Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [75]
20
A few days after the Gatsby trial, I hastily gathered my notes and books and left the classroom somewhat preoccupied. The aura of the trial still dominated the class. Some students had waylaid me in the halls to talk about Gatsby and present their views. There were even two or three papers written voluntarily on the subject. Stepping outside into the gentle light of the late afternoon sun, I paused on the steps, drawn by a heated argument between a handful of Muslim students and their Marxist and secular opponents. They were gesticulating and shouting. I noticed Nassrin standing a little apart from the crowd, listening to their arguments.
Soon Zarrin, Vida and a friend of theirs from another class joined me. We were all standing there idly, observing the show, making desultory comments, when Mr. Bahri came out the door with a purposeful frown. He paused for a moment, hovering beside me on the wide steps. His gaze followed mine to the intersection of the argument. He turned to me with a smile and said, “Nothing unusual. They are just having a bit of fun,” and left. I stood there somewhat stupefied with Zarrin and her friends.
As the crowd dispersed, Nassrin remained alone and hesitant, and I beckoned for her to join us. She walked shyly towards our group. It was a mild afternoon; the trees and their shadows seemed to be engaged in a flirtatious dance. Somehow my students got me talking about my own student days. I was telling them about American students’ idea of protest: boys with long hair streaking across the quad.
After I finished my stories, there was some laughter, followed by silence as we returned to the scene in front of us. I told them that perhaps my best memories were of my professors. In fact, I laughed, four of my very favorites were Dr. Yoch, who was conservative, the revolutionary Dr. Gross and Dr. Veile and Dr. Elconin, both liberals. Someone said, “Oh, Professor”—they called me Professor; it sounded even stranger to me then than it does now—“you would have liked Professor R, who taught in our department until very recently.”
One or two students had not heard of him, some knew of him and one had been to his classes a few times. He was a professor at the Faculty of Fine Arts, a well-known and controversial film and theater critic and writer of short stories. He was what one would call a trendsetter: at twenty-one, he had become the literary editor of a magazine, and in a short time he and a few of his friends had made many enemies and admirers among the literary set. It seemed that now, in his late thirties, he had announced his retirement. Rumors were circulating that he was writing a novel.
One of the students said that he was moody and unpredictable. Zarrin’s friend corrected him: he was not moody, just different. Another, with a flash of insight, turned to me and said, “You know, Professor, he is one of those people who have a knack for becoming legendary. I mean, they cannot be ignored.”
The legend was that he set no time limits for his classes, that a class could start at three in the afternoon and continue for five or six hours. The students had to stay for as long as it continued. Soon his reputation spread, especially among those interested in film. Many from other universities, despite the threat of penalization,