by Mohammadreza Fayaz

The layover at Heathrow Airport felt interminable. Another lengthy flight to San Francisco awaited, and Ahmad’s back throbbed with discomfort. He strode past an array of quaint, colorful shops, their coffee aromas tantalizing his senses. The faces of the people around him bore a diversity he had never encountered before, marking a strange new phase of life at the age of seventy-one. As dizziness crept over him, he contemplated finding a place to sit, but unease held him back. Eventually, his strength gave way, and he collapsed in front of a duty-free shop. Through his blurred vision, rows of liquor bottles with their varied hues came into view. It was a sight he hadn’t witnessed in over four decades, reminiscent of the early days following Iran’s Islamic Revolution when he and his team scoured restaurants and hotels, destroying these very bottles with makeshift clubs.

A man in a black suit drew near. As he approached, his distinctive hat and long spiral sidelocks became apparent. Ahmad accepted the foam cup with a shaky hand, carefully placing it on the floor.

“Are you all right?” the man inquired.

“Of course, I am!” Ahmad replied, his voice laced with determination. To underscore his statement, he summoned all his strength to stand. However, as the rabbi bid farewell and departed, Ahmad promptly discarded the cup and took a seat nearby. He had never encountered a rabbi in person before, his previous encounters limited to television screens.

As he stood on the escalator, among the crowd of waiting passengers, Ahmad’s eyes fell upon a familiar face — his son, Hashem. A pricking sensation gripped his chest, a mix of emotions that leaned more toward stress than excitement. When their eyes eventually met, a faint smile crept onto Hashem’s face, and their trembling hands transformed into an awkward side hug.

“You’re finally here, Baba!” Hashem exclaimed.

“Yes,” Ahmad mumbled, as though he could hardly believe it himself.

###

On a snowy night, five months earlier, Ahmad and his wife, Zahra, sat in a heavy silence within the confines of their home in Tehran. The air was tense, still vibrating from one of the fiery phone arguments Zahra had engaged in with Hashem regarding his single status.

It was Zahra who finally broke the silence between them. “You never care about Hashem and his marital status, do you?” she said.

“Of course, I do! He will return to Iran and will get married here!”

“Sure! Dream on. Tell this to him for once. Not me. It is as if you are afraid of how he would react.”

“You shut up now!”

If it were thirty years ago when they were younger, he might have slapped her in the face. How did she dare to talk to him like that? This question gnawed at him, keeping him awake in his bed for most of the night. He despised admitting it, but he knew she was right. He had been evading serious discussions with his son, and marriage was among the most formidable topics. But did this evasion imply he didn’t care about his son’s life and future? Absolutely not! It was around 5 a.m. when he decided to wake Zahra up and clarify her misconception. However, when he turned on the lights, he found her mouth agape, drooling on the pillow, as if she was immersed in a deep slumber she had never experienced before.

After her death, he learned that grief could be a recurring event, haunting him each time he was reminded of her absence at home. This was because he had grown so accustomed to her silent presence and to talking to her about politics and other trivial matters, even though he never expected a response.

One night, as he sat in front of the news, he caught himself in the middle of commenting loudly on what he was seeing. He also noticed that his mouth had grown dry, as it did when he spoke for extended periods. Then, a frightening question suddenly popped into his head: What if he had become accustomed to conversing with a non-existent presence and was gradually losing his grip on reality? This prompted him to call his son right away and tell him that he was finally ready to accept Hashem’s long-standing request to live in the U.S.

###

He wondered if his dizziness might be related to jet lag, but he dismissed the idea, thinking it might sound silly. Thus, he chose not to mention it to his son. In the car, an awkward silence settled between them. They could no longer rely on the quick greetings they’d exchanged daily over the phone. Ahmad was the first to break the silence.

“Are you happy with your job?” he inquired.

“I love it. I don’t even notice how quickly the time passes at work,” Hashem replied.

