Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [132]
Even after the plane took off, I still did not feel safe. In fact, I would not feel safe until we had crossed out of Iranian airspace. I switched on my TV screen and selected the funniest movie I could find: The Hangover. I then leaned over to the empty seat next to mine and selected the channel displaying the route map. I tried to concentrate on the movie—as the various characters stole Mike Tyson’s tiger, married a lap dancer, and fathered a baby—but my attention kept straying to the other screen. It seemed as though the plane were edging forward tentatively. Every time I stole a glance at the map, the plane seemed to be standing still. When I saw that we were over Tabriz, in the western part of the country, I closed my eyes and waited for as long as I could. When I looked up, it had happened: we had crossed into Turkey.
I took a deep breath; it felt like the first breath I’d taken in months. I was a free man. The flight attendant appeared beside me.
“Is there anything you need?” she asked.
I knew the exact answer. “Yes,” I said. “A whiskey.”
Within a few minutes, seven or eight passengers—total strangers to me—were standing beside me congratulating me on my freedom and, to my surprise, on the impending birth of my child. Even though I had, by this time, learned about the efforts to release me, and read the reports of my ordeal that had appeared in media outlets around the world, it was only on the flight that I fully realized that my imprisonment had not been a private matter. I had become a public figure. I was surprised by how much people knew about me. I hadn’t expected anything like this.
“How’s your mother?” asked a middle-aged woman, who told me that she was living in Sweden, and like me, had lost her father.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” her husband asked, holding their son in his arms.
“Whatever it is, a child is a blessing,” the woman said.
Many people also asked me about the conditions inside Evin and wanted to know the details of my experience. Before long, I realized how eager these people were to express themselves, especially about human-rights abuses in Iran. The questions went on. Did they beat you a lot? Who did you see inside? Were you in solitary confinement or a communal cell? Were you able to talk to your wife? Where is your wife from? As I answered their questions and sipped my whiskey, I hoped these well-wishing strangers would sense my unease and allow me some space to be alone. Because even though I smiled and chatted amiably with them, deep down, I still feared that at any moment the plane would reverse course and return me to Iran.
· · ·
At Heathrow, Chris Dickey was waiting for me with a security officer. In order to avoid reporters and any unforeseen problems, Newsweek had organized my exit through a private corridor. Even though Chris knew that I had left Tehran, he still couldn’t believe that I was free until he saw me with his own eyes. “There he is!” he said with a broad smile.
I was finally in London. I’d never thought that I would love so much the sight of yellow-suited maintenance workers strolling across the gray tarmac under a light drizzle and a dull London sky. Soon I’ll be on the M4, Euston Road, and with Paola at University College Hospital. I was finally free to go where I pleased; to go to see Paola. There were so many things I wanted to tell Chris.
Barbara was waiting for us in the VIP lounge. Since I’d met Paola, in 2007, Barbara had become like my own sister. She was all smiles when she saw me. “Talk to Paola, talk to Paola, she’s waiting,” Barbara said, a cell phone in her hand.
I took the phone and excitedly told Paola that I was going directly from the airport to the hospital to see her. In the car, Chris and Barbara peppered me with questions about what had happened and how I felt. My mind was elsewhere. I knew there was something I needed to do. I asked the driver to stop by our flat