Reading Lolita In Tehran Part 6

At the time I lived in Oklahoma, one of our rival factions in the student movement, the most radical group within the Confederation of Iranian Students, convened a conference in Oklahoma City. I missed the conference, having gone to another meeting in Texas. When I returned I noticed an unusual air of excitement among both "our" people and "theirs." Apparently one of their members, a former running champion, was suspected of being an agent of the Iranian secret police, SAVAK. Some zealous members had decided to "extract" the truth from him. They had lured him into a room at the Holiday Inn and tried to get him to confess by means of torture, including burning his fingers with a cigarette. When they had left the room and were in the parking lot, their victim managed to escape.

The next day the door flew open in the middle of the conference, admitting several FBI agents with dogs and the "culprit," who was told to identify his a.s.sailants. One of our friends, who had previously admonished me for my anti-revolutionary clothes, her voice breaking with excitement, related to me what had happened, boasting about "the power of the ma.s.ses." By "ma.s.ses" she meant the partic.i.p.ants in the conference who had stood aside, creating an avenue for the agents, their dogs and the hapless culprit to walk through. As he pa.s.sed by, they muttered threats in Persian. When he finally reached one of the leaders of that faction, the most popular in fact, a short, intense-looking guy who like many of his comrades had dropped out of college to become a full-time revolutionary and who usually sported a cap and coat in imitation of Lenin, he broke down and started crying and asked him in Persian why he had treated him so cruelly. The self-proclaimed Lenin of the Iranian revolution looked at him triumphantly, daring him to "spill" to the FBI. He could not bring himself to expose his tormentors and left with the agents, once more proving the justness of the oppressed ma.s.ses.

The following day, there was a short report in The Oklahoma Daily. The Oklahoma Daily. More than the report, it was the way so many students reacted that frightened me. In the coffee shops, in the student union, even in the sunny streets of Norman, whenever the political Iranian students met they carried on heated discussions. Many quoted Comrade Stalin approvingly, spouting lines from a fas.h.i.+onable book, More than the report, it was the way so many students reacted that frightened me. In the coffee shops, in the student union, even in the sunny streets of Norman, whenever the political Iranian students met they carried on heated discussions. Many quoted Comrade Stalin approvingly, spouting lines from a fas.h.i.+onable book, A Brief History of the Bolshevik Party A Brief History of the Bolshevik Party or some such, about the need to destroy once and for all the Trotskyites, the White Guards, the termites and poisonous rats who were bent on destroying the revolution. or some such, about the need to destroy once and for all the Trotskyites, the White Guards, the termites and poisonous rats who were bent on destroying the revolution.

Sitting in the student union drinking coffee or c.o.ke, our comrades, disturbing the next table's flirtations, flared up and defended the right of the ma.s.ses to torture and physically eliminate their oppressors. I still remember one of them, a chubby guy with a soft, boyish face, the outlines of his round belly protruding from under his navy blue woolen sweater. He refused to sit down and, towering over our table, swinging a gla.s.s of c.o.ke precariously in one hand, he argued that there were two kinds of torture, two kinds of killing-those committed by the enemy and those by the friends of the people. It was okay to murder enemies.

I could tell Mr. Bahri, now eternally bending towards me in some urgent argument: listen, be careful what you wish for. Be careful with your dreams; one day they may just come true. I could have told him to learn from Gatsby, from the lonely, isolated Gatsby, who also tried to retrieve his past and give flesh and blood to a fancy, a dream that was never meant to be more than a dream. He was killed, left at the bottom of the swimming pool, as lonely in death as in life. I know you most probably have not read the book to the end, you have been so busy with your political activities, but let me tell you the ending anyway-you seem to be in need of knowing. Gatsby is killed. He is killed for a crime Daisy committed, running over Tom's mistress in Gatsby's yellow car. Tom fingered Gatsby to the bereaved husband, who killed Gatsby as he lay floating in his swimming pool waiting for Daisy to call. Could my former comrades have predicted that one day they would be tried in a Revolutionary Court, tortured and killed as traitors and spies? Could they, Mr. Bahri? I can tell you with complete confidence that they could not. Not in their wildest dreams.

14.

