Censoring an Iranian Love Story (24 page)

Therefore, I will only write:

Dara feels thirsty. He feels he cannot bear the weight of sorrow and of that big “why” in temperance. He grabs the half-filled glass next to him and gulps it down to the last drop.

His bitter mouth needs no accompanying taste. In fact, he savors this scorching bitterness; it resembles the bitterness of his existence … Like the slithering of molten lava from a volcano between mountain rocks and its sinking into the sea, hot and bitter, Dara feels that phantasmal liquid slide down his esophagus and wash into his stomach.

If the intelligent Iranian reader asks me, How did this half-filled glass appear in your story, I will not say, You have turned out to be just like Mr. Petrovich. I have a different answer to offer:

You intelligent readers only single out and nitpick stories by Iranian writers. Why is it that when you read the story of “Young Goodman Brown,” you don’t criticize its writer and ask him how the devil, dressed in those strange clothes, suddenly appears before Goodman in the forest? Or when Gabriel García Márquez writes that flowers rain on Macondo, why don’t you pounce on him and ask how all those flowers appeared in the sky in his story? Or for that matter, why don’t you ask how it is possible that Dr. Jekyll turns into Mr. Hyde after he gulps down that bizarre liquid? Now be a little charitable and imagine that this half-full glass was placed next to Dara by that devil in the forest or by Mr. Hyde.

On the other hand, even the least-intelligent Iranian reader, after reading the last sentence I have written about that scorching bitterness, will realize that Dara is drinking homemade or Russian vodka purchased on the black market. Of course, Mr. Petrovich will realize this, too, but I accept this risk because it is with this glass of vodka that I can express the extent of Dara’s despondency.

To escape his bitter thoughts and suspicions, Dara turns on the decrepit television set in his room and surfs the four channels, desperately hoping that, other than lessons on morality, one of them is broadcasting a program in which he can find some comfort. Finally, on the last channel, he finds a tolerable folk music program.
Unlike some Iranians, Dara does not have enough money to buy a secondhand Japanese receiver for some thirty dollars, to buy a satellite dish manufactured in underground Iranian workshops for ten dollars, and to buy an original Iranian cover to hide the dish for yet another ten dollars. When rumors spread that the police use helicopters to identify houses with satellite dishes and raid those homes, the creative and ingenious Iranian mind, which in general is shrewder and quicker to react when it comes to unlawful matters, was quickly activated, and it created the means for hiding large satellite dishes. Because of the summer heat, most Iranian houses have large water-cooled air conditioners on their flat rooftops that during the winter months are protected by tarpaulin covers. Therefore, square wooden frames have been built in the same dimensions as the air conditioners and are placed over the satellite dishes, and specially designed tarpaulin covers are draped over them to make them look like air-conditioning units. Of course, air-conditioning units that remain covered even during the hot summer months … Sometime later, satellite dish owners realized that many of the channels had been jammed, especially those broadcast from overseas by Iranians opposed to the revolution. Again the pioneering Iranian mind, the same mind that built a remarkable car named Peykan, was set in motion and found the means of countering the government-inflicted jams. It was a simple device that had an empty can of beans as its most complicated component. Of course, it was later rumored that the police had purchased highly advanced electronic instruments from Europe that accurately trace houses that receive corruptive and antirevolution satellite airwaves, and they raid those homes. Unfortunately, the ingenuity of us Iranians still does not match the technological advancements of profit-seeking multinational corporations in the West. Until it does, people who have satellite dishes have found no other solution than to resort to an ancient Iranian scheme; to shrug their shoulders and say:

“…”

While listening to the mournful sound of a sitar, during moments when his eyes can see straight, Dara sees the head and shoulders of a man wearing a hat made of long wriggling fur and a Turkmen fur coat on the television screen. Like all Iranian traditional musicians, the man is most likely sitting cross-legged on the floor. As is their custom, he has closed his eyes and gently moves his shoulders to the rhythm of the music. But at this moment of half consciousness, this familiar image seems strange to Dara.
The camera does not under any circumstances move below the man’s shoulders, and when the man raises his arms even slightly, the camera quickly moves up. Because of the movements of his head and shoulders, because of the intoxicated or gratified manner in which he has closed his eyes, Dara imagines that the man is engaged in an unbecoming and rude act with his hands. The truth is that years after the revolution, generally speaking, all forms of music were banned, as was ownership of musical instruments. However, there came a time when it was decided that traditional Iranian music, which has two-thousand-year-old roots, should be more or less allowed. This decision came under strong opposition by many fanatics, yet once in a while, from the crooks and curves of our television sets, we the people of Iran would hear the melody of our heartrending traditional music. Still, the heads of government-run television stations deemed it unethical to show musical instruments and strictly censored these images. After some time, television cameramen developed such expertise in their vocation that they could film any musician without his instrument ever appearing in the frame. That is why musicians often look like they are in the process of committing an act compared to which the unethical playing of a musical instrument seems innocent.

Dara does not know whether to laugh or to cry at his discovery of this imagery.

An hour later, he opens the window in his room. It is still snowing, but because of the particular state he is in, Dara does not feel the cold at all. He takes a fistful of snow from the window ledge and makes a small snowball. Gently and delicately he makes the ball perfectly round. He caresses it, and then with a silent holler he pitilessly hurls it at Tehran.

It is among my powers as a writer to fly this snowball above the streets and buildings of the city until it finds, and arrives at, this moment in my story:

Outside Sara’s house, Sinbad sees the scratch on his car. He looks around angrily and curses out loud.

“Fuck whoever scratched my car!”

