Reading Lolita In Tehran Part 13

In the Behesht-e Zahra cemetery, as an attempt was being made to carry the body out of the helicopter, the crowd rushed forward once more and this time actually got hold of its prize, tearing pieces of the white shroud from the dead man's body, revealing a leg dangling from the white cloth. The body was finally retrieved, and rushed back to Tehran to be shrouded again. And when it was returned a few hours later, inside a metal case, the Revolutionary Guards and some members of the inner circle forced the people back. A friend remembered seeing Hojatol-Islam Nategh Nouri-who would later lose the election to President Khatami-standing near the container with a whip and lashing those who tried to approach the dead body. And thus they finally buried Ruhollah Khomeini, whose given name meant "the soul of G.o.d."

The government, in a move to turn Khomeini into a sacred figure, tried to create a shrine for him close to the Behesht-e Zahra cemetery. It was hastily built, without taste or beauty: a country famous for some of the most beautiful mosques in the world now created the gaudiest shrine to this last imam. The monument was built close to the burial place of the martyrs of the revolution: a small fountain gushed sprays of red water, symbolizing the everlasting blood of the martyrs.

Khomeini's death carried its own illuminations. Some, like me, felt like aliens in their homeland. Others, like the taxi driver I came across a few weeks after the funeral, were disillusioned with the whole religious fraud, as he put it. Now I know how fourteen hundred years back they created the imams and prophets, he said-just like this guy. So none of it was true.

At the start of the revolution, a rumor had taken root that Khomeini's image could be seen in the moon. Many people, even perfectly modern and educated individuals, came to believe this. They had seen him in the moon. He had been a conscious mythmaker, and he had turned himself into a myth. What they mourned after a well-timed death-for after the defeat in the war and the disenchantment, all he could do was die-was the death of a dream. Like all great mythmakers, he had tried to fashion reality out of his dream, and in the end, like Humbert, he had managed to destroy both reality and his dream. Added to the crimes, to the murders and tortures, we would now face this last indignity-the murder of our dreams. Yet he had done this with our full compliance, our complete a.s.sent and complicity.

34.

I stray for no good reason to a dark and musty antique shop in downtown Tehran. I had gone to a street lined with secondhand stores in search of an old book to give Nima, who had recently brought me rare videos of an old television series popular before the revolution. When I entered the shop, the owner, sitting behind the counter, was too busy reading the morning paper to bother to glance at me.

As I browsed around the semi-lit room, lost in the objects scattered haphazardly on old wooden tables and shelves, my eyes fell on an odd-looking pair of scissors. They were beautifully handcrafted; one of the handles was much bigger than the other, and they were shaped like a rooster. The blades were blunter than those of ordinary scissors. I asked the shopkeeper what it was. He shrugged. I'm not sure-maybe for tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the mustache or beard. It probably came from somewhere in Europe, maybe Russia.

I don't know why I was so fascinated by this object, but I found it quite extraordinary that perhaps a hundred years ago this pair of scissors-or mustache trimmer, or whatever it was-had been brought over all the way from Europe to finally end up on an old table in the farthest reaches of this dusty shop. Yet so much work had gone into this quite dispensable object. I decided to buy it for my magician. I had a theory that some gifts should be bought for their own sake, exactly because they were useless. I was sure he would appreciate it, that he would be pleased to receive something he did not need, a luxury item that was not luxurious. Instead of buying something for Nima, I left with my rooster-headed scissors.

When I gave them to my magician with my explanation, he was making coffee and was seemingly so involved in his task that he did not respond. He carried the tray with two mugs and his box of chocolates to the table, and went into the library. A few moments later he returned with a leather-bound book, in solemn green with gold lettering. It was The Amba.s.sadors. The Amba.s.sadors. Since you bought me the gift you should have gotten Nima, I have a gift for him: tell him to reread the scene in Gloriani's garden. Your Nima sounds like a chap who needs to be reminded of things by someone such as myself. So why don't you ask him to reread that scene? Since you bought me the gift you should have gotten Nima, I have a gift for him: tell him to reread the scene in Gloriani's garden. Your Nima sounds like a chap who needs to be reminded of things by someone such as myself. So why don't you ask him to reread that scene?