Ahmad could easily imagine that. He had witnessed his son spending long hours in front of a computer during his studies at Iran’s best technical university. At the age of eighteen, Hashem had begun taking on programming projects, and his income had been so substantial that he had even lent money to his father a few times. Each time, he discreetly placed the money in Ahmad’s closet with a small note that read: “Please return it when you can.”

“Do you have any friends here?” Perhaps this was a good question to start a conversation that would, hopefully, lead to a discussion of his marriage.

“Yes. I got a couple,” Hashem answered with a smile. “We’re going to pick one of them up now.”

His friend’s name was Bashar. Ahmad hesitantly accepted the big hand held towards him and slowly shook it. “Salamun Alaikum!” Bashar said. His jaunty face and smile broke the ice between them soon. When it turned out he was from Palestine, Ahmad felt he liked him more. Bashar had recently got divorced and was living with Hashem temporarily.

“You speak English quite well, Baba,” Bashar complimented.

“That’s because I received my BSc in English and taught English for years. What I’ve always been proud of was teaching the Quran in the devil’s language,” Ahmad said with a grin. He couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw Bashar laughing heartily.

“Hashem has told me about your history of resistance against the Iranian monarchy,” Bashar said. “That is truly an honor.”

Ahmad couldn’t contain his smile. “Well, it was about a nation’s determination. Perhaps, we were the ones who showed the world for the first time how a country can stand up against the West. We fought with bare hands, and look at us now. Europe and the US are afraid of us to the core. They have realized that we are different from the Shah, that cowardly puppet.”

“Baba is also a veteran of the Iran-Iraq war,” Hashem added proudly, and Bashar joined in, saying, “Hats off to Baba!”

###

When he noticed how the first couple of weeks flew by so quickly, Ahmad suddenly felt a sense of embarrassment. He realized he had stopped missing his wife, a realization that filled him with guilt, and even worse, a sense of mercilessness. Other than that, how could he dare to find enjoyment in his life in this lifelong enemy country?

Hashem’s three-bedroom house was nestled in a quiet neighborhood. He had thoughtfully readied a spacious bedroom on the first floor for his dad, complete with a large window that opened up to a sprawling yard. Each morning, after the morning prayer, Ahmad relished the simple pleasure of throwing the window wide open, welcoming in the crisp, unpolluted air. Gone were the familiar sounds of Tehran’s bustling streets, replaced by a serene tranquility.

Hashem typically departed home early in the morning, returning around 6 p.m. Meanwhile, Bashar had taken a leave of absence, both to navigate the final stages of his divorce and to care for his newborn at home.

“Separation was the most painful thing I have ever struggled with, Baba. We both knew that it just wouldn’t work, but it took us a long time to believe and admit it. Now we are fighting over this little candy,” Bashar said as he deftly changed Emily’s diaper, his eyes glistening with tears.

“Look, this is God’s will. You are like Hashem to me,” Ahmad reassured him, embracing Bashar warmly.

“Thanks, Baba. I hope we can settle it as soon as possible. I hate living in uncertainty.”

Ahmad couldn’t help but feel sorry for Bashar, but at the same time, he couldn’t shake the thought that Bashar should have considered this situation more thoroughly from the beginning. What could an Arab man and an Asian woman possibly have in common?

It was heartwarming to see Bashar trying to reciprocate Hashem’s kindness by helping out with household tasks. At first, Ahmad found it somewhat amusing to witness Bashar doing the dishes or cooking. His appearance, in an apron, engaged in everyday chores, seemed as incongruous as seeing the genie in Aladdin doing mundane tasks. However, he quickly grew accustomed to hearing Bashar’s robust voice singing Arabic songs while performing these chores. Occasionally, Ahmad joined in, assisting with vegetable chopping or rice cooking. In return, Bashar taught Ahmad how to prepare falafel and baba ghanoush. Ahmad reciprocated by teaching him the only Iranian dish he knew how to cook, ghormeh sabzi. Politics dominated their conversations while they were at home.

