equivalent of telling a Frenchman he’s English or vice versa.
“Really?” asked his wife in disbelief. “Why would they think that?”
I did my best to explain that a lot of people, through ignorance, lump all of the Middle East together and don’t have a particularly good sense of geography.
“What do people in England think of Iran?” she asked next. I could have lied and been diplomatic about this one but thought honesty was the best policy and explained that a lot of people, again, through ignorance, thought of Iran in George W. Bush’s terms as a member of the Axis of Evil, full of dangerous terrorists, and that a lot of Western media portrayed the country in this way. I said some people were too shortsighted to differentiate between the people of Iran and its leaders, and told them that I had been warned on several occasions not to visit Iran, and even been told I’d probably get shot here. Both found this very funny at first but then expressed their sadness.
“Yes, I have heard in newspaper, they say we are terrorist,” Shahram said thoughtfully. Things lightened up when Kimya asked what type of music I liked. She hadn’t heard of any of my favorites and probably assumed Britain was years behind Iran on the international music scene. I asked what they liked.
“Michael Jackson, Pet Shop Boys, Chris de Burgh, David Hasselhoff, Ace of Base, and of course Modern Tacking.”
“Modern who?”
“Modern Tacking!” she exclaimed.
“Tacking?”
“Yes, Modern Tacking, you must know!” It took a while before I realized she was saying “talking” but this was no help either. When I told them I’d never heard of a “Modern Talking” they honestly thought I was joking.
“But Modern Talking are the biggest rock group in the world,” Kimya explained.
“Are they Iranian?” I asked.
“No, of course not, they are German!”
“Oh I see,” I said and explained that German music wasn’t particularly popular in Britain or the rest of the English-speaking world—thank God!
“But they sing in English!” she countered, incredulous that I hadn’t heard of them. Shahram got up and returned to the table with a book. On the front cover were two cheesy-looking middle-aged jerks in full leather jackets and pants.
“It is English to Persian translation of the most beautiful songs of Modern Tacking,” he explained.
Kimya chipped in with, “Yes, it is very beautiful words, like poetry, like our great poet Hafez.”
I took a look at the book while Shahram slipped on a cassette tape. The lyrics were inspired, like Wordsworth, Keats, or Byron, but set to an eighties electro-pop disco beat. The words dripped with emotion and grace.
I couldn’t believe they hadn’t cracked the U.K. or U.S. market!
We left their apartment with Modern Talking ringing in our ears and set off on our second evening of sightseeing. Our first stop was the Tabriz museum on Imam Khomeini Ave. Immediately on walking in, I was drawn to a massive hunk of black volcanic glass called obsidian, which was on display just inside the entrance. Next to it were some arrowheads made of the same material. Having done a couple of flint knapping courses, I knew a bit about this and had the pleasure of sounding all scientific and knowledgeable for once.
“Obsidian,” I stated for Shahram and Kimya in my best professor-like voice, “produces the sharpest edge known to man, which is some five hundred times sharper than the very sharpest steel scalpel.”
In fact, surgeons have even made blades from it, as it will slice through human flesh far easier than a metal scalpel. It is so sharp that on a cellular level a blade made of obsidian is capable of slicing between cells as opposed to tearing them apart as a steel scalpel does. And the sharper the cut, the less the scarring, and the faster an incision will heal. I finished up by telling them that under high magnification the edge of a steel scalpel blade appears serrated, whereas an obsidian blade still looks smooth.
I felt all clever and learned as I recalled all this, and both looked suitably impressed. It was, however, the last exhibit I knew remotely anything about, so I read the English labels on all the rest. The museum had some interesting artifacts from regional excavations, including, amongst many other things, silverware from the Sassanid period (AD 224-637), drinking vessels from the Achaemenid period (550-330 BC), a vast collection of ancient coins, some beautiful bronzes from Iran’s Lorestan province, and Shahram’s clear favorite, a big collection of nasty-looking swords and daggers.
Also of interest were two skeletons called “the lovers” that had been excavated side by side. But the real highlight for me was an exhibition of the best sculptures I’ve ever seen in my life. They were made out of some sort of metallic material by a local, contemporary sculptor named Ahad Hosseini and were exceptionally striking. Most showed human figures in tormented states of one kind or another and were rather depressing, but all were hard- hitting.
The names of the sculptures included
The next museum we visited was a little on the eccentric side. It was called Salmasi House, after its former wealthy owner, Mr. Salmasi, who’d traveled the world collecting things of interest as he went. Among the stranger exhibits protected behind thick security glass were some English scales from the 1950s, a collection of wooden school rulers, numerous heating meters, and my favorite, a whole load of speedometers.
Shahram and Kimya walked around listening intently to the curator in Farsi and translated for me in English. Both seemed genuinely fascinated by the displays, as was I but probably for different reasons. Among the exhibits were some more conventional purchases for a gentleman of leisure, which included opulent-looking Swiss clocks and watches, and some beautiful European furniture. But for me, the weirder stuff was what it was all about.
After finishing up here, Shahram and I split from Kimya to go to the karate class, while she got a shared taxi home. We stopped off first at the office where Shahram worked to pick up some things, where his two brothers and about seven of their friends were sitting and talking together in total darkness. I guess the electricity must have gone out, which made for an interesting few minutes. While Shahram pottered about in the dark looking for something, I sat with his brothers and friends answering the normal icebreaker questions in complete darkness. We left before the lights came on, so I didn’t get to see what any of them looked like.
The karate class was held on the first floor of a crumbling old tower block, and the stale smell of sweat instantly transported me back to an old boxing gym I used to train at in South London. Although the smell would be repulsive to most people, it had a good association for me, and I couldn’t help thinking back to all the great times I’d had there. We arrived just as a class was finishing and all the young guys were getting changed out of their white karate uniforms and packing up. Shahram got changed along with the guys waiting for the next class and said he’d ask the teacher if I could join in. I was of two minds about this; I quite liked the idea of getting stuck in with the locals but was also fairly tired after spending most of the morning at the bazaar, so the idea of sitting on my ass taking it easy also appealed.
The decision was taken out of my hands when no spare kit could be located. This was fine by me, and when
