Censoring an Iranian Love Story (22 page)

Although Sinbad was very happy to have come up with such an original plan, he was only then grasping the magnitude of his real problem. Yes, his beard. On the one hand, his beard was his saving angel, but on the other hand, it had gotten out of control and overly ambitious. Every man’s beard grows an average of 0.02 inch per day, but Sinbad’s beard was growing an average of 0.1 inch per hour. Sometime later, he would come to realize that its rate of growth depended entirely on his state of mind. In other words, sometimes his beard would grow by as much as 0.3 inch per hour. Of course, solving this problem was not as difficult as it first appeared. When Sinbad at last came to accept his beard’s eagerness and energy to grow, it was probably the beard itself that inspired him with a solution: to always carry a pair of scissors in his pocket and to go to an empty place every hour to trim it. Of course, because Sinbad did not, and does not, have any connection to literature, censorship, and the symbol of censorship, he will never know what bitter irony a pair of scissors in one pocket will put in his other pocket.

Anyhow, Sinbad worked on his plan for a week, and after preparing two alphabetical lists of good names for men and women using the world’s latest scientific methods, and two alphabetical lists of bad names for men and women that should be deleted from the cultural consciousness and the present-day memory of Iranians, he delivered them to the director general’s secretary. And thus, his rise began.

Just as you have guessed, it was Mr. P. who was purged. Do I need to remind you that purging, or cleansing, is a form of censorship? As a writer who is at times more ill fated and wretched than
Les Misérables’s
Jean Valjean, I believe that at the time I consented to the deletion of one word from one story, I also consented to the deletion of one human being from his workplace or from his life. Since Mr. P. has been censored, I can no longer help him have an important role in our love story. Therefore, let us with absolute cruelty no longer think of him.

When I visited the General Register Office for my daughter’s birth certificate, Mr. Sinbad had already occupied the seat of vice president for public and cultural affairs. His innovative and revolutionary list of permitted and prohibited names had been distributed to all the General Register Offices throughout the country, and his plan was being implemented everywhere. But his rise did not end here. One day when Sinbad wanted to write a note in pencil, the tip of his pencil broke at the slightest pressure against the paper. It was a new pencil in a nice color. Sinbad sharpened its tip, but just as he was taking the pencil out of the pencil sharpener, its new tip broke and stayed behind under the pencil sharpener’s blade. Sinbad removed the broken tip with some difficulty and sharpened the pencil again, and the same thing happened again and again until Sinbad was left holding a one-inch pencil without a tip. He took another pencil of the same make and examined it. Yes, as you have suspected, it was made in China. In Iranian graphic arts, in addition to a pair of scissors, a pencil or a fountain pen with a broken tip is a symbol of censorship and restraints on the freedom of speech. However, in total contrast to this symbol, that tipless pencil sparked the second great inspiration of Sinbad’s life in his mind. Without a doubt, the merchant who had imported these cheap pencils from China and sold them at a high price in the Iranian market— which is under U.S. embargo—had made huge profits. Think about it. How precious a commodity pencils must be in a country with a population that has in two decades increased from thirty million to sixty million, with at least seventeen million students in schools and universities … That night, Sinbad wrote another ingenious plan and delivered it to the director general of the General Register Office. According to this plan, he would go on an all-expenses-paid mission to China to research the covert revolutionary techniques used by the Chinese to increase their population and the Red techniques used in their Cultural Revolution to delete the names and symbols of tyrannical Chinese emperors. Sinbad received the monthlong assignment and headed for materialist China, whose relationship with Muslim countries was improving day by day. Well, where do you think the best place is in China to scientifically research techniques for deleting counterrevolutionary symbols and methods of population increase? Obviously in Chinese pencil factories.

Ask me what I mean, and, by the way, also ask me how all these labyrinthine tales relate to a simple love story. And I will say:

As a matter of fact, the tales are very much related to our love story. Just as a pencil can freely write the words of a nauseating love story replete with veiled sexual undertones as a service to a corrupt counterrevolutionary culture, it can also be the instrument with which the sentences of that same story are crossed out. The same way that a pencil in the hands of a corrupt-minded writer or spy or traitor can transfer words that, consciously or subconsciously, carry the viruses of a decadent Western culture, it can also, with the sharpness of its tip, like the needle of a syringe, inject the vaccine against the same antirevolution microbes in the population’s veins. On the other hand, think about it, what a highly consumed commodity pencils must be in a country where thousands of writers and poets write to become the greatest writer or poet in the world, and facing them, thousands of people read what they have written to cross out instances of their immorality.

When Sinbad returned to Iran from his fact-finding mission, in his pocket he had a small contract to import high-quality Chinese pencils to offset the presence of illicit Western pencils. In two years and seven months, through his government position and the friends he had made in the customs department and the marketplace, Sinbad became the largest importer of handsome Chinese pencils. He resigned from his government job to make room for other creative young people to rise. He relocated his import-export business to Tehran and spent all his energy, ingenuity, and experience on importing pencils that did not write at all, and therefore did not burden anyone with the inconvenience of having to cross out and delete any words.

In the process of this revolutionary service, Sinbad amassed a large fortune. His annual income was far more than the seventy-five million dollars that Mr. Bush’s political machine had once earmarked for changing Iran’s political regime. Sometimes, in the company of his merchant friends, Sinbad would quip, “I can earmark seven hundred and fifty million dollars for changing the American political regime …” But our story’s Sara has yet to make a decision about marrying Sinbad and spending her honeymoon in Paris or at his villa in Spain. This is one of our story’s dilemmas. Sara, just like a decent and virtuous young lady who of course has never worn colorful shoes, who of course has never sewn colorful buttons on her coverall, and who of course has never highlighted her bangs so that she can let them loose from under her headscarf to lead Iranian men and boys astray, is sitting next to her parents and drinking premium Indian tea with Sinbad.