“When I was young,” Ahmad said. “My dream was to receive military training in Palestine. We adore Hamas in Iran.”

“They are also good. But my beliefs align more with PFLP,” Bashar said.

“PFLP? Who are they?” Ahmad asked.

“Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Have you heard of them?”

“Oh, yes. But aren’t they Marxist?” Ahmad asked.

“Yes, they are. But who cares? What matters is the success of the movement. I believe PFLP is the most committed among them. If you have an issue with Zionism, you probably have an issue with Imperialism as well. So, I prefer to be a Marxist Muslim, Baba!” Bashar proclaimed with a hearty burst of laughter.

“You remind me of my Marxist cellmates in prison. We had different beliefs, but we shared the same goal. They were all good people. However, after the revolution, they turned against us. It was all about their opportunistic leaders.” Ahmad reflected solemnly.

 

One morning, as Bashar watched Ahmad diligently exercising on the small Iranian rug in the yard, Bashar suggested that they should try going to the gym together. When Ahmad ventured into the gym, he initially felt uncomfortable moving his limbs among so many half-naked women. However, as time passed, he grew accustomed to working out without being so conscious of his surroundings. There was one thing, though, that he adamantly refused to do: wear shorts instead of the loose, fake Adidas leggings he had brought from Iran.

During dinner one evening, when Bashar playfully brought up Ahmad’s resistance to wearing shorts, he witnessed his son laughing wholeheartedly, a sight he had not seen since his arrival. This brought so much joy to Ahmad that he didn’t mind continuing the conversation. “Of course! After years of criticizing the U.S. government, what would my old friends say if they knew I’m wearing shorts and exercising here at seventy-one?!” he exclaimed. He relished the sight of his son laughing even harder, tears in his eyes.

Though, after a while, Ahmad had to admit that even staying with his son couldn’t bring them closer. Hashem remained the same person who always seemed to brood over something that felt too complex for Ahmad to grasp. Just like when he was a teenager, Hashem never initiated conversations. If you asked him how his day was, he would politely answer with a tired smile and reciprocate with the same question. After all those years, the respect Hashem still held towards Ahmad made him uncomfortable, as it felt even more insincere than ever.

After a year of living in the US, Ahmad was no longer ashamed of enjoying his new lifestyle. He had ridden down the winding Lombard Street, visited the Hollywood studios where his favorite movies from his youth were filmed, explored the Golden Gate Bridge, and toured the Alcatraz Museum. Each weekend, Hashem took his father to various places, and Bashar accompanied them. Ahmad’s growing concern stemmed from the fact that their guest’s stay, initially expected to be temporary, had now extended over a year and showed no sign of coming to an end. These days, Bashar usually stayed in his room with the door closed. When he ventured downstairs to brew coffee or grab a snack, he would offer a polite smile, exchange cursory greetings with Ahmad, and then retire to his room. He seemed much less inclined to engage in conversation with Ahmad compared to before. There were even times when he simply ignored Ahmad’s presence, leaving Ahmad with the distinct feeling that he was merely an extra in his son’s home.

At the beginning of his arrival, Bashar had mentioned a few times that he was looking for somewhere to rent. However, now he didn’t even bother to broach the subject, as if he had forgotten he was staying there temporarily.

Bashar hadn’t even returned to his engineering job, despite the recent hiring of a Hispanic lady for household tasks who was also responsible for taking care of Emily. Hashem had mentioned to Ahmad once that Bashar was writing political articles for some local news websites. When Ahmad asked if he got paid for that, Hashem sternly answered, “It is a volunteer activity he is doing, Baba! Nobody receives money for that.”

So, where the heck does he get the money to survive and pay his kid’s nanny? Do you know what your mom’s wish was before she passed? She wished to see your marriage and grandkids. That’s all…

Ahmad felt tears welling up in his eyes.

“Baba!? Aw…” Hashem hugged his father for the second time since his arrival.