I left Mahtab and her friends, but those memories could not easily be left behind: they pursued me like mischievous beggars to the protest meeting. Two distinct and hostile groups had formed among the protesters, eyeing each other suspiciously. The first, smaller group consisted mainly of government workers and housewives. They were there instinctively, because their interests were at stake. They were clearly not used to demonstrations: they stood together in a huddle, uncertain and resentful. Then there were the intellectuals like myself, who did know a thing or two about demonstrations, and the usual hecklers, shouting obscenities and brandis.h.i.+ng slogans. Two of them took photographs of the crowd, jumping menacingly from side to side. We covered our faces and shouted back.

Soon the number of vigilantes increased. They gathered in small groups and began moving towards us. The police fired a few perfunctory shots into the air while men with knives, clubs and stones approached us. Instead of protecting the women, the police started to disperse us, pus.h.i.+ng some with the b.u.t.t of their guns and ordering the "sisters" to make no trouble and go home. There was a feeling of desperate anger in the air, thick with taunting jeers. The meeting continued despite the provocations.

A few nights later, another protest was convened at the Polytechnic University. A huge crowd had gathered in the auditorium by the time I arrived, laughing and talking. As one of the speakers-a tall, stately woman wearing a long, st.u.r.dy skirt, her long hair tied back behind her ears-moved towards the podium, the electricity was turned off. There were murmurs of protest, but no one moved. The speaker stood stiffly and defiantly with the text in front of her and two people held a candle and a flashlight for her to read by. All we could see was her disembodied face and the white paper in her hands, illuminated by the light behind her. Only the cadence of her voice and that light have remained with me. We were not listening to the words: we were there to support and to bear witness to the act, to preserve the image of her flickering in the candlelight.

That woman and I were destined to meet mainly at public events. The last time I saw her was in the fall of 1999 in New York, when, as Iran's foremost feminist publisher, she was invited to a talk at Columbia University. After the meeting, we reminisced over coffee. I hadn't seen her since the Tehran book fair in 1993, when she had invited me to give a talk on the modern novel. The talk was held on the second floor of an open cafeteria in the main building of the book fair. As I spoke, I became more and more excited about my theme and my scarf kept slipping back from my hair. The number of people in the audience grew until there was no room to sit or stand. As soon as the talk ended, this woman was summoned by security and reprimanded for my improper veil and inflammatory talk. The fact that I had spoken about works of fiction was inconsequential to them. After that, her lecture series was banned.

We were smiling over these memories, sitting in a dark corner of a restaurant, secure in the busy indifference of a mild New York evening. For a moment I felt that she had not changed at all since she had given that talk years earlier: she was still wearing a long, st.u.r.dy skirt, and her long hair was still gathered behind her ears. Only her smile had changed: it was a smile of desperation. A few months later she was arrested with a number of prominent activists, journalists, writers and student leaders. These arrests were part of a new wave of repression, during which over twenty-five publications were closed down and many dissenters arrested or jailed. Hearing the news as I sat in my office in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., a feeling I had not experienced for a long time came over me: a sense of utter helplessness, of inarticulate anger tinged with vague but persistent guilt.

15.

It was around this time, mid-fall, that I spoke again with Mr. Bahri. He said, Well, Professor, they most probably deserve it: the students are very angry. We were talking about three faculty members who were being threatened with expulsion, one of whom had been singled out mainly because he was Armenian. The other was my colleague who described himself as Little Great Gatsby: both had been accused of using obscene language in cla.s.s. A third was accused of being a CIA agent. Dr. A, who was still head of the department, had refused to accept their expulsion.

Dr. A himself was rapidly falling out of favor. In the early days of the revolution, he had been put on trial by the students at Tehran University for defending a prison guard. Eighteen years after the event, I read about it in an homage that one of his former students, herself a well-known translator, paid him in a magazine. She described how one day she had been watching the trial of a secret-police agent on television when a familiar voice, Dr. A's, attracted her attention. He had come to testify in favor of his former student, whom he believed to be a compa.s.sionate individual, a man who often helped out his less fortunate cla.s.smates. Dr. A told the Revolutionary Court: "I believe it is my duty as a human being to acquaint you with this aspect of the accused's personality." Such an action, during those initial black-and-white days of the revolution, was unheard of and very dangerous.

