THE WEDDING RECEPTION at the Vazik Hotel is in full swing, with a couple hundred guests in suits and evening dresses—and one visitor in jeans and a black shirt. In the car park there is a shiny white Hyundai with a floral decoration on its hood. A kind of pavilion leads to a dining area and to an octagonal room with a dance floor. Most of the women aren’t wearing veils but risqué short skirts and high heels beyond the four-inch mark. Naturally, it’s against the rules, but the happy couple would have taken precautions. A handsome bundle of bank notes deposited at the local police station will ensure that no one mistakenly patrols the Vazik this evening.
A group of men sitting at a wooden table on the other side of the car park also benefit from this. Funman takes me there and introduces me to some of his friends. A young man with a neat haircut and a particularly fine suit pours out raisin schnapps, which is only drinkable once Delster lemon-flavored nonalcoholic beer is added.
Group photos are taken. Only the young man with the bottle doesn’t want his picture taken. “He’s in the navy,” explains Funman. He is afraid because a photo of him at a booze-up posted on Facebook or Instagram could get him into trouble. Another man approaches me with glassy eyes and kisses me three times on the cheeks.
“I always wanted to kiss a German,” he slurs and raises his arm in a Hitler salute with so much swing that he almost loses balance. “But I’m not gay!”
A friend pushes him aside. “Don’t worry about him, he’s crazy.”
The drinks are strong enough to knock out a horse and of a dubious quality, and I’m glad to hit the dance floor after three schnapps. “Let’s see how the younger generation reacts to you,” says Funman.
At first they don’t react at all. But I’m quite content simply to observe the happenings from a chair draped in silk. The newlyweds dance a waltz alone. The groom is about three heads taller than the bride. She appears to be a bit tense and sweats profusely in her multilayered wedding dress. The DJ, who is standing directly behind me, has bodybuilder biceps and is continuously shouting something into the microphone. The stereo system is turned up louder than in most German clubs, and Funman stands directly in front of the speaker. “I looove loud music,” he screams. “Come on, get on the dance floor!”
I obey, if only to move away from the speaker. Persians are excellent dancers—with abandon they swirl over the parquet floor, gleaming faces everywhere, a wonderful party. Most have more grace in their little fingers than I have in my whole body. Stylistically, the greatest difference is in the arm movements. Iranians seldom have their elbows below their shoulders, whereas Europeans tend to keep their arms nearer their bodies. In direct comparison it looks like a chicken attempting to fly. “You don’t dance particularly well,” says Funman, as I sit back down after five songs.
Still, the evening brings one historic moment of joy: a girl named Setareh mistakes me for Funman’s son and only later realizes that I am a foreigner. She thought I was Iranian! Mission accomplished; I’ve made it! I step forward in front of the whole gathering, appeal for silence with a casual wave at the DJ, wait a couple seconds for the suspense to rise and then, grabbing the mike, announce Kennedy-like, “Ich bin ein Iraner.” No, of course I don’t do that, it was just a fantasy induced by raisin schnapps. But it would have been great fun.
ORWELL
MY ACCOMMODATION IS a villa with a large garden for me alone. Twenty years ago it must have been beautiful; now it just has a certain charm.
“Are you afraid of the dark?” asks Funman on opening the iron gate to the jungle of a garden. The front door opens directly to the kitchen, and we are hit by an appalling stench. Funman swears. “That was the Australians. They were the last ones here. Why don’t they just think a bit before leaving the remains of their kebabs? That’s one of the reasons that my wife doesn’t like couchsurfing.” The living room and bedroom smell a bit better—the first of builder’s rubble and the second of damp bedspreads. Nothing has been cleaned or tidied here for months. As usual there is no bed, so I make myself comfortable on the carpet. A few dogs bark outside. “Here is the stereo unit. You can hook it up to your cell phone,” says Funman before disappearing into the dark.
Floorboards creak in the night, outside an animal rustles about, and I think I hear the sound of footsteps. The biggest shock, however, comes in the morning, with the sound of a rattling motorbike to the accompaniment of music blasting through the garden. The machine falls silent, and now the Latino pop tearjerker can be recognized: “Could I Have This Kiss Forever” by Enrique Iglesias.
“Stephan! Are you awake?” screams a hoarse but familiar voice. Unnecessary question, as that entrance would have woken the dead. “I want to show you a few things here in town. You’ll definitely like them!”
A short time later a drowsy tourist and a hyperactive fun man enter the library of Abbas Abad. To the left a staircase leads to the reading room for women; men have to use the right-hand one. A woman in a black chador sits in the middle of the room, behind her are rows and rows of books, and Ayatollah Khamenei can be seen on a poster reading the Quran.
“Go and ask her something. Let’s see how she reacts,” insists Funman, the amateur sociologist.
So I go up to her and ask her something: “Do you have any books in English?”
She appears uneasy, looks at Funman, and speaks to him in Persian. He indicates that she should address me directly. “Yes,” she says and then, “Come.” She leads me to a shelf and then dashes back to reception. In addition to a couple dictionaries and software manuals, there is one single noveclass="underline" George Orwell’s Animal Farm. According to the stamp, the book has only been borrowed twice, which is a pity, as it is a fantastic read. The story describes an animal revolt on a farm, resulting in the new regime proving to be worse than the previous one. Oh Allah, save me from the darkness of ignorance is written on a poster on the wall.
“Where are you from?” asks the librarian. Suddenly, she feels a bit more confident about chatting. Her English is good, but she seems to have had more practice at reading than talking. Her name is Fatimeh, and her husband writes poetry. She has a master’s in biology and originally comes from Tehran. But to her the north is much more beautiful—better air and greener.
In the meantime, Funman has made friends with a cleric in a turban and a long kaftan. In the computer corner he is showing him photos from his couchsurfing profile. For instance, the photo of him enjoying an Efes beer in Turkey.
The cleric winces slightly, and then quickly regains his composure. “He’s a relaxed man. He knows that people drink alcohol; he just doesn’t do it himself,” explains Funman. “Good guy. There are good people everywhere, even a few with turbans. He was a preacher at the Friday mosque for years. Go on, ask him something!”
This little outing with Funman isn’t proving to be particularly relaxing. “Err… how important is religion in your everyday life?” I manage to ask hesitantly. I can’t think of anything cleverer to say without getting too political.
“I pray no more than other people,” says the good cleric, adding that he regrets not being able to speak English. “The Quran schools have only recently begun to offer English classes.” He then says goodbye, as he has to go to the mosque.
“Berim,” says Funman, too—let’s go. I also say “berim” to practice my Persian, and he laughs.