Trapped in Iran. Samieh Hezari

      Wanting to make the most of my visit, I made sure to visit with as many relatives as possible. It was at one of those get-togethers I heard that Farzad, one of my first cousins once removed, had been divorced recently and was eager to see me. One of my relatives had given him my phone number.

      But I wasn’t sure that I wanted to see him. Farzad was the eldest child in his family and the only boy. He had two younger sisters and had been the only grandson for more than fifteen years. I remember the extraordinary attention lavished on him as a child. He seemed to get whatever he wanted. Once, when I was about nine or ten, Farzad had a violent tantrum because he had been asked to give a toy to his sister and did not want to. He went into a rage in front of everyone, screaming, throwing things around, and smashing anything he could grab. I looked on in shock with my brothers; I had never seen a child disrespect his parents like that.

      When I look back now, it is clear to me that Farzad’s conviction of his own self-importance was difficult for others outside his family to accept. School friendships were fleeting; he passed by me on his way home every day and was always alone.

      An intense teenager, Farzad had been attracted to me, calling to talk about books or movies that I had no interest in. At the time, I was too shy and polite to cut the call short or tell him to stop contacting me.

      It had been fifteen years since I had seen Farzad—surely, he had changed. Out of both impulse and curiosity, I decided to meet him and see what he was like after all this time. I had been given his phone number by one of his relatives, and he seemed excited that I had contacted him. Because my mother was not particularly fond of her sister-in-law—Farzad’s grandmother—I thought it best to keep the meeting to myself. It was only going to be a one-time thing, after all, so there was no point in ruffling anyone’s feathers.

      Farzad had suggested we meet in a café in Golsar village, a trendy suburb in Rasht where the wealthy go to dine and shop. A broad smile lit up his face when I walked into the coffee shop. “Sami, you have not changed a bit!” he exclaimed. He looked me up and down, still smiling. “No, you have changed,” he murmured. “You have gotten more beautiful.”

      I just smiled nervously. Compliments about my appearance have always made me uncomfortable, and it had been a long time since I had received a compliment from anyone.

      I have to admit that Farzad had grown into a not unattractive man. His hair, once brown, was now a salt-and-pepper color. He still had thick glasses, which I remembered from years ago. As a young boy, Farzad had been watching a street protest at the time of the revolution. The protesters had been burning cars, logs, anything they could get their hands on, and he had been standing a little too close to the action. Something exploded in the fire and ricocheted into his right eye. I had heard that Farzad had undergone various surgeries over the years, but judging by the thick lenses, his eyesight was still very weak.

      “I am really glad to see you,” he said. “Do you travel here often?”

      “Maybe once a year to see my parents,” I replied, trying to avoid his steady gaze.

      After the waitress took our orders, he leaned closer. “I have been thinking about you a lot recently. I was shocked to hear that we had both been married and divorced.” He pulled his head back and smiled. “Maybe we were meant to meet each other again.”

      I said nothing. Perhaps this meeting had been a mistake. As our coffees were placed in front of us, I took time to study him more closely. That same intense expression I remembered, but he was now far more confident in the way he spoke and held himself.

      “I’m an engineer now,” he announced, sitting up straight with pride.

      I was pleased to know that Farzad was doing well for himself. He had struggled in school and I’d heard that his relatives had paid to get him into college. It was like that in Iran. Money could get you almost anything—but only if you knew the right people.

      He returned the conversation to the two of us. “You know, I have never stopped thinking about you since we were kids,” he said softly, looking directly into my eyes. “You know I loved you dearly, Sami.”

      Oh, boy. Sipping coffee, I thought about my next words. “Yes, I remember,” I replied carefully, putting my cup down. “You were always following me around.” I laughed nervously.

      Looking past his shoulder and out onto the busy street, I realized I felt just as I had as a young girl when I had struggled to find something to say to him on the phone.

      Perhaps thinking I was losing interest, he blurted out, “I really want us to be together! I realize that I still have a lot of love for you in my heart.”

      My eyes returned quickly to his face.

      Thinking of that conversation now, after all the pain that followed, it is so hard to believe I took him seriously. But I did. It had been such a long time since anyone had made me feel special, so I indulged myself a little by believing that his sweet words were genuine. Too many years of feeling worthless and depressed, and now this engineer was giving me his undivided attention. Nonetheless, I did try my best to talk about other things, but Farzad always brought our chat back to his feelings for me. I must admit I was flattered.

      When we finished our coffees, he indicated to the waitress to come over so that we could order another. I gently refused, however, saying I had to return to my parents’ house and my little girl. Such an awkward, quick good-bye, given all that had been said.

      On the way home, my cell phone beeped. It was a text message from Farzad. I opened the message and was surprised to see a love poem by the famous fourteenth-century Persian poet Hafiz.

      I have no use for divine patience—

      My lips are now burning and everywhere.

       I am running from every corner of this earth and sky

      Wanting to kiss you.

      Wow. The possibility of a new relationship was the last thing I had expected on this trip, especially given my résumé of romantic disasters. I didn’t even have time to reply to the message when the phone beeped again. Another one of Hafiz’s poems.

       For I have learned that every heart will get

       What it prays for

      Most.

      The barrage of Hafiz poems continued throughout the evening and soon I started to just delete them. Same old Farzad, unceasingly intense. I wanted to tell him to stop, because the phone was my mother’s—my Irish cell phone had no reception in Iran—and God only knows what she would have thought if she discovered Farzad sending me poems by the great Hafiz, but I did not want to hurt his feelings. Thankfully, the messages eventually stopped.

      That night as I was turning in for bed, Farzad sent me a text message inviting me to join him for a meal the following day. Wanting to clarify our relationship and with plenty of time at my disposal, I agreed.

      We met in an Italian restaurant called Pizariya, again in Golsar. I love pizza and was studying the menu when Farzad gently pushed it down onto the table so he could see my face.

      “Sami,” he began, looking into my eyes, “I thought about you all last night and I want us to be together.”

      He took a sip from his water, still holding my gaze.

      “I want us to get married.”

      I stared at him in disbelief. This has gone too far. “I’m sorry, Farzad,” I replied firmly, “but I am not ready for any kind of commitment.”

      “There is nothing to worry about,” Farzad urged. “All that matters is I love you very much.”

      I knew I did not love him. How could I? I didn’t