The accused, who had been enrolled in the university's night cla.s.ses, was a prison guard who had apparently been charged with beating and torturing political prisoners. It was said that mainly because of Dr. A's testimony in his favor, he got off easy, with only a two-year jail sentence. None of my friends and acquaintances knew what happened to him later.

Dr. A's student regrets in her account that she partic.i.p.ated in his trial without voicing a protest. She goes on to conclude that Dr. A's action was a manifestation of the principles he had taught in his literature cla.s.ses. "Such an act," she explains, "can only be accomplished by someone who is engrossed in literature, has learned that every individual has different dimensions to his personality. . . . Those who judge must take all aspects of an individual's personality into account. It is only through literature that one can put oneself in someone else's shoes and understand the other's different and contradictory sides and refrain from becoming too ruthless. Outside the sphere of literature only one aspect of individuals is revealed. But if you understand their different dimensions you cannot easily murder them. . . . If we had learned this one lesson from Dr. A our society would have been in a much better shape today."

The threats of expulsion were an extension of the purges that continued throughout that year, and have never really ceased, up to this day. After a meeting with Dr. A and two other colleagues about this matter, I stormed down the hall and came across Mr. Bahri. He was standing at the corner of the long corridor talking to the president of the Islamic a.s.sociation of University Staff. The two were leaning towards each other in the att.i.tude of men who are involved in deeply serious matters, matters of life and death. I called Mr. Bahri, who walked towards me with respect, gracefully dissimulating any irritation he might have felt at this disruption. I questioned him about trying the faculty members and dismissing them illegally.

His expression changed into one of alarm mixed with determination. He explained that I had to understand that things had changed. What does this mean, I said, that things have changed? It means that morality is important to our students; it means that the faculty is answerable to the students. Did this make it all right, then, to put a responsible and dedicated teacher like Dr. A on trial?

Mr. Bahri said that he himself had not partic.i.p.ated in that trial. Of course Dr. A is too Western in his att.i.tudes, he added. He is flirtatious and loose.

So is this our new definition of the word Western, Western, I shot back-are we now officially living in the Soviet Union or China? And should Dr. A now be tried for his flirtations? No, but he should understand certain things. You cannot go and support a spy, a lackey, someone who is responsible for the deaths of so many. He went on to tell me that he thought there were far more important people than Dr. A to be tried. There were CIA spies, such as our own Professor Z, who were free to come and go as they pleased. I shot back-are we now officially living in the Soviet Union or China? And should Dr. A now be tried for his flirtations? No, but he should understand certain things. You cannot go and support a spy, a lackey, someone who is responsible for the deaths of so many. He went on to tell me that he thought there were far more important people than Dr. A to be tried. There were CIA spies, such as our own Professor Z, who were free to come and go as they pleased.

I told him they had no proof that the gentleman in question was a CIA agent, and in any case I doubted the CIA would be foolish enough to employ someone like him. But even those whom he called the functionaries of the old regime, regardless of their guilt, shouldn't be treated this way. I could not understand why the Islamic government had to gloat over these people's deaths, brandis.h.i.+ng their photographs after they had been tortured and executed. Why did they show us these pictures? Why did our students every day shout slogans demanding new death sentences?

Mr. Bahri did not respond at first. He stood still, his head bent, his hands linked in front of him. Then he started to speak, slowly and with tense precision. Well, they have to pay, he said. They are on trial for their past deeds. The Iranian nation will not tolerate their crimes. And these new crimes? I asked as soon as he had uttered his last word. Should they be tolerated in silence? Everyone nowadays is an enemy of G.o.d-former ministers and educators, prost.i.tutes, leftist revolutionaries: they are murdered daily. What had these people done to deserve such treatment?

His face had become hard, and the shadow of obstinacy had colored his eyes. He repeated that people had to pay for their past crimes. This is not a game, he said. It is a revolution. I asked him if I too was on trial for my past. But he was right in a sense: we all have to pay in the end. There were no innocents in the game of life, that was for sure. We all had to pay, but not for the crimes we were accused of. There were other scores to settle. I did not know then that I had already begun to pay, that what was happening was part of the payment. It was much later that these feelings would be clarified.

16.