“Don’t worry about Bashar! He can stay here until his situation becomes stable and he finds a place to go.”

 

Even if Hashem had not forbidden him to follow the news, Ahmad no longer had any interest in it. Perhaps that was why he was no longer angry as he had been in Iran. Instead, he could feel a vague, inexplicable sadness growing day by day. He noticed he had all the symptoms that his depressed friend had complained about in Iran. Perhaps it was time for him to admit that depression was not a trivial excuse to avoid work.

He wasn’t one to easily succumb to this gloomy mood. In addition to pushing himself to continue working out, he familiarized himself with the addresses of several nearby grocery stores. Every day, he would venture to one of them and return home with a bag containing a loaf of bread or some fresh fruit. He tried his best to initiate conversations and make friends; however, people seemed to distance themselves from him after the initial greetings. Some even cast worried glances his way as they did so. The other thing he found to keep himself busy was teaching English online to disadvantaged Iranian children who couldn’t afford formal English classes in Iran. But of all these activities, he found the most joy in spending time with Bashar’s baby.

In his memory, he had never been one of those adults who relished the company of small children. Now, he couldn’t be certain if it was he who had changed or if Emily was simply different from other toddlers he’d encountered. All he knew was that each time he met Emily’s almond-shaped eyes, a surge of tenderness welled up in him. On several occasions when she grew fussy, he employed the only trick he knew: he’d hide his face behind a book and slowly reveal it until their eyes met. Then, he’d quickly hide again, prompting a delighted, high-pitched cry of excitement from the child. He soon discovered that he didn’t mind mimicking the sound of a donkey in front of Bashar and Hashem just to witness her chubby cheeks quiver with excitement and joy. With Emily, losing track of time was easy, something he desperately needed.

He would have bounced back to his normal self, had he not seen Zahra one night in his dream. She usually stood like that when Ahmad talked or acted so foolishly that she had nothing to do but stand with her hands on her hips and wear a contemptuous smile.

“She is so cute. Isn’t she?” She said, but her mouth didn’t open. “You will never play with your own grandkid,” she added in an alarming voice.

The dream pinned him down to the bed for two hours after opening his eyes. Was it time for him to admit his incompetence? Was he keeping himself occupied with all these daily activities in an attempt to divert his attention from the fact that he had never mustered the courage to sit down with his son and inquire about his future, his marriage, and his ever-present friend?

###

Calling his cousin, Mehrdad, after ten years wasn’t easy for Ahmad. However, after the dream he had, he felt compelled to do it. They had met each other weekly more than twenty-five years earlier because Hashem and Nazanin, Mehrdad’s daughter, were playmates. Their parents always joked about their love and laughed each time they embraced each other. But whatever had been going on between them was no longer amusing once they entered adolescence. So, not long before that, the families had stopped gathering as frequently. If it wasn’t for Nazanin’s love story with her classmate at the university, the families had planned to get them married after their graduation. Nazanin’s love story ended soon, but then Ahmad had determined that she could no longer be a candidate for Hashem, as she was a divorced woman  at that time, which was equivalent to being a widow. But now, the situation had changed; his son was getting older, and it was likely he would either remain single or marry an American girl. Plus, who knew? He might still be thinking about Nazanin.

Ahmad scheduled a Skype meeting with Mehrdad for Friday, allowing Hashem to have a restful day the next morning in case the conversation became lengthy. He decided to inform Hashem about the meeting as soon as he arrived home. When he told his son that he had only an hour to shave, Hashem gave him a long, puzzling stare.

The conversation between Hashem and Mehrdad concluded quickly, as there was little to sustain it beyond formal greetings. However, when Nazanin sat in front of Hashem, Ahmad noticed a fleeting spark in his son’s eyes. Her presence even brought a genuine half-smile to his lips. Nazanin appeared weary, having just returned from a long shift at the hospital. She was on her way to becoming a successful specialist, fulfilling her parents’ wishes. Despite her fatigue, she maintained her politeness and kept a faint smile on her lips. To Ahmad’s surprise, their conversation lasted only twenty minutes. Before bidding farewell, Hashem placed his hand on the edge of the laptop’s monitor and, as soon as he uttered “goodbye,” he promptly snapped it shut.

