Deliverance Read online

  If it weren't for Ehsan, I'd be checking the boys out right along with her, but I already have the perfect boyfriend. So I do what I now always do while Leyli is car-flirting. I mentally compare the specimen in the car with my own boyfriend. Sure, the BMW seems classy enough, but my boy drives a Benz – though it is technically his daddy's car.

  These boys are trying to achieve that perfectly coiffed bed head look, but fall short of the mark. The strands of hair on their heads are just too well separated and they are sporting just a bit too much hair gel. It's the same style as Ehsan, but at least he makes it look natural. Effortless. Though I know it's everything but. I've seen the work he puts into his appearance when he has to fix his hair using the car's rear view mirror in a parking lot before we go somewhere.

  "So what do you think?"

  Sometimes I think Leyli can read my mind.

  "I would say by the way they are looking at you that you stand a chance."

  "I know that!" she laughs. "Do you think they're worth my time?"

  The traffic has moved a little, but Leyli hasn't. She's waiting for the BMW to catch up to her. This way she'll be able to exchange a few words with the boys and maybe even pass them her mobile number.

  "They seem cool enough." I emphasize the word cool, because isn't that the most important thing? Well, that, and if you want to plan for the future, then money matters too. Even I'm forced to be a little shallow if I want to make sure I can keep my middle class lifestyle. Especially in this failing economy. But the car they’re driving indicates money is probably not a problem.

  "Not as cool as Ehsan," Leyli sighs.

  Pride blooms in my chest. No, not as cool as Ehsan. But he is one of a kind after all.

  Finally, the traffic has moved enough that the boys' car is next to ours. People behind us are honking and yelling obscenities to get her to move, but she ignores them. She exchanges smiles with the boys and takes the mobile number from the one in the driver's seat. The one wearing a football shirt. I suddenly imagine him in a bus filled with football-shirt-wearing jocks carrying flags and those annoying trumpets and chanting "Iran! Iran! Iran!" in that thickhead sporting way. God! In my mind, he might as well be a wrestling champion. I shudder.

  My reaction doesn't fail to catch Leyli's attention. After she beams one last smile at the boy – who I can now only picture shirtless holding up those huge wooden clubs with a dumb smile on his face – and has driven up the few spots, she turns to me. None too early, because one of the annoyed obscenity-uttering drivers has gotten out of his car and is storming towards us. He returns to his car now that he’s the one blocking traffic.

  "Okay, what did you notice that I didn't? What was wrong with him?"

  I almost blurt out that he is a wrestling champion, but then remember that, in fact, the only thing wrong with him is that he's a football fan. So I shrug.

  "Tell me," she insists.

  "It's nothing. He was wearing a football shirt and you know how I feel about jocks."

  "That's all? Nakissa joon, you should have seen the look of disgust on your face! I thought it was something bad. Like maybe he had a fat stomach or wore jogging pants or something."

  I laugh and this encourages her to continue.

  "I thought maybe you had noticed that he dresses like the president!" As usual, she rolls her eyes as she uses the P word. "Could you imagine?"

  By the time we reach the hospital, we have tears in our eyes from laughing so much.

  Maman won't stop complaining. Apparently everyone has been mistreating her, ignoring her, or treating her like an invalid. She's been in the car for only five minutes and already Leyli and I are exchanging glances. Maman is not usually this high maintenance, but like all mothers, she can be over-dramatic. She loves to emphasize her suffering and then scoff at anyone who offers her pity. Sometimes I worry I'm a little bit like her.

  The traffic is still a nightmare – when is it not? – and I wish we could just get home. Leyli's on her best behavior but she and Maman don't always see eye to eye on everything... or anything... and I'm just waiting for Maman to snap at her.

  Leyli is answering Maman’s questions about her brother Mehran who is practically a genius and will probably receive a scholarship to attend university in the US. I’m just waiting on her to start picking on my own grades which are good, just not good enough according to her, or to tell Leyli she should be more like her brother – she’s done that before.