It was late; I had been at the library. I was spending a great deal of time there now, as it was becoming more and more difficult to find "imperialist" novels in bookstores. I was emerging from the library with a few books under my arm when I noticed him standing by the door. His two hands were joined in front of him in an expression of reverence for me, his teacher, but in his strained grimace I could feel his sense of power. I remember Mr. Nyazi always with a white s.h.i.+rt, b.u.t.toned up to the neck-he never tucked it in. He was stocky and had blue eyes, very closely cropped light brown hair and a thick, pinkish neck. It seemed as if his neck were made of soft clay; it literally sat on his s.h.i.+rt collar. He was always very polite.

"Ma'am, may I talk to you for a second?" Although we were in the middle of the semester, I had not as yet been a.s.signed an office, so we stood in the hall and I listened. His complaint was about Gatsby. He said he was telling me this for my own good. For my own good? What an odd expression to use. He said surely I must know how much he respected me, otherwise he would not be there talking to me. He had a complaint. Against whom, and why me? It was against Gatsby. I asked him jokingly if he had filed any official complaints against Mr. Gatsby. And I reminded him that any such action would in any case be useless as the gentleman was already dead.

But he was serious. No, Professor, not against Mr. Gatsby himself but against the novel. The novel was immoral. It taught the youth the wrong stuff; it poisoned their minds-surely I could see? I could not. I reminded him that Gatsby was a work of fiction and not a how-to manual. Surely I could see, he insisted, that these novels and their characters became our models in real life? Maybe Mr. Gatsby was all right for the Americans, but not for our revolutionary youth. For some reason the idea that this man could be tempted to become Gatsby-like was very appealing to me.

There was, for Mr. Nyazi, no difference between the fiction of Fitzgerald and the facts of his own life. The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby was representative of things American, and America was poison for us; it certainly was. We should teach Iranian students to fight against American immorality, he said. He looked earnest; he had come to me in all goodwill. was representative of things American, and America was poison for us; it certainly was. We should teach Iranian students to fight against American immorality, he said. He looked earnest; he had come to me in all goodwill.

Suddenly a mischievous notion got hold of me. I suggested, in these days of public prosecutions, that we put Gatsby Gatsby on trial: Mr. Nyazi would be the prosecutor, and he should also write a paper offering his evidence. I told him that when Fitzgerald's books were published in the States, there were many who felt just as he did. They may have expressed themselves differently, but they were saying more or less the same thing. So he need not feel lonely in expressing his views. on trial: Mr. Nyazi would be the prosecutor, and he should also write a paper offering his evidence. I told him that when Fitzgerald's books were published in the States, there were many who felt just as he did. They may have expressed themselves differently, but they were saying more or less the same thing. So he need not feel lonely in expressing his views.

The next day I presented this plan to the cla.s.s. We could not have a proper trial, of course, but we could have a prosecutor, a lawyer for the defense and a defendant; the rest of the cla.s.s would be the jury. Mr. Nyazi would be the prosecutor. We needed a judge, a defendant and a defense attorney.

After a great deal of argument, because no one volunteered for any of the posts, we finally persuaded one of the leftist students to be the judge. But then Mr. Nyazi and his friends objected: this student was biased against the prosecution. After further deliberation, we agreed upon Mr. Farzan, a meek and studious fellow, rather pompous and, fortunately, shy. No one wanted to be the defense. It was emphasized that since I had chosen the book, I should defend it. I argued that in that case, I should be not the defense but the defendant and promised to cooperate closely with my lawyer and to talk in my own defense. Finally, Zarrin, who was holding her own conference in whispers with Vida, after a few persuasive nudges, volunteered. Zarrin wanted to know if I was Fitzgerald or the book itself. We decided that I would be the book: Fitzgerald may have had or lacked qualities that we could detect in the book. It was agreed that in this trial the rest of the cla.s.s could at any point interrupt the defense or the prosecution with their own comments and questions.

I felt it was wrong for me to be the defendant, that this put the prosecutor in an awkward position. At any rate, it would have been more interesting if one of the students had chosen to partic.i.p.ate. But no one wanted to speak for Gatsby. Gatsby. There was something so obstinately arrogant about Mr. Nyazi, so inflexible, that in the end I persuaded myself I should have no fear of intimidating him. There was something so obstinately arrogant about Mr. Nyazi, so inflexible, that in the end I persuaded myself I should have no fear of intimidating him.

