Let Me Tell You Where I've Been: New Writing by Women of the Iranian Diaspora

The Witness

The Witness H ROXANNE VARZI The cab circles the block for the fourth time. “Hussein Ziadeh Street?”the cabby reconfirms with the passenger. “That’s the address.” “Are you sure it’s in South Tehran? I’ve never heard of this street.” “I don’t know,” the passenger curtly replies.“That’s what I was told.” He runs his hand through his thick gray hair and sighs. “Maybe it’s a new,post-war street?”The cabby drives on,not waiting for a reply. “The war has been over for two years,” the passenger says with another sigh.As if that were news to anyone.It lasted almost a decade. “It’s a koucheh, I’m sure. Are you sure the address is keyaban* and not koucheh?” “Yes,that’s what I was told,”the passenger answers,thinking about how annoyed his wife will be that he’s so late from work. Maybe he should just go home. If he doesn’t stop by the mosque, it will look rude. After all, it’s his co-worker’s son. “Is it a residence?” “No, a mosque.” The cabby notes his own surprised look in the rearview mirror. He takes another look at the crisp white oxford and well-made suit and decides that there is only one reason a wealthy North Tehran man would be going to a mosque in the early evening: death. The drizzle turns Tehran’s fluorescence into a sad-looking woman in a wet sequined dress, smudged lipstick and runny mascara. She should be covered. The light is fading to neon, a sign that he’s late. Circling the busy streets, the cabdriver occasionally sticks his head out the window to call to another driver,“Ever heard of Hussein Ziadeh?” Their heads shake“no,”and lips offer apologetic smiles.He stops to ask 216 ROXANNEVARZI * Street. a man under an awning smoking a hookah pipe on the sidewalk.“Not in these parts,” he croaks, the smoke evaporating into the rain. The streets are decorated in wet shiny plastic banners to welcome returning prisoners of war.They are always decorated for some Islamic commemoration or other,the passenger thinks.Looking out at the blur of lights, he remembers when Tehran nights were pitch black, when the mountains were outside of the city, and when the air was breathable .He sees Tehran as if for the first time in twenty years,because he, like most Tehranis, never pays attention until he has to, until he is lost. “Tomorrow is the parade for the returning POWs.We have one in my family,” the cabby offers proudly. “God bless him,” the passenger offers; he won’t congratulate the cabby because he doesn’t believe in the sanctity of boy-martyrs. And he doesn’t want to be lost in the city in the rain.And he is sick of looking at the billboards with the faces, the reminders of all the martyrs. What he wants is to be at home listening to his children joke about school and helping his wife prepare for dinner. “Is the person young?” the cabby asks. “Who?” “The wake.” Did he mention his reason for visiting the mosque? He’s too tired to remember; the ride feels like an eternity. “Yes,” he says, not wanting to talk, trying to see through the steamed window. “An accident?” “A skiing accident.” The neon fades as the cab slowly winds its way uphill, away from the city center and toward the mountains. Tacky Greek columns dot the edge of the mountains, where newly built mansions are coming up faster than weeds. Kerosene lamps flicker within tents at each site. Where there isn’t neon, there’s kerosene, and anything that hasn’t become neon soon will, the passenger thinks. He used to play in these hills. The man’s thoughts are interrupted by the cabdriver. “I’m going to ask in this store.” As the cabby crosses the street to the small store, the passenger notices how short the cabby is,bent over like the men who carry street trash on their backs. His blue woolen cap becomes white with flakes THE WITNESS 217 of the city’s first snow. Streams of steam puff out of the canvas flap as the cabby pushes through it to enter the little room where cigarettes, batteries and gum are sold; the string of lightbulbs that marks its entrance suggests...