Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [115]
I felt my heart skip a beat. “She’s doing interviews with the media?” I blurted, willing myself not to break out into the relieved, nearly maniacal laughter I felt building up inside me.
“Yes, it’s despicable. She talks too much,” Rosewater said.
What incredible news. Combined with Brown Sandals’ Mr. Hillary Clinton comment, I finally allowed myself to believe what I’d been praying for since the day I’d been brought to Evin: Paola was successfully advocating for me. She and I had frequently talked about the possibility of my arrest. I had even joked about it with her, although she would frown whenever I did. “Seriously, Mazi,” she’d say, “if you are ever arrested, I will make such a fuss that they will have to release you.”
“She’s insulting our nation, our people,” Rosewater yelled. “If you have any dignity as an Iranian, you will tell your wife to stop talking about you.”
Before I could respond, Rosewater had grabbed my arm and was dragging me down a hallway lit by fluorescent bulbs. Standing me before a gray pay phone attached to the wall, he lifted my blindfold and told me that it was time for me to call Paola and tell her to stop talking. I wanted nothing more than to speak to Paola—to hear her voice, to listen to her breathe. But at the same time, I didn’t want the call to happen like this—out of the blue. Paola is a very emotional person, and I feared that being pregnant might have made her even more sensitive. What if the shock of hearing from me harmed her or the baby? I had not been able to protect her or our baby since I’d been taken away, but this was my chance. I randomly dialed a wrong number.
“She’s not answering, sir,” I told Rosewater.
“Hmmmmm,” he said from behind me. “That’s not good.”
“No, but perhaps you might allow me to call my brother-in-law so he can ask my wife to wait for my call tomorrow.”
Rosewater agreed, and after I made a very brief call to Mohammad, he took me back to the interrogation room. He went over what I had to tell Paola the next day, not knowing how much hope he was giving me. He particularly didn’t like the fact that Paola had written to the Italian government—her mother is from Italy—asking Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi to intervene on my behalf. I was so proud of Paola at that moment. “She’s asking that bald bastard to help you,” Rosewater said with derision. “What can that baldy, that member of the Mafia, do for you? Tell her that we’re a sovereign nation. We have a lawful country. The Roman Empire is dead,” he continued, marking each sentence with a slap. “The British Empire is finished. And the American Empire is dying. I want you to make her understand that her comments only make your life more complicated.”
Back in my cell that day, I felt Paola’s presence right next to me. My love for her grew deeper than ever as I sat in the corner of the cell, applying pressure to my temples with my index fingers—trying to stave off the migraine I felt creeping up the back of my neck. I couldn’t get Rosewater’s words out of my head: Paola was talking too much. She was getting attention for my cause. And as Brown Sandals had suggested, Hillary Clinton was aware of me.
Maybe I was going to survive.
· · ·
It’s difficult to say why you fall in love with someone, but I knew that one of the main reasons I loved Paola was her staunchness: her no-nonsense attitude, her strong principles, and her deep commitment to her family. When it comes to family matters, she just gets things done. When we were first together, my priorities had been all over the place, which had occasionally led to a battle of wills. Paola’s mother is hot-tempered, and Paola inherited much of her fiery Italian nature. During some of those arguments, we could be quite nasty to each other.
As I dialed Paola’s number the next morning, I remembered her tears after one of our silly fights. I felt homesick and guilty. I couldn’t forgive myself for having been cruel to her.