give up and leave; we are needed here. I love this country, he repeated. Did I not love this country? I asked myself.

Bijan agrees with you, I told Mahshid. He is more rooted to the idea of home. He created this home, literally building our apartment and our place in the mountains, and established routines like watching the BBC and cooking barbecues for friends. It's much harder to dismantle that world and to rebuild it somewhere else. I guess the point is we all have to make our own choices according to our potentials and limitations, I said, and as I was saying it, I knew how superficial my words must have sounded to them.

"I have the best excuse for going to America," said a cheeky Ya.s.si. "It's because I am so plump. Fat girls, I'm told, have a much better time over there. They say Americans like them with a little meat on their bones."

"It depends on the girl," Mitra offered with a slight jab at Ya.s.si. Mitra, of course, would have no problem anywhere on earth, with her dimples and large brown eyes. She and Hamid had decided to head to Syria for a week to interview for Canadian residency-Canada did not accept immigrant visa applications in Iran. Although she still vacillated between leaving and staying.

"Over here we have an ident.i.ty," she said doubtfully. "We can make something of our lives. Over there, life is unknown."

"The ordeal of freedom," Na.s.srin said elliptically, echoing my favorite line from Bellow.

Only Mahshid was silent. She, I knew, was more confident than the rest about what she wanted. She didn't want to marry. Despite all her traditional beliefs and moral imperatives, Mahshid was less of a marrying type than Sanaz. She disapproved of the regime, but her problems were more practical than existential. Long disappointed about the prospects of marrying her ideal man, and utterly without illusions about her ability to survive abroad, she had set her whole heart and mind on her work. At the moment, her problem was how to surmount the stupidity and ignorance of her bosses, who rewarded her exceptional work with something akin to envy and held her political past over her head like a sword.

I worried about Mahshid and the solitary path she had chosen for herself. And about Ya.s.si and her irrepressible fantasies about that never-never land where her uncles lived. I worried about Sanaz and her broken heart and about Na.s.srin and her memories and about Azin. I worried about them all, but I worried most about Manna. She had one of these honest, demanding intelligences that is hardest on itself. Everything in her present situation offended her, from the fact that she and her husband were still financially dependent on her family to the mediocre state of intellectuals and the everyday cruelties of the Islamic regime. Nima, sharing the same feelings and desires, reinforced her imposed isolation. Yet unlike Ya.s.si, Manna obstinately refused to do anything about her situation. She seemed to take an almost gleeful satisfaction from the knowledge that her powers were going to waste. She, like my magician, was determined to be harder on herself than on the world around her. They both blamed themselves for the fact that such inferior people had control of their lives.

"How is it that we keep coming back to marriage," Mitra said, "when we're supposed to be here to talk about books?"

"What we need," I said with a laugh, "is for Mr. Nahvi to remind us how trivial we are to read Austen and talk about marriage." Mr. Nahvi, with his dusty suit, b.u.t.toned-up shirt, layered hair and squishy eyes was every once in a while resurrected as an easy target of our jokes. He earned my eternal contempt the day he announced that the protagonist in Gorky's Mother Mother was a far finer specimen of womanhood than all the flighty young ladies in Jane Austen's novels. was a far finer specimen of womanhood than all the flighty young ladies in Jane Austen's novels.

9.

Olga was silent."Ah," cried Vladimir, "Why can't you love me as I love you.""I love my country," she said."So do I," he exclaimed."And there is something I love even more strongly," Olga continued, disengaging herself from the young man's embrace."And that is?" he queried.Olga let her limpid blue eyes rest on him, and answered quickly: "It is the Party."

Every great book we read became a challenge to the ruling ideology. It became a potential threat and menace not so much because of what it said but how it said it, the att.i.tude it took towards life and fiction. Nowhere was this challenge more apparent than in the case of Jane Austen.

