on the floor provided the dim light for the room. A bottle of red wine, two half-full glasses, sweets and pastries were meticulously arranged on the floor near the mat. Presumably, it should have been a romantic atmosphere; instead, it was depressing, but the safest place Fatemeh could find. Nousheen, the “Senator Maker,” as she was famous among her friends and foes during the Shah's regime, remained one of Fatemeh's few devout admirers. She was well known for her connections in high places, and her ability to obtain lucrative positions in government for people who could afford the price before the revolution. She was in her late forties, bony-faced, tall and slender, with melon-sized implanted breasts, smooth brown skin and bleached-blonde hair. Having been married to several wealthy men and amicably divorced, she was quite wealthy before the revolution. But now it was all confiscated, leaving her only this apartment and some cash, which she had stashed away long before the Revolutionary Guards searched her home. She had decided to remain in the country, thinking that things would change soon and that everything would go back to “normal,” like it had in 1953.
“I know Persians,” she would often say with certainty. “They love to have fun, big-time fun. They will soon get tired of this stinking situation – no drinks, no gambling, no sex and all the other bullshit they're so fond of. Mark my words! There are no hornier men in the world than Persian men. A few more months of this government and people will go crazy and start to rape each other, or they’ll make another revolution and bring back my darling Shah.”
Fatemeh rested her head on a pillow and stared at the flame of a candle, fluttering, dancing to the streams of air caused by Nousheen's movements around the room. She sighed when the images of the dancing flame reminded her of herself, many years ago, when she was only four or five year old untroubled child, seizing and cherishing any opportunity to dance. Her past marched lazily through her mind; there were times containing sparks of happiness, way back in her childhood, when things were innocent, and her needs were so simple. She sighed again.
“You need this before your long trip,” Nousheen said as she prepared “things” for smoking taryak. She continued her narrative as if she were talking to herself. “This is a soul soother, kills the pain. It can heal the sores, old scars, the ones with scabs. It makes you young again, sweet sixteen again, with all the juices that come with it. It puts you on good terms with this stinking world. It’ll help you to find your rhythms and rhymes again. Come on, you may not find this golden type in America. I heard they've nothing but that brown Afghani crap over there. There we are! Let me get it ready for you. It's gonna lift you from this hell like a butterfly and put you smack-dab in the middle of paradise.” Nousheen kept talking with great reverence, as if those words were lyrics composed for the joyous melody appropriate for that ritual. She continued volubly sharing her thoughts with Fatemeh. “I'll be with you all the way. We'll sing and dance together in the clouds. Come on. Get ready, baby.”
Sitting on the mat across from Fatemeh, she heated a piece of taryak and stuck it on the ceramic end of a pipe. She picked up a piece of bright red charcoal with brass nippers and held it close to the taryak while she sucked the other end, inhaling the smoke. She released the blue smoke through her nose, held her breath for a moment, and finally exhaled the rest.
“The miracle maker is ready now,” she said while offering the pipe to Fatemeh. “I'll hold the charcoal for you. Go right ahead, suck on it. It's good for you. It barricades you against all the shit that exists out there.”
Fatemeh sucked and inhaled the smoke several times. It soon affected her, with sedation slowly running through her veins, traveling and penetrating her arms and legs. A calm and velvety sensation touched her skin, allover, embraced her raw nerves, and then swaddled her like a newly born infant. Detaching from her present miseries, she gradually began to drift away. It did indeed put her on better terms with her intolerably evil world, for her devils were transformed into angels, and pieces of her miserable memories fled with each ticking second of the night. Taryak’s sedation covered her with a thick layer of mist and painted a Shangri-la in her mind. Her heart changed its rhythm, as if it were the crystal clear heart of a five-year-old child, clear of all her accumulated sorrows and pain. Her wholeness, lost in the maze of her past, moved slowly, cutting through many years and many layers of shame, regrets and guilt and found their way back to her.
Nousheen continued the process by sticking another piece on the pipe, smoking it several times, then passing it on to Fatemeh. When the silky-soft claws of opium crawled over their bodies and they were both completely sedated, Nousheen lay next to her. She caressed Fatemeh's hair then her face, gently. With her eyes closed, Fatemeh willfully replaced Nousheen with her mother in her mind, imagining that it was Esmat’s hand caressing her so softly.
“I ... I never thought I would say this,” Fatemeh said in a whisper that had traces of sadness.
“Say what?” Nousheen asked.
“I miss my mother ... I really do,” she sighed.
“Of course you do. We all do.”
“I never liked her when she was alive. But now, I wish things could go back to what they were then. I wish I could be with her, in that small room of ours, and dance for her. We were poor, had nothing, but now, I know we had everything.”
“Don’t think about the past. It’s all gone.”
“The past is the only thing I’ve got,” she said and sighed again.
It was way past midnight. The lonely owl was now perched somewhere in his nest and had fallen silent by the time Nousheen and Fatemeh dozed off, drifting in and out of a twilight zone. They became weightless, particle-like, floating among the seventh heaven’s white plump clouds, flying, soaring, until fear vanished from their hearts and pain left their souls.
Chapter Eight
Fatemeh opened her eyes slightly around quarter past one o'clock in the afternoon. She rubbed her eyes, trying to break through the thick cobwebs in her mind spun by the taryak’s spider the night before. She looked at the clock on the mantel and said, “Ohhh ... my ... God, I'm going to miss my plane.” The words were coming out of her mouth in very slow intervals. She was still heavily under the influence of taryak, with not much control of her limbs and arms. Nousheen struggled to help her dress. While Fatemeh scrambled to put on her panties, Nousheen reached over and placed a bundle of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in plastic over her pubic hair and said, “That's the safest place.”
“What's that?” Fatemeh asked.
“That's ten-thousand dollars for you,” Nousheen responded casually.
“I don't know what to say,” said Fatemeh.
“Then don't say anything.”
“But ...”
“What?”
“Do you really think where you put the money is the safest place?” Fatemeh asked with a smile, pointing to her pubic area.
“Ohh, that!”
“That’s where every ugly guard or filthy mullah likes to put his hand first,” Fatemeh said and burst out laughing. They laughed, but a lump in Fatemeh’s throat grew larger and her eyes moistened, it finally broke under the influence of her untimely laughter, a laughter that was only a sad deep crying, and streams of tears rolled over her cheeks. Fatemeh kissed Nousheen’s lips gently, conveying her true gratitude and love, like a heartbroken daughter kisses her mother. Fatemeh then pointed out her bulging panties and let out a laugh, not the icy cold laughter of recent months, but a genuine joyous one. She then put on black pants and a long black dress. She covered her entire