“What was that all about, Baba?!” When Hashem suddenly stood up, glaring at him, Ahmad couldn’t help but take a step backward. “Did you think I forgot that I need to get married? That I’m incapable of doing it?” He was yelling now.

Ahmad could hardly hear himself as he stammered, “Not at all!”

Hashem rushed to the door, and when he grabbed the handle, he paused for a second, turned to his father, and while staring at the floor, gave an insincere apology. He also refrained from slamming the door once he left. Ahmad looked at his trembling hands, feeling the cold sweat dripping down his forehead. Hashem had never raised his voice towards him before.

That night, Ahmad doubled the dose of his Lorazepam, yet he couldn’t fall asleep. The more he tried to rationalize what had happened earlier, the less he could convince himself that his son had any right to talk to him like that. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with what Ahmad did? Couldn’t Hashem understand that as a father, he should worry about him? About his future? At some point, he became so furious that he got up abruptly, determined to confront his son about his behavior that night.

Climbing the stairs and reaching his son’s room, he noticed a soft light seeping through the door left ajar. Bashar’s favorite song, “Matebkich,” was playing. While Bashar sat at the desk, bent over his laptop and typing quickly, Hashem approached and stood behind him, looking at the monitor.

“Such a hardworking journalist!” Hashem said. But Bashar seemed too focused to answer.

One of Ahmad’s concerns about Hashem from their time in Iran was that he always seemed to be alone. He couldn’t recall his son having had a close friend like Bashar. If Hashem didn’t want to marry, at least it was good that he had found a close friend. Perhaps that was the only thing that could justify Bashar’s constant presence.

“A new article?” Hashem asked.

Bashar didn’t reply.

After a few moments, Hashem continued. “Okay, I’ve been waiting for the right moment to bring it up, all right?”

“You’ve been saying that since he arrived,” Bashar answered in a low voice.

Hashem put one of his hands on Bashar’s shoulder and with other, carefully turned his head and leaned in. Then, there was a long kiss, the length of which could not be included in Ahmad’s life.

What Ahmad had just seen seemed as surreal as the scene he had witnessed during the Iran-Iraq war—a sniper’s bullet blowing up his friend’s head in a split second, and his friend was gone in the blink of an eye.

When they began removing each other’s clothes, he averted his eyes. That’s when he noticed someone standing in front of him—an old man with a panic-stricken face and a stooped back. It took a few seconds to recognize the image of himself in the long mirror hanging on the wall.

 

He tried his best to identify the most important items to take, although he was pretty sure he would eventually forget to take some of the essential ones. Seeing the old picture frame of Zahra while putting it into the suitcase, he did not feel that usual sudden pang of sadness, as he’d rather have her dead than to experience the scene he had just endured. Heading to the front door, he heard the short scream Emily usually used to greet people. When Ahmad turned on the light, he found her standing in her crib with her two fleshy fists grabbing the bars. She had one of those irresistible cute smiles on her face, seemingly trying to utter words. He embraced and lifted her off the crib and attached his forehead to her cheek. Feeling her cold tender skin calmed him down some. But when she started to rub her small hand back and forth on his head, he could no longer hold back his tears. He covered his face with his hand, as though he felt ashamed of her seeing him crying.

“Would you like to come with me?” When the signs of distress appeared on her face, he immediately put her back into the crib and kissed her cheek one last time.

 

It was chilly outside. He looked at his son’s window. The light was off. Ahmad closed his eyes. Smelling freshly mown grass and hearing the crickets chirping, he could imagine himself walking in the quiet park close to his house in Tehran on one of those sleepless nights.