I had spent a great deal of time in my cla.s.ses at Allameh contrasting Flaubert, Austen and James to the ideological works like Gorky's Mother, Mother, Sholokhov's Sholokhov's And Quiet Flows the Don And Quiet Flows the Don and some of the so-called realistic fiction coming out of Iran. The above pa.s.sage, quoted by Nabokov in his and some of the so-called realistic fiction coming out of Iran. The above pa.s.sage, quoted by Nabokov in his Lectures on Russian Literature, Lectures on Russian Literature, caused a great deal of mirth in one of my cla.s.ses at Allameh. What happens, I asked my students, when we deny our characters the smallest speck of individuality? Who is more realized in her humanity, Emma Bovary or Olga of the limpid blue eyes? caused a great deal of mirth in one of my cla.s.ses at Allameh. What happens, I asked my students, when we deny our characters the smallest speck of individuality? Who is more realized in her humanity, Emma Bovary or Olga of the limpid blue eyes?

One day after cla.s.s, Mr. Nahvi followed me to my office. He tried to tell me that Austen was not only anti-Islamic but that she was guilty of another sin: she was a colonial writer. I was surprised to hear this from the mouth of someone who until then had mainly quoted and misquoted the Koran. He told me that Mansfield Park Mansfield Park was a book that condoned slavery, that even in the West they had now seen the error of their ways. What confounded me was that I was almost certain Mr. Nahvi had not read was a book that condoned slavery, that even in the West they had now seen the error of their ways. What confounded me was that I was almost certain Mr. Nahvi had not read Mansfield Park. Mansfield Park.

It was only later, on a trip to the States, that I found out where Mr. Nahvi was getting his ideas from when I bought a copy of Edward Said's Culture and Imperialism. Culture and Imperialism. It was ironic that a Muslim fundamentalist should quote Said against Austen. It was just as ironic that the most reactionary elements in Iran had come to identify with and co-opt the work and theories of those considered revolutionary in the West. It was ironic that a Muslim fundamentalist should quote Said against Austen. It was just as ironic that the most reactionary elements in Iran had come to identify with and co-opt the work and theories of those considered revolutionary in the West.

Mr. Nahvi kept following me to my office and spouting these pearls of wisdom. He seldom brought them up in cla.s.s; there, he usually kept silent, preserving a placid and detached expression, as if he had agreed to remain in cla.s.s as a favor to us. Mr. Nahvi was one of the few students in whom I was unable to find a single redeeming quality. I could say, like Eliza Bennet, that he was not a sensible man. One day, after a really exhausting argument, I told him, Mr. Nahvi, I want to remind you of something: I am not comparing you to Elizabeth Bennet. There is nothing of her in you, to be sure-you are as different as man and mouse. But remember how she is obsessed with Darcy, constantly trying to find fault with him, almost cross-examining every new acquaintance to confirm that he is as bad as she thinks? Remember her relations with Wickham? How the basis for her sympathy is not so much her feelings for him as his antipathy for Darcy? Look at how you speak about what you call the West. You can never talk about it without giving it an adjective or an attribute-decadent, vile, corrupt, imperial. Beware of what happened to Elizabeth! Beware of what happened to Elizabeth!

I still remember the look on his face as I said this and, for once, used my privilege as his teacher to have the last word.

Mr. Nahvi exercised a great deal of influence in our university, and he once reported Na.s.srin to the disciplinary committee. His eagle eyes had detected her running up the stairs one day when she was late for a cla.s.s. Na.s.srin at first refused to sign a retraction stating that she would promise never again to run on the university premises, even when she was late for cla.s.s. She had finally conceded, persuaded by Mrs. Rezvan, who had reasoned with her that her obstinate resistance was not worth expulsion from the university.

During our reminiscences about Mr. Nahvi, I noticed Mitra and Sanaz whispering and giggling. When I asked them to share with us the source of their mirth, Sanaz encouraged a blushing Mitra to tell her story. She confessed that among their friends, they called Mr. Nahvi the Mr. Collins of Tabatabai University, after Jane Austen's pompous clergyman.

