tired of the futile efforts and the not-so-subtle pressure of his family to marry. They had to realize that times had changed. “What would she have to be like?” Razak hesitated. The questions were too direct. Iranian women didn’t discuss these matters with men who are not family, but he felt mysteriously drawn to this fair-skinned woman with the soft voice, making him forego custom. “It’s difficult,” he said, looking at her blue eyes, resisting the urge to hold her hand. “Because there are rules I set for myself that I must follow before I bind myself forever.” “Rules? What rules?” asked Abelina as she looked him in the eye. She bent over the table and he smelled her perfume. Razak took a deep breath. “I must love her with all my heart so that I will never make her cry from sorrow. God counts her tears.” “That is so nice,” said Abelina softly. “Any other rules? “Yes, equality,” he said. “I read in the Bible you gave me that Eve was created from Adam’s rib, not from his feet, nor from his head. Therefore my loved one, who loves the Bible so much, cannot be below me or superior to me, but at my side to be my equal. She’ll be under my arm to be protected, and next to my heart to be loved. But she’ll always have to remember my tradition and follow my lead through it.” Abelina sent her hand under the table and held his hand.
Erikka gave me back the page. “You’re so talented,” she exclaimed. “It’s so romantic. I can’t wait to read the rest of the novel.”
“This piece is also just a first draft.”
If Erikka had had any suspicion of me, I think reading that page shelved it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The jangling telephone woke me up. The sunrise was just beginning to send rays through my window.
“Hello, Ian. This is Hasan. Remember me?” His tone was unnaturally friendly. “I read most of your book last night, and enjoyed it immensely.” I felt proud until I remembered I hadn’t written it, and that in fact I didn’t believe he’d read it, maybe just flipped through it.
“Thank you, it’s very kind of you. I need every bit of criticism to fine-tune it, but people seem just to compliment me rather than criticize.”
“Of course there’s always room for change,” he quickly agreed. “Although I’m not a professional writer or reviewer, I think that as an Iranian I could draw your attention to a few points that could be better explained.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Good, then we’ll have lunch and talk about it.” A Revolutionary Guard top executive moonlights as a literary critic? Hello? Add the sense that he was too eager, though in a polite and subtle way, and the conclusion could be ominous. Was I the mouse in Aesop’s fable about the lion and the mouse? I didn’t care to think what usually happens in these rendezvous. In the fable they live together in friendship and in harmony forever after, but in reality I knew who got devoured. Never the lion.
Hasan, all smiles, came to my hotel at noon. He drove me to Shandiz Jordan Persian Restaurant on Jordan Street. Where was his driver? I wondered. Hasan was warmly and enthusiastically welcomed by the owner, who practically bowed and danced around him. I felt embarrassed. We sat at a corner table without ordering anything, and a school of waiters started loading our table with delicious Iranian chello kebab and shishlik. Contrary to a rule of thumb I’d coined after eating in fancy restaurants in Europe and the U.S., where the bigger the plate was, the smaller the portion, here both the plates and the portions were huge.
“What I like about your book…,” said Hasan, as he dipped naneh sangak, the Irani an flat bread, in a plate containing a white sauce and placed a small piece of shishlik on the bread. I waited for him to continue, but his mouth was full. He swallowed and said, “As I was saying, I like the candor and the realism with which the novel describes present-day Iran. It doesn’t criticize our culture and the Islamic direction the Iranian people have decided to take, but rather tries to understand it and yet bridge the differences between the man’s and the woman’s respective cultures. I hope many people read your book and that more people will come here to see the real Iran, rather than listen to political propaganda.”
“Like what?”
“I hear false accusations distributed by the Zionists and America that Iran is sponsoring terrorist organizations. I can tell you that these rumors are baseless.”
Why was he kissing up, talking about “my” novel? Why was he mentioning terror when it wasn’t even in the book? This person didn’t strike me as a man who wasted words for no purpose. What was going on?
“I didn’t get the impression that Iran was encouraging tourism,” I said cautiously.
“Oh yes, we do, but many don’t seem to be convinced to come.”
“So what do you suggest doing?”
“If people don’t come here, maybe we should bring the message to them, to the place where they live, so that they’ll see we aren’t lepers.”
“Who do you think can do that?”
“We have cultural attaches at our embassies in Europe,” said Hasan. “But they aren’t trained in public appearance.”
Sure, I thought. These undercover agents are trained to recruit informers and shoot dissidents; therefore, they have no time to promote cultural events.
“Why don’t you go?” I suggested. That was a bold question, and the answer would define who the lion was and who was the mouse.
He paused. “I would think about it, if I received an invitation.”
“From whom?”
“From an academic institution, such as a university. It could assemble hundreds or even thousands of students to listen to an open debate about the true vision of Iran’s Islamic Revolution.”
“Any university? I can ask some leading Canadian universities if they’d be interested.”
“It’s important that the inviting entity will be respectable and fair enough to let me voice the truth. It doesn’t have to be a university; it could also be a cultural association or a research institute.” He paused for a moment to mea sure my reaction and continued. “It would serve Iran’s interests best if an invitation were arranged soon. Some matters need to be brought to the public’s attention before things happen for which Iran could be blamed- incorrectly, of course.”
If he was sending an unspoken message, I think I got it.
“How soon?”
“A month or so.”
“That certainly sounds like a bold and interesting idea. If you’d like, why don’t you send me your resume and a synopsis of your lecture? Upon my return to Canada, I’ll be happy to make a few phone calls to cultural and academic institutions and see what they have to say.”
“When are you returning?” There was certain urgency to the question.
“I haven’t made plans yet. Maybe in two weeks-I have an open ticket.”
“Then perhaps you can communicate with the universities while you’re still here, and if they have questions, I could answer through you, while you’re still here.”
“We can do that,” I agreed.
“I like your writing,” he suddenly said, changing the subject. “I read your article in European Public Policy magazine about the liberation movements in Africa and your article on the Indian-Pakistani conflict in Political Science and Influence.”
It was obvious he had done his homework and had run a search on Ian Pour Laval before coming to meet me. If he wanted to discuss the articles, I was prepared. I had read them all. But why was he mentioning them, other than to hint that he’d checked my background? Though I had no clear answer, I did have ideas. Thus far it seemed that the legend the CIA had built for my new identity as Ian Pour Laval was holding water. We continued eating and talking, but it was clear, at least to me, that the essential messages had already been exchanged, and the rest of the time spent now was just a waste of it.
He drove me back to my hotel. I couldn’t stop wondering what it was all about. Was he performing a counterintelligence routine by checking me out to make sure I was a bona fide Canadian author, and not a spy? Was he trying to recruit me to work for him? Given his government position, was he sending me another message I was hesitant to accept as plausible?
