‘You’re worried about the operation?’ Omar asked.
‘Just a bit.’
Omar tssked. ‘Everyone is praying for you. It will be all right.’
‘The surgeon’s good, but the patient’s not so great.’
Omar reached over and squeezed Martin’s forearm. ‘Come on, don’t talk like that.’
Martin said, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘I don’t want to bring back bad memories…’
Omar frowned, but he was puzzled, not warning him off. ‘It’s okay, you can talk about anything.’
‘When you were in Evin,’ Martin began, pausing to look for some sign that he was overstepping the mark, ‘why didn’t you tell them about me?’
Omar looked confused; he rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. ‘Tell who what?’
‘When you were being questioned,’ Martin persisted, ‘why didn’t you give VEVAK my name? Nothing too bad would have happened to me; I would have just been deported in the end. It might have made it easier for you, if you’d given them something.’
Omar stared at him blankly for a second. Then he laughed softly, mindful of the house full of sleeping people. ‘You mean, about the hospital? Why didn’t I tell them that the only way I got that faggot out of the hospital was because some crazy foreign journalist gave me his clothes?’ He looked down, shaking his head with mirth. ‘Do you think they would have believed that? They would have been sure that I was lying, and they would have beaten me even harder.’ He leant back on the couch, one hand over his mouth, trying to control himself. ‘It’s lucky they didn’t arrest you. If you’d tried to tell them the truth about standing in the cupboard in ladies’ clothes, they would have beaten you black and blue.’
Martin grinned back at him as if he shared the joke. The truth was, he felt a mixture of relief and humiliation. He was glad that Omar hadn’t actually suffered needlessly to protect him, but he felt like a fool for holding the wrong idea for so long.
Omar seemed to sense his discomfort; he became serious. ‘I’m not laughing at you, Martin; you did a good thing. But don’t blame yourself for anything that happened to me in Evin.’
Martin said, ‘Okay.’
‘I wish I had a photo, though,’ Omar said. ‘When I sent my friend to give you the clothes, I should have told him to take a picture first.’
They sat talking for almost an hour. Martin kept waiting for the meandering current of the conversation to take him to the right place, but Omar’s eyelids were starting to droop. Martin felt the tightness in his chest growing; if he missed this chance he might never have another one.
He said, ‘Javeed’s got a new friend at school, an Afghani boy. You don’t mind if he invites him over to the house?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Are you sure?’ Martin pressed him. ‘It’s just that I’ve heard you say some things about Afghanis-’
Omar stiffened. ‘My problem is with the criminals. Any friend of Javeed is welcome here.’
Martin said, ‘So how do you know which Afghanis are criminals?’
Omar regarded him with an expression of mild irritation. ‘They’re the ones who are stealing things and murdering people.’
‘So thieves and murderers are the problem, not Afghanis?’
‘They’re wild people,’ Omar insisted. ‘And this isn’t their country. So what do you expect?’
Martin said, ‘Is Iran my country?’
Omar recoiled. ‘You’re an honoured guest! You didn’t abuse our hospitality.’
‘Nor did Javeed’s friend, or the boy’s family.’
‘And I told you: Javeed’s friend is welcome in my house, as often as he likes.’ Omar glared at him, wounded.
Martin said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
Omar’s expression softened. ‘It’s nothing. We’re both tired, and you’re worried about tomorrow. You should get some sleep.’
‘Yeah.’
Back in the guest room, Martin lay cursing himself, running through the conversation in his head, trying to imagine how he could have put things more tactfully. But he’d lost his chance; there was nothing he could say now. If he raised the subject with Omar again it would already be too tainted with a sense of grievance.
Javeed had permission to take a day off school. Martin woke him at five o’clock, an hour before they needed to leave.
‘Why are you cooking breakfast?’ Javeed asked sleepily.
‘You don’t like pancakes?’ Martin spread his arms around the stove possessively. ‘I can eat them all if you don’t want any.’
‘No!’
Omar joined them. He kept Javeed distracted, swiping food and messing around with condiments so Javeed didn’t notice that Martin wasn’t actually eating anything.
The rest of the family rose just before six. Martin still felt like an interloper around Mohsen and Nahid, but they both offered a few gruff words of encouragement. Rana shook his hand, Farshid embraced him briefly, everyone mindful of not making a big scene in front of Javeed.
Omar drove them to the hospital. Martin sat in the back beside Javeed. ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with L,’ Javeed declared.
‘In English, or in Farsi?’ Martin asked.
Javeed sighed. ‘I said L, not
lam.’
‘Lamppost?’
‘No.’
‘Light pole.’
‘No.’
Martin stared out into the traffic. ‘I give up.’
‘Liver.’ Javeed cackled at his own ingenuity.
‘That’s cheating,’ Martin said. ‘You can’t see it.’
Javeed held his hands up to his face in the shape of binoculars. ‘I can already see it in the jar at the hospital. My eyes are better than yours.’
It took half an hour to get admitted; Javeed sat on a chair in reception and dozed. In the ward, Omar and Javeed waited outside while Martin changed into a paper gown. In the shower the night before, he had used the depilatory gel the hospital had given him; below the neck his body was completely hairless.
Someone knocked. Martin climbed beneath the sheet.
‘Come in.’
It was Omar, alone. Martin said, ‘Where’s Javeed?’
‘The nurse is watching him for a minute.’
‘Okay.’ Martin waited.
Omar approached the bed; he looked nervous. ‘I don’t have time to say everything properly. I just want to tell you… I know he’s your son. I know you want him to have your ideas, not mine. I won’t forget that, Martin jan. Whenever I talk to him, you’ll be looking over my shoulder.’
Martin searched his face, but there was no trace of resentment. ‘And that won’t drive you crazy?’
‘Maybe a little bit,’ Omar conceded. ‘But that can’t be helped. I want everything right between us.’
‘It is,’ Martin said.
Omar reached down and squeezed his arm. ‘Okay, you should talk to him now.’
Omar brought Javeed in and sat him beside the bed, then he left the room.
Javeed yawned. ‘You have to get better now, Baba,’ he said.
‘Okay, I’ll try hard,’ Martin promised.
‘Then we’ll go up in the balloon together?’
‘Absolutely.’ Martin hesitated. ‘Can I tell you something, though?’
Javeed nodded.
‘I’m going to try as hard as I can, but if I can’t get better, you mustn’t be angry with me. You have to believe that I was really trying.’
Javeed looked down, confused and dejected.
‘Pesaram? Do you believe me?’ Martin raised himself up and put an arm around his son. ‘Listen to me. I love you more than anything else; all I want to do is stay with you. But don’t be angry if I can’t do that.’
Javeed shuddered as if he was about to cry, but then he whispered in Martin’s ear, ‘If you can’t stay, the Simorgh will look after me.’ It was not a reproach; it was meant to comfort him.