One evening after cla.s.s, Mr. Nahvi had suddenly appeared in front of Mitra. He had not seemed his usual . . . "Redoubtable self?" the incorrigible Ya.s.si suggested. No, not exactly. "Pontificating? Pompous? Ponderous?" Ya.s.si continued, unabashed. No. Anyway, Mr. Nahvi did not seem himself. His arrogance had given way to extreme nervousness as he handed Mitra an envelope. Sanaz nudged Mitra to describe the envelope. It was a hideous blue, she said. And it reeked. It reeked? Yes, it smelled of cheap perfume, of rosewater.

Inside the envelope, Mitra had found a one-page letter, with the same dreadful color and smell, written in immaculate handwriting, in black ink. "Tell 'em how he started the letter," Sanaz encouraged Mitra.

"Well, he, he actually began by writing . . ." Mitra trailed off, as if lost for words.

"My golden daffodil!" shouted Sanaz, bursting into laughter.

Really? Golden daffodil? Yes, and he had gone on to express his undying love for Mitra, whose every move and every word were ingrained in his heart and mind. Nothing-no power-had ever done to him what her smile, which he hoped was for him and him alone, could do. And so on and so forth.

What had Mitra done? we all wanted to know. All this had taken place in the middle of Mitra and Hamid's highly secretive courtship, Sanaz reminded us. The next day, when Mr. Nahvi happened to jump out of nowhere and waylay her in the street, she tried to explain to him how impossible it was for her to return his affections. He nodded philosophically and went away, only to reappear two days later. She had parked in an alley near the university and was in the process of opening the door to her small car when she became aware of a presence right behind her. "Like the shadow of Death," Na.s.srin ominously interjected. Well, she had turned to find Mr. Nahvi, wavy hair, squished eyes, ears jutting out-he had a book in his hands, a book of poems by e. e. c.u.mmings. And the blue of another envelope could be detected from between its pages. Before Mitra had time to protest, he thrust the book into her hands and disappeared.

"Tell Dr. Nafisi what he wrote," prompted Sanaz. "She'd love to know that her cla.s.ses were of some use to Mr. Nahvi." Inside he had written, To my bashful rose. To my bashful rose. And what else? And, well, he reproduced a poem that you used to teach in your introduction to literature cla.s.s: And what else? And, well, he reproduced a poem that you used to teach in your introduction to literature cla.s.s: somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too nearyour slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first roseor if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) n.o.body,not even the rain,has such small hands It's enough to put you off teaching poetry, I said, infected by their girlish mood.

"From now on, you should only teach morbid poems like Childe Harold Childe Harold or 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,' " suggested Mahshid. or 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,' " suggested Mahshid.

This time, Mitra felt she had to resort to more drastic measures before things got out of hand. After several consultations with her friends, she reached the conclusion that a plain outright no no would be dangerous to deliver to someone as influential as Mr. Nahvi. Best to tell him a convincing lie that would put him in an impossible position. would be dangerous to deliver to someone as influential as Mr. Nahvi. Best to tell him a convincing lie that would put him in an impossible position.

By the time they next crossed paths, Mitra had plucked up the courage to stop Mr. Nahvi. Blushing and stammering, she told him that she had been too bashful to reveal the real reason for her rejection: she was engaged to be married to a distant relative. His family was influential and very traditional, and she was scared of what they would resort to if they found out about Mr. Nahvi's outpourings. The young man paused for a fraction of a second, as if rooted to the ground, and then turned away without a word, leaving Mitra, still slightly trembling, in the middle of the wide street.

10.

The last New Year Mrs. Rezvan was in Tehran, she bought me three small clips. They were hair clips that many women used to keep their head scarves in place. I never learned to wear my scarf properly, and it had become a ritual between us that before talks or lectures she would check and make sure that it was more or less in place. She said, My dear Mrs. Nafisi, I'm sorry that this is what you will remember me by, but I do worry about you. Will you promise me you will wear these when I am gone? I want to see you here when I return.

Mrs. Rezvan was preparing to go to Canada. She had finally, after years of toil, managed to get her coveted scholarship to pursue her Ph.D. For years she had dreamed of this, but now she was too anxious to enjoy the moment. She constantly fretted about whether she would succeed, whether she was up to the task. I was happy that she was leaving, both for her sake and for my own. It came almost as a relief.