But you are wrong, that snowball that is coming and coming does not come to hit him smack on the head.

Ask:

Then where does the snowball go?

For me to answer:

In my dear country, so many strange things happen that I do not need to resort to such wishy-washy ploys of magical realism. By the way, during the past quarter of a century, so many divine and nondivine disasters, including earthquakes, torrential rains, and invasions by legions of frogs, bombs, missiles, and fighter jets, have befallen the people of Iran that they truly have no need for the crashing of a snowball. Of course, I only say this because I really don’t know when and where that dangerous snowball will land.

Therefore,
in no danger at all and without noticing the broken lock on the trunk of his BMW, Sinbad utters an unvulgar censure at whoever scratched his car and starts the engine. Half a mile down the street, he notices that the trunk is open. He pulls over, gets out of the car, and discovers the gift that someone has left for him in the trunk …

Seeing that innocent and broken hunchback midget in the trunk, a

succession of obscenities burst out of Sinbad’s mouth.

“…”

Please fill in the three dots yourself. I don’t like to write curse words that somehow reflect on me, too.

At midnight, Dara at last sees the blinking icon on his computer screen inviting him for a chat.

Dara, who is having a difficult time distinguishing the keys on the keyboard and is constantly correcting his misspellings, writes:

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you have a suitor?”

“Because you never asked.”

As far as I can remember, I have from the start written the Sara of my story with a sad and sober personality. I cannot figure out at what point in the story she developed such a sense of humor.

Dara writes:

“I am in no mood for jokes.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I have suffered enough torture in my life.”

“I know.”

“Don’t torture me.”

“I love you.”

“You are lying.”

“Yes.”

“Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know where he first saw me, but one day my father said he had met a very important and wealthy gentleman while waiting in line to buy subsidized rice. They quickly became friends and Father invited him home for tea. I was suspicious from the start and found it strange that this gentleman, with all his wealth, would stand on line for three hours to buy subsidized rice. The third time he came to our house he proposed to me and I knew I had guessed correctly—all along his intention had been to meet me. Tonight was the seventh time he came over. My parents insist that I accept his proposal, but I have not given him an answer … Please don’t ask me what I want to do. I don’t know.”

Dara
drunkenly
wrote:

“What am I to you?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“No.”

“The Dara I know is not this stupid.”

“Your love has made me stupid.”

“Your love too has made me so stupid that I still have not said yes to Mr. Sinbad so that seven days later I can fly with him to Spain.”

“His name is Sinbad?”

“Did you expect it to be Aladdin? You are Aladdin. Except you have no magic lamp and no flying carpet to take me to Spain with.”

“It seems you really like Spain.”

“I have always liked Spain. Spain has Lorca.”

“It has Buñuel, too.”

“It also has self-righteous lovers who kidnap brides from weddings.”

“So you want to say yes to him?”

“To Lorca?”

“No. To Sinbad.”

“What do you think?”

Here, I am confronted with the question that if we Iranian writers cannot be expected to write a beautiful love story because of Mr. Petrovich’s presence, then why is it that in countries where love stories are not censored so few good ones have been written during the past several decades? Could it be that today’s world no longer grants writers inspiration for love stories?

Dara wrote:

“I think you want to marry him.”

“So who are you in the middle of all of this?”

“A snowman.

A plaything.”

“What if it is you who sees me as a toy to be played with?”

“In this world, only those who have the means can play … I have nothing, I am not a player.”

After writing this sentence, Dara angrily turns off his computer.

It was thus that Sara and Dara had their first fight. Dara thought, It was all a game. They are right to say that no woman should ever be trusted. She wanted me so that she could make her Sinbad jealous … I was stabbed in the back again … Dara swore that he would no longer give Sara even a word’s worth of his thoughts. And Sara thought, I will no longer give him even a word’s worth of my thoughts. He was interrogating me. As if he owns me. They’re right to say that if you let them, men will actually believe they own you.

I sometimes think Sara sneaks peeks at the sentences I write about Dara and his thoughts. If my suspicions are correct, I will have to somehow agree with Dara that I should not trust the female characters of my stories. In any case, in this segment I needed narrative tension. Tell me, is it even possible for a love story not to have a fight between the two lovers? Or have you ever seen a love in which there has been no jealousy and misunderstanding? If you know of such a love, please let me know so that I can go and fall in love with that love and write about it. I am certain that it will turn out to be a beautiful love story, and perhaps because of it there will be one less suicide bomber.

Five nights have passed since Sara and Dara’s screamless and shoutless fight. During this time, they have not contacted each other at all. On the fifth night, Sara for the very first time accepts Sinbad’s invitation to dinner. Promptly at eight in the evening, Sinbad pulls up in front of Sara’s house in his BMW. Sara walks out. Behind her, her parents appear in the doorway and wave at Sinbad. Sinbad waves back. From the doorway, Sara’s mother yells:

“Be careful. Don’t drive too fast.”

Both Sinbad and Sara understand the underlying meaning and the hidden warning of this sentence.

As does Mr. Petrovich.

Sara’s father, still waving, yells:

“Sara, tell Mr. Sinbad all about the excellent grades you have received this term.”

Both Sara and Sinbad understand the underlying meaning and the hidden advice of this sentence.

Sara walks up to Sinbad to shake hands with him. But Sinbad does not extend his hand. He says:

“It is not proper for you and I to shake hands before we get married.”

Sinbad truly believes in the religious principle that a man and woman who are not married and who are not immediate relatives should not shake hands. But even if Sinbad did not want to abide by this important principle, the experience of that film director who won the Palme d’Or award at the Cannes Film Festival has been an important lesson for him.