Read Online Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) by Marina Nemat - Free Book Online
Authors: Marina Nemat
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neighbors was probably making dinner. Sarah had a house key because both her parents worked and didn’t return home until later in the day. She opened the door, and we stepped in her yard. On our right, a small flower bed overflowed with the reds, greens, and purples of geraniums and pansies.
I secretly wished to live in a house like Sarah’s. Her mother, who worked at the bank and always wore elegant suits and very high-heeled shiny black shoes, was a small, round woman with short black hair. She hugged me whenever I went for a visit, telling me how wonderful it was to have me over. Sarah’s father was an engineer and a big man, who always told funny jokes, laughed loudly, and recited beautiful old poems. Sarah’s only brother, Sirus, was twelve, three years older than Sarah and me, and, unlike the rest of his family, was very shy. Sarah’s house was always colored with noise and laughter.
I gave Sarah the pencil box, and she gave me the money. Then I called my mother and told her that I was at Sarah’s to help her with homework. My mother didn’t mind. I thanked Sarah and ran to the bookstore to find it as dark, dusty, and mysterious as my first visit. Again, the old man emerged from the darkness.
“Let me guess: you couldn’t understand a word, and now you want your money back,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
“No. I read it twice, and I loved it! I didn’t understand a few words, but I used my father’s dictionary. I’m here to buy the second book of the series. Do you have it? I sold my pencil box and my scented eraser to my friend, Sarah, so I have enough money this time.”
The old man stared at me and didn’t move. My heart sank. Maybe he didn’t have the second book.
“So, do you have it?”
“Yes, I do. But…you don’t have to pay for it; you can borrow it if you promise to take good care of it and return it when you have read it. Twice.”
I thought of my angel. Maybe he was pretending to be an old man. I looked into the old man’s eyes, and they seemed almost as dark, deep, and kind as the angel’s eyes. I looked at the book; it was Prince Caspian.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Marina. What’s your name?”
“Albert,” he answered.
Hmm. An angel named Albert.
From that day on, I went to visit Albert and to borrow books from him at least once a week.
I went to junior high at the age of eleven. At the time, the government funded all schools and universities in Iran, but some schools had proven themselves better than others, and Anooshiravan-eh Dadgar, which was a Zoroastrian junior high and high school for girls, was one of them. My parents didn’t choose this school for me because it was one of the best but simply because it was close to our apartment.
Zoroastrians follow the teachings of their prophet Zarathushtra. Born in Persia almost three thousand years ago, he invited people to believe in the one and only God: Ahura Mazda. During my time at the school, the majority of students were either Zoroastrians or Muslims, but there were also Bahais, Jews, and only three or four Christians.
The high ceilings and many windows of the school’s forty-year-old main building made it feel very spacious. The long hallways seemed endless, and two wide stairways connected the first floor to the second. Two-story pillars stood on both sides of the main entrance, above which, in large letters, it read: Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds—the main motto of the Zoroastrian faith. We had a separate gym building with basketball and volleyball courts, and tall brick walls surrounded the paved schoolyard.
For three years, my visits to Albert’s bookstore were the highlight of my life. Albert had read all the hundreds of books that were piled up in his store, knew exactly where each one of them was located, and loved to talk about them. He had a wife and a son and told me that his son, who was married and had two boys, had moved to America two years earlier. The Christmas after we
I secretly wished to live in a house like Sarah’s. Her mother, who worked at the bank and always wore elegant suits and very high-heeled shiny black shoes, was a small, round woman with short black hair. She hugged me whenever I went for a visit, telling me how wonderful it was to have me over. Sarah’s father was an engineer and a big man, who always told funny jokes, laughed loudly, and recited beautiful old poems. Sarah’s only brother, Sirus, was twelve, three years older than Sarah and me, and, unlike the rest of his family, was very shy. Sarah’s house was always colored with noise and laughter.
I gave Sarah the pencil box, and she gave me the money. Then I called my mother and told her that I was at Sarah’s to help her with homework. My mother didn’t mind. I thanked Sarah and ran to the bookstore to find it as dark, dusty, and mysterious as my first visit. Again, the old man emerged from the darkness.
“Let me guess: you couldn’t understand a word, and now you want your money back,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
“No. I read it twice, and I loved it! I didn’t understand a few words, but I used my father’s dictionary. I’m here to buy the second book of the series. Do you have it? I sold my pencil box and my scented eraser to my friend, Sarah, so I have enough money this time.”
The old man stared at me and didn’t move. My heart sank. Maybe he didn’t have the second book.
“So, do you have it?”
“Yes, I do. But…you don’t have to pay for it; you can borrow it if you promise to take good care of it and return it when you have read it. Twice.”
I thought of my angel. Maybe he was pretending to be an old man. I looked into the old man’s eyes, and they seemed almost as dark, deep, and kind as the angel’s eyes. I looked at the book; it was Prince Caspian.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Marina. What’s your name?”
“Albert,” he answered.
Hmm. An angel named Albert.
From that day on, I went to visit Albert and to borrow books from him at least once a week.
I went to junior high at the age of eleven. At the time, the government funded all schools and universities in Iran, but some schools had proven themselves better than others, and Anooshiravan-eh Dadgar, which was a Zoroastrian junior high and high school for girls, was one of them. My parents didn’t choose this school for me because it was one of the best but simply because it was close to our apartment.
Zoroastrians follow the teachings of their prophet Zarathushtra. Born in Persia almost three thousand years ago, he invited people to believe in the one and only God: Ahura Mazda. During my time at the school, the majority of students were either Zoroastrians or Muslims, but there were also Bahais, Jews, and only three or four Christians.
The high ceilings and many windows of the school’s forty-year-old main building made it feel very spacious. The long hallways seemed endless, and two wide stairways connected the first floor to the second. Two-story pillars stood on both sides of the main entrance, above which, in large letters, it read: Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds—the main motto of the Zoroastrian faith. We had a separate gym building with basketball and volleyball courts, and tall brick walls surrounded the paved schoolyard.
For three years, my visits to Albert’s bookstore were the highlight of my life. Albert had read all the hundreds of books that were piled up in his store, knew exactly where each one of them was located, and loved to talk about them. He had a wife and a son and told me that his son, who was married and had two boys, had moved to America two years earlier. The Christmas after we
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