I felt at the time that she was overly ambitious, and that she used me and people like me to get where she wanted to go. Later I discovered there was more to the story. Hers was not a mere ambition to go places, to become president of the faculty, although she had that in mind too. She yearned to become a literary personage: her love of literature was real, yet her talents were limited and her ambition for power and control sometimes surpa.s.sed and even came to clash with that love. She managed to evoke such contradictory feelings in me. I felt she was always on the verge of telling me something important about herself, something that would reveal her to me. Perhaps I should have been more curious. Perhaps if I had been less wrapped up in her intrusions and demands, I would have noticed more.

In the late summer of 1990, for the first time in eleven years, my family and I left for Cyprus for a vacation and to meet up with my sisters-in-law, who had never seen our children. For years I was not allowed to leave the country, and when they finally did give me permission to leave, I felt paralyzed and could not make myself apply for a pa.s.sport. If it were not for Bijan's patience and persistence, I never would have followed through. But I got my pa.s.sport in the end, and we did really leave, without any misadventures. We stayed with a friend, one of Mrs. Rezvan's former students. She said Mrs. Rezvan used to ask her about me, my work and my family.

Later, after we had returned home, my friend informed me that the day we left, probably on the same plane aboard which we had flown to Tehran, Mrs. Rezvan had come to Cyprus on vacation. She was alone. She called my friend inquiring after me and was told that I was gone. My friend told me Mrs. Rezvan wanted her to take her to the same places we had visited together during my stay. She asked what I had done there, where I had gone. One day, they went to the beach where we had gone swimming.

Mrs. Rezvan was shy. She hesitated about putting on a swimsuit, and when she did, she wanted to go to a deserted part of the beach, where no one could see her. She ran into the water but came out after a short while, telling my friend that no matter how hard she tried, she could not get used to parading around in a swimsuit.

When she left Iran, Mrs. Rezvan disappeared from my life. Her absence was as complete as her presence had been pervasive. She did not write or call when she came back for her occasional visits; I heard about her from the secretary at the English Department. Twice she had asked for an extension in order to finish her dissertation. At times, walking down the halls or pa.s.sing by her office, I was reminded of Mrs. Rezvan, whose absence was both a relief and a sorrow.

A few months after I came to America, I heard she was ill with cancer. I called her; she was not home. She called me back. Her voice was filled with the intimate formality of Tehran. She wanted to know about some of our common students and my work. And then for the first time she opened up and started talking about herself. She could not write-it involved so much pain-and she was always weak and fatigued. Her eldest daughter helped her. She had so many dreams, and she was hopeful. The openness was not so much in what she said as in her tone of voice, which conferred a certain air of confidence to her simple report of her weakness, her inability to write, her dependence on her daughter. She was optimistic about the latest treatment, although her cancer had spread far. She asked me about my work. I did not tell her that I was healthy and writing a book and, on the whole, enjoying myself.

That was the last time I talked to her; she was soon too sick to speak on the telephone. I thought of her almost obsessively. It seemed so unfair that she should have cancer when she was so near to reaching her goal. I did not want to talk to her to remind her that once again I had been the lucky one-I was granted a little more time on earth, the time she was so unfairly cheated of.

She died soon after our last conversation. Her intrusions now have taken a different form. In my mind from time to time, I resurrect and re-create her. I try to penetrate the unsaid feelings and emotions that hung between us. She keeps coming towards me through the flickering light, as in our first meeting, with that ironic sideways glance, and pa.s.ses through me, leaving me with my doubts and regrets.

11.

It was around the spring of 1996, early March in fact, that I first noticed Na.s.srin's metamorphosis. One day she came to cla.s.s without her usual robe and scarf. Mahshid and Ya.s.si wore different-colored scarves, and they took these off once they came into my apartment. But Na.s.srin was always dressed identically; the one variety she allowed herself was the color of her robe, which was interchangeably navy, black or dark brown.

