Read Online Censoring an Iranian Love Story by Shahriar Mandanipour - Free Book Online Page A

higher, and by doing so attracts even greater attention and graver danger. In Iran, any action, innovation, or even noncliché art that is not based on our traditions or on our so-called modern traditions attracts the greatest threats, attacks, and hatred from all fronts. It is at this very moment that Sara again hears:
    “Sara! Leave this place …”
    Aggravated by the pestering hunchback, Sara once more peers behind the fence. There is nothing there but the trunks of the old sycamore and cypress trees of the university campus … Then she hears:
    “I’m Dara …”
    Sara looks to her left and sees a young man standing three steps away leaning against the short stone wall and looking in the opposite direction from her. Dara, without turning to face her, says:
    “What are you doing? Everyone here belongs to some political group. They’re looking out for one another. You on your own are in more danger than anyone else …”
    Now our love story is slowly approaching its first incident.
    Dara continues to talk to Sara in a way that no one will notice.
    “Please throw away your sign. Let’s leave this place.”
    Sara, confused, with her eyes brimming with tears, has still not clearly seen Dara’s face. She sees him pass in front of her. She realizes that as he walks by he takes the sign from her hand and throws it behind the university fence. And then she hears:
    “Please follow me at a distance …”
    Mesmerized, Sara begins to walk ten steps behind Dara. She’s not scared of losing him in the crowd; she is certain he is keeping an eye on her. They leave behind the anger and chaos of Liberty Street. The dust of decay from flying carpets hovers in the sky above Tehran …
    Finally, Dara stops in front of the ruins of a movie theater that years ago, during the days of the revolution, was burned down. Sara involuntarily stops next to him. Dara has a brand-new beautiful handkerchief that his late grandmother had given him as a keepsake. He doesn’t know why he always carries it with him. And all I know is that this handkerchief will play a key role in my story, just like Chekhov’s gun hanging on the wall. The edge of the white silk handkerchief is embroidered with delicate red roses. Sara dries her eyes with it, and in this magnificent moment, for the very first time, she sees Dara’s face … which in our story is a kind and gentle face. A high forehead, thick eyebrows, large black eyes, thirsty curved lips, teeth as lustrous as pearls from Bahrain, and ebony-colored hair with locks tousled on his brow.
    I am teasing you. My story’s Dara doesn’t look like this at all. If you are really interested in picturing his face, then set your imagination in motion. As a hint, I can tell you that in this novel Dara has a hazy face.
    And for the very first time in this universe, their eyes meet.
    It is right here that I, the writer, run into a few snags. In all probability, at this very moment, Mr. Petrovich’s exactitude has heightened, and he will immediately underline the phrase “their eyes meet.” My second problem is that even in front of the ruins of a movie theater that is not playing any romantic film, a few blocks away from which political demonstrations are under way, an Iranian boy and girl cannot simply stand on the sidewalk and stare into each other’s eyes; chances are the patrol from the Campaign Against Social Corruption will arrest them.
    My one hundred and first problem—I still don’t know what the third to the hundredth problems are—is that Sara and Dara are not familiar with those opening lines of dialogue between a man and a woman that throughout the world and in all love stories are identical and equally tedious. Even if they are familiar with Danielle Steel’s novels and their Iranian equivalents, at this moment those clichéd discourses seem dull and idiotic … You may not believe me, but it is true that many of Danielle Steel’s novels have been translated into Farsi and together with