  We inch past a small grocery store I've never noticed before. At first I think it's just the boredom of traffic, and trying to escape Maman's imminent nagging that makes it catch my attention, but there's something more. The building is old and rundown. One of those converted buildings from the past. When I look at it, images of how it must have looked fifty years ago flash before my eyes.

  It feels so real that I'm instantly disoriented. The air seems thick around me, filled with a current I can almost manipulate. It's more than just the pollution. Music escapes the old building. The ancient languid, sorrowful sound strikes a chord inside of me. I feel like I own this song somehow. It belongs to me, in my heart, and it's a shock to hear it on the outside.

  "Have you heard this song before?" I ask absent-mindedly.

  "Um yeah, it only plays on the radio every hour." Leyli is referring to the latest mindless Persian summer tune imported from L.A. currently blaring from the car stereo and from everywhere in the city.

  "Not on the radio. The traditional music coming from the store."

  Leyli turns down the radio, eliciting a grateful sigh from Maman who is sitting in the front seat next to her, and cranes her neck from side to side. She raises her impeccably manicured eyebrows.

  "Azizam, I hear nothing. Maybe you are just going crazy." She tilts her head and shifts her eyes to the seat next to her but Maman seems to be oblivious to the motion. Instead, she is peering around curiously.

  "I'm sorry, Nakissa jan. I also hear nothing. It was probably just that cheap music you listen to; it's harming your hearing."

  Obviously, there's something wrong with their hearing because the music is still playing and it's loud. The melody haunts me. Shivers crawl up my arms like tiny spiders, and I rub them to shake the feeling. Finally, the traffic moves again, and the music fades into the background, but not from my mind.

  I haven't been back home for more than a few hours when Leyli texts me. She wants to go out and meet up with a couple friends at the coffee shop. Normally, I'm all for it but tonight I just want to lay low. I buy some time by telling her I need a shower and I wander into Ebi's room. My little brother’s in his usual position, lounging on his bed, video game controller in his hand.

  I scan his room for what I'm looking for, and right away I find it, leaning against one of his poster-plastered walls. Ebi is seriously the coolest eight-year-old out there. His guitar, an old acoustic one that Bijan passed down to him, is covered in graffiti-like doodles and line-drawings of big American brands like Coca Cola and Converse.

  "Can I borrow your guitar?" I ask him.

  "What?" he shouts over the obviously-way-too-loud video game blasting in his headphones.

  I step over the junk on the floor – before her accident, Maman would have kept his room clean for him, but there’s no way I’m touching that mess – to get to his guitar, pick it up and hold it up to him while raising my eyebrows at him as a question. He shrugs so I take it as a yes, and exit the room before I gag on the smell of rotting milk coming from somewhere under the heaps of dirty laundry.

  Back in my room, I push my door closed for a little privacy. It's been months since I practiced music of any sort, and though I wasn't bad at it, I was never really good either.

  I plop down on the side of my bed and pluck at some strings absent-mindedly. My mind wanders to the tune that came from that run down market. I imagine the building once again like it must have appeared fifty years ago, but suddenly I'm looking at something else, and I know it's not Tehran anymore.

  I r
ecognize Esfahan and for the first time, I understand why the proverb says Esfahan is half the world, because I'm seeing the city in its glory. I'm on a balcony over-looking a large square filled with tents and entertainers, fire jugglers and acrobats. Between my fingers are the delicate strings of a harp and I'm playing that song.

  The sound of the harp gradually changes to the guitar and I return to reality. But the strange thing is I'm still playing the song that captured my imagination. My fingers move between the strings as if they have a mind of their own. I must have learned it in my lessons. I guess this is why the melody seemed so familiar, but strangely, I can't picture the music sheet for it.

  My mobile dings, notifying me of an incoming text, and I reluctantly disengage myself from the guitar to check it out. It's Leyli. She's at the door and I have little choice but to come out.

  On our way to the coffee shop, Leyli and I pass the store again and I still feel drawn to it, though I don't hear the music anymore. When I ask Leyli if we can stop, she raises an eyebrow at me but says nothing; she just parks the car and follows me in.