In the book, my magician had marked two pa.s.sages. One was in the preface, where James mentions a famous and oft repeated scene as the "essence" of his novel; the other was the scene itself. It occurs at a party given by the famous sculptor Gloriani. Lambert Strether, the hero of the novel, tells a young painter, little Bilham, whom he has unofficially appointed as his spiritual heir: "Live all you can; it's a mistake not to. It doesn't so much matter what you do in particular so long as you have your life. If you haven't had that what have have you had? I'm too old-too old at any rate for what I see. What one loses one loses; make no mistake about that. Still, we have the illusion of freedom; therefore don't, like me to-day, be without the memory of that illusion. I was either, at the right time, too stupid or too intelligent to have it, and now I'm a case of reaction against the mistake. For it you had? I'm too old-too old at any rate for what I see. What one loses one loses; make no mistake about that. Still, we have the illusion of freedom; therefore don't, like me to-day, be without the memory of that illusion. I was either, at the right time, too stupid or too intelligent to have it, and now I'm a case of reaction against the mistake. For it was was a mistake. Live, live!" a mistake. Live, live!"

35.

We work in the dark-we do what we can-we give what we have. Our doubt is our pa.s.sion, and our pa.s.sion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.-Henry James It was early in the morning, the first cla.s.s of the day; the cla.s.sroom was filled with light. I was summing up James. Last time we talked about certain traits in James, how they appear in different characters and within different contexts, and today I want to talk about the word courage, courage, one that we bandy about a great deal these days in our own culture. one that we bandy about a great deal these days in our own culture.

There are different kinds of courage in James. Can you think of an example? Yes, Na.s.srin? The most obvious example is Daisy, Na.s.srin said. She pushed herself forward with an effort, tried to brush an imaginary strand of hair from her forehead and continued. Daisy tells Winterbourne at the very start not to be afraid. She means not to be afraid of conventions and traditions-that is one kind of courage.

Yes, I said encouragingly. Daisy is a good example, and then there are other characters, others whom we never credit with courage, because we never think of their kind as courageous; we think of them as meek. Mahshid's face lit up, and before she had bolstered the courage to raise her hand, I turned to her and said, Yes? The light withdrew from her face and she hesitated. Tell us, Mahshid, I insisted. Well, when you said "meek," I suddenly thought of Catherine. She is shy and retreating, not like Daisy, yet she stands up to all these characters, who are much more outgoing than her, and she faces up to them at a great cost. She has a different kind of courage from Daisy, but it is still courage. I . . .

It was at this point that we heard a commotion in the hall. I paid no attention to it. Over the years I had come to see such interference from outside the cla.s.s as part of the cla.s.s itself. One day, two janitors had walked in with two chairs and placed them in one corner. They left without a word and a few minutes later came back with two more chairs. Another time, a janitor with a crooked neck came in with a broom and started sweeping the floor while I continued to talk about Tom Jones Tom Jones and pretended not to notice him. and pretended not to notice him.

And then there is The Amba.s.sadors, The Amba.s.sadors, I continued, where we find several different kinds of courage, but the most courageous characters here are those with imagination, those who, through their imaginative faculty, can empathize with others. When you lack this kind of courage, you remain ignorant of others' feelings and needs. I continued, where we find several different kinds of courage, but the most courageous characters here are those with imagination, those who, through their imaginative faculty, can empathize with others. When you lack this kind of courage, you remain ignorant of others' feelings and needs.

Maria, the soul mate Strether finds in Paris, has "courage," while Mrs. Newsome has only "exultation." Madame de Vionnet, the beautiful Parisian whom Mrs. Newsome is determined to expel from her son's life, demonstrates courage when she risks all the known quant.i.ties of her life for the unknown quant.i.ty of her love for Chad. But Mrs. Newsome chooses to play it safe. Having imagined what everyone is like, having imagined their function and role, she refuses to change her formulations. She is a tyrant much in the way of a bad novelist, who shapes his characters according to his own ideology or desires and never allows them the s.p.a.ce to become themselves. It takes courage to die for a cause, but also to live for one.