That day, she had come to cla.s.s later than usual and had casually taken off her coat, revealing a light blue shirt, a navy jacket and jeans. Her hair was long and soft and black, woven into a single plait that moved from side to side with the movement of her head. Manna and Ya.s.si exchanged looks, and Azin told her she was looking good, as if she had changed her hairstyle. Ya.s.si said in her mocking tone, You look . . . you look absolutely intrepid! I mean, divine. By the end of the cla.s.s, Na.s.srin seemed so natural in her new attire that I already had a hard time envisioning the other Na.s.srin.

When Na.s.srin walked around in her chador or veil, her gait was defiant; she walked as she did everything else-restlessly, but with a sort of bravado. Now, without the veil, she slumped, as if she were trying to cover something. It was in the middle of our discussion of Austen's women that I noticed what it was she was trying to hide. Under the chador, one could not see how curvy and s.e.xy her figure really was. I had to control myself and not command her to drop her hands, to stop covering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Now that she was unrobed, I noticed how the chador was an excuse to cover what she had tried to disown-mainly because she really and genuinely did not know what to do with it. She had an awkward way of walking, like a toddler taking its first steps, as if at any moment she would fall down.

A few weeks later, she stayed after cla.s.s and asked if she could make an appointment to see me. I told her to come to our house, but she had become very formal and asked if we could meet at a coffee shop that my students and I were in the habit of frequenting. Now that I look at those times, I see how many of their most private stories, their confidences, were told in public places: in my office, in coffee shops, in taxis and walking through the winding streets near my home.

Na.s.srin was sitting at a small wooden table with a vase of bloodred wax carnations when I entered the coffee shop. We gave our orders: vanilla and chocolate ice cream for Na.s.srin and cafe glace cafe glace for me. Na.s.srin had called this meeting to officially register the existence of a boyfriend. Do I know him? I asked her as she ferociously dipped her spoon into the ice cream. No. I mean-she fumbled with her words-you may have seen him. He obviously knows you. I've known him for a long time, she continued, as if finally admitting to a shameful act. For over two years now, she sighed, but we have been sort of going together for the past few months. for me. Na.s.srin had called this meeting to officially register the existence of a boyfriend. Do I know him? I asked her as she ferociously dipped her spoon into the ice cream. No. I mean-she fumbled with her words-you may have seen him. He obviously knows you. I've known him for a long time, she continued, as if finally admitting to a shameful act. For over two years now, she sighed, but we have been sort of going together for the past few months.

I was startled by her news. I tried to hide my surprise, searching for something appropriate to say, but her expression did not allow such evasion. I've wanted to introduce him to you for a long time, she said, but I just didn't know how to go about it. And then I was afraid. Afraid of what? Is he a frightening person? I said, my feeble attempt at a joke. No, I was afraid you might not like him, she said, making swirls with her melting ice cream. Na.s.srin, I said. I'm not the one who should like him.

I felt sorry for her. She was in love-this should have been the best time of her life-but she was anxious about so many things. Of course, she had to lie to her father-more time on translating texts. She lived in so many parallel worlds: the so-called real world of her family, work and society; the secret world of our cla.s.s and her young man; and the world she had created out of her lies. I wasn't sure what she expected of me. Should I take on the role of a mother and tell her about the facts of life? Should I show more curiosity, ask for more details about him and their relationship? I waited, trying with some effort to pull my eyes off the hypnotic red carnation and to focus on Na.s.srin.

"I wouldn't blame you if you made fun of me," she said with great misery, twirling her spoon in the puddle of ice cream.

"Na.s.srin, I would never do such a thing," I protested. "And why should I? I am very happy for you."

"It is pathetic," she said, without paying attention to my words, following her own thoughts. "My mother had a grown-up kid when she was my age. You were already teaching, and here I am acting like a ten-year-old kid. This is what we should be talking about in cla.s.s."

"About your being ten years old?" I asked, in an awkward attempt to lighten her mood.

"No, no, about"-she put her spoon down-"about how all of us-girls like me, who have read their Austen and Nabokov and all that, who talk about Derrida and Barthes and the world situation-how we know nothing, nothing nothing about the relation between a man and a woman, about what it means to go out with a man. My twelve-year-old niece probably knows all about this, has probably gone out with more boys than I have." She spoke furiously, locking and unlocking her fingers. about the relation between a man and a woman, about what it means to go out with a man. My twelve-year-old niece probably knows all about this, has probably gone out with more boys than I have." She spoke furiously, locking and unlocking her fingers.

