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By Root 1312 0

their scarves are more colorful and their robes much shorter; they wear makeup now and walk freely with men who are not their brothers, fathers or husbands. Parallel to this, the raids and arrests and public executions also persist. But there is a stronger demand for freedom; as I write, I open the paper to read about the recent student demonstrations in support of a dissident who was sentenced to death for suggesting that the clergy should not be blindly followed like monkeys and calling for a revision of the constitution. I read the writings of young students and former revolutionaries, the slogans and demands for democracy, and I know now as much as I will ever know anything that it is this dogged desire for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness by young Iranians today, the children of the revolution, and the anguished self-criticism of former revolutionaries that will determine the shape of our future.

Since I left Iran, respecting his wishes, I have not talked or written to my magician, but his magic has been so much a part of my life that sometimes I ask myself, Was he ever real? Did I invent him? Did he invent me?

Sometimes I get e-mail messages on my computer, like fireflies, or letters postmarked from Tehran or Sydney, and they are from my former students, telling me about their lives and memories.

Nassrin, I know, arrived safely in England. I do not know what happened to her after that.

Mitra left for Canada a few months after we moved to the U.S. She used to write me e-mails or call me regularly, but I have not heard from her for a long time. Yassi tells me that she enrolled in college and now has a son.

I heard from Sanaz, too, when I first came to the States. She called me from Europe to inform me that she was now married and intended to enroll at the university. But Azin tells me she dropped that plan and is keeping house, as the saying goes.

When I first came to America, I did not hear from Azin often; she usually called me on my birthday. A former student had told me that Azin was teaching at Allameh, the same courses and books that I once taught. The last she had heard of Azin, she added mischievously, she was moving into the room next to my old office on the fifth floor. I often thought of her and her beautiful little Negar. A few months ago, she called out of the blue, from California. Her voice was filled with that buoyant and flirtatious tone whose notes I seem to have memorized. She has remarried; her new husband lives in California. Her former husband had taken Negar from her and there was not much else to stay in Tehran for. She was full of ideas about enrolling in classes and starting a new life.

Mahshid, Manna and Yassi continued to meet after I left. They read Virginia Woolf and Kundera and others, and wrote about films, poetry and their own lives as women. Mahshid got her much deserved tenure and is now a senior editor, publishing books of her own.

During her last year in Iran, Yassi held her own private class, with students who loved her and with whom she went mountain climbing, about which she wrote me e-mails delirious with this newfound capability. She also worked hard to come to America for her graduate studies. She was finally accepted at Rice University, in Texas, in 2000 and is currently working on her Ph.D.

Nima teaches. He, I always thought, is what we call a born teacher. He also writes brilliant and unfinished essays on James, Nabokov and his favorite Persian writers. He still regales me with his stories and anecdotes. Manna writes her poetry, and when I recently told her I wanted to write an epilogue for my book and was wondering what to say about her, she sent me this:

Five years have passed since the time when the story began in a cloud-lit room where we read Madame Bovary and had chocolate from a wine-red dish on Thursday mornings. Hardly anything has changed in the nonstop sameness of our everyday life. But somewhere else I have changed. Each morning with the rising of the routine sun as I wake up and put on my veil before