A few days later, Mr. Bahri came to see me. We had not met for what seemed like a long time. He was a little outraged. I enjoyed the fact that for the first time, he seemed agitated and had forgotten to talk in his precise and leisurely manner. Was it necessary to put this book on trial? I was somewhat taken aback. Did he want me to throw the book aside without so much as a word in its defense? Anyway, this is a good time for trials, I said, is it not?

17.

All through the week before the trial, whatever I did, whether talking to friends and family or preparing for cla.s.ses, part of my mind was constantly occupied on shaping my arguments for the trial. This after all was not merely a defense of Gatsby Gatsby but of a whole way of looking at and appraising literature-and reality, for that matter. Bijan, who seemed quite amused by all of this, told me one day that I was studying but of a whole way of looking at and appraising literature-and reality, for that matter. Bijan, who seemed quite amused by all of this, told me one day that I was studying Gatsby Gatsby with the same intensity as a lawyer scrutinizing a textbook on law. I turned to him and said, You don't take this seriously, do you? He said, Of course I take it seriously. You have put yourself in a vulnerable position in relation to your students. You have allowed them-no, not just that; you have forced them into questioning your judgment as a teacher. So you have to win this case. This is very important for a junior member of the faculty in her first semester of teaching. But if you are asking for sympathy, you won't get it from me. You're loving it, admit it-you love this sort of drama and anxiety. Next thing you know, you'll be trying to convince me that the whole revolution depends on this. with the same intensity as a lawyer scrutinizing a textbook on law. I turned to him and said, You don't take this seriously, do you? He said, Of course I take it seriously. You have put yourself in a vulnerable position in relation to your students. You have allowed them-no, not just that; you have forced them into questioning your judgment as a teacher. So you have to win this case. This is very important for a junior member of the faculty in her first semester of teaching. But if you are asking for sympathy, you won't get it from me. You're loving it, admit it-you love this sort of drama and anxiety. Next thing you know, you'll be trying to convince me that the whole revolution depends on this.

But it does-don't you see? I implored. He shrugged and said, Don't tell me. I suggest you put your ideas to Ayatollah Khomeini.

On the day of the trial, I left for school early and roamed the leafy avenues before heading to cla.s.s. As I entered the Faculty of Persian and Foreign Languages and Literature, I saw Mahtab standing by the door with another girl. She wore a peculiar grin that day, like a lazy kid who has just gotten an A. She said, Professor, I wondered if you would mind if Na.s.srin sits in on the cla.s.s today. I looked from her to her young companion; she couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old. She was very pretty, despite her own best efforts to hide it. Her looks clashed with her solemn expression, which was neutral and adamantly impenetrable. Only her body seemed to express something: she kept leaning on one leg and then the other as her right hand gripped and released the thick strap of her heavy shoulder bag.

Mahtab, with more animation than usual, told me that Na.s.srin's English was better than most college kids', and when she'd told her about Gatsby Gatsby's trial, she was so curious that she'd read the whole book. I turned to Na.s.srin and asked, What did you think of Gatsby Gatsby? She paused and then said quietly, I can't tell. I said, Do you mean you don't know or you can't tell me? She said, I don't know, but maybe I just can't tell you.

That was the beginning of it all. After the trial, Na.s.srin asked permission to continue attending my cla.s.ses whenever she could. Mahtab told me that Na.s.srin was her neighbor. She belonged to a Muslim organization but was a very interesting kid, and Mahtab was working on her-an expression the leftists used to describe someone they were trying to recruit.

I told Na.s.srin she could come to my cla.s.s on one condition: at the end of term, she would have to write a fifteen-page paper on Gatsby. Gatsby. She paused as she always did, as if she didn't quite have sufficient words at her command. Her responses were always reluctant and forced; one felt almost guilty for making her talk. Na.s.srin demurred at first, and then she said: I'm not that good. You don't need to be good, I said. And I'm sure you are-after all, you're spending your free time here. I don't want a scholarly paper; I want you to write your own impressions. Tell me in your own words what She paused as she always did, as if she didn't quite have sufficient words at her command. Her responses were always reluctant and forced; one felt almost guilty for making her talk. Na.s.srin demurred at first, and then she said: I'm not that good. You don't need to be good, I said. And I'm sure you are-after all, you're spending your free time here. I don't want a scholarly paper; I want you to write your own impressions. Tell me in your own words what Gatsby Gatsby means to you. She was looking at the tip of her shoes, and she muttered that she would try. means to you. She was looking at the tip of her shoes, and she muttered that she would try.

