theater, the faces and cries of grief.
“Police believe the terrorists set a small fire in the theater, intending to escape with the rest of the audience,” the TV announcer reported. “So police closed the gates to prevent that from happening. But the fire quickly burned out of control.”
Nouri sucked in a breath.
“There are rumors that most of the bodies were still in their seats,” the announcer continued, “which indicates they were unable for some reason to get to the doors. Obviously, many questions remain. What isn’t at dispute, though, is that this deliberate arson is the worst terrorist attack ever recorded in Iran—or anywhere else.”
“Why were they still in their seats?” Laleh asked. “Isn’t that strange?”
“Maybe someone sprayed some kind of poison. Or gas,” Nouri said.
Maman got up, clearly upset. She looked at Baba, but he shook his head and kept staring at the TV. Maman went into the kitchen. No one said anything.
*****
“Mark my words, this is a turning point,” Nouri’s best friend, Hassan Ghaffari, pronounced after dinner that night. Hassan was thick and squat, like a bull. His black eyes glittered and, while they seemed to take everything in, they didn’t give much back. His skin was the color of melted caramel, he had a pointed chin, and he wore a thin mustache. Before he grew it, Laleh said he looked like Michael Corleone in The Godfather . Hassan took it as a compliment, although Nouri wasn’t sure Laleh meant it as one.
Hassan was unusually quiet during dinner, answering Maman and Baba’s questions about his family, but not offering anything more. Nouri tried to keep the conversation cheerful by talking about the Metro—how quiet and modern it would be, how there would be art on the walls and sculpture in the tunnels. No one talked about the fire. Or the shah.
After dinner, the four young people went out to the patio to dangle their feet in the tiny pool. Though it was dark, a spotlight threw a pattern of light and shadow on the fruit trees. A slight breeze carried the scent of flowers and leftover grilled lamb.
“It really is a turning point,” Hassan repeated, kicking his feet in the water. He was animated now, so much so that Nouri wondered if Baba’s presence had intimidated him earlier.
“A tragedy, yes,” Anna said. “But a turning point? How?”
“Don’t you see? No one can pretend the situation doesn’t affect them personally. Five hundred families are the proof. It is time to take sides.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Hassan,” Laleh said. “I don’t know any of those families.”
Hassan stopped kicking the water. “You can’t believe the shah is blameless. SAVAK’s fingerprints are all over this. Right, Nouri?”
Nouri hesitated. “I’m not sure what to believe. My father—”
“Your father works for the oil company,” Hassan interrupted. “He is a good man, but have you asked him what’s happened to oil revenues over the past few years? The price of oil has quadrupled. Yet peoples’ lives are no better. The shah keeps most of the profits. And what he doesn’t keep, he doles out to foreigners who woo him with all sorts of projects. Like the Metro.”
Nouri suppressed his irritation. “A French firm is building the Metro. But it will give Tehranians clean, fast, and inexpensive transportation. That is a good thing.”
Hassan snorted. “Especially since they’re not going to have their own Paykans.”
Nouri pressed his lips together.
Hassan explained to Anna that the shah, in one of his speeches about progress, assured the people that everyone would soon be able to afford their own Paykan, the national car of Iran. “It was an empty promise,” he added. “Just like all the others. No one gets anything…except the military.”
“Are you saying Nouri shouldn’t take the Metro job?” Anna asked. “That he should be doing…something else?”
“That is for him to decide,” Hassan said. “But the
“Police believe the terrorists set a small fire in the theater, intending to escape with the rest of the audience,” the TV announcer reported. “So police closed the gates to prevent that from happening. But the fire quickly burned out of control.”
Nouri sucked in a breath.
“There are rumors that most of the bodies were still in their seats,” the announcer continued, “which indicates they were unable for some reason to get to the doors. Obviously, many questions remain. What isn’t at dispute, though, is that this deliberate arson is the worst terrorist attack ever recorded in Iran—or anywhere else.”
“Why were they still in their seats?” Laleh asked. “Isn’t that strange?”
“Maybe someone sprayed some kind of poison. Or gas,” Nouri said.
Maman got up, clearly upset. She looked at Baba, but he shook his head and kept staring at the TV. Maman went into the kitchen. No one said anything.
*****
“Mark my words, this is a turning point,” Nouri’s best friend, Hassan Ghaffari, pronounced after dinner that night. Hassan was thick and squat, like a bull. His black eyes glittered and, while they seemed to take everything in, they didn’t give much back. His skin was the color of melted caramel, he had a pointed chin, and he wore a thin mustache. Before he grew it, Laleh said he looked like Michael Corleone in The Godfather . Hassan took it as a compliment, although Nouri wasn’t sure Laleh meant it as one.
Hassan was unusually quiet during dinner, answering Maman and Baba’s questions about his family, but not offering anything more. Nouri tried to keep the conversation cheerful by talking about the Metro—how quiet and modern it would be, how there would be art on the walls and sculpture in the tunnels. No one talked about the fire. Or the shah.
After dinner, the four young people went out to the patio to dangle their feet in the tiny pool. Though it was dark, a spotlight threw a pattern of light and shadow on the fruit trees. A slight breeze carried the scent of flowers and leftover grilled lamb.
“It really is a turning point,” Hassan repeated, kicking his feet in the water. He was animated now, so much so that Nouri wondered if Baba’s presence had intimidated him earlier.
“A tragedy, yes,” Anna said. “But a turning point? How?”
“Don’t you see? No one can pretend the situation doesn’t affect them personally. Five hundred families are the proof. It is time to take sides.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Hassan,” Laleh said. “I don’t know any of those families.”
Hassan stopped kicking the water. “You can’t believe the shah is blameless. SAVAK’s fingerprints are all over this. Right, Nouri?”
Nouri hesitated. “I’m not sure what to believe. My father—”
“Your father works for the oil company,” Hassan interrupted. “He is a good man, but have you asked him what’s happened to oil revenues over the past few years? The price of oil has quadrupled. Yet peoples’ lives are no better. The shah keeps most of the profits. And what he doesn’t keep, he doles out to foreigners who woo him with all sorts of projects. Like the Metro.”
Nouri suppressed his irritation. “A French firm is building the Metro. But it will give Tehranians clean, fast, and inexpensive transportation. That is a good thing.”
Hassan snorted. “Especially since they’re not going to have their own Paykans.”
Nouri pressed his lips together.
Hassan explained to Anna that the shah, in one of his speeches about progress, assured the people that everyone would soon be able to afford their own Paykan, the national car of Iran. “It was an empty promise,” he added. “Just like all the others. No one gets anything…except the military.”
“Are you saying Nouri shouldn’t take the Metro job?” Anna asked. “That he should be doing…something else?”
“That is for him to decide,” Hassan said. “But the
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