The Alley of Love and Yellow Jasmines (14 page)

21

Another Country

W
hen Ian went to work at his father’s sports club, I took his dog, Fuchsia, for a walk in Fulham. I had been feeling strange, lonely, and empty. It was a certain kind of emptiness that I had never experienced before. I had never felt so lonely before in my life. I was used to being swallowed by love and companionship, and now I was alone.

Who am I? What am I doing here? I should be walking my dog now. Where is Pasha?
I tried to push all the negative thoughts away and think only of good ones. I dreamed of the day when I could speak English fluently. I felt reborn in an entirely new environment, where people could take their dogs to the park and men and women could walk hand in hand, discussing love or politics.

But no matter how hard I tried, my face was wet with tears when I returned home. Ian was preparing dinner for his girlfriend, Susan, and his friend Robert. He thanked me for taking Fuchsia for a walk and asked me why I was crying. All I said was, “Why me?”

Ian replied, “I never thought that you would let go of your career, your husband, your beloved family, your dog, or your lavish life. Now that you have, you might as well make use of it rather than pitying yourself. Self-pity is the worst thing a person can do to herself.”

There are times in life when we need true friends to tell us the truth, to make us snap out of it, no matter how bitter the truth is. Ian was right. I should have realized that I was not different from the rest of the people of the world. What had happened to me had happened to millions of displaced people who simply had refused to conform and had to leave their homes.

ON MY FIRST
weekend, Ian was visiting his parents in Denham, and took me along. They lived in a mansion in the Buckinghamshire suburb. His parents and sisters were so nice and compassionate. His father asked me a couple of questions regarding the politics of Iran, and I got tired of struggling to make sense of the political situation in Iran with my little knowledge of English.

His mother took me to their garden and cut roses with her delicate hands covered in white cotton gloves. I carried her basket for her, and she laid the roses in a row in the basket while telling me about her life in the suburbs. They also had a house in London next to their sports club, but she preferred to live in Denham.

Spending two days in a family atmosphere was blissful, and I was so thankful to them for having me and making me feel at home. They even let me cook a Persian meal.

Aydin called on the following Monday. They had arrived safely home via Iran Air. We talked about the family, his mother, and Pasha but did not say a word about Iranian politics in case someone was listening. He begged me to call him immediately if anything went wrong or if I needed anything.

Ian’s mother told me that the Berlitz School was well known for teaching English to foreign students in a short time, so I went there the next day. Fortunately it was not very expensive and I could start right away. I was back to school again, only part-time. The small dictionaries that I had brought with me became an important part of my life.

Aydin kept calling and asking if I needed anything, and I told him I was still fine. My last bit of cash was going quickly, but I did not say a word about this to Aydin and assured him that I still had enough money. I knew I was going to sell my car and jewelry to start, but kept postponing it, as though I were waiting for someone else to make the decision for me.

During my second week at Berlitz, I went to an Iranian news store on Kensington High Street to search for larger dictionaries and was devastated by what I saw on the front page of Iran’s
Kayhan
newspaper. Four of Iran’s top generals and the prime minister had been executed by the revolutionary government. Their dead bodies were exhibited on the front page, lying on iron tables, with their naked chests exposed and their eyes wide open.

Looking at the photos made me feel cold and nauseated. I could see how all my bridges to the past, and to Iran, were falling down, and I’d been gone less than a month. I knew that what had started in Iran would not end easily or hastily.

I went to a jewelry shop on Fulham Road and asked the jeweler if he was interested in buying my jewels. After examining them, he gave me a rough price for my diamonds and rubies.

My mother called me soon after and told me that my aunt had finally arrived in London. Aunt Afsar had a nice apartment in Bayswater. She and I talked until dawn. She asked me to stay with her, but I told her I would rather live with English friends and converse in English. I also asked for her advice on the jewels, and she said the best place was on Sloane Street and within walking distance to the famous Harrods department store.

I took most of my jewels with me to the jewelry shop except for the ones that had sentimental value. I emptied the shoe bag containing the jewels, and the jeweler took a long time examining them. After what seemed like forever, he offered me 20,000 pounds and said that he would buy them right away. But he would not pay the same amount if I left the store and came back later.

I was being taken advantage of and I knew it. The jewels were worth much more, but I did not have time to go door to door to see who would pay the highest price. I needed the money now.

Besides, I was looking at the bigger picture. I wanted to go to university in England. I could live like a true student, economize, get my degree, and start working.

I took a moment and then pushed the jewels toward him, without even looking at them. I got the check, danced all the way to the bank, and went back to school.

There were a couple of newly migrated Iranians, like myself, at Berlitz. One of them was a cousin of an old friend named Bijan. He was a talkative, energetic young man with a slight resemblance to the actor Adam Sandler. He said that a friend wanted to rent out his room at Brunel University in Uxbridge, West London, and sail around Europe in the summer. I loved the idea. I could live in a university for the summer and probably take summer classes in English.

