Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [118]
“I kiss her hands and her feet because she’s so good to me,” Rosewater told me. “From the moment we went to her house and she served me and my family tea and sweets, I knew that she was right for me.” In arranged marriages in Iran, it is customary that after the family of the boy asks the family of the girl for her hand, they go to her house to discuss the arrangements with her parents. The girl shows her face only once, when she serves tea and sweets to the guests. “The moment I took the tea from the tray and our eyes met, I knew that she would be a faithful wife,” Rosewater whispered.
He took a Kleenex and blew his nose quietly. “I have a surprise for you,” he told me. “I’m going to let you talk to your wife one more time.”
He didn’t say anything as he held my arm and led me to the phone, but I could hear him inhale heavily as he repeated the words “La elaha ella Allah”: There’s no God but Allah.
I managed to get through to Paola at once, but the international calling card Rosewater was using had credit for only two minutes of conversation. I quickly asked Paola if she had found out the sex of the baby.
“Yes!” she giggled. “What do you think?”
“Darling, we only have two minutes—a boy or a girl?”
“It’s a girl. I wish you could see the pictures from the scan. It’s a beautiful healthy girl.”
“Marianna Maryam Bahari,” I told Paola. “I can’t wait to be with you and Marianna.” I couldn’t control my emotions when I mentioned Marianna’s name.
“You’ll be home soon, Mazi,” Paola said, trying to calm me down. “I’m sure you’ll be home soon.”
Chapter Seventeen
On the morning of October 6, I was lying on my back in my cell and cycling with my legs in the air. I was pretending to ride my bike. I had taken a detour through Hampstead Heath and Highgate, and was just coming down through Belsize Park toward Primrose Hill. I was full of energy.
I hadn’t seen Rosewater for a few days. Typically, a few days without human contact had left me feeling anxious and desperate, but this day, remembering the sound of Paola’s voice, and the work I now knew she was doing on my behalf, I practiced feeling better. The day before, for the first time since my arrest, I had been allowed a newspaper. Reading something besides my interrogation notes had given me energy, even though it was Kayhan (“The Universe”), the hard-liners’ mouthpiece. I devoured every single word in the paper. But most importantly, after months of designing my own crossword puzzles, I finally had access to a professional one. I studied it for hours, trying to learn from it. That morning, as I cycled toward Primrose Hill, thinking of the post-ride coffee that awaited me and designing a new crossword puzzle in my head, there was a commotion in the hallway. I stood up to listen, and heard prison guards telling some of the prisoners to pack up and clean their rooms. Blue-Eyed Seyyed opened my door and gave me a blindfold.
“Ostad Bahari”—Maestro Bahari—“we’re gonna miss you,” he said.
“What do you mean? Are they going to release me?”
“Na baba, hol nasho. You wish. You’re going to the communal cell.”
I had heard that when they transferred someone to a communal cell, it typically meant that his case had moved from one stage to another. I was still under investigation, and, as far as I knew, there’d been no change in my status. Blue-Eyed Seyyed led me through Evin’s labyrinthine complex, to a small alleyway with a building at the end of it. I had my blindfold on, but by then I’d learned how to raise my head and look through the gap beneath it without being caught. The guard opened a large blue gate and closed the door behind me.
“Can I take my blindfold off?” I asked.
“Of course you can,” said a man standing in front of me. I removed it and saw