Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [164]
At Bijan’s suggestion, we tried to get out early—before, as he said, we were trampled by the mob, which, not being able to emote during the show, might choose to exercise its vengeance by trampling fellow concertgoers. Outside, we stood for some minutes by the entrance. Bijan, who seldom talked, was moved by the occasion.
“I feel sorry for these kids,” he said. “They’re not entirely without talent, but they’ll never be judged by the quality of their music. The regime criticizes them for being Western and decadent, and the audience gives them uncritical praise—not because they’re first-rate but because they play forbidden music. So,” he added, addressing us in general, “how will they ever learn to play?”
“It’s true,” I said, feeling an obligation to fill the silence that followed. “No one is judged on the merit of their work. People without the least knowledge of music are running around calling themselves musicians.” Nassrin was sullen, and Ramin quiet and mortified. I was astounded by his metamorphosis and decided not to add to his discomfort by forcing him to talk.
Suddenly Nassrin became animated. “Nabokov would’ve had nothing to do with this,” she said excitedly. “Look at us—it’s pathetic, running to this for entertainment.” She moved her arms and spoke breathlessly, eager to hide her embarrassment behind a volley of nervous talk. “He would have had a field day if he’d been here—talk about poshlust!”
“What?” said Negar, who’d enjoyed not so much the music as the excitement of a night out.
“Poshlust,” Nassrin repeated and, uncharacteristically, left it at that.
13
I was grumbling to myself as I put the plates on the table absentmindedly for dinner. Bijan turned to me and said, What are you mumbling about? You wouldn’t be interested, I said unnecessarily sharply. Try me, he said. Okay, I was thinking about menopause. He turned back to the BBC. You’re right—I’m not interested, he said. Why shouldn’t he be interested? Shouldn’t he want to know about something that has happened to his mother, that will happen to his wife, his sisters, his daughter and, I went on morosely, if ever he has an affair, even to his mistress? I knew I was being unfair to him. He was not insensitive to the hardships of life in the Islamic Republic, but he was on the defensive these days whenever I complained. I protested as if he were responsible for all the woes brought upon us by the regime, and this in turn made him withdraw into himself and act as if he were indifferent about things he actually felt very strongly about.
Our last class meeting had ended on a strange note: we were discussing my girls’ mothers—their trials and tribulations and the fact that they really knew nothing about menopause. The discussion had begun with Manna. The night before, she and Nima had seen for the third time Vincente Minnelli’s Designing Woman, which they’d picked up on their satellite dish. Watching the film had made Manna very sad. It occurred to her that she had never imaginatively experienced love in a Persian context. Love is love, but there are so many ways of articulating it. When she read Madame Bovary, or saw Casablanca, she could experience the sensual texture of the work; she could hear, touch, smell, see. She had never heard a love song, read a novel or seen a film that made her think that this could be her experience. Even in Persian films, when two people are supposed to be in love, you didn’t really feel it in their looks and gestures. Love was forbidden, banished from the public sphere. How could it be experienced if its expression was illegal?
That discussion had been an eye-opener. I had discovered that almost all of my girls separated what they described as intellectual or spiritual love (good) from sex (not good). What mattered, apparently, was the more exalted realm of spiritual affinity. Even Mitra had dimpled her way through the argument that sex was not important in a relationship, that