Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [87]
It’s right here, he protested, a written order signed by the president himself, that no girl, he corrected himself—no woman—is to pass in your condition. He said in your condition? I asked. Yep, that’s what he said. I took another step; he blocked my way. I took a step to the right; he took a step to the right. I stopped; he stopped. For a few seconds we stood there looking at each other, and then he said, If you go through in that condition I will be held responsible. In what condition? I asked him. The last time I checked, I was the only person responsible for my condition, so don’t you go around claiming responsibility for me. I don’t know what perversion made me argue with this poor guy, said Laleh, her hand now trembling in excitement, and to tell him things he couldn’t possibly understand. For a few minutes we just stood there, and then, on a sudden impulse, I looked over his shoulder to the left and, as he turned around, I ducked and started to run. To run? Yes, I ran.
At this point we were served our veal scallopini and mashed potatoes. Laleh began to search for some hidden treasure in her potatoes, making investigative circles with her inquisitive fork. I thought he’d give up, she said at last. I mean, all he had to do was take the bloody phone and call the higher authorities. But no, not him. I stopped for a second to look back to see if he had fallen off, but there he was, and I swear, he pulled his belt up and swung his hips from side to side. He swung his hips? Honestly, he did. She made a swinging movement with her fork inside the mashed potatoes. And then he started to run after me, she said.
Laleh and the fat guard had sprinted across the wide, leafy avenues of the university. Every once in a while Laleh would look back to see if he was still at it, but she swore that every time she stopped, rather than trying to catch up with her, he’d come to a halt, as if pushing invisible brakes to a sudden stop, then he’d pull his belt up, do the thing with his hips, and continue the chase. He reminded me, she said, of a panting, clumsy giant fish.
Laleh ran by three startled students, made it down the short steps leading to the Faculty of Persian and Foreign Languages and Literature, nearly toppled herself as her heel caught in a crack, passed the wide open area in front of the building, ran up past the open door into the cool, dark hall and up the wide flights of stairs to the second floor, where she came to a sudden halt at the entrance to the Department of Psychology and nearly fell into the arms of her department head, who was standing in the doorway talking to a colleague. He tried to cover his embarrassment by exclaiming, What’s the matter, Professor Nassri, has there been an uprising? A few moments later the dutiful guard, sweat trickling down his cheeks like tears of desperation, his cap in his hand, came to a grinding halt by the door. There he made his explanations and the department head, not knowing whether to laugh or frown, dismissed him, promising to make a proper report to the proper authorities. An hour later Laleh had emerged from the door of the department, walked back to the entrance gate and, without so much as glancing at the guard, had marched out, a free woman.
A free woman? Yes, I was given a choice, to immediately comply with the rules or be sacked. I chose not to comply, so now I am a free woman. What will you do? I asked, as if I were not myself in exactly the same position. I don’t know. She shrugged. I guess I will go back to sewing or baking cakes.
This was the astonishing thing about Laleh. She looked like the last person in the world to bake a cake, but she was an accomplished tailor, and a fantastic cook. The first time I met her, she struck me as everything that I was not: tidy and rather dry, the kind of person you would call correct. Her German education added to this illusion. I used to tease her that the word