Honeymoon in Tehran: Two Years of Love and Danger in Iran Read Free Page A

instructions no more precise than “Be there at two P.M. ” The truth—“Hello, my name is Azadeh and I’m here to meet a government minder whose name I’ve been told never to repeat aloud, although we all know it’s a pseudonym anyway”—sounded awkward.
    “They’re waiting for you in apartment five on the second floor,” the young man said, sparing me. I said thank you and gazed at himwith a winning expression, one that I hoped radiated innocence and established me as a productive, indispensable member of the global community, the type of person he should definitely try to help, should he hear screams from apartment five.
    The elevator door opened onto the second floor, and I adjusted my headscarf before a hallway mirror, tucking strands of hair away, as though such attentions might somehow influence what would happen to me. Mr. X opened the door and ushered me inside. Such empty, furnished apartments—the type of place where Japanese businessmen would stay to negotiate oil deals that Washington would later veto—lent a bizarre, corporate coziness to the setting.
    “Would you like tea or coffee?” Mr. X asked, busying himself in the kitchen. He poured us both tea, and then took a seat at the dinner table across from a plate of cream puffs. Eating pastry under duress was another hallmark of my meetings with Mr. X. During our initial encounters I had refused to eat anything, reluctant to provoke the nausea I usually felt. But this caused him offense, and I began to accept whatever I found on the table, eager to win his good humor.
    His shirt was buttoned to the top, and his hands, hairy and blunt, fiddled with a pen.
    “I have read your book,” he began. “And the question I have is this: what is this
ash-e gooshvareh
[earring stew] of which you write? We have no such stew.”
    It was a dish I had mentioned my grandmother once made while visiting California. Like so many Iranians, perhaps a third of the country, she belonged to the Azeri ethnic group, whose cuisine included many unusual, laborious recipes distinct from Persian cooking.
    “It’s Azerbaijani,” I replied.
    “Okay.” He looked unconvinced.
    Someone knocked at the door, and Mr. X opened it to admit his partner, whom I had described in my book as Mr. Sleepy. In our meetings he was usually either asleep or menacing, the bad-cop foil to Mr. X’s slithery inducements and intimidations.
    We spoke very briefly about my book tour. Mr. X offered me a cream puff. And then he made a gesture of wrapping up his papers.
    “We would like you to know that we consider your book worthy of appreciation,” he said.
    I sipped tea silently, waiting for the condemnation that would surely follow. But Mr. X and Mr. Sleepy began smiling openly, as though they were having tea with a favorite aunt.
    “So didn’t people ask you, if Iran is so repressive, then how do you write these critical articles and travel back and forth?”
    “Yes, I was asked this all the time. And I told people that Iran tolerates some measure of dissent, that this is what makes Iran so special.” I went on to describe Iran as an island of Persian practicality in a sea of brutal Arab dictatorships.
    I could tell from their expressions I had replied well. It occurred to me that just perhaps, they both enjoyed appearing in a book, albeit as henchmen of a repressive regime.
    “It is true, we are enlightened people, and we believe in democracy, freedom of expression.”
    “Of course.”
    “So do not be worried. Go back to America, and tell them we are democrats.” He leaned forward, and began gathering his papers in a sign that we were finished. “You are yourself proof.”
    “Thank you,” I said, picking up my bag. Then I said goodbye, walked out the door, and ran out into the sunny street. I inhaled the diesel fumes, the waft of fried herbs in the breeze, and felt triumphant. This country, my sad, troublesome homeland, perhaps it wasn’t altogether as bad as everyone thought.
    On