I could tell by the restless movements of my students and their glances towards the door that they could not wholly concentrate on this most intriguing point, but I was determined to be undisturbed for as long as possible, so I continued. The most dictatorial character in the novel is the invisible Mrs. Newsome. If we want to learn about the essence of a dictatorial mind, we would do well to study her. Nima, could you please read the pa.s.sage where Strether describes her-" 'That is just her difficulty-' "

" 'That is just her difficulty-, that she doesn't admit surprises. It's a fact that, I think, describes and represents her . . . she's all, as I've called it, fine cold thought. She had, to her own mind, worked the whole thing out in advance, and worked it out for me as well as for herself. Wherever she has done that, you see, there's no room left; no margin, as it were, for any alteration. She's filled as full, packed as tight, as she'll hold. . . . I haven't touched her. She won't be be touched. I see it now as I've never done; and she hangs together with a perfection of her own . . . that does suggest a kind of wrong in touched. I see it now as I've never done; and she hangs together with a perfection of her own . . . that does suggest a kind of wrong in any any change of her composition.' " change of her composition.' "

By this time the disturbance outside had grown louder. There were sounds of feet running and people shouting. Miss Ruhi and Miss Hatef were now visibly agitated and whispered loudly, casting significant glances at the door. I sent them outside to find out what was happening, and tried to go on.

"Let us return to the quotation . . ." I was instantly interrupted by Miss Ruhi and her breathless mate, who stood on the threshold as if they did not intend to stay. They reported that a student had set fire to himself in an empty cla.s.sroom and had then started to run down the hall, shouting revolutionary slogans.

We all rushed out. From both sides of the long hall, students were running in the direction of the staircase. I found a place near the stairs, close to one of my colleagues. Three people were carrying a stretcher, trying to make their way through the crowd towards the stairs. From the way they were carrying the stretcher, their burden seemed light. On the stretcher, under a white sheet, I could make out a remarkably pink face, marked by patches of dark gray. A pair of black minstrel hands extended out motionless above the white sheet, creating the impression that they were trying to avoid contact with the sheet at all costs. Two huge black eyes seemed to be attached to the face by invisible wires. They appeared completely motionless, as if fixed on a scene of unbelievable horror, and yet, paradoxically, they also seemed to be roving, but from side to side. Of all the wild images of that morning, those roaming eyes have continued to haunt me.

The loudspeakers urged everyone to return to their cla.s.ses. No one moved. We were watching the pink face, the minstrel hands and the sooty eyes as they were carried down the staircase in what seemed like a spiral motion. The murmurs died down and rose again with the stretcher's approach and descent. It was one of those scenes which, while happening in front of one's eyes, have already acquired the quality not just of a dream, but of a memory of a dream.

As the stretcher moved down the stairs and out of sight, the murmurs became more articulate and clear. The almost magical creature on the stretcher became more tangible, acquired a background, a name, an ident.i.ty. This ident.i.ty was mainly impersonal. He had been one of the most active students in the Muslim Students' a.s.sociation. To say that he was "active" meant that he was one of the more fanatical. He belonged to the group responsible for the posters and slogans on the walls, the group that had authorized the notices at the entrances to the university listing the names of those who had transgressed the dress code.

I thought of him on that stretcher, going down the staircase, pa.s.sing the now irrelevant photographs of the war, pa.s.sing by Ayatollah Khomeini, who even after death was glaring down on the procession with his usual stern and impenetrable gaze and pa.s.sing his precious slogans about the war: WHETHER WE KILL OR ARE KLLED WE ARE VICTORIOUS! WE WILL FIGHT! WE WILL DIE! BUT WE WON'T ACCEPT COMPROMISE! WHETHER WE KILL OR ARE KLLED WE ARE VICTORIOUS! WE WILL FIGHT! WE WILL DIE! BUT WE WON'T ACCEPT COMPROMISE!

There were so many young men like him on all our campuses, those who had been very young at the beginning of the revolution, many from the provinces or from traditional families. Every year, more students were admitted to the universities based on their loyalty to the revolution. They belonged to the families of the Revolutionary Guards or the martyrs of the revolution and were called the "government's share." These were the children of the revolution, those who were to carry its legacy and eventually replace the Westernized workforce. The revolution must have meant many things to them-mainly power, and access. But they were also the usurpers, who had been admitted to the university and given power not because of their own merit or hard work but because of their ideological affiliations. This, neither they nor we could forget.

I went down the stairs, slowly this time, surrounded by a group of students who were talking excitedly among themselves. Who he was had already become an excuse for our remembrances, and our stories. My students spoke heatedly about the humiliations they had suffered at the hands of members of his organization. They repeated the story of another leader of the Muslim Students' a.s.sociation, one who had died during the war, who claimed to have been s.e.xually aroused by the sight of a white patch of skin peeking out from under a head scarf. Not even death could erase the memory of that white patch and the penalty the young girl had been made to pay for it.

