Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [174]
“People usually deserve what they get,” said Reza, biting into his ham and cheese. I gave him a reproachful look. “I mean it,” he said. “If we are prepared to be duped by every so-called election—we all know they aren’t real elections when only Muslims with impeccable revolutionary credentials, chosen by the Council of Guardians and approved by the Supreme Leader, can become candidates. Anyway, the point is that as long as we accept this charade called elections and hope that some Rafsanjani or Khatami can save us, we deserve our later disenchantments.”
“But this frustration is not one-sided,” my magician added. “How do you think Mr. Khamenei feels”—he turned a quizzical eye to me and raised an eyebrow—“to see your Mitra and Sanaz going on their merry way and corrupting good Muslim girls like Yassi and Mahshid in the bargain? Or hearing their former radical revolutionaries quoting Kant and Spinoza instead of Islamic sources? And then we have our president’s daughter, peddling votes by promising to give women the right to ride bicycles in public parks.”
“But all of this is so ridiculous,” I said.
“It might be ridiculous to you,” he said, “but it is not very funny to this president and his followers, who have to win the hearts and minds of the children of the revolution by promising them—at least implicitly—access to all things Western. And still,” he added with relish, “these young people listen more to Michael Jackson and read your Nabokov with more enjoyment and enthusiasm than you and I ever did in our decadent youth.
“Besides, what are you worrying about anyway?” he said. “You’ll be leaving us and our problems very soon.”
“I won’t be leaving either you or your problems,” I said. “I’m counting on you to keep me posted.”
“No, I won’t,” he said. “We won’t communicate once you go.”
In response to my startled look, he said, “Call it self-defense or cowardice; I don’t want to be in touch with those of my friends who are lucky enough to leave.”
“But you encouraged me,” I said, bewildered by what I was hearing.
“Well, yes, that’s another matter. But anyway, these are my rules. Seldom seen, soon forgotten; out of sight, out of mind and all that. A chap needs to protect himself.”
He did everything in his power to help me leave, and yet when he saw that I was finally leaving, when it all came out well in the end, he was not happy with me. Was he disenchanted? Did he think my departure was a comment of sorts on those I was leaving behind?
20
I was on the phone when Nassrin arrived. Negar, who had opened the door, kept shouting, quite unnecessarily, Mom, Mom, Nassrin is here! A few minutes later a shy Nassrin entered, standing by the door as if already regretting her visit. I gestured for her to wait for me in the living room. I’ll have to call you later, I told my friend. One of my girls is here to see me. Girls? she said—she knew very well what I meant. Students, I said. Students! Get a life, woman. Why don’t you return to teaching? But I am teaching. You know what I mean. By the way, talking of your students, your Azin is going to drive me crazy. That girl doesn’t know her own mind—either that or she’s playing a game I don’t understand. She’s worried about her daughter, I said hurriedly. But listen, I really have to go. I’ll call you later.
When I entered the living room, Nassrin was staring at the birds-of-paradise and chewing her nails with the distracted focus of a professional nail chewer. I should have guessed before that she belonged to the category of people who bite their nails, I remember thinking—she must have exercised a great deal of restraint in class.
At the sound of my voice, she turned around abruptly and impulsively hid her hands behind her back. To cover the awkwardness she had brought