From then on, every time I came to cla.s.s I would look for Na.s.srin, who usually followed Mahtab and sat beside her. She would be busy taking notes all through the session, and she even came a few times when Mahtab did not show up. Then suddenly she stopped coming, until the last cla.s.s, when I saw her sitting in a corner, busying herself with the notes she scribbled.

Once I had agreed to accept my young intruder, I left them both and continued. I needed to stop by the department office before cla.s.s to pick up a book Dr. A had left for me. When I entered the cla.s.sroom that afternoon, I felt a charged silence follow me in. The room was full; only one or two students were absent-and Mr. Bahri, whose activities, or disapproval, had kept him away. Zarrin was laughing and swapping notes with Vida, and Mr. Nyazi stood in a corner talking to two other Muslim students, who repaired to their seats when they caught sight of me. Mahtab was sitting beside her new recruit, whispering to her conspiratorially.

I spoke briefly about the next week's a.s.signment and proceeded to set the trial in motion. First I called forth Mr. Farzan, the judge, and asked him to take his seat in my usual chair, behind the desk. He sauntered up to the front of the cla.s.s with an ill-disguised air of self-satisfaction. A chair was placed near the judge for the witnesses. I sat beside Zarrin on the left side of the room, by the large window, and Mr. Nyazi sat with some of his friends on the other side, by the wall. The judge called the session to order. And so began the case of the Islamic Republic of Iran versus The Great Gatsby. The Great Gatsby.

Mr. Nyazi was called to state his case against the defendant. Instead of standing, he moved his chair to the center of the room and started to read in a monotonous voice from his paper. The judge sat uncomfortably behind my desk and appeared to be mesmerized by Mr. Nyazi. Every once in a while he blinked rather violently.

A few months ago, I was finally cleaning up my old files and I came across Mr. Nyazi's paper, written in immaculate handwriting. It began with "In the Name of G.o.d," words that later became mandatory on all official letterheads and in all public talks. Mr. Nyazi picked up the pages of his paper one by one, gripping rather than holding them, as if afraid that they might try to escape his hold. "Islam is the only religion in the world that has a.s.signed a special sacred role to literature in guiding man to a G.o.dly life," he intoned. "This becomes clear when we consider that the Koran, G.o.d's own word, is the Prophet's miracle. Through the Word you can heal or you can destroy. You can guide or you can corrupt. That is why the Word can belong to Satan or to G.o.d.

"Imam Khomeini has relegated a great task to our poets and writers," he droned on triumphantly, laying down one page and picking up another. "He has given them a sacred mission, much much more exalted than that of the materialistic writers in the West. If our Imam is the shepherd who guides the flock to its pasture, then the writers are the faithful watchdogs who must lead according to the shepherd's dictates." more exalted than that of the materialistic writers in the West. If our Imam is the shepherd who guides the flock to its pasture, then the writers are the faithful watchdogs who must lead according to the shepherd's dictates."

A giggle could be heard from the back of the cla.s.s. I glanced around behind me and caught Zarrin and Vida whispering. Na.s.srin was staring intently at Mr. Nyazi and absentmindedly chewing her pencil. Mr. Farzan seemed to be preoccupied with an invisible fly, and blinked exaggeratedly at intervals. When I turned my attention back to Mr. Nyazi, he was saying, "Ask yourself which you would prefer: the guardians.h.i.+p of a sacred and holy task or the materialistic reward of money and position that has corrupted-" and here he paused, without taking his eyes off his paper, seeming to drag the sapless words to the surface-"that has corrupted, corrupted," he repeated, "the Western writers and deprived their work of spirituality and purpose. That That is why our Imam says that the pen is mightier than the sword." is why our Imam says that the pen is mightier than the sword."