There were no public articulations of these humiliations, so we took refuge in accidental occasions to weave our resentments and hatreds into little stories that lost their impact as soon as they were told. Of the injured student's background very little was known, and no one seemed to care. It dawned on me only much later that despite the precision with which I remembered all the stories related to him and his comrades, I could not remember his name. He had turned himself into a revolutionary, a martyr and a war veteran, but not an individual. Did he ever fall in love? Did he ever desire to hold one of those girls whose throats, under their black scarves, blazed so white?

Like many others at that university, I had climbed the stairs and walked the halls with resentment. Resentment had erased all ambiguity in our encounters with people like him; we had been polarized into "us" and "them." It did not occur to me or to my students and colleagues as we shared stories and anecdotes that day, like conspirators delighting in the setback of a far more powerful adversary, that he who seemingly wielded so much power was in fact the one with the strongest urge to self-destruction. Had he, by burning himself, usurped our right to revenge?

He who in life had been nothing to me in death had become an obsession. All we ever found out about his personal life was that he came from a poor family and that his only close relative was a very old mother, whom he supported. He had gone to the war as a volunteer. He had been sh.e.l.l-shocked and sent home early. Apparently, he never fully recovered. After "peace" with Iraq, he returned to the university. But the peace had created a sense of disillusionment. The excitement of the war was gone, and with that, many young revolutionaries had lost their power.

THIS WAR HAS BEEN A BLESSING FOR US! For us, it was a war that we never felt quite a part of. Yet for people like him, in a strange way the war must have been a blessing. It gave them a sense of community and purpose and power. He lost all that as soon as he returned from the front. His privilege and power meant nothing to him now, and his fellow Islamic students had already moved on. What must have gone through his mind when he saw that his old comrades were more eager to watch the Oscar celebrations, via forbidden satellite dishes, than clips from the war? He could deal with us, but what could he do with a Mr. Forsati, who had become as unfamiliar and as baffling to him as characters in a novel by Henry James? For us, it was a war that we never felt quite a part of. Yet for people like him, in a strange way the war must have been a blessing. It gave them a sense of community and purpose and power. He lost all that as soon as he returned from the front. His privilege and power meant nothing to him now, and his fellow Islamic students had already moved on. What must have gone through his mind when he saw that his old comrades were more eager to watch the Oscar celebrations, via forbidden satellite dishes, than clips from the war? He could deal with us, but what could he do with a Mr. Forsati, who had become as unfamiliar and as baffling to him as characters in a novel by Henry James?

I kept thinking of him coming early to the university with two full cans of gasoline-probably not searched, because he was a privileged war veteran. I see him going into an empty cla.s.sroom and pouring gasoline over his head. Next, he would have struck a match and slowly set fire to himself-did he light himself just once, or in several places? Then he ran down the hall and burst into his cla.s.sroom, shouting, "They betrayed us! They lied to us! Look at what they did to us!" And that was the last of his rhetoric.

One did not have to agree with him or approve of him to understand his position. He had returned from a war where he belonged to a university he had never been a part of. No one wanted to hear his stories. Only his moment of death could spark interest. It was ironic that this man, whose life had been so determined by doctrinal certainty, would now gain so much complexity in death.

He died that night. Did his comrades mourn him in private? Nothing was said about him-no commemoration, no flowers or speeches, in a country where funerals and mourning were more magnificently produced than any other national art form. I, who prided myself on speaking out against the veil or other forms of hara.s.sment, also kept quiet. Apart from the murmurs, the only thing out of the ordinary about that day was that the loudspeakers for some reason kept announcing in the halls that cla.s.ses would be held as usual that afternoon. We did have a cla.s.s that afternoon. It did not go on as usual.

PART IV.

Austen

1.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Muslim man, regardless of his fortune, must be in want of a nine-year-old virgin wife." So declared Ya.s.si in that special tone of hers, deadpan and mildly ironic, which on rare occasions, and this was one of them, bordered on the burlesque.

"Or is it a truth universally acknowledged," Manna shot back, "that a Muslim man must be in want not just of one but of many wives?" She glanced at me conspiratorially, her black eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with humor, knowing she would draw a reaction. Unlike Mahshid, Manna had a way of secretly communicating with the few people she liked. Her chief means of contact were her eyes, which she focused or withdrew from you. We had developed a hidden code between us and only when she felt offended-and she could easily be offended-would she lower and divert her gaze to one side, the playful inflections wiped from her words.