In a sense she was right, and the fact that she was prepared to talk about it made me feel tender and protective towards her. Na.s.srin, I told her, none of us are as sophisticated in these matters as you think. You know I always feel, with every new person, as if I am starting anew. These things are instinctive. What you need to learn is to lay aside your inhibitions, to go back to your childhood when you played marbles or whatever with boys and never thought anything of it.

Na.s.srin did not respond. She was playing with the petals of the wax flowers, caressing their slippery surface.

"You know," I said, "with my first husband . . . Yes, I was married before Bijan, when I was barely eighteen. You know why he married me? He told me he liked my innocence-I didn't know what a French kiss was. I was born and bred in liberal times, I grew up in a liberal family-my parents sent me abroad when I was barely thirteen-and yet there you are: I chose to marry a man I despised deep down, someone who wanted a chaste and virginal wife and, I am sorry to say, chose me. He had been out with many girls, and when I went to Oklahoma with him, where he went to college, his friends were surprised, because right up to the day he returned to Iran for the summer, he had been living with an American girl he had introduced to everyone as his wife. So don't feel too bad. These things are complicated.

"Are you happy?" I asked her anxiously. There was a long pause during which I picked up the vase and pushed it to the side, next to the wall.

"I don't know," she said. "No one ever taught me how to be happy. We've been taught that pleasure is the great sin, that s.e.x is for procreation and so on and on and forth. I feel guilty, but I shouldn't-not because I am interested in a man. In a man, In a man," she repeated. "At my age my age! The fact is I don't know what I want, and I don't know if I am doing the right thing. I've always been told what is right-and suddenly I don't know anymore. I know what I don't want, but I don't know what I want," she said, looking down at the ice cream she had hardly touched.

"Well, you're not going to get an answer from me," I said. I leaned over, wanting to touch her hand, to provide her with some consolation. Only I didn't touch her. I didn't dare; she seemed so distant and withdrawn. "I'll be here for you when you need me, but if you're asking for my advice, I can't give it-you'll have to find out for yourself." Enjoy yourself, I pleaded lamely. How could one be in love and deny oneself a little joy?

Na.s.srin's young man was called Ramin. I had seen him on several occasions, the first time at a gathering for my book on Nabokov. He had a master's degree in philosophy and taught part-time. Na.s.srin had met him at a conference where he was presenting a paper and they had started talking afterward. Was it love at first sight? I wanted to ask her. How long had it taken them to confess their feelings? Did they ever kiss? These were some of the details I badly wanted to know, but of course I did not ask.

As we were leaving the coffee shop, Na.s.srin said hesitantly, Would you go to a concert with us? A concert? Some of Ramin's students are playing. We could get you and your family some tickets . . .

12.

I should put the word concert concert in quotation marks, because such cultural affairs were parodies of the real thing, performed either in private homes or, more recently, at a cultural center built by the munic.i.p.ality in the south of Tehran. They were the focus of considerable controversy, because despite the many limitations set upon them, many in government considered them disreputable. The performances were closely monitored and mostly featured amateur players like the ones we went to see that night. But the house was always packed, the tickets were always sold out and the programs always started a little late. in quotation marks, because such cultural affairs were parodies of the real thing, performed either in private homes or, more recently, at a cultural center built by the munic.i.p.ality in the south of Tehran. They were the focus of considerable controversy, because despite the many limitations set upon them, many in government considered them disreputable. The performances were closely monitored and mostly featured amateur players like the ones we went to see that night. But the house was always packed, the tickets were always sold out and the programs always started a little late.

Bijan was reluctant to go. He preferred listening to good music in the comfort and privacy of our home to subjecting himself to these mediocre live performances with their long lines and the inevitable hara.s.sment that ensued. But in the end, he gave in to the children's enthusiasm, and to me. After the revolution, almost all the activities one a.s.sociated with being out in public-seeing movies, listening to music, sharing drinks or a meal with friends-shifted to private homes. It was refreshing to go out once in a while, even to such a desultory event.