The whispers and t.i.tters in the back rows had become more audible. Mr. Farzan was too inept a judge to pay attention, but one of Mr. Nyazi's friends cried out: "Your Honor, could you please instruct the gentlemen and ladies in the back to respect the court and the prosecutor?"

"So be it," said Mr. Farzan, irrelevantly.

"Our poets and writers in this battle against the Great Satan," Nyazi continued, "play the same role as our faithful soldiers, and they will be accorded the same reward in heaven. We students, as the future guardians of culture, have a heavy task ahead of us. Today we have planted Islam's flag of victory inside the nest of spies on our own soil. Our task, as our Imam has stated, is to purge the country of the decadent Western culture and . . ."

At this point Zarrin stood up. "Objection, Your Honor!" she cried out.

Mr. Farzan looked at her in some surprise. "What do you object to?"

"This is supposed to be about The Great Gatsby, The Great Gatsby," said Zarrin. "The prosecutor has taken up fifteen precious minutes of our time without saying a single word about the defendant. Where is this all going?"

For a few seconds both Mr. Farzan and Mr. Nyazi looked at her in wonder. Then Mr. Nyazi said, without looking at Zarrin, "This is an Islamic court, not Perry Mason. Perry Mason. I can present my case the way I want to, and I am setting the context. I want to say that as a Muslim I cannot accept I can present my case the way I want to, and I am setting the context. I want to say that as a Muslim I cannot accept Gatsby. Gatsby."

Mr. Farzan, attempting to rise up to his role, said, "Well, please move on then."

Zarrin's interruptions had upset Mr. Nyazi, who after a short pause lifted his head from his paper and said with some excitement, "You are right, it is not worth it . . ."

We were left to wonder what was not worth it for a few seconds, until he continued. "I don't have to read from a paper, and I don't need to talk about Islam. I have enough evidence-every page, every every single page," he cried out, "of this book is its own condemnation." He turned to Zarrin and one look at her indifferent expression was enough to transform him. "All through this revolution we have talked about the fact that the West is our enemy, it is the Great Satan, not because of its military might, not because of its economic power, but because of, because of"-another pause-"because of its sinister a.s.sault on the very roots of our culture. What our Imam calls cultural aggression. This I would call a rape of our culture," Mr. Nyazi stated, using a term that later became the hallmark of the Islamic Republic's critique of the West. "And if you want to see cultural rape, you need go no further than this very book." He picked his single page," he cried out, "of this book is its own condemnation." He turned to Zarrin and one look at her indifferent expression was enough to transform him. "All through this revolution we have talked about the fact that the West is our enemy, it is the Great Satan, not because of its military might, not because of its economic power, but because of, because of"-another pause-"because of its sinister a.s.sault on the very roots of our culture. What our Imam calls cultural aggression. This I would call a rape of our culture," Mr. Nyazi stated, using a term that later became the hallmark of the Islamic Republic's critique of the West. "And if you want to see cultural rape, you need go no further than this very book." He picked his Gatsby Gatsby up from beneath the pile of papers and started waving it in our direction. up from beneath the pile of papers and started waving it in our direction.

Zarrin rose again to her feet. "Your Honor," she said with barely disguised contempt, "these are all baseless allegations, falsehoods . . ."

Mr. Nyazi did not allow his honor to respond. He half rose from his seat and cried out: "Will you let me finish? You will get your turn! I will tell you why, I will tell you why . . ." And then he turned to me and in a softer voice said, "Ma'am, no offense meant to you."

I, who had by now begun to enjoy the game, said, "Go ahead, please, and remember I am here in the role of the book. I will have my say in the end."

"Maybe during the reign of the corrupt Pahlavi regime," Nyazi continued, "adultery was the accepted norm."

Zarrin was not one to let go. "I object!" she cried out. "There is no factual basis to this statement."

