Rooftops of Tehran by Mahbod Seraji Page A

face turned toward the old man on the other side of the room. I know I was just dreaming, but my mind can’t hold on to the details; trying is like gripping silk.
    “Water?” I whisper.
    She turns toward me calmly, but the brightness in her eyes betrays her excitement. “What did you say?” she asks.
    “I’m thirsty,” I croak.
    Her eyes scan my face from left to right, then right to left. She whispers that she’ll be right back, and disappears behind me. She comes back a few seconds later with a pitcher of water and a glass.
    “How thirsty are you?” she asks.
    “Very thirsty.”
    She fills the glass with water, and looks at my body slumped in the wheelchair.
    “Take it,” she says, bringing the glass close to me.
    I reach out, take the glass, and empty it in one continuous gulp. Her face breaks into a warm smile, and I think I see tears in her eyes, but I have no idea why she is crying.
    “Where am I?” I ask.
    “You’re here,” she says, in a smart but gentle tone.
    “Who’re you?”
    “Don’t you know me?” she teases. “Everyone knows me, including me.”
    “You’re Apple Face,” I say, and laugh weakly. She laughs hard.
    “My ribs hurt,” I say.
    “I know. Nothing’s broken, don’t worry.”
    I look at my arms.
    “Why do I have burned spots on my arms and hands?”
    Apple Face doesn’t respond.
    “And I have nightmares, all the time. I see a man with wicked eyes. Who is he?” And as I talk about my dreams, something snaps inside me, pulling a swell of emotion up from the depths of my stomach, and I begin to cry. Apple Face sits in the chair next to me and puts her arms around me.
    “Cry, my darling. Cry.”
    “Why am I crying?” I ask, pulling back to search her streaming eyes.
    “Don’t you remember anything?” she asks, startled.
    “Remember what?”
    She leans back, rocking slightly. “Never mind,” she soothes, “just close your eyes. No one needs a reason to cry.”

5
    Summer of 1973 Tehran

Under the Cherry Tree
    Ahmed and I are in the alley watching Iraj demonstrate one of his newest inventions to a group of semi-interested kids when Faheemeh walks past us. She looks at me with a smile and winks, then rings the bell to Zari’s house. When Zari opens the door they hug and kiss as if they have been friends for a million years, and Zari pulls Faheemeh into the house. I ask Ahmed if they know each other.
    “Are you kidding? They’re like sisters.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since today,” he answers, grinning. He explains that Faheemeh will be coming to Zari’s house every day for the rest of the summer. “We are going to sit around Zari’s hose and chitchat about life. Are you ready?”
    “Ready for what?”
    “Just follow me.”
    He runs inside his house and I follow him up the steps toward the roof.
    “Where’re we going?” I ask, anxiously.
    “We can’t let the neighbors see we’re getting together at Zari’s house. They talk, you know. It wouldn’t be good for the girls.”
    “How did you get Zari to agree to this?”
    “I promised to bring you along.”
    My heart skips as I say, “You’re lying.”
    “Yes, I am,” he says, laughing.
    We run the rest of the way up to Ahmed’s roof and cross over mine and then to Zari’s, where she is waiting to let us in. I can feel my heart thumping a rhythm in the pit of my stomach from excitement. Zari smiles and says hello to both of us as she lets us in the house.
    Down in the yard, the four of us sit on a red blanket in the shadow of the cherry tree by the hose . Ahmed, Faheemeh, and Zari exchange small talk, and I watch them silently. Guilt, shame, and excitement crowd my heart, making it impossible for me to focus on anything that’s being said or think of anything to say myself. Even in my private thoughts, Zari was never anything more than the object of a timid and cautious desire; to explore possibilities with her would have been beyond anything I ever dared to imagine.
    On the other hand, I