We met them at the entrance. Na.s.srin looked nervous and Ramin was shy. He was tall and lanky, in his early thirties but with an air about him of an eternal graduate student, attractive in a bookish way. I had remembered him as confident and talkative, but now that he was introduced to us in his new role, he seemed to have lost his usual articulateness and his desire to talk. I thanked Ramin for the invitation and we all proceeded towards a long line filled with mainly young men and women. Na.s.srin busied herself with the children and I, who had suddenly become tongue-tied, tried to ask Ramin about his cla.s.ses. Only Bijan seemed unconcerned by the awkwardness of the moment. He had made a sacrifice by leaving his comfortable home on a weeknight and felt no obligation to socialize as well.

When we finally entered the auditorium, we found people stuffed into the concert hall, sitting in the aisles, on the floor and standing cl.u.s.tered against the wall. We were among the guests of honor, so our place was in the second row, and we actually got seats. The program began late. We were greeted by a gentleman who insulted the audience for a good fifteen or twenty minutes, telling us that the management did not wish to entertain audiences of "rich imperialists" contaminated by decadent Western culture. This brought smiles to many of those who had come that evening to hear the music of the Gipsy Kings. The gentleman also admonished that if anyone acted in an un-Islamic manner, he or she would be kicked out. He went on to instruct women to observe the proper rules and regulations regarding the use of the veil.

It is hard to conjure an accurate image of what went on that night. The group consisted of four young Iranian men, all amateurs, who entertained us with their rendition of the Gipsy Kings. Only they weren't allowed to sing; they could only play their instruments. Nor could they demonstrate any enthusiasm for what they were doing: to show emotion would be un-Islamic. As I sat there in that packed house, I decided that the only way the night could possibly be turned into an entertainment was if I pretended to be an outside observer who had come not to have fun but to report on a night out in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Yet despite these restrictions and the quality of the performance, our young musicians could not have found anywhere in the world an audience so receptive, so forgiving of their flaws, so grateful to hear their music. Every time the audience, mostly young and not necessarily rich, started to move or clap, two men in suits appeared from either side of the stage and gesticulated for them to stop clapping or humming or moving to the music. Even when we tried to listen, to forget these acrobats, they managed to impose themselves on our field of vision, always present, always ready to jump out and intervene. Always, we were guilty.

The players were solemn. Since it was almost impossible to play with no expression at all, their expressions had become morose. The lead guitarist seemed to be angry with the audience; he frowned, trying to prevent his body from moving-a difficult task, since he was playing the Gipsy Kings.

At Bijan's suggestion, we tried to get out early-before, as he said, we were trampled by the mob, which, not being able to emote during the show, might choose to exercise its vengeance by trampling fellow concertgoers. Outside, we stood for some minutes by the entrance. Bijan, who seldom talked, was moved by the occasion.

"I feel sorry for these kids," he said. "They're not entirely without talent, but they'll never be judged by the quality of their music. The regime criticizes them for being Western and decadent, and the audience gives them uncritical praise-not because they're first-rate but because they play forbidden music. So," he added, addressing us in general, "how will they ever learn to play?"

"It's true," I said, feeling an obligation to fill the silence that followed. "No one is judged on the merit of their work. People without the least knowledge of music are running around calling themselves musicians." Na.s.srin was sullen, and Ramin quiet and mortified. I was astounded by his metamorphosis and decided not to add to his discomfort by forcing him to talk.

Suddenly Na.s.srin became animated. "Nabokov would've had nothing to do with this," she said excitedly. "Look at us-it's pathetic, running to this this for entertainment." She moved her arms and spoke breathlessly, eager to hide her embarra.s.sment behind a volley of nervous talk. "He would have had a field day if he'd been here-talk about poshl.u.s.t!" for entertainment." She moved her arms and spoke breathlessly, eager to hide her embarra.s.sment behind a volley of nervous talk. "He would have had a field day if he'd been here-talk about poshl.u.s.t!"