What The Doves Said: The Director (Book Four)

hat The Doves Said The Director

  Book Four

  By Mojdeh Marashi

  Copyright 2011 Mojdeh Marashi

  Fourth Story In "What The Doves Said" Series

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  What The Doves Said

  The Director

  Notes

  About The Author

  The Director

  I am sitting on the gray wool sofa with my arm resting on the handle, sipping a cup of green tea infused with fresh mint leaves, hoping it settles my stomach. I’m watching Iranian movies with English subtitles, which is quite an experience.

  We have found an Indi video store nearby that rents out Iranian movies, which have become popular over the years and therefore available even here in the States. Iranian directors such as Kiarostami, Makhmalbaf, and Panahi are invited regularly to Cannes and other International film festivals where they receive warm welcomes. Movie buffs crowd the local screenings of Iranian movies at alternative theaters and gather at the nearby coffee shops afterwards to discuss the films. Both the movies and the directors enjoy even more fame if they are banned from attending international festivals by the Iranian government. I am in awe of non-Iranian fans for understanding these complex, and often depressing movies, heavily coded with references to the Persian culture and history.

  The movie I’ve rented today is about the life of an Iranian family post the 1979 Revolution, a charged subject. Listening to the dialog and reading the subtitles at the same time bothers me. Since I can’t hide the subtitles, I experiment with muting the TV but this proves to be more annoying. Translations are never quite the same as the original, especially when the information, the movie dialog in this case, is available in the original language. I un-mute the TV and try not to read the subtitles, which is difficult at first but eventually I master the art of ignoring the text.

  Following the dialog in Persian seems adequate for a while but then the movie experience feels incomplete without the English subtitles and I catch myself stealing glances at the English words. It is as if for the movie to make sense to me it too has to be a hybrid, just like me.

  This particular movie interests me more since, unlike the majority I have watched previously, it does not feature the least fortunate of Iranians; instead it is about the lives of the upper middle class, so hopefully it will be a bit less depressing. I have been looking forward to watching this movie also because I know the director, Bahman F., from my childhood. His parents and mine were very close friends. In fact his mom, Mrs. F., my mom, and their other friend, Mrs. J, were inseparable. Additionally, Bahman was my Mom’s favorite so I had heard many stories about him from Mom. I am much younger than Bahman but I remember him well, mainly from his summer vacations in Tehran when he came back home from studying abroad.

  In one scene the main character, a man in his late forties, is visiting his mother. The camera pans slowly across the hallway to reveal an old, but well-kept house with walls adorned with old pictures, the kind that have a lot of real silver in them, making them look rich and alive. Then I notice that a few pictures look familiar to me. I only have to rewind once to recognize my parents among the people in the pictures on the wall. These photos were taken years before I was born when my parents and their friends were young. I have the exact duplicates.

  One shows Bahman and his younger brothers with their parents and my parents on a ski trip. My mom is in the foreground, lying on the snow as if it was grass. The photo is in black and white but I recognize her beautiful burgundy coat with the fur collar. Mom has left the coat open and I can see that underneath the heavy coat she is not dressed warmly. “Like mother, like daughter”, I hear myself as I am reminded of my own love for the snow.

  I grew up in Tehran enjoying a true four seasons. Unlike in California, we put away our summer clothing and brought the warm ones out of storage as fall and winter approached. We also enjoyed breaks here and there as the schools closed because of heavy snow. Our house was near Davoodieh Hills, which back then were not flattened and developed into new housing yet and the soft slopes were ideal as our snowy playground.

  “Oh my! Come in, come in!” Mom almost screams as she tries to pull me inside the house, her face turned completely pale.

  I am so cold my teeth are chattering.

  “I told you not to stay too long outside. You are freezing!” she says as she helps me upstairs.

  “I, ww-oo-nnn’-tt d-do i-i-t a-ag-gain. I-i, a-am s-ss-sor-rry.”

  “You are such a crazy girl, sweetie,” Mom shakes her head. “Oh no, we have to warm you up slowly.” Mom pulls me back as soon as she realizes I am about to hug the heater when we get upstairs.

  “Bu-bu-t I a-am f-ff-fr-frezz-in.”

  “I know, but warming yourself quickly is dangerous. Let’s get these clothes off you,” she says and peels off the wet layers one by one.

  I thought I was prepared: I had on a long sleeve t-shirt, a sweater, a wool jacket, and a parka; three pairs of gloves, (all in my pocket now since one by one they became super wet and useless), two pairs of trousers, two pairs of socks, one knitted by my mom, and a pair of boots. Everything is wet now. I feel like an icicle preserved in sheets of ice.

  “You could have lost a toe or a finger. What do we do with you?” Mom complains as she warms my toes. Now, that the layers of socks have come off, my toes look like miniature carrots but in the color of beets.

  “You should see your face,” Mom says when she realizes I am staring at my toes.

  “Here, drink this sweetie.” My grandma has brought me some hot water.

  Grandma has made it upstairs and is doing her best to keep calm. She is used to us kids being crazy. Whenever there is a soccer match on TV, we drive her insane by our screaming and jumping up and down. She worries that people might think we are murdering someone here.

  “Slowly, very slowly,” Mom says as she holds the cup for me. My fingers are too numb to grip the handle.

  “I don’t understand why they close the schools when you guys obviously have no problem with the snow,” Mom complains. She gets up and gathers my wet clothing off the floor. She has covered me with a warm blanket and leaves to get more towels and warm clothes.

  “Sorry, Mom. I won’t do this again,” I say when she is back. My teeth have finally stopped chattering.

  “I have to see it to believe it,” she whispers.

  Mom is right. We go through the same episode the day after and the remaining days of the week. The schools are closed for an entire week and at thirteen, I love the snow too much to let that go to waste.

  “This one should have been born a boy!” is what most people say about me.

  “Makes no difference, boys and girls are the same. It is what the kid is made of. Mine is shaytoon!” Mom says pointing at me, meaning I’m super active. “Kids have to be shaytoon, it is natural. Otherwise, they are not healthy.”

  The sound of the main character climbing the stairs brings me back to the movie, which has become more interesting now that I have realized it includes not only parts of the director’s own story but also has bits and pieces of mine.

  The camera pans and I see more pictures on the walls featuring my mom. The women, Mrs. J., Mrs. F. (Bahaman’s mother), and my mom are sitting next to one an
other, posing for the camera in Mrs. J’s yard; she’s the one with an amazing green thumb. All three women are in long plaid skirts and embroidered tops, the fashion of the day. Their outfits are identical – something they did occasionally for fun and to celebrate their close friendship. I have a similar photo at home that must have been taken on the same day.

  “Let’s go. The car is here,” Dad announces as he gets up with the sound of the doorbell. He is wearing his brown suit. As always he looks clean cut and tidy. Dad always looks as if he is going to an important meeting. I suppose this is because of his years in the Army.

  “Come,” I call to the appliqué puppy on my skirt as I pull on his leash.

  I love my skirt. It is pink, has a puffy lace petticoat underneath, and a pair of detachable shoulder straps, which I can also wear in a crisscross form. A cute white and furry puppy appliqué is attached to the skirt and his leash, in form of a loose silver chain, saves me from boredom whenever we visit homes with only grownups.

  Mom has a navy and gold two-piece suit on and is wearing a pair of matching navy stilettos. She picks up her purse, a beautiful navy clutch with a silver chain handle, from the living room tabletop. Mom is a fashion queen, always in stylish outfits and matching colors. Mom doesn’t wear much makeup. She doesn't need it; she is naturally gorgeous.

  In a few minutes we