Escape From Paradise. Majid MD Amini
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Chapter Eight
Fatemeh opened her eyes slightly around quarter past one o'clock in the afternoon. She rubbed her eyes, trying to break through the thick cobwebs in her mind spun by the taryak’s spider the night before. She looked at the clock on the mantel and said, “Ohhh ... my ... God, I'm going to miss my plane.” The words were coming out of her mouth in very slow intervals. She was still heavily under the influence of taryak, with not much control of her limbs and arms. Nousheen struggled to help her dress. While Fatemeh scrambled to put on her panties, Nousheen reached over and placed a bundle of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in plastic over her pubic hair and said, “That's the safest place.”
“What's that?” Fatemeh asked.
“That's ten-thousand dollars for you,” Nousheen responded casually.
“I don't know what to say,” said Fatemeh.
“Then don't say anything.”
“But ...”
“What?”
“Do you really think where you put the money is the safest place?” Fatemeh asked with a smile, pointing to her pubic area.
“Ohh, that!”
“That’s where every ugly guard or filthy mullah likes to put his hand first,” Fatemeh said and burst out laughing. They laughed, but a lump in Fatemeh’s throat grew larger and her eyes moistened, it finally broke under the influence of her untimely laughter, a laughter that was only a sad deep crying, and streams of tears rolled over her cheeks. Fatemeh kissed Nousheen’s lips gently, conveying her true gratitude and love, like a heartbroken daughter kisses her mother. Fatemeh then pointed out her bulging panties and let out a laugh, not the icy cold laughter of recent months, but a genuine joyous one. She then put on black pants and a long black dress. She covered her entire head and face with a black veil. With black socks and the same color shoes, she looked at the nearby mirror, saw herself and the image of her young imaginary young man next to her, and said, “Look at me, you devil handsome man. Do you remember me? I used to be very pretty, but I look like a scavenging raven now.”
“Who’s the handsome man you’re talking to?” Nousheen asked.
“Oh never mind me. It’s nothing, darling. I’m just talking to the mirror,” Fatemeh replied.
“Nobody will recognize you now,” Nousheen said sadly.
“With all the black shit all over me, even I don’t recognize myself anymore! Why should they?” Fatemeh replied. She then checked her forged passport, her plane ticket, picked up a suitcase and a large handbag and headed toward the door, but she dropped everything to the floor before opening the door.
“I don’t know what in the hell I’m doing!” she said to herself. She then lifted her veil and said, “Forgive me,” and kissed Nousheen on the cheeks and hugged her.
“Let me take you to the airport, darling,” Nousheen offered with tears in her eyes.
“No. I told you, it's safer if I go alone,” Fatemeh said and picked up her luggage. She pulled her veil down and dragged her trembling body out. As she wedged her way toward the stairs with hesitating steps, she thought: This is my journey, Nousheen. It's better if I go alone, and leave you and all my past behind.
Because of the way she was dressed, she blended into the crowd. She had no problem flagging down a taxicab. The curves, bends, bumps, potholes, and all the sharp corners of the roads on the way to the airport didn’t prevent her from taking a nap. Only the shaking of her arm by the driver woke her up at her destination.
She clumsily fought her way through the crowded airport to the ticket counter and luckily encountered no problem checking her suitcase. She pushed and shoved people aside and found her way to the gate to board flight 230 to Tabriz. The guard at the gate called her, “sister.” She detested it. The thought raced through her mind about how badly she wanted to spit out, Shut up, you bastard! I’m not your sister, your mother, your wife, and there is no possibility I will ever become your friend or anything else to you.
He checked her ticket, fortunately the agent didn’t ask for any identification, and waved her onto the plane. Once she found her seat, she dropped herself down and dozed off, not quite sleeping or completely awake. Hallucinating, she saw images of thousands of luminous baby angels floating in the air in a lush land that she could only recognize as an immaculate Garden of Eden.
An uneventful taxi ride from the Tabriz airport took her to the door of the Jahan Hotel. Slinging her handbag over her shoulder and dragging her luggage, she lumbered slowly to the reception desk and asked for a room. The receptionist rudely informed her that there was no room available for the night, and that she should check other hotels. Disappointed, she found no energy in her body to leave. She went to the lobby and sat on a chair.
The taryak’s effect still lingered within her. She was in a strange state of mind; she couldn't concentrate on any particular object. She overheard some men talking loud near her. One voice sounded familiar to her. She opened her eyes and through the thin layer of the veil, she saw Reza, the man with the curly dark beard. She called his name, and he walked to her not recognizing her. She rose and asked him to follow her to a corner where they could talk. Once away from other people, she had to lift her veil before Reza could recognize her.
“They told me there's no vacancy in this place. ... Can you get me a room?” she asked.
“Wait right here, don’t move.” Reza hurried to the desk, whispered to the receptionist and came back with a key. “I got you a room. Let me help you.”
He took her luggage and walked quickly toward the stairs. Realizing she couldn't keep up with him, he slowed down and waited for her, extending his hand to help her walk up the stairs.
“What's the matter with you? Are you sick or something?” he probed, concerned.
“No. I'm just loaded with taryak,” she whispered candidly.
He opened the door to room 312 on the third floor and waited for her to enter. He followed her in and locked the door from inside.
“This damn thing makes me sick,” she said angrily, trying to remove her veil. She undressed in the bathroom, removed the money from her panties, placed it in her handbag, and put on a more comfortable dress. She joined Reza, who was sitting on the bed looking as if he were anxiously waiting to have fun with her tired body.
“You look much better now,” Reza complimented her.
She looked at him sideways and said, “Don't give me that crap, I look like hell. I know it and you know it too!”
“I see that you're upset. Let me go get a bottle of aragh and some food that I’m sure will put you in a good mood.”
He didn't wait for her response and left the room. She lay down, and before any line of thought could cross her mind, she fell asleep. The entire time she was asleep felt like only a second or two when a noise woke her. With half-opened eyes, she saw Reza sitting on a chair and on the table next to him was a plate full of shishkabab, two glasses, a bottle of Russian-made aragh and a dish with ice.
“Come on! Let's have a drink,” he invited her. It sounded surly more like a command than an invitation, with the sparks of excitement glittering in his eyes.
“How in the hell did you get Russian aragh?” she asked drowsily, joining him.
“Everything is available for a price, if you got the right connections.”
“And you've all the right connections?”
“Yes Zee-Zee! Like you had during the Shah’s regime.”
He poured her a glass and added some ice cubes and handed it to her, lifted his own glass and said, “Here's to you, lovely Zee-Zee.”
“Lovely, my big butt,” she said, sipped her drink, ate some meat and swallowed more aragh. She could feel the slow travel of the cold