It was one of those cold, gray early-December mornings when the overcast sky and the chill in the air seem to promise snow. I had asked Bijan to light a fire before leaving for work, and it sparkled now with a soothing warmth. Cozy- Cozy-a word too common for Ya.s.si's usage-would be the right term for how we felt. All the necessary components were there: misty windows, steaming mugs of coffee, a crackling fire, languorous cream puffs, thick wool sweaters and the mingling smells of smoke, coffee and oranges. Ya.s.si was sprawled on the couch, in her usual place between Manna and Azin, making me wonder again how such a tiny body could take up so much s.p.a.ce. Azin's flirtatious laughter rang in the air, and even Mahshid bestowed upon us a hint of a smile. Na.s.srin had moved her chair near the fireplace, her restless hands tossing orange peels into the fire.

It was a tribute to the degree of intimacy that had developed among us that we could easily shift from light banter to serious discussions of the novels. What we had with all the writers, but especially with Austen, was fun. Sometimes we even went wild-we became childish and teasing and just plain enjoyed ourselves. How could one read the opening sentence of Pride and Prejudice Pride and Prejudice and not grasp that this was what Austen demanded of her readers? and not grasp that this was what Austen demanded of her readers?

That morning, we were waiting for Sanaz. Mitra, her dimples making a temporary appearance, had informed the cla.s.s that Sanaz wanted us to wait for her-she had a surprise. All our wild speculations were met with a reticent smile.

"Only two things could have happened," Azin speculated. "Another row with her brother and she's finally decided to leave home and move in with her wonderful aunt." She raised her hand with a tinkling of gold and silver bangles. "Or she's marrying her sweetheart."

"The sweetheart seems the more likely of the two," said Ya.s.si, straightening herself up a little, "judging by Mitra's expression."

Mitra's dimples widened, but she refused to respond to our provocation. Looking at her, I thought of her own recent marriage to Hamid; their furtive courtship must have taken place right under my unsuspecting nose. They had invited me to their wedding, but Mitra had never mentioned her relations with Hamid before then.

"Did you fall in love?" I had asked Mitra anxiously, causing Manna to say, "That boring question again." It was a joke among my friends and colleagues that I could never resist posing my obsessive question to married couples. "Did you fall in love?" I'd ask urgently and eagerly, provoking almost invariably an indulgent smile. Mitra blushed and said, "Well, yes, of course."

"But who is thinking about love these days?" said Azin with mock chast.i.ty. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and cl.u.s.ters of tiny turquoise beads trembled slightly on her ears as she turned her head. "The Islamic Republic has taken us back to Jane Austen's times. G.o.d bless the arranged marriage! Nowadays, girls marry either because their families force them, or to get green cards, or to secure financial stability, or for s.e.x-they marry for all kinds of reasons, but rarely for love."

I looked at Mahshid, who, although quiet, seemed to be saying, "Here we go again."

"And," Azin continued, reaching for her mug, "we're talking about educated girls-girls like us, us, who've gone to college, who one might think would have higher ambitions." who've gone to college, who one might think would have higher ambitions."

"Not all all of them," Mahshid said quietly, without looking at Azin. "Many women are independent. Look at how many businesswomen we have, and there are women who have chosen to live alone." Yes, and you are one of them, I thought, a studious working girl still living with her parents at thirty-two. of them," Mahshid said quietly, without looking at Azin. "Many women are independent. Look at how many businesswomen we have, and there are women who have chosen to live alone." Yes, and you are one of them, I thought, a studious working girl still living with her parents at thirty-two.

"But most don't have a choice," said Manna. "And I think we're way way behind Jane Austen's times." This was one of the few instances I can remember when Manna implicitly sided with Azin against Mahshid. "My mother could choose whom she wanted to marry. I had less choice, and my younger sister has even less," she concluded gloomily. behind Jane Austen's times." This was one of the few instances I can remember when Manna implicitly sided with Azin against Mahshid. "My mother could choose whom she wanted to marry. I had less choice, and my younger sister has even less," she concluded gloomily.

