with foliations graced the pale brick along the entire front of the house. The stained glass
glowed red and blue and green above the front doors, backlit by the Russian crystal chandelier in the hall-way. Father had
brought me for years, his felt hat on his head, then in his hand as we passed through the doors.
I climbed the steps, hesitated on the stone porch. I had come back a changed man, not in the mold of my father. I was about
to see Mahastee. When I’d seen her at the concert in Bagh Ferdaus, she’d triggered emotions I’d long forgotten. Any moment
now we’d come face-to-face. This was her home, a house set long ago into my flesh and bones.
I STOOD IN THE DARK vestibule; the foyer just beyond was the axis of the house. Two magnificent oil paintings of the epic battles of the
Shahnameh
still faced each other on the walls. Corridors with numerous doors stretched to the sides and back, their tiled floors covered
in fine old rugs. The central corridor had double doors at the end with stained glass, mirroring the entrance, giving on to
a large garden of cypress and walnut and fig and mulberry.
Coming down the center hallway, the old nanny of the house-hold, Tourandokht, stalked a toddler with a bowl and spoonful of
food. Swaying and clucking like a hen, she was in slow and painful pursuit of the child until she saw me. The child escaped.
“Reza!” she cried in surprise, heaping endearments on hugs and noisy kisses. “Let me get a good look at you.”
She said I resembled Father more and more. She insisted I take lunch. I told her Nasrollah
mirza
was expecting me, and she understood and waddled away to tell him. Children I didn’t recognize ran down one corridor and
up behind Tourandokht, mimicking her waddle and giggling.
The elaborate chandelier with crystal prisms was dusty. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint. The old grandfather clock
was still in the dark corner — the word
Tehran
set large and gleaming gold above six o’clock, the placid pendulums stately in the etched-glass case. I could hear it ticking.
It was running eleven minutes late. I heard doors slamming and children laughing upstairs and the adults’ indistinguishable
voices in the drawing room and, to my left, the clunk and clatter in the kitchen every time its doors swung open. Lunch was
over.
Nasrollah
mirza
never keeps one waiting. Tourandokht emerged from the far room, waving impatiently.
“Come on!” she said, summoning me before the group.
I went, the moment strangely mesmerizing but distant, like nostalgia.
“My dear boy!” cried Nasrollah
mirza
Mosharraf at the thresh-old, embracing me. He called to his wife and all his sons, Kavoos and Ardeshir and Bahram, smiling
all the while as if the years gone between us didn’t matter.
The drawing room was crowded, and the women assembled at one end looked me over with polite society smiles as the men, snug
in tailored suits and old-world etiquette, scrutinized me. Behind them, the walls were adorned with friezes of plasterwork
set above Qajar court paintings; potted palms stood in the corners; and the scent of tobacco and cigars mingled with sweetmeats
and perfumes as a manservant took around a silver tray of tea, children threading their way past him, dodging mothers who
were telling them they had to go upstairs to take a nap. I saw them all in one sweep, but I was looking for Mahastee.
SIX
M Y HUSBAND WAS EMBELLISHING the gendarmerie attack in the dining room before my entire family.
“They’re gunning them down these days in the streets!” Houshang said.
He spoke well, judging by his audience. He has presence and impeccable timing, and his ambition is to enthrall, for which
I admit an ambivalent admiration. But he’s omnivorous. Sometimes he gets on his high horse and stays there all during lunch.
I get dagger looks from Mother, snide remarks from my brothers, who put him in his place from time to time, but not nearly
enough.
glowed red and blue and green above the front doors, backlit by the Russian crystal chandelier in the hall-way. Father had
brought me for years, his felt hat on his head, then in his hand as we passed through the doors.
I climbed the steps, hesitated on the stone porch. I had come back a changed man, not in the mold of my father. I was about
to see Mahastee. When I’d seen her at the concert in Bagh Ferdaus, she’d triggered emotions I’d long forgotten. Any moment
now we’d come face-to-face. This was her home, a house set long ago into my flesh and bones.
I STOOD IN THE DARK vestibule; the foyer just beyond was the axis of the house. Two magnificent oil paintings of the epic battles of the
Shahnameh
still faced each other on the walls. Corridors with numerous doors stretched to the sides and back, their tiled floors covered
in fine old rugs. The central corridor had double doors at the end with stained glass, mirroring the entrance, giving on to
a large garden of cypress and walnut and fig and mulberry.
Coming down the center hallway, the old nanny of the house-hold, Tourandokht, stalked a toddler with a bowl and spoonful of
food. Swaying and clucking like a hen, she was in slow and painful pursuit of the child until she saw me. The child escaped.
“Reza!” she cried in surprise, heaping endearments on hugs and noisy kisses. “Let me get a good look at you.”
She said I resembled Father more and more. She insisted I take lunch. I told her Nasrollah
mirza
was expecting me, and she understood and waddled away to tell him. Children I didn’t recognize ran down one corridor and
up behind Tourandokht, mimicking her waddle and giggling.
The elaborate chandelier with crystal prisms was dusty. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint. The old grandfather clock
was still in the dark corner — the word
Tehran
set large and gleaming gold above six o’clock, the placid pendulums stately in the etched-glass case. I could hear it ticking.
It was running eleven minutes late. I heard doors slamming and children laughing upstairs and the adults’ indistinguishable
voices in the drawing room and, to my left, the clunk and clatter in the kitchen every time its doors swung open. Lunch was
over.
Nasrollah
mirza
never keeps one waiting. Tourandokht emerged from the far room, waving impatiently.
“Come on!” she said, summoning me before the group.
I went, the moment strangely mesmerizing but distant, like nostalgia.
“My dear boy!” cried Nasrollah
mirza
Mosharraf at the thresh-old, embracing me. He called to his wife and all his sons, Kavoos and Ardeshir and Bahram, smiling
all the while as if the years gone between us didn’t matter.
The drawing room was crowded, and the women assembled at one end looked me over with polite society smiles as the men, snug
in tailored suits and old-world etiquette, scrutinized me. Behind them, the walls were adorned with friezes of plasterwork
set above Qajar court paintings; potted palms stood in the corners; and the scent of tobacco and cigars mingled with sweetmeats
and perfumes as a manservant took around a silver tray of tea, children threading their way past him, dodging mothers who
were telling them they had to go upstairs to take a nap. I saw them all in one sweep, but I was looking for Mahastee.
SIX
M Y HUSBAND WAS EMBELLISHING the gendarmerie attack in the dining room before my entire family.
“They’re gunning them down these days in the streets!” Houshang said.
He spoke well, judging by his audience. He has presence and impeccable timing, and his ambition is to enthrall, for which
I admit an ambivalent admiration. But he’s omnivorous. Sometimes he gets on his high horse and stays there all during lunch.
I get dagger looks from Mother, snide remarks from my brothers, who put him in his place from time to time, but not nearly
enough.
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