The Ministry of Guidance Invites You to Not Stay: An American Family in Iran by Hooman Majd Page B

electronics, automobiles, and luxury items, and new construction in thecapital rivaling Eurozone boom towns of the 1990s like Dublin. But a not insubstantial number of Iranians, unemployed and unemployable (there simply aren’t enough jobs for the population, an issue exacerbated by the effect of years-long economic sanctions on the country), sit around and wait for deals they are working on to materialize. And an equal number of Iranians are waiting to happily assist them, or to take advantage of them, depending on one’s point of view, in their business and legal ventures.
    When we first arrived in Tehran and were staying at Khosro’s house, a frequent visitor—actually, an almost daily one, usually at lunchtime—was Reza, a sort of business associate of his, a man with a pronounced and sometimes difficult-to-understand Rashti (from Rasht, a northern city on the Caspian Sea) accent. I had met Reza on my previous trips to Tehran; he was supposedly helping Khosro with a court case involving some land belonging to Khosro’s family. In the early days of the revolution, the state had confiscated the small parcel, and the law stated that in cases of nonpolitical property seizures, the government had to reimburse the landowner. But this being Iran, years had gone by, and despite almost weekly appeals to the court, nothing had happened. Reza had promised Khosro that he would expedite the case, for he had connections at the courts, but that was a few years ago. Eight years, Khosro reminded me. Eight years? Karri couldn’t believe it. And he still comes by every day? For what? He came for lunch, of course, which Khosro happily served him and us, but also for a little money, you know, to help continue greasing the wheels. Fifty here, Khosro told us, a hundred there (in U.S. dollars). After lunch, Khosro would mark in a ledger how much he had given Reza that day. It added up, and fast.
    Reza Farda, we called him, not his real surname but one given him by Khosro, because every day Reza said he would have Khosro’s favorable court decision in hand “tomorrow,” farda in Farsi, or fuurrd’a , as it sounded to us in Rashti. Or actually, maybe the day after tomorrow at the latest.
    A short man with a large belly that matched his appetite and thick graying hair and beard, Reza had his charms, and like all Iranians we met, he wanted to play with the baby. Every day in Khosro’s small kitchen, he picked up Khash and kissed him and professed his undying love and admiration for the boy. We often tried to leave Khosro and his sometime employee Ali alone with Reza to discuss their business over the endless cups of sugared tea Iranians consume with abandon, both before and after a meal, but apparently they really had no business to discuss. Karri was bemused by the fact that she and Khash caused no interruption (or embarrassment) in the routine whereby Reza would show up, hungry and ready for a little snack or a big lunch, depending on what Khosro had on offer that day, simply to show his face and to report that he had just come from somewhere or other and to assure his client that his land, and his money, would be his within twenty-four hours. Farda . Khosro was in a bind, he explained to Karri, for if he stopped feeding Reza or, worse, didn’t give him the money he demanded, all the money he had given him up till then would have gone to waste, and he’d be back to square one with the court. Certainly true, Karri argued, but surely Reza can’t be telling the truth about the court case, that it will be resolved tomorrow ? No, of course he isn’t, but Khosro felt he had no choice but to wait it out.
    Reza, whenever he sensed Khosro’s frustration and sometimes his anger, would make outlandish promises beyond his usual ones. One day, in front of all of us, he not only promised that the case would be resolved by tomorrow, but he told Ali to go and pick out a new motorcycle, right away, for he was going to buy him one with the fee he