"How about a temporary marriage?" said Na.s.srin, rearranging the orange peels on her plate like pieces of a puzzle. "You seem to have forgotten our president's enlightened alternative." She was referring to an Islamic rule peculiar to Iran, according to which men could have four official wives and as many temporary wives as they wished. The logic behind this was that they had to satisfy their own needs when their wives were unavailable, or unable, to satisfy them. A man could enter into such a contract for as short a period as ten minutes or as long as ninety-nine years. President Rafsanjani, then honored with the t.i.tle of reformist, had proposed that young people should enter into temporary marriages. This angered both the reactionaries, who felt it was a shrewd move on the president's part to curry favor with the young, and the progressives, who were equally skeptical of the president's motives and, in addition, found it insulting, especially to women. Some went so far as to call the temporary marriage a sanctified form of prost.i.tution.

"I'm not in favor of the temporary marriage," said Mahshid. "But men are are weaker and weaker and do do have more s.e.xual needs. Besides," she added cautiously, "it's the girl's choice. She isn't forced into it." have more s.e.xual needs. Besides," she added cautiously, "it's the girl's choice. She isn't forced into it."

"The girl's choice?" said Na.s.srin with evident disgust. "You do do have funny notions of choice." have funny notions of choice."

Mahshid, lowering her eyes, did not respond.

"Some men, even the most educated," Na.s.srin continued fiercely, "think of this as progressive. I had to argue with a friend-a male male friend-that the only way he could convince me this was progressive was if the law gave women the same rights as men. You want to know how open-minded these men are? I'm not talking about the religious guys-no, the secular ones," she said, tossing another orange peel into the fire. "Just ask them about marriage. Talk about hypocrisy!" friend-that the only way he could convince me this was progressive was if the law gave women the same rights as men. You want to know how open-minded these men are? I'm not talking about the religious guys-no, the secular ones," she said, tossing another orange peel into the fire. "Just ask them about marriage. Talk about hypocrisy!"

"It's true that neither my mom nor my aunts married for love," Ya.s.si said, furrowing her brow, "but all all my uncles married for love. It's strange when you think about it. Where does that leave us-what sort of legacy, I mean? my uncles married for love. It's strange when you think about it. Where does that leave us-what sort of legacy, I mean?

"I suppose," she added, brightening up after a moment's reflection, "that if Austen were in our shoes, she'd say it's a truth universally acknowledged that a Muslim man, regardless of his fortune, must be in want of a nine-year-old virgin wife." And this was how we started our play on Austen's famous opening sentence-a temptation that almost every Austen reader must have felt at least once.

Our merrymaking was interrupted by the sound of the bell. Mahshid, who was closest to the door, said, I'll get it. We heard the street door close, steps on the stairs, a pause. Mahshid opened the front door to sounds of greetings and laughter. Sanaz came in, smiling radiantly. She was holding a big box of pastries. Why the pastries? I asked. It isn't your turn.

"Yes, but I have good news," she said mysteriously.

"Are you getting married?" Ya.s.si asked lazily from the depths of the couch.

"Let me sit down first," said Sanaz, taking off her long overcoat and woolen scarf. She tossed her head to one side, with the proud ease of women with beautiful hair, and p.r.o.nounced: "It's going to snow."

Would she apologize for being late, I wondered, even on this occasion, when she has such a good excuse and no one would blame her?

"I'm so sorry I'm late again," she said with a disarming smile that showed no sign of repentance.

"You usurped my rights," said Azin. "Being late is my specialty."

Sanaz wanted to defer her news until the break. Our rule was that the personal narratives that were increasingly creeping into our Thursday session should not interfere with cla.s.s. But in this case, even I was too excited to wait.

"It was all done very quickly," Sanaz explained, caving in to our demands. Suddenly, out of the blue, he had called and asked her to marry him-said something about running out of time. He told her he had already talked to his parents, who had talked to her parents (without asking her first, I noted in pa.s.sing). They were delighted, and since he couldn't come to Iran because of the draft, perhaps she and her family could come to Turkey? Iranians didn't need a visa for Turkey, and the trip could be arranged quickly. She was dumbfounded. It was something she'd always expected, but somehow she couldn't believe it was actually happening. "Your fire is almost out," she said, interrupting herself. "I'm really good with fires. Let me fix it." She added some logs to the languishing fire and poked at it with energy. A long flame leapt out and died just as quickly.

