And so Laila and I are sitting in this magical place, talking about fear. “My aunt and uncle in Tehran are always incredibly worried about me and would rather not let me out without company,” she says. “And I notice that this fear is rubbing off on me. When a country is ruled by such strict regulations, then in time it takes over your thoughts. I’m always thinking about whether something I’m doing could be wrong or dangerous.” Yesterday she noticed that her German website was blocked in Iran. Type in the address, then an error message appears in Persian, and then a few nature photos fade in. “I’m wondering whether the secret service is collecting information about me. Or whether it’s because I posted a few pictures of scantily dressed women.” Fear and paranoia are the strongest weapons of totalitarian regimes, and the mullahs are real pros at using them.
I watch a couple of women in chadors fifty feet below us as they walk through an arch illuminated in green and ask myself if they, too, are afraid in their everyday lives. Whether they belong to those who believe in the system in which they live or to those who secretly dream of freedom. Our rooftop perspective feels like being in balcony seats at the theater. Showing tonight: the ten thousandth repeat of the play Islamic Republic, showing every day throughout the country, with a cast of millions, all well-trained performers. A masquerade without dance, a tragedy without applause, a plot without conclusion. And no one knows what is going on in the heads behind the masks.
THE NEXT DAY we buy wedding rings at a street stall for one dollar. On the opposite side of the street a popcorn vendor waits for customers.
“Did you know that the Persian word for popcorn is “elephant farts”? asks Laila.
No, I didn’t. I notice that the men in Yazd always greet and address me first. Laila mainly appears to be seen as an ornamental accessory. However, as she is the one who speaks Persian, she often takes over the conversation after a few sentences. Someone selling kebabs is so enchanted by her that he promptly conjures up a cousin (with lots of gel in his hair and the top button of his shirt open), who drives us to our next destination, the Dowlat Abad Garden. His car is a black Mazda sports car with black leather seat covers. In one of the side pockets there is a bottle of cologne. The passenger seat is more like a passenger lounger, and the center console a light-blinking monster with a navigational aid the size of an iPad.
“Phew! I wouldn’t have got in without you,” Laila says.
“Without your Persian, I wouldn’t be here, either,” I reply.
“We’re a super team,” she says and laughs.
“I think our driver fancies you; he was ogling you in the rear-view mirror.”
It’s Murphy’s Law of love that from the moment people start a relationship, they automatically become one or two degrees more attractive to the opposite sex. Shortly after saying goodbye to “Mazda Man” a group of conscripts in camouflage uniforms hanging around at a ticket window wave Laila over. They ask if they can take a photo with us. According to Laila, the most handsome guy is named Bijan and is twenty.
“Sports car drivers, men in uniform—aren’t there any clichés that are below you?” I ask.
“Yes, authors,” she says. And we haven’t even been married twenty-four hours.
Five minutes later she is no longer laughing, as a black-veiled young woman walking arm in arm with a female friend greets me with: “You’re beautiful, handsome!” and offers me gaz, a sugary confection with pistachios, a specialty of Isfahan. She is named Elaheh, is quite pretty, and tells me that she is studying medical sciences in Isfahan before grinning and sashaying back to her companion.
Now it’s Laila’s turn to look at me critically. With an innocent look I try to give the impression that I didn’t do anything, and that I have no idea what’s just happened.
We walk through the 250-year-old gardens of the then governor, past cypress trees, pomegranate shrubs, and an artificial watercourse that splits the compound in two. It is dominated by a hexagonal reception palace with pretty pavilions, colored glass windows, and the tallest badgir wind catcher in Iran, 110 feet high. A couple horizontal timber struts have been added for stability, which the pigeons are thankful to use as perches.
From: Iran
hi,whereisyounow? Pleasecome, harat.iamfrendsmobina. iseeyourpicture
“Laila, there’s something else.”
“Yes, what’s up, then?”
“I’ve got two admirers, and I need your help.”
“Interesting.”
“Can you translate a few questions?”
“You’re crazy.”
To: Iran
Salam mina, khubi? Chand sall dari? Shoghlat chie? Tu waghte azad che kar mikoni?
There is little left to mention of Yazd, except that large amounts of the cold dessert faloodeh, made from thin noodles and a semifrozen syrupy mixture of sugar and rose water, cause stomachaches, that there are unique circular raised structures on which the Zoroastrians used to burn corpses, and that camel goulash tastes exactly the same as any other goulash.
In the course of our fake marriage, we have quickly developed routines and behavioral patterns that take other newlyweds years to hone.
Breakfast. I yell from one buffet table to another: “Where shall we sit, honey? Our usual place?”
It is a bad mistake in a foreign country to feel too secure about not being understood. I get an irritated, quizzical look from a tourist sitting at a nearby table before she quickly turns her head away. On passing her table I glance down and notice that she has just written ALEMANIA on the bottom right-hand side of a postcard, so for sure she knows my language.
After so many nights in private apartments I can’t really enjoy staying in a hotel, even if the bed is much more comfortable than any carpet. The friendliness of the staff feels different from the friendliness of my hosts because I pay them to be nice to me. They are the sellers, and I am the buyer, hoping for good value for my money. If the quality is not right, then I get annoyed. If the price is right, I’m happy. I have different expectations from a one-hundred-dollar room than from a twenty-dollar room. The psychology of a couchsurfing visit is very different, as I can only win. I don’t pay anything, so I expect no more than a six-square-foot sleeping space. Up to now I have had much more than that every time.
From: Iran
salamshafa.khubam.shomakhube.madaram14sal.shnmachandsal dare? manmeravam madrese
I ask Laila to translate. She looks at my cell phone and starts laughing. It takes a while until she gets her breath back: “Hello, Shafa. I’m well. How are you? I’m fourteen. How old are you? I’m still at school.”
“Oh, maybe the love of my life isn’t waiting for me in Harat, after all.”
“Yes, I agree,” says Laila.