your bike?’ an officer asked. You could hear the
effort it took to put respect into his voice.
‘Yes,’ Dad confirmed, shaking both the officers’ hands and offering them a tired
smile. ‘Please don’t tow it away.’
‘You are Arab?’ quizzed the officer. He’d picked up Dad’s broken accent.
Dad and I had witnessed this scene many times before. ‘I am a citizen of this earth
and your fellow brother in humanity,’ Dad replied.
‘So you are Arab,’ said the officer. ‘This is a disabled veterans parking zone, cleric .
You are a man of the cloth and should know it is a sin to take someone else’s spot
illegally…’
‘I am a veteran,’ Dad responded, taking out an ID card.
‘A disabled veteran?’ asked the officer. ‘You don’t seem all that wounded. Unless
you’re wearing a prosthetic leg under that garb.’
Dad was trying to keep his cool; he was better at it than I was. But he knew how
to push his case, when to take a stronger tone. ‘Are you suggesting that a person
who served eight weeks, got wounded and then never served again is more entitled
to this spot than a person who watched thirty-two changes of season on the front
line?’
‘Of course! He lost a limb!’
‘And we lost our minds, lieutenant.’
‘How do I even know you were not like those traitor Arabs who played both sides?’
the officer muttered. ‘Might explain why you left the war unscathed…’
Dad’s eye twitched. His lip quivered. For a minute, I thought my stoic, ice-cool
father was about to take the policeman’s rifle and knock him out with it.
Then he smiled at the officer, and wished him a good day instead. Our plans for juice
bars and bookstores were not brought up again; we needed the money to free the motorbike
from the police yard.
Looking for Mr X
Today, the snow had coloured the whole city perfect white, and everyone was walking
cautiously across the spongy carpet, in mutual agreement to keep all of Qom virgin-white.
My cousin Musty and I were walking to the holy shrine, tiptoeing across the thick
snow. We were discussing alcohol, naturally.
‘When you grow up, do you think you’ll try it?’ Musty asked.
I considered the question thoroughly. ‘Only if I was alone and stranded on an island.’
‘That’s so stupid,’ Musty said. ‘Where would you get the alcohol?’
‘ You’re stupid! In any other situation Mum and Dad would be nearby.’
Alcohol in Qom was sold in seedy underground markets, usually someone’s old war bunker.
I was the son of a cleric, my cousin was the son of a cleric and another set of cousins
had been born into another family of clerics. In other words, access to these merchants
was out of the question.
We had heard about a Mr X, which was bizarre, seeing as the letter X does not exist
in the Persian alphabet. He ran a legitimate business near the shrine selling pictures
of the Ayatollah, which was as profitable in a place like Qom as fish and chips in
London. But he also had a storage space behind the religious photos, where he plied
another trade that was more interesting to teenagers.
My cousins and I tried hard to look like ordinary citizens, ones without religious
parents. We wore huge silver chains around our necks, thinking these gave us a reckless
look. When Musty and I got up the courage to walk into Mr X’s shop, we amplified
our thuggishness by undoing the top buttons of our shirts, straw hanging out the
sides of our mouths like regular John Waynes.
‘How can I help you young boys?’ said Mr X.
‘Are you Mr X?’ I asked, suddenly unsure. He was a bearded old man in a kofia hat.
‘I don’t know about this X thing,’ he said, ‘but I highly recommend this new photo
of the Ayatollah. He’s overlooking a nature strip. Very colourful, sure to bring
a zing to your decor.’
Musty jumped in. ‘We want the Mr Walker.’
‘What do you think of the Ayatollah?’ asked Mr X.
‘He’s, uh…’ I searched for a response. A trap, as usual. If I
effort it took to put respect into his voice.
‘Yes,’ Dad confirmed, shaking both the officers’ hands and offering them a tired
smile. ‘Please don’t tow it away.’
‘You are Arab?’ quizzed the officer. He’d picked up Dad’s broken accent.
Dad and I had witnessed this scene many times before. ‘I am a citizen of this earth
and your fellow brother in humanity,’ Dad replied.
‘So you are Arab,’ said the officer. ‘This is a disabled veterans parking zone, cleric .
You are a man of the cloth and should know it is a sin to take someone else’s spot
illegally…’
‘I am a veteran,’ Dad responded, taking out an ID card.
‘A disabled veteran?’ asked the officer. ‘You don’t seem all that wounded. Unless
you’re wearing a prosthetic leg under that garb.’
Dad was trying to keep his cool; he was better at it than I was. But he knew how
to push his case, when to take a stronger tone. ‘Are you suggesting that a person
who served eight weeks, got wounded and then never served again is more entitled
to this spot than a person who watched thirty-two changes of season on the front
line?’
‘Of course! He lost a limb!’
‘And we lost our minds, lieutenant.’
‘How do I even know you were not like those traitor Arabs who played both sides?’
the officer muttered. ‘Might explain why you left the war unscathed…’
Dad’s eye twitched. His lip quivered. For a minute, I thought my stoic, ice-cool
father was about to take the policeman’s rifle and knock him out with it.
Then he smiled at the officer, and wished him a good day instead. Our plans for juice
bars and bookstores were not brought up again; we needed the money to free the motorbike
from the police yard.
Looking for Mr X
Today, the snow had coloured the whole city perfect white, and everyone was walking
cautiously across the spongy carpet, in mutual agreement to keep all of Qom virgin-white.
My cousin Musty and I were walking to the holy shrine, tiptoeing across the thick
snow. We were discussing alcohol, naturally.
‘When you grow up, do you think you’ll try it?’ Musty asked.
I considered the question thoroughly. ‘Only if I was alone and stranded on an island.’
‘That’s so stupid,’ Musty said. ‘Where would you get the alcohol?’
‘ You’re stupid! In any other situation Mum and Dad would be nearby.’
Alcohol in Qom was sold in seedy underground markets, usually someone’s old war bunker.
I was the son of a cleric, my cousin was the son of a cleric and another set of cousins
had been born into another family of clerics. In other words, access to these merchants
was out of the question.
We had heard about a Mr X, which was bizarre, seeing as the letter X does not exist
in the Persian alphabet. He ran a legitimate business near the shrine selling pictures
of the Ayatollah, which was as profitable in a place like Qom as fish and chips in
London. But he also had a storage space behind the religious photos, where he plied
another trade that was more interesting to teenagers.
My cousins and I tried hard to look like ordinary citizens, ones without religious
parents. We wore huge silver chains around our necks, thinking these gave us a reckless
look. When Musty and I got up the courage to walk into Mr X’s shop, we amplified
our thuggishness by undoing the top buttons of our shirts, straw hanging out the
sides of our mouths like regular John Waynes.
‘How can I help you young boys?’ said Mr X.
‘Are you Mr X?’ I asked, suddenly unsure. He was a bearded old man in a kofia hat.
‘I don’t know about this X thing,’ he said, ‘but I highly recommend this new photo
of the Ayatollah. He’s overlooking a nature strip. Very colourful, sure to bring
a zing to your decor.’
Musty jumped in. ‘We want the Mr Walker.’
‘What do you think of the Ayatollah?’ asked Mr X.
‘He’s, uh…’ I searched for a response. A trap, as usual. If I
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