As soon as we begin this scene in our love story, Sinbad goes to the bathroom to trim his beard down to the same length as it was when he first arrived at Sara’s house. I take advantage of this brief interruption to think about how I can find Mr. Petrovich and how I can make him tell me what his opinion of Dara’s name is.

Sinbad returns from the bathroom.

Sara’s mother, delighted by the honor of having him present in their home, resumes her coquettish verbosity.

“Oh dear, you haven’t touched your pastry. If you don’t like these pastries, there is an excellent pastry shop nearby. My husband can quickly go and buy some.”

Sinbad, glancing at a silent Sara, puts the pastry in his mouth, and pretending to brush the crumbs off his jacket he brushes away some of the trimmed beard.

Sara’s mother asks:

“May I pour you another cup of tea?”

“Please. What a wonderful tea this is. It is very fragrant and flavorful.”

“As you know, these days the market is full of adulterated tea. Even if you put two or three fistfuls of it in the teapot, it still has no color or flavor.”

“Is it Iranian tea?”

“Absolutely not… What a question! Iranian tea? All our life we have only bought fine foreign tea. The one you are drinking is a Two-Sword-labeled premium Indian-English tea. My husband buys it on the black market.”

Sara, angry and disappointed by her mother’s bragging, deliberately coughs. Her mother gets up, not because she has taken her daughter’s warning seriously, but to bring the box of the Two-Sword-labeled premium Indian-English tea as proof of her claims.

Sinbad says:

“My good lady, Iranian tea is most certainly a good tea, but it has lost in the advertising arena, and its name has been tarnished. When I was a vice president at the bureau, I ordered that only Iranian tea be brewed and served there. I even tried to make sure that the employees didn’t drink non-Iranian tea at home.”

While speaking these words, Sinbad tries to memorize the name and address of the producer of the Two-Sword-labeled premium Indian-English tea printed on the box. He’s thinking that he may also be clever at importing tea. There are many common factors between pencils and tea, and, of course, there are no common factors between Sinbad and those charlatan merchants who sell third-rate Iranian tea, packaged in boxes with Indian writing and the Two-Sword label printed on them, at exorbitant prices on the black market.

Sinbad says:

“Miss Sara, why are you so quiet tonight?”

Since Sinbad’s arrival, Sara constantly sees Dara’s innocent face in front of her. But once in a while she does feel like taking a peek at Sinbad’s face and his beautiful beard. Of all the features on Sinbad’s face, Sara likes his eyes the most. From these eyes, the agony of years of poverty, deprivation, and toil have not yet been erased. Sinbad, in their only private conversation in this house, has candidly poured his heart out about his childhood and about growing up without a father, and he has told her that he is not one of those nouveau riche people blinded by wealth.

Sara says:

“I was thinking.”

“Can you share some of your thoughts with me?”

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask your opinion. Surely you are aware that a few days ago there were demonstrations and clashes in front of the university.”

“I did hear something about it.”

“What do you think of those students?”

Sara’s parents both begin to cough.

Sara tells them:

“Please don’t cut me off with your coughs.”

This is the first time Sara has dared address her parents in this manner.

Deep in my ear I hear Mr. Petrovich’s voice:

“You see! This rudeness is the result of Sara’s forbidden and clandestine love affair. You see what sin does to people’s personalities? This is only the beginning. If your story continues like this, this ignorant girl will wreck and ruin her life with her own hands. Give her a stern warning.”

But instead,
Sara’s mother has dragged her husband to the kitchen to give him a stern warning.

“How many times have I told you not to buy these cheap pastries? You have embarrassed us. Run out and buy a box of the finest pastries … and I’ll see how I can shut Sara up. This ignorant girl will wreck and ruin her life, and ours, with her own hands.”

Laughing, she returns to the living room and says:

“Oh dear, Mr. Sinbad, don’t touch that pastry. Sara’s father just went out to buy pastries that you would like.”

Sinbad obediently puts the pastry back on his plate but continues his conversation with Sara:

“… for this reason, I think if I were a student, I too would participate in the demonstrations. I truly respect them. They are the assets of the revolution. If you are one of these students, then on my behalf, please …”

Sara’s mother quickly interrupts him:

“Sir, what are you saying? My daughter is by no means part of that group of misguided students.”

Sara dolefully says:

“In fact, this time my mother is correct. I am not one of them.”

“In any case, if you ever talk to them, tell them that many of the country’s leaders are aware of the problems and issues that have angered them and that they too are distressed. But for the time being, given that we are in the throes of an outwardly cold yet fiery war with the United States, Britain, France, Germany, and Israel, it is not wise or prudent for them to create disturbances and provide publicity hype for Western media and the opponents of the revolution living abroad.”

I am positive Mr. Petrovich will like this sentence.

But Sara, contrary to my wishes and expectations, says:

“For years everyone has been told to keep quiet, to not criticize, to not object, with the same excuses of war and conflict with worldwide imperialism and the opponents of the revolution …”

I, without Sara’s permission, cross out this sentence, and to avoid having to write the rest of her comments, I leave their house. Outside, I see Sara’s father, who, instead of running to the pastry shop, is standing frozen in place with a petrified look on his face. Right next to the front door, a hunchback midget is sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall with his legs spread apart and his lifeless eyes fixed on his thighs. Scared that someone may walk by and see the corpse next to the front door of his house, Sara’s father frantically looks around. I tap him on the shoulder and point to Sinbad’s car that shines like a diamond parked among all the old dilapidated cars. Sara’s father understands that because Sinbad is a wealthy and influential man, he can easily get rid of the midget.