Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [98]
Suddenly, he said, Aren’t you going to be late? I should have known how late it was by the changing colors of the window and the pale, withdrawing light. I went to telephone Bijan and shamefacedly informed him that I would be late. When I got back my magician was paying the bill. But we haven’t finished yet, I feebly protested. We still need to discuss the main business we came here for. I thought all we had been discussing was the main business—your rediscovery of your love for Mr. Hammett and Co. You’re lucky I’ve given up on life and am not trying to seduce you. All I would have to do is to let you go on about Hammett and the shameful disrespect for the detective story in Iran and other matters that apparently turn you on. No, I said with some embarrassment—I mean, about my teaching again. Oh that, he said dismissively. Well, obviously you must teach.
But I was not one to let go that easily. I was in love with the idea of moral imperatives and taking a stand and all that. So I relentlessly pursued my argument about the morality of returning to a job I had sworn I would never take up again so long as I was forced to wear the veil. He raised an eyebrow with an indulgent smile: Lady, he said at last, will you please wise up to where you live? As for your qualms about submitting to the regime, none of us can drink a single glass of water without the grace of the moral guardians of the Islamic Republic. You love the work, so go on, indulge yourself and accept the facts. We intellectuals, more than ordinary citizens, either play scrupulously into their hands and call it constructive dialogue or withdraw from life completely in the name of fighting the regime. So many people have made their name through their opposition to the regime, yet they too can’t get along without it. You don’t want to take up arms against the regime, do you?
No, I conceded, but I don’t want to make deals with them, either. Anyway, how can you give me such advice? I asked him. Look at you. What about me? Didn’t you refuse to teach, to write, to do anything under this regime? Aren’t you saying through your actions that we should all withdraw? No, I am not saying that. You are still making the mistake of using me as a model. I am not a model. In many ways I might even be called a coward. I don’t belong to their club, but I am also paying a big price. I don’t lose, and I don’t win. In fact, I don’t exist. You see, I have withdrawn not just from the Islamic Republic but from life as such, but you can’t do that—you have no desire to do that.
I tried to turn the tables, and reminded him that he had become a sort of role model for his friends and even for his foes. He disagreed. No, the reason I am so popular is that I give others back what they need to find in themselves. You need me not because I tell you what I want you to do but because I articulate and justify what you want to do. That is why you like me—a man without qualities. That’s what yours truly is all about. What about what you want? I asked. I’ve given that up, but I make it possible for you to do what you want. But you are going to pay the price, he told me. Remember that quote you read me about the abyss? It is impossible not to be touched by the abyss. I know how you want to have your cake and eat it too, I know all about that innocence, that Alice in Wonderland persona you want to preserve.
You love teaching. All of us, including me, we’re all substitutes for your teaching. You enjoy it, so why not go ahead and teach? Teach them your Hammetts and your Austens—go on, enjoy yourself. Well, we are not talking about pleasure here, I shot back righteously. But of course, he mocked me, the lady who constantly boasts about her love for Nabokov and Hammett is now telling me we should not do what we