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Authors: André Dubus III
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and it is all your fault, Behrani! Our country is ruined because of you, you and your SAVAK friends!
It was then I hit my wife very hard across the face with my open hand and she fell to the floor and lay there crying, “Man meekham bemiram.” I want to die, she wept. I want to die.
Of course I would not have let her stay upon the carpet in that fashion if our son was in the home, but Esmail was playing in the streets with his young French friends, so I allowed Nadereh to lie upon her face and weep. Because she was quite wrong of my involvement with the secret police, SAVAK. I had very little to do with any of their affairs. And of course she before never complained of all our privileges; she never complained of the maids and soldiers she used for the upkeep of our home; she never complained of the skiing trips in the mountains to the north, or of our bungalow there overlooking the Caspian in Chahloose; she never complained of the fine gowns she was able to wear at the parties of generals and judges and lawyers and famous actors and singers; she never complained when on a Sunday afternoon I would order Bahman to drive our family to the finest movie house in Tehran and of course there would be a long queue of people waiting, but I was dressed in my uniform so we never waited, we never even paid; we were ushered up to the balcony reserved for the Very Important People, away from the crowd. And yes, I often saw fear behind the smiles of these theater managers as they bowed and led us personally to our seats, and yes, no one waiting upon the sidewalk outdoors dared make a complaint I may hear; but there was no blood on my fingers. I purchased fighter jets. I was not with SAVAK.
But there were moments in my career I had spent time with these men. In the final years, every Thursday evening, five or six of we senior officers would meet at General Pourat’s home for vodka and mastvakhiar. And how I have wished for that sort of company today. At the high-rise of pooldar Persians in Berkeley I attempted to organize some of the men together for an occasional evening, but these young doctors and engineers have spent so many of their years being educated in the west they do not even know the proper way to drink with each other like men; they do not know that the oldest and most experienced in the room is the saghi, that he, and only he, holds the vodka bottle and he will fill, or not fill, those cups around him. Each Thursday evening at Pourat’s, he, of course, was the saghi. In his large home a soldier would escort us to the den where we gentlemen would remove our shoes at the doorway, and we would sit in a circle on the dark red carpet from Tabriz. In winter, there was a fire burning in the tall stone fireplace behind us. Two or three musicians and a singer would stand in the far corner softly playing songs more than a thousand years old and still only a third as old as our country. Hanging on the east wall was a long woven tapestry of Hazrat Abbas and his holy companions charging down the sand hill of Karbala, racing to the thousands of enemy soldiers who would yield them to martyrdom.
And in front of each of us was placed a small earthen cup, relics from Pourat’s family in Isfahan. A box of long Havana cigars lay closed, for we never smoked until our host did first, nor did we dip our two fingers into the chaser, as Americans might call it, the bowl of mastvakhiar—that wonderful sour yogurt mixed with bits of cucumber—that moment would not come until after our first drink of cold Russian vodka, which Pourat would pour as soon as he entered in a smoking jacket, silk pants, and fine Parisian socks. He was a handsome man, khosh teep, and bald with wide shoulders and a flat belly. Of course we would stand, but Pourat would wave us back to the floor and he would make a joke about one of us, something he may have heard that week at Mehrabad, and we always laughed at Pourat’s jokes, not out of respect, but because he was
It was then I hit my wife very hard across the face with my open hand and she fell to the floor and lay there crying, “Man meekham bemiram.” I want to die, she wept. I want to die.
Of course I would not have let her stay upon the carpet in that fashion if our son was in the home, but Esmail was playing in the streets with his young French friends, so I allowed Nadereh to lie upon her face and weep. Because she was quite wrong of my involvement with the secret police, SAVAK. I had very little to do with any of their affairs. And of course she before never complained of all our privileges; she never complained of the maids and soldiers she used for the upkeep of our home; she never complained of the skiing trips in the mountains to the north, or of our bungalow there overlooking the Caspian in Chahloose; she never complained of the fine gowns she was able to wear at the parties of generals and judges and lawyers and famous actors and singers; she never complained when on a Sunday afternoon I would order Bahman to drive our family to the finest movie house in Tehran and of course there would be a long queue of people waiting, but I was dressed in my uniform so we never waited, we never even paid; we were ushered up to the balcony reserved for the Very Important People, away from the crowd. And yes, I often saw fear behind the smiles of these theater managers as they bowed and led us personally to our seats, and yes, no one waiting upon the sidewalk outdoors dared make a complaint I may hear; but there was no blood on my fingers. I purchased fighter jets. I was not with SAVAK.
But there were moments in my career I had spent time with these men. In the final years, every Thursday evening, five or six of we senior officers would meet at General Pourat’s home for vodka and mastvakhiar. And how I have wished for that sort of company today. At the high-rise of pooldar Persians in Berkeley I attempted to organize some of the men together for an occasional evening, but these young doctors and engineers have spent so many of their years being educated in the west they do not even know the proper way to drink with each other like men; they do not know that the oldest and most experienced in the room is the saghi, that he, and only he, holds the vodka bottle and he will fill, or not fill, those cups around him. Each Thursday evening at Pourat’s, he, of course, was the saghi. In his large home a soldier would escort us to the den where we gentlemen would remove our shoes at the doorway, and we would sit in a circle on the dark red carpet from Tabriz. In winter, there was a fire burning in the tall stone fireplace behind us. Two or three musicians and a singer would stand in the far corner softly playing songs more than a thousand years old and still only a third as old as our country. Hanging on the east wall was a long woven tapestry of Hazrat Abbas and his holy companions charging down the sand hill of Karbala, racing to the thousands of enemy soldiers who would yield them to martyrdom.
And in front of each of us was placed a small earthen cup, relics from Pourat’s family in Isfahan. A box of long Havana cigars lay closed, for we never smoked until our host did first, nor did we dip our two fingers into the chaser, as Americans might call it, the bowl of mastvakhiar—that wonderful sour yogurt mixed with bits of cucumber—that moment would not come until after our first drink of cold Russian vodka, which Pourat would pour as soon as he entered in a smoking jacket, silk pants, and fine Parisian socks. He was a handsome man, khosh teep, and bald with wide shoulders and a flat belly. Of course we would stand, but Pourat would wave us back to the floor and he would make a joke about one of us, something he may have heard that week at Mehrabad, and we always laughed at Pourat’s jokes, not out of respect, but because he was
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