City of Lies: Love, Sex, Death, and the Search for Truth in Tehran

Jomhouri Street, Tehran, April 2013

In the middle of an afternoon slumber ‘private number’ flashed up on Amir’s phone. He thought it must be them, ettela’at, on top of everything else. But it was the old man.
‘I need to see you. I want to explain.’
Amir hung up. The phone rang again. And again. ‘Just leave me alone,’ he said listlessly.
Over the next few days the old man called many times, from many different numbers. He even called the home line. Ghassem rang so many times that Amir stopped answering his phone. But the calls continued. So Amir changed his mobile.
He had always longed to know every minute detail of his parents’ deaths. He had tried to investigate several times, but the trail had always gone cold, or he had been warned to leave it alone. He was already marked, why draw attention to it? And suddenly here it was, in front of him for the taking. Yet he was not ready to deal with the truth behind his parents’ deaths. Amir was also scared. Not just of the truth, but of the old man. He shuddered to think how he had tracked him down.
Within a week, Ghassem was calling Amir’s new number. Bahar had noticed the mysterious calls. She thought it was from ettela’at and, wanting to protect Amir, she started spending nearly every night at his. They watched films together, in each other’s arms, smoking a joint. For Amir, it was painful to have her warm body next to his, knowing that he would soon lose it. They made love with the same intensity as during their courtship – with the hungry longing that time and familiarity mercilessly erode.
On a night when Bahar was staying at her own place, Amir’s entryphone buzzed. It was late, past eleven o’clock. He looked out of his front window. It was the old man, hunched and lit up orange by the street light. He was carrying
something in his hands. The old man buzzed again. He looked up to Amir’s window and Amir was too late to duck his head.
‘Just let me in. I won’t be long.’ He was craning his slack neck, his soft voice struggling against gravity and the pane of glass.
Amir threw the window open.
‘Can’t you take a hint? You’ve done enough harm already.’ He did not realize it, but he was shouting. ‘Aren’t you satisfied that you said your piece? Just go.’
‘You haven’t given me a chance…to explain…to try…’ The shaky voice was barely audible above Amir’s.
‘What the hell’s going on out there?’ a neighbour yelled, ‘he’s an old man, show some respect! And keep it down!’ Amir raced down the stairs, fists clenched. Threw open the front door. The old man hardly flinched. Sad and tired and ashen from guilt and age. Again Amir’s rage receded, leaving a burning resentment in its place, that this old man was denying him his hate.
Ghassem was holding a gift-wrapped box. On the ground by his side, an enormous tin of oil and a sack of rice. ‘I’ve got a gold watch for you and some essentials you may need, I know you live alone.’
‘I’m not a fucking earthquake victim!’ Amir hissed, trying to keep his voice low.
From his inside suit pocket the old man produced a chequebook. ‘I just want to help. You’ve struggled enough in life because of what I did. Here’s twenty million tomans, it’s nothing.’
‘I would never take your blood money for as long as I live. You think you can buy me with a cheque and a tin of oil? Is that what it costs to assuage your guilt? Is that what my parents are worth?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t meant it that way, I just want to do the right thing.’
‘Can you bring my parents back? If you can bring my parents back, then I’ll consider forgiving you.’ He slammed the door in the old man’s face.
Back in his apartment, he turned off the lights and edged towards the window. The old man had left his gifts by the door and was now walking up the alley, towards the main road, unsteady on his legs.
Amir did not hear from Ghassem again that week, and life resumed as normal. Bahar was getting ready for her trip. Amir threw himself back into his work. He updated his blog, with renewed energy.