Love and Death in Iran Page #3

A modern Dostoevskyian love story set in Iran.

• Drama

								


"We met at a friend's house party and Miss Hoffman was there because she knew my friend's fiancé, Zhila, from Germany. Zhila was full of praise about her as a well-known artist who had won a few awards for her photos taken from around the world, especially the conflict zones. Her works have been in some museum exhibitions. I've seen them through her personal website."

After reflecting on my answer for a moment, Nasseri handed me a paper to fill with all the facts about Hannah known to me "from A to Z" adding "it's pure routine. There are some sheep who can turn into wolves instantly." I gave him a cold reply and then after narrating everything down, minus any mention of the Kish trip, for all the obvious reasons, handed it to him; he confined himself to a quick "fine" after glancing at it. I then asked if I could talk to her and Naseri said she was on her way from a women's detention center and would take a little while. I then exited his office and paced back and forth in the hallway deep in anxious thoughts, asking myself if Hannah was a spy or even an assassin and, if so, should I curse myself for being duped so easily like yet another (over) sentimental Middle Easterner with an inherent knack for self-destruction? Is it because of our inflated egos? Why is the damn light of love always blinking in the right direction? I tried to distract myself by the sight of a half dozen young men, including a boy who could not have been older than thirteen, smoking and chatting with each other about who had started a fight, i.e., a case of friendship gone sour. An hour or so later, they brought her in and we talked in a room in the presence of Naseri and two other police officers. "Tell her we're not here to harm her; we just want to talk," Nasseri said as she was entering. Hannah gave me a sad smile and looked every bit as distraught as me, as if she had suddenly aged three years in the space of three days. I wished I could hug her and hold her hands, but couldn't.

“Are you alright?” I asked her.

“I'm okay,” she said softly, tucking her hair under her head scarf. "I'm feeling a bit tired, that's all." I tried a psychological affect by replying, "Same here, Nicht so good. it's been a long day," and then, pointing at the red spots on her arms, asked, "What's that?"

"It's an allergic reaction." But then suddenly her face changed. It softened a bit, obviously relieved to see me there.

"They say you tried to kill a woman, is that true? I beg you to believe that, if you're innocent of this monstrous accusation, you can do yourself nothing but good by speaking openly and without fear." She rolled down her beautiful green eyes and whispered "Yes, it's true" and then sighed deeply and moved her shoulders uneasily as if her clothes prickled them.

"But why?! I can't believe it."

"Ask her how she got the gun?" Naseri ordered me in Farsi and I obeyed.

"I smuggled it in through my luggage, wrapped it inside my perfume box," she answered. "I knew it was a risk, but had to take it."
"But why? Please tell me."
"Because of my dad," she replied in a voice so muffled that I had to strain my ears to hear her.

"Your dad? I thought he's dead."
"Yes he is," Hannah said and then with a sad face looked into my eyes and added, "she killed him -- through her deceit."

At that moment, my mind raced back to one of our late night conversations that included a brief description of her late father as a kind family man who died of cancer in Belgium, no mention of him visiting or staying in Iran, obviously a big omission on her part. "When I was a child, he took me to Keith Jarret's concert in Berlin. He loved American Jazz," her words rang in my head, as did her rather spontaneous uttering one night, "Deception cheats, robs, and damages others." We had then talked about legitimate anger and I had reminded her of Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics: To be angry with the right person, to the right degree, is not easy. Obviously, she had no difficulty with this particular case.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I couldn't."

"Did you use me then to get a family revenge?" I almost asked her but decided to postpone it until I had a full grasp of her motive, knowing that it would throw her into a fever. She asked for a glass of water and after drinking it had a deep sigh and, still looking exhausted, furnished the truth.

"My dad was a contractor and worked for a German-Iranian company building a hotel here right before the revolution. During that time, he started an affair with a lady who worked as a secretary of sorts for them, not knowing she was married. When the revolution happened and my dad was preparing to leave the country, suddenly that lady accused my dad of rape and he was arrested and kept in jail for 4 years, The new government after the revolution upheld his conviction sadly and my dad spent time at a prison here in Isfahan, sending us letters with his pencil drawings of the prison and the street life from his cell window. He was good at it. I've put up a few of them on my Facebook, you should look them up. Anyway, he found out that woman was playing him all along with her husband for a ransom and my dad's family finally came up with a big figure that convinced her to drop her complain and then he came back and went straight to a Belgian hospital for his colon cancer -- he was disgusted with the German government's inaction and didn't want to step foot there anymore -- but it was too late and he died shortly thereafter. In his death bed, I pledged to him to get revenge, and that's the real reason I came to Iran, I am sorry." She then sneezed a couple of times and brought her explanation to a close with a rather firm voice, "Tranen sind nich die einzige waffe einer Frau" (tears are not a woman's only weapon).

I was completely floored by what I had just heard from Hannah's mouth and my immediate reaction was if she had any real feelings for me or it was all fake? After all, just ten days earlier, I had assisted her with extending her visa.
"No, don't say that Ali. At first, that was the case, but after our Kish trip, I really started to fall in love with you, which is why I didn't shoot her." She said with an unmistakable frank voice.
"But they say the gun didn't fire, is that a lie?"
She frowned a little. "Yes. It is. I swear I was so close to pulling the trigger and then the only thing that prevented me was you, your face in my head begging me not to do it for our sake." She then started crying and held her head in her hands lowered to her chest. I was dumbfounded for a second but then brought myself to pat her on the back and to tell her, "I'm glad you didn't. It's okay. Everything will be alright," and then added with a touch of humor, "Du hast dir jetzt eine Umarmung verdient.Wir müssen die Reise zur hellen Mitternacht antreten. " (right now you need a hug. We must take the journey to the bright midnight); the last line was from one of her favorite songs by the American band, the Doors; it brought a trickle of smile on her face, stopped crying. "Don't worry. You didn't kill anyone, no one is hurt, that's easy to prove," I comforted her.

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