  The assortment of things for sale can only be described as random. Some groceries line the barely stocked shelves in the center aisles, while the wall shelves contain miscellaneous electronic equipment. The back wall displays a few carpets and a glass counter show off more electronics and some imitation cologne. Leyli leans over the counter to take a better look at something and the shopkeeper rushes to help her.

  His originally annoyed tone takes a different timbre when he notices her designer sunglasses and handbag. He begins offering her "a good price" on several colognes until he sees that she is clearly not interested. This is when he smiles and pulls a box from under the counter. In it, a few cans of whisky make a metallic cling sound as they rub against some bottles of brand name vodka.

  "Maybe the lady is interested in some special merchandise?" he says in a way that would lead one to believe that not every shop on this street is also selling contraband.

  "Ask her," Leyli says, nodding her head in my direction, "I'm not even sure why we're here."

  To be honest, I don't know why we're here either. Yet, I just can't help but believe there is a clue to that weird music here, somewhere.

  And then I see it.

  Tucked into the corner of the shop, like an afterthought, is an antique harp. It makes no sense for it to be there. It doesn't fit in. The harp looks really old. The gilded carvings are packed with dust and dirt from years of neglect. Still, as I look at it, I just can't help but see its potential. I see it like it must have looked in its glory. I reach towards it.

  "Don't touch that, it will break," the shopkeeper calls out.

  I ignore him. Reason tells me I should listen to the man, but I can't. It's stronger than me. I have to touch it. Without thinking, I kneel in front of it, place my hands on each side, and start playing. My fingers glide against the silk strings and the motions feel natural, but the instrument is out of tune, so what comes out is anything but graceful or beautiful or anything, really. The shop keeper eyes me, and I'm afraid he's going to give me an earful about performing my music in public or something stupid like that. He takes purposeful steps towards me, and I detangle myself from the harp. His eyes are clouded by something. Doubt? Fear? I'm not sure.

  "Do you play professionally?"

  I shake my head. What a question. I've never even played the harp. I scan the store for Leyli and finally find her. She's standing stock still watching me.

  "Well, aren't you full of surprises?" she calls out. There is a bitter edge to her tone I just don't understand.

  "Follow me." The man walks towards a back door to another room.

  I exchange a confused glance with Leyli and she nods her head in his direction. Leyli is reckless as usual, but I worry.

  At the door, she pauses. "Well? Are you coming?" There is a challenge to her tone that I can't resist. I'm tired of always being the voice of reason. A quiet voice that is always ignored anyway. I shrug and follow her.

  We walk through some sort of lounge area. It's a lot better decorated than I would have expected. The carpets spread along the floors muffle the sound of our footsteps. Cushions are spread along the walls and a water pipe sits in the corner of the room. The man doesn't pause, but continues down a narrow staircase. I feel a little uneasy at how the old crumbling brick walls close in on me there. The corridor feels rough like it's been chiseled out of the land. Our heads barely clear the few bare light bulbs which hang from the ceiling, the wires tacked to the stone. We should turn back now, before it's too late – if it isn't already too late. I look back to Leyli, to see if she shares my thoughts, but her eyes sparkle in the naked light. She gives me a wide smile but I say nothing. Strangely enough though, for once my instincts are on the same wavelength as hers. Nothing about this situation actually feels dangerous.

  The corridor isn't very long and before we know it, we are standing in a nicely illuminated room. The sweet smell of flavored tobacco fills the air.

  “Who is this?” I spin to face the unknown speaker, but instead I’m distracted by what I see.

  Equipment. The metal soundboards glitter in the halogen light. The voice comes from a leather sectional tucked in the corner of the room. There, a boy – presumably the owner of the voice – relaxes next to a girl with bleached blonde uncovered hair and a tank top. They share a water pipe. A couple guitars carelessly lean against the furniture. The glass coffee table contains a pile of English music magazines. Lavish fabrics in reds and gold hang from the ceiling and compliment the warm jewel tones of the Persian carpets underfoot. Directly across this small lounge, the knobs, lights and sliders of the soundboard reflect against a glass partition. This is a real deal professional underground recording studio.