I put all my belongings in my car and went to Brunel. It was a small room on the first floor with a single spring bed that had lost its elasticity. Two narrow rows of wooden shelves lined the wall, and a window overlooked a canopy of grass.

I started unpacking and was placing some of my belongings on the shelves when I noticed that people were running in the hall. I asked a couple of students what was going on, and they said, “Margaret Thatcher, our new prime minister, is about to give her inaugural speech. Come and watch it at the canteen with us.”

I went with them and was in awe of her.

“There are rumors that I am an Iron Lady. Yes, I am an Iron Lady; tighten your belts, for we are going to change Britain for good,” said the newly elected conservative prime minister. Not only did she change Britain for good, but she also changed me.

Up until then I had wanted to pursue acting, but all of a sudden I realized how I could be more useful to my family, friends, and the people of my country: by studying political science.

I STAYED AT
my aunt’s on the weekends and so did my cousins.

Hamid was nineteen and Roya was seventeen. They had both gone to boarding schools in England and were about to go to a university in Watford, in Hertfordshire, in the fall.

We were having dinner and discussing politics when I asked them about their school. They said that it was nice and had livable boarding facilities. I wondered what the university requirements were like, and Hamid suggested that I visit the International University of Europe, run mostly by American faculty.

The International University of Europe accepted my Iranian high school diploma (which I promised to get from home), but were also asking for a certificate in the English language.

Time was passing faster than light, and I needed to find a place in London and start getting ready for my first certificate in English. It would be issued by the University of Cambridge in a local examination held in late June.

I called my mother and asked her to send my diploma with my uncle, who was soon coming to London. Then I went back to Brunel University to pack up my belongings.

The school inspectors were going from room to room looking for illegal subletters. I threw all my belongings in a bed sheet and tossed it out the window. Next out the window was a pile of my books along with the small dictionaries from Iran in a suitcase. Last but not least was the spare tire to my car. I had used the car’s trunk as storage and left the tire under the bed because it took up too much space in my car. The inspectors were almost at my door when I was finished throwing out my personal belongings.

The only way to save the tenant who had rented his room to me was to jump out the window, and so I did, just like in the movies, and landed on the grass. I did not land gracefully, but no harm was done. A couple of students helped me gather my things and disappear before anyone saw.

I went to the address that a friend had given me for an apartment in London. It was a two-story house that belonged to a middle-aged Iranian, Hajji, who had rented out most of his rooms to foreign students and was asking for fifty pounds a week. It was close to a great English school in North West London, in Golders Green. I gladly accepted it.

Hajji, the landlord, was nice but extremely stingy. He would get angry if we left the light on after ten o’clock or took too long in the shower; he kept reminding us how costly his water and power bills were. But I was happy to live in a house full of students from all over the world. I was studying at the Golders Green school for a first certificate in English.

I will never forget one of our teachers, a little old lady who taught reading, pronouncing the letter
W
as in “double
u
” and not like
V
. (Iranians traditionally pronounce the sound as “ve” instead of “we.”)

She said, “Do not bite your lips when pronouncing the letter
W
. Round your lips and put a little bit of air in it.”

22

Blending In

A
s time went on, it became obvious that the Ayatollah had no intention of being a spiritual leader like Gandhi or of letting the people of Iran choose their own form of government like in the United States. He was a dictator, ambitious, and there to rule.

I phoned Aydin every time I could and managed to talk to him briefly, but often the communication lines were jammed or bugged. It was becoming increasingly frustrating.

It was time to sell my car, a green 250 CLK Mercedes-Benz. I loved my car and I had even a name for it, Sanjar, after a Persian hero’s horse. I was worried for Sanjar and wanted to sell him to a good driver who would take proper care of him. I interviewed buyers over the phone. I asked one if he was a fast driver, and he got mad at me and said that it was none of my business. Finally I found a good buyer for Sanjar. He was in his seventies and lived in the country. He assured me that he would take care of the car and even offered me the opportunity to come visit Sanjar if I so chose.

I kept studying English and spending time with my aunt. My parents were so grateful that my aunt was close by. Aydin was also happy to see that I had decided to further educate myself. We both knew there was no place for me in the Islamic Republic, let alone the possibility of acting in Iran under such a political regime.

When I told my father that I had sold my jewelry and my car and was living off of the money, he asked me to go to the Iranian Embassy in London and apply for a student money exchange. That would allow my parents to send me the school tuition via the Iranian banks instead of through the black market.

I went to the embassy and followed my father’s instructions. But I was told that I was supposed to have applied for it before leaving Iran. I called my father and told him the problem. He suggested I come home, for our New Year, and take care of it.