On June 3rd 1971, my father left Iran for Europe and on July 18th my mother joined him in Rome. For 20 days Lygeia and I were left in the care of our grandparents in Tadjrish.

Over the 10 months we had lived in Iran, I committed to memory the changing landscape of our inner courtyard garden. I watched my Grandfather grow sick and almost die, and then, miraculously, claim a second chance. Ten months was a lifetime and I knew no other life.

August 7, 1971

En route to Zurich Switzerland

At 30,000 feet we had lost all sense of time and place. My sister’s wadded cardigan was pressing marks into my flushed cheek so I shifted my elbow out of the crack between the airplane seats and readjusted my head. The rumble of the jet’s engine interrupted my sleep – I was tired and bored and wanted this in-between world to give way to whatever was coming next. Through the ochre of closed lids I listened for my sister’s voice, but both she and our escort, Uncle Hossein, who wasn’t really our uncle at all, were quiet. Uncle Hossein spoke no English or German, so Lygeia had translated for him when the stewardess came by to offer blankets and pillows. He wasn’t as bold and confident as he had been at Grandpapa’s parties. Instead, he seemed strangely timid in stockinged feet and a black suit, having to ask my sister to get him a glass of water.

Hours later I was back in my parents' arms and dozing off and on through a cab ride. I was placed on my feet and led with half closed lids through a carpeted foyer, and on to an elevator (ding!) to my parents’ hotel room. For once, I did not argue who should push the button - I was far too tired to care. We would stay one night before a train ride to Frankfurt and another long flight across the Atlantic and back to the mythic Home. Home? The word rang flat. I waited for my mother to place the large iron key in the keyhole, and turn the lock in the hotel room door.

“We have a surprise for you,” my mother said, and pushed open the door.

“A surprise?” Lygeia asked and rushed over the threshold as the light was clicked on. I followed her past the large bed where my parents were to sleep, and through another doorway in to a smaller room where two twin beds sat side by side. The curtain was pulled open and the afternoon light poured down on an array of toys, purses and trinkets on each bed, of glorious reds, blues, yellows and greens – dolls with flowing dresses, a plastic purse of bright yellow and red, a Spanish flamenco dancer with a gown so full that her tiny plastic high heels were all but invisible to my eye. I dropped my father’s hand and rushed in with Sissy, wanting to grab it all at once into my arms. “For me? All for me?” I asked.

“This bed is for you Roia. That bed is for your sister.”
“Oh!” Lygeia squeeled, and we both rushed in to finger the cloth of the swiss apron we were both given, and the ruffles and the hair of each doll. From headboard to foot, it was a fantastic array, like Christmas, and the presence of these inanimate trinkets soothed me and reminded me of the awesome power of my parents to provide for me – to find me when I am lost. The weight of each doll in my hands was like another anchor to remind me of Home.

I turned over the flamenco dancer and studied her tiny shoes, her underclothes. I felt the plastic of my colorful and shiny purse. My mother and father eventually disappeared in to the next room to put down the suitcases but I hardly noticed.

“Sissy, look at this one!” I said with a grin, holding out the purse for her to see. She looked up briefly and went back to studying the long blond hair of the doll in her hands. She’d made room for herself on her bed, and had sat herself down amongst her prizes, her long legs extending off the end of the mattress.

Later that evening we sat at dinner in a dimly lit hotel restaurant. I had my new purse tucked tightly under my arm as I fell asleep in my chair. I let myself be carried back to our room for a long sleep in between cool sheets.

-end

Sweet surprise

From the back seat of the taxi, I am barely big enough to see out the dirty windows: squares, rectangles and blocks of concrete reach up in to a grey, muddy sky. Heads turn to follow us as we wind sharply through noisy Tehran streets, honks blast, voices call out, my mother yells directions to the driver. I watch the long ashen tip of her cigarette pulse red, visible from the open passenger window, and feel the smokey breeze, passed back to me, brush against my forehead.

With a force that throws my shoulders forward, we have pulled over and stopped. Brief stillness, and then an eruption of voices, grown-ups, bills counted and passed to the driver, and my father's arm reaches across me to open the door. I hesitate, and then step down to the sidewalk in buckled patent leather shoes, careful to avoid the dirty canal of water directly below my feet.

The smokey air of the taxi has dissipated, but the breeze that blows by me now holds its own smells, both sour and sweet, aged. People stream by as I reach for my father's hand, the scene is black, dusty suit jackets and muted colors broken only by brightly colored headscarves tied under chins. A shrouded figure passes closely, with a hand holding that of a small boy. How can this child know his mother from any other figure, this sea of strangers, with only the one hand to know her? I ask myself.

I am tugged forward towards an open door. I know we are supposed to meet someone - whom, I don't know. I am a follower and subject to the whims and distractions of adults. I have no reason to expect otherwise.

There is darkness inside, as our eyes adjust, which soon gives way to tall chairs, a long bar, and the slight sting of more smoke. I feel my father's hands lift me into his arms, and he sits me on a tall padded stool. My fingers search for edges to cling to. On the other side of the bar is a flurry of activity, people moving quickly, and a machine rumbling very loudly, dripping a vibrant orange liquid in to tall glasses. The smell of sweet carrots. I watch, my head cocked slightly, as the men with dirty aprons work around the machine, sometimes blocking my view. Eventually, one turns and places a glass of orange liquid in front of me. It's of carrots, I know this. Warm saliva begins to pool in my cheeks as I wrap my hands around the cool, tall glass.

"Roia," my father says. "Try this."