“I’d do it if I was convinced of the cause, but I’m not. I’m willing to come hear what people have to say. I won’t argue you out of it — if you believe in it, you should do it.”
She threw her hands up. “I don’t know why I even hang with you.”
It was chilly and Gholam suggested they continue talking in his car. Once inside, they went back and forth without resolution.
Finally she said: “Every relationship faces a test. This might be ours and it looks like we’re failing. Gholam, I like you, but you think you know everything. I was ready to buy you a new ticket, but I’ve lost the desire.” She turned away from him and clutched her backpack.
He was stunned to see her belief so strong, moved by such a generous expression of love. She didn’t have that kind of money to spare.
She opened the car door and was about to leave when he reached out and caught her arm. “Okay, count me in. This might be fun.”
They went out midweek just after ten p.m. Before Keisha picked him up, Gholam fortified himself with a shot of bourbon. The arrangement was that Keisha would stay in the car, he would paint on the glue, and Rachel would slap up the posters.
Two teams headed downtown. Their territory was east of Broadway to Harrison, from Grand Avenue down to 14th Street. They covered blocks in lightning strikes, encountering only homeless people or other youngsters who gave them words of encouragement. One kid joined them for half a block.
Only once did a police car come their way. They had prepared for the contingency: Rachel and Gholam dropped their bucket and posters on the ground, stood next to the car, and began arguing loudly about a movie while Keisha pretended to mediate. When the police car slowed to observe them, Rachel explained they’d just come from watching The Bone Collector and their differing reviews had become a bit heated. The cops bought it. It helped that she was white and acted earnest.
Once they’d finished, Rachel declared she was ravenous. Could they stop at Sun Hong Kong in Chinatown? Gholam and Keisha locked eyes. Keisha said she just wanted to get to bed, Gholam said he was exhausted. Though Keisha lived closer to Rachel, Keisha said she would drop her off first.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to take Gholam home first?” said Rachel. When there was no response, she said, “Oh, I see.”
After they dropped off Rachel, Gholam and Keisha had their hands on each other’s thighs in the car, their fingers sliding ever higher. As soon as they were inside the apartment, they stripped off their clothes, rushed to bed, and made fierce love.
Afterward, Keisha said, “See, we should go out postering more often.”
Gholam smiled. It had been a good night but as they drifted off to sleep, he felt soiled by the knowledge that he had joined Keisha out of love and lust, not any faith in the cause. By morning, this feeling consumed him and he felt like a total fraud.
So sordid did Gholam continue to feel that he cooked up an excuse to not show up for the Y2K rally at the student union, telling Keisha his mother had been hospitalized again and he needed to call home.
Keisha came over late, brimming with excitement. The rally had succeeded beyond anyone’s dreams. More than a hundred people had shown up. Michael T.’s appearances on Soulbeat had brought several dozen people from the community. Students had come from a number of other schools. A supermarket owner had promised discounts for emergency packs of food and water.
“And your friend Michelle was extremely helpful,” she added.
“My friend Michelle?”
“Yeah, she said she went to college with you in Detroit, an engineer.”
“What does she look like?”
“Full-figured black woman, light complexion, probably your age. Smartly dressed.”
Gholam was puzzled. He didn’t know a Michelle and there was no one in the area he knew from his Wayne State days. He questioned Keisha some more, but all she could say was how helpful Michelle had been with potential contacts and new ideas about how to reach the mainstream media.
It would take one more night for the mystery to be solved. As he got ready for bed, the phone rang.
“Is this a good time?” an unfamiliar female voice asked.
“Who is this?” said Gholam.
“Your old friend Michelle. You don’t remember me?”
“No.”
“Your classmate from database theory with Professor Lee, the Chinese guy.”
“No, I don’t remember you. What do you want?”
“Can we meet in the morning? Say nine a.m., on the walkway around the lake, across from the cathedral?”
“If you’re not telling me more, I’m not coming.”
“Oh, you’d better come.” She hung up.
He wasn’t going to go, but the edge in her voice suggested it would be risky to ignore her.
Gholam noticed a woman on a bench fitting Keisha’s description. As he approached, she said, “There you are. Come sit.”
Gholam scrutinized her face. He was certain he’d never seen her before. “We’ve never met. Who are you?”
She opened the book in her hands and fished out an old photo of two men on a bench: Gholam, a bit more boyish looking, with a white American in a suit. “Remember Leicester Square, 1989?”
Gholam felt a stab in his chest. In his life he’d done some stupid things, and here was a reminder of one. On his way back from Iran that year, his first visit since the revolution, he’d met some old comrades in London. One of them had talked him into meeting with this man. He was probably from some US intelligence agency, and the man had pumped Gholam for information about his visit. He had not shared much.
“We need a favor. We’d like you to maintain my cover. There’s something dangerous going on and we want to make sure the kids here don’t do anything crazy.” She showed the photo again, tapping the image of the American. “A shame Bill’s cover was blown. Now he’s recognizable and he had to be pulled back stateside.”
Gholam understood the implicit threat. If this photo was ever shared with Michelle’s counterparts in Iran, Gholam would be marked as an American spy.
It had been a long time since he’d felt fear so close. He walked home and lay on his bed, beginning to sweat, although it was not a particularly warm day. Then he felt chills. He tried music; jazz usually soothed him. Today it annoyed him.
There had been a time when fear was a daily companion. When they were active against the shah, Iranian students weren’t safe even on American campuses. The shah’s secret police had kidnaped some of their leaders, and Washington cooperated by deporting them. Gholam was too unimportant to be noticed in Washington, but there were even spies in Detroit. For the last ten years he had built a life away from engagement with Iran, and fear’s grip on him had weakened, only returning when he visited home. There he had to be extremely careful who he visited. He rarely took chances.
If he chose now to never return home, he could maybe walk away from this, but he had to see his mother, perhaps for the last time. He couldn’t jeopardize this visit.
Buoyed by their rally, the Y2K folks decided to host one last event in December. With students dispersing for winter break, they wanted to make sure the community members mobilized for December 31.
Juggling her final projects and these activities, Keisha didn’t have much time for Gholam. They met up for tea now and then at the cafeteria. He’d hoped they would spend Thanksgiving together but she had begged off, saying she needed marathon study sessions. She did invite him to the final rally and to an after-party at a family apartment on campus. It would double as a planning meeting for the run-up to December 31. Gholam told her he wasn’t sure he could make the rally, but he’d come to the party. She didn’t try to change his mind; he worried he was losing her.