At the start of the twentieth century, the age of marriage in Iran-nine, according to sharia laws-was changed to thirteen and then later to eighteen. My mother had chosen whom she wanted to marry and she had been one of the first six women elected to Parliament in 1963. When I was growing up, in the 1960s, there was little difference between my rights and the rights of women in Western democracies. But it was not the fashion then to think that our culture was not compatible with modern democracy, that there were Western and Islamic versions of democracy and human rights. We all wanted opportunities and freedom. That is why we supported revolutionary change-we were demanding more more rights, not fewer. rights, not fewer.

I married, on the eve of the revolution, a man I loved. At that time, Mahshid, Na.s.srin, Manna and Azin were in their teens, Sanaz and Mitra were a few years younger and Ya.s.si was two years old. By the time my daughter was born five years later, the laws had regressed to what they had been before my grandmother's time: the first law to be repealed, months before the ratification of a new const.i.tution, was the family-protection law, which guaranteed women's rights at home and at work. The age of marriage was lowered to nine-eight and a half lunar years, we were told; adultery and prost.i.tution were to be punished by stoning to death; and women, under law, were considered to have half the worth of men. Sharia law replaced the existing system of jurisprudence and became the norm. My youthful years had witnessed the rise of two women to the rank of cabinet minister. After the revolution, these same two women were sentenced to death for the sins of warring with G.o.d and spreading prost.i.tution. One of them, the minister for women's affairs, had been abroad at the time of revolution and remained in exile, where she became a leading spokesperson for women's rights and human rights. The other, the minister of education and my former high school princ.i.p.al, was put in a sack and stoned or shot to death. These girls, my girls, would in time come to think of these women with reverence and hope: if we'd had women like this in the past, there was no reason why we couldn't have them in the future.

Our society was far more advanced than its new rulers, and women, regardless of their religious and ideological beliefs, had come out onto the streets to protest the new laws. They had tasted power and were not about to give it up without a fight. It was then that the myth of Islamic feminism-a contradictory notion, attempting to reconcile the concept of women's rights with the tenets of Islam-took root. It enabled the rulers to have their cake and eat it too: they could claim to be progressive and Islamic, while modern women were denounced as Westernized, decadent and disloyal. They needed us modern men and women to show them the way, but they also had to keep us in our place.

What differentiated this revolution from the other totalitarian revolutions of the twentieth century was that it came in the name of the past: this was both its strength and its weakness. We, four generations of women-my grandmother, my mother, myself and my daughter-lived in the present but also in the past; we were experiencing two different time zones simultaneously. Interesting, I thought, how war and revolution have made us even more aware of our own personal ordeals-especially marriage, at the heart of which was the question of individual freedom, as Jane Austen had discovered two centuries before. She She had discovered it, I reflected, but what about us, sitting in this room, in another country at the end of another century? had discovered it, I reflected, but what about us, sitting in this room, in another country at the end of another century?

Sanaz's nervous laughter brought me out of my reverie. "I'm so scared," she said, her right hand going to her brow to push back an absent strand of hair. "Up till now, marrying him has been sort of a dream, something to think about when I was fighting with my brother. I never knew-I still don't know-how it would all work out in real life."

Sanaz was worried about the trip to Turkey and what it would be like to see him again. "What if he doesn't like me?" she said. She did not ask, What if I I don't like him? or, What if don't like him? or, What if we we don't get along? Would her brother become more vicious and her mother more depressed? Would her mother, with her martyr's look, make Sanaz feel guilty, as if she had failed her on purpose? These were serious questions for Sanaz. It was hard to tell if she was going to Turkey to please the others or because she was in love. This was my problem with Sanaz-one never knew what she really wanted. don't get along? Would her brother become more vicious and her mother more depressed? Would her mother, with her martyr's look, make Sanaz feel guilty, as if she had failed her on purpose? These were serious questions for Sanaz. It was hard to tell if she was going to Turkey to please the others or because she was in love. This was my problem with Sanaz-one never knew what she really wanted.

"After six years, G.o.d knows what he'll be like," said Na.s.srin, absentmindedly rotating the coffee mug in her hands. I looked at her with some concern, as I almost always did when our talks turned to marriage and men. I couldn't help but wonder how she dealt with her buried memories. Did she compare herself with her friends who were free of such experiences? And were were they free of such experiences? they free of such experiences?

