Exiles in America(160)
Why did she go? Did he bully her into going? Or did she do it just to keep
their family together? Was it out of love for their son? Or love of him?”
Daniel was silent for a long time, as if embarrassed by the subject. Then he
said, “I hope you never do anything so crazy for me. Because it is crazy. It’s
stupid. It’s masochistic. All right. Maybe you would do it. But I couldn’t. To
be honest. I’d never sacrifice my freedom to be with you like that. Sorry. But
that’s how I am.”
Zack continued to face the screen. “I’m not so sure I could do it for you.
But I sure as hell don’t want you to do anything like that for me. No. It’s not
the kind of love I want.”
Right now there are readers saying to themselves: How self-indulgent.
People are dying in Iraq and two men sit in front of the TV and try to talk
about their “relationship.” A different kind of reader is thinking: Forget Iraq.
These men should turn away from the outside world, turn off the TV, and
focus on their own messy lives, their own troubles, which they should con-
front head-on instead of discussing indirectly.
These are justified charges, and I don’t know what to say in response ex-
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cept: So how do you live your life? Do you selflessly lose yourself in others, escaping the trap of self in good works or politics? Or do you cultivate your own
private garden, an oasis of perfect love and honesty in a world you couldn’t
change even if you wanted to? You probably don’t take either route. You live
in both worlds, like we all do.
So how do you balance the two? Do you succeed in both? Do you succeed
in either? Are you always honest with yourself and your spouse or partner or
lover? Do you know what to say? Do you know when to stop talking? Are you
really that much smarter than Zack and Daniel?
I’m not being sarcastic. I’m just asking.
Because I don’t know how to do it myself. I don’t have an answer here. I’m
in the dark with Zack and Daniel.
47
We quarreled fiercely, openly, often. We fought every night for
weeks until, finally, one night, I said, I am sick of fighting, I will go.
And we packed our things before we could change our minds. We woke the
children and went out to the car in the dark cold. We drove north toward
Canada, into colder, whiter landscapes, while I thought: I am making a terri-
ble mistake.
We flew first to Frankfurt and caught the night plane to Tehran. We ar-
rived early in the morning, flying over a gray city—as ugly as the cement cities
of my Iron Curtain childhood. There were miles and miles of squat, square
buildings under a polluted, henna-colored sky. A new friend who once lived
in California (we are not the only returnees) says Tehran is Los Angeles with
twice the traffic and mosques instead of carwashes. She also says nobody ever
smiles here, which isn’t true, but people said the same of the Soviet union .
Our problem was our eyeglasses were crude, and so we always squinted.
There is a squint here as well, but that’s a different matter. Hassan was wait-
ing at the airport with Roxanne and Samira, his two wives, welcoming us with
open arms.
I am not sure how to tell my story, Zack. I have been working on this let-
ter for two weeks now, and English does not provide the distance I hoped for.
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I keep changing my mind and contradicting my words. All e-mail is examined,
and anything in English is doubly suspect, so I assume this will be read by the
police, both ours and yours. But I have nothing to hide.
We arrived three months ago. Your war has come and gone, only it refuses
to end. People here are glad of that, since it means your country might leave
ours in peace. We live in northern Tehran, in the hills above the city, in a new
house in a walled estate next door to Hassan and his wives. We share a swim-
ming pool and a beautiful garden. The trees and flowers smell delicious, a par-
adise for the nose and fingers. Five times a day, however, we hear calls to
prayer from the mosques surrounding us. At first the sound worried me, like
policemen with bullhorns ordering people out of their homes. Soon, though,
the chants blended with the daily music of birdsong and children at play. Osh
and Mina are very happy here, and why not? They have an uncle and two
aunts who spoil them terribly. (Mina being Mina is sometimes guilty about her
happiness.) I am friendly with Roxanne, the first wife, but not Samira, the sec-
ond wife, who does not get along with anyone. They are both hypocrites, but
amiably so, without righteousness. I am a great hypocrite myself.
Abbas is calm again, which makes him kinder, more thoughtful, almost