  But before I can come to terms with everything else, I see her. She is a twin to the one I saw upstairs, but in perfect restored condition. She calls to me like she is mine and I am hers. As soon as I put my fingers on her, the dream comes back, but it’s brighter this time. The harp between my hands is the same, yet everything else is different. I'm back on a balcony overlooking the busy square. It's daytime now and the square is filled with the tents of merchants peddling their wares.

  A hand falls on my shoulder and I turn around expecting to see Leyli and the studio, but I'm still in the dream and the hand belongs to a familiar man. My heart skips. I'm not sure if I love him or hate him, I think I have done both at different times of my life. His appearance is neat, his dark hair is long, but what catches my attention more than anything is the gentle yet piercing gaze that comes from his murky green eyes.

  "Come Nagissa," he says. "The King awaits."

  I let go of the harp and stand up. In the dim studio lighting, a small group of people has materialized in front of me and I wonder if I made a scene while sleepwalking. Surely this was some sort of sleepwalking episode, what else could it be?

  "Bravo! Afarin!" the shopkeeper praises me. "What talent you have. Are you sure you weren't professionally trained?"

  I shake my head, not trusting my voice. Is the harp really so similar to the guitar or is there something really weird happening to me?

  "I don't know how you feel about rock music, but I manage the band Farâsoo. Roxana here," he points to the pretty blonde who makes Leyli's makeup application look conservative, "is the lead singer. Amir-Reza," this time he points to the boy who had spoken before I noticed all the recording equipment, "plays guitar. Siavash and Farhad aren't here."

  He waits and I feel like he is waiting for my answer, though he never asked a question.

  "Hello," I say to the two band members.

  Roxana sweeps her long bangs out of her eyes. "What I think Davood is trying to say is we've been looking to add a traditional sound to our music and we've never heard such an amazing authentic sound as what you just plucked the shit out of that harp!"

  "You want me to play the harp for one of your songs?"

  "No, azizam," the shopkee
per, Davood, cuts in. "We want you to join the band and be a member of Farâsoo."

  I tried to flag down one of the reckless cab drivers speeding through the busy streets of Tehran and, frustrated, I looked to the crowd around me to see if anyone else was having better luck. Last time I was here, this land had a different name and, at first glance, a different culture. But I'd been tracking Ramtin through the underground scene for the past few days and I knew, by then, that what you got of Tehran at first glance was very different from its true heartbeat.

  Once I finally got a cab, I didn't even bother to negotiate with the driver. I knew he was very politely ripping me off because, let's face it, even with my perfect, though over-formal and outdated, mastery of the Persian language, I was still, obviously, a foreign tourist. A different day, I would have won him over with my charm but not tonight. It was the least of my concerns. Rumors had Ramtin's band playing at a private party in the north end of town, but I'd followed rumors for three nights and always missed him. He was a slippery bastard.

  It was not the first time I found myself wishing my family was there to help, but another part of me enjoyed the solitude. The others could be suffocating sometimes. The all too familiar lump in my throat resurfaced as I thought of Vincent; not all my family was still around to drive me crazy. I shook the idea out of my head. These events had to stop before they claimed more lives. I needed to concentrate on Ramtin. He was important.

  Actually, here in Tehran, he was very important, it seemed. I'd even heard of him referred to as a hero, of sorts. It made some sense, what with his triumphant return home after successfully taking on the American music scene. I might even have agreed with the people and found it heroic, if not a little bit suicidal. The way he flamboyantly ignored how almost everything he did here was highly frowned upon and, in many cases, illegal, made him an admirable symbol for change. Maybe I would have also looked up to him, were it not for my knowledge of what he is. But I did know, and this is why I was here, travelling to what felt like the other side of the world, for the first time in about three hundred years.