Sanaz glanced at Na.s.srin reproachfully. Did she really need to hear this now? At any rate, going to Turkey would be good for her, even if it didn't work out. At least she'd get him out of her system.

"Do you love him?" I asked her, trying to ignore the girls' sardonic smiles. "You'll always be taking a risk when you decide to marry, but the question is, Do you love him now now?"

"I loved him when I was very young," Sanaz said slowly, too excited to partic.i.p.ate in their joke. "I don't know anymore. I've always loved the idea of him, but he's been away for so long. He's had so many chances to meet other women. . . . What chance have I had of meeting other men? My aunt says I don't have to say yes or no. She says if we want to find out how we really feel about each other, we should meet in Turkey alone. alone. We should spend some time together without our families' interfering presence." We should spend some time together without our families' interfering presence."

"What an unusually wise aunt," I said, unable to stop myself from breaking in like a referee. "She's right, you know."

Mahshid raised her eyes in my direction for a fraction of a second before lowering them again. Azin, quickly catching Mahshid's look, said, "I agree with Dr. Nafisi. You'd be wise to try to live together for a while before making any decisions."

Mahshid decided not to take the bait, and remained demurely silent. Was it my imagination or did she cast a reproachful glance in my direction as she lowered her eyes, fixing them once more on an imperceptible spot in the carpet?

"The first thing you should do to test your compatibility," said Na.s.srin, "is dance with him."

At first we were puzzled by her statement, which seemed far-fetched even for Na.s.srin. It took me a second before I grasped her meaning. But of course! She was referring to the Dear Jane Society we'd invented in my last year at Allameh! The idea for that society-defunct even before it started-had begun with a memorable dance.

2.

I see it now as if through the large window of a house in the middle of an empty garden. I've pressed my face to the window, and here they come: five women, all in black robes and head scarves. As each pa.s.ses by the window, I can begin to differentiate their faces; one is standing and watching the other four. They are not graceful; they b.u.mp into one another and into the chairs. They are boisterous in a peculiarly subdued manner.

In my graduate seminar that spring, I had compared the structure of Pride and Prejudice Pride and Prejudice to an eighteenth-century dance. After cla.s.s, some of the girls had stayed behind to talk this over-they were confused by what I'd meant. I thought it best to explain myself by going over the motions of the dance with them. Close your eyes and imagine the dance, I suggested. Imagine you are moving back and forth; it would help if you could imagine that the man standing opposite you was the incomparable Mr. Darcy, or maybe not-whoever is on your mind, imagine him. I heard a giggle from one of the girls. Suddenly hit by inspiration, I took Na.s.srin's reluctant hands and started to dance with her, one-two and one-two. Then I asked the others to form a line, and pretty soon we were all dancing, our long black robes twirling as we b.u.mped into one another and into the chairs. to an eighteenth-century dance. After cla.s.s, some of the girls had stayed behind to talk this over-they were confused by what I'd meant. I thought it best to explain myself by going over the motions of the dance with them. Close your eyes and imagine the dance, I suggested. Imagine you are moving back and forth; it would help if you could imagine that the man standing opposite you was the incomparable Mr. Darcy, or maybe not-whoever is on your mind, imagine him. I heard a giggle from one of the girls. Suddenly hit by inspiration, I took Na.s.srin's reluctant hands and started to dance with her, one-two and one-two. Then I asked the others to form a line, and pretty soon we were all dancing, our long black robes twirling as we b.u.mped into one another and into the chairs.

They stand opposite their partners, give a slight bow, step forward, touch hands and twirl. I say, Now, as you touch hands, look into each other's eyes; okay, let's see how much of a conversation you can hold. Say something to each other. They can barely keep their faces straight. Mojgan says, The trouble is we all want to be Elizabeth and Darcy. I don't mind being Jane, says Na.s.srin-I always wanted to be the most beautiful. We need a Mr. Collins. Come on, Mahshid, won't you enjoy stepping on my toes? Mahshid demurs. I've never danced in my life, she says awkwardly. This is one dance you needn't worry about, I said. In fact as your professor, I command you to do it. As part of your homework, I added, and it was one of the rare times I actually enjoyed my authority. Forward, backwards, pause, turn, turn, you have to harmonize your steps with the rest in the set, that's the whole point; you are mainly concerned with yourself and your partner but also with all the others-you can't be out of step with them. Well, yes, that is the difficult part, but for Miss Eliza Bennet it comes naturally.