"Okay," he conceded, "but the values were such that adultery went unpunished. This book preaches illicit relations between a man and woman. First we have Tom and his mistress, the scene in her apartment-even the narrator, Nick, is implicated. He doesn't like their lies, but he has no objection to their fornicating and sitting on each other's laps, and, and, those parties at Gatsby's . . . remember, ladies and gentlemen, this Gatsby is the hero of the book-and who is he? He is a charlatan, he is an adulterer, he is a liar . . . this is the man Nick celebrates and feels sorry for, this man, this destroyer of homes!" Mr. Nyazi was clearly agitated as he conjured the fornicators, liars and adulterers roaming freely in Fitzgerald's luminous world, immune from his wrath and from prosecution. "The only sympathetic person here is the cuckolded husband, Mr. Wilson," Mr. Nyazi boomed. "When he kills Gatsby, it is the hand of G.o.d. He is the only victim. He is the genuine symbol of the oppressed, in the land of, of, of the Great Satan!"

The trouble with Mr. Nyazi was that even when he became excited and did not read from his paper, his delivery was monotonous. Now he mainly shouted and cried out from his semi-stationary position.

"The one good thing about this book," he said, waving the culprit in one hand, "is that it exposes the immorality and decadence of American society, but we have fought to rid ourselves of this trash and it is high time that such books be banned." He kept calling Gatsby "this Mr. Gatsby" and could not bring himself to name Daisy, whom he referred to as "that woman." According to Nyazi, there was not a single virtuous woman in the whole novel. "What kind of model are we setting for our innocent and modest sisters," he asked his captive audience, "by giving them such a book to read?"

As he continued, he became increasingly animated, yet he refused throughout to budge from his chair. "Gatsby is dishonest," he cried out, his voice now shrill. "He earns his money by illegal means and tries to buy the love of a married woman. This book is supposed to be about the American dream, but what sort of a dream is this? Does the author mean to suggest that we should all be adulterers and bandits? Americans are decadent and in decline because this is their dream. They are going down! This is the last hiccup of a dead culture!" he concluded triumphantly, proving that Zarrin was not the only one to have watched Perry Mason. Perry Mason.

"Perhaps our honorable prosecutor should not be so harsh," Vida said once it was clear that Nyazi had at last exhausted his argument. "Gatsby dies, after all, so one could say that he gets his just deserts."

But Mr. Nyazi was not convinced. "Is it just Gatsby who deserves to die?" he said with evident scorn. "No! The whole of American society deserves the same fate. What kind of a dream is it to steal a man's wife, to preach s.e.x, to cheat and swindle and to . . . and then that guy, the narrator, Nick, he claims to be moral!" The whole of American society deserves the same fate. What kind of a dream is it to steal a man's wife, to preach s.e.x, to cheat and swindle and to . . . and then that guy, the narrator, Nick, he claims to be moral!"

Mr. Nyazi proceeded in this vein at some length, until he came to a sudden halt, as if he had choked on his own words. Even then he did not budge. Somehow it did not occur to any of us to suggest that he return to his original seat as the trial proceeded.

18.

Zarrin was summoned next to defend her case. She stood up to face the cla.s.s, elegant and professional in her navy blue pleated skirt and woolen jacket with gold b.u.t.tons, white cuffs peering out from under its sleeves. Her hair was tied back with a ribbon in a low ponytail and the only ornament she wore was a pair of gold earrings. She circled slowly around Mr. Nyazi, every once in a while making a small sudden turn to emphasize a point. She had few notes and rarely looked at them as she addressed the cla.s.s.

As she spoke, she kept pacing the room, her ponytail, in harmony with her movements, s.h.i.+fting from side to side, gently caressing the back of her neck, and each time she turned she was confronted with Mr. Nyazi, sitting hard as rock on that chair. She began with a pa.s.sage I had read from one of Fitzgerald's short stories. "Our dear prosecutor has committed the fallacy of getting too close to the amus.e.m.e.nt park," she said. "He can no longer distinguish fiction from reality."

She smiled, turning sweetly towards "our prosecutor," trapped in his chair. "He leaves no s.p.a.ce, no breathing room, between the two worlds. He has demonstrated his own weakness: an inability to read a novel on its own terms. All he knows is judgment, crude and simplistic exaltation of right and wrong." Mr. Nyazi raised his head at these words, turning a deep red, but he said nothing. "But is a novel good," continued Zarrin, addressing the cla.s.s, "because the heroine is virtuous? Is it bad if its character strays from the moral Mr. Nyazi insists on imposing not only on us but on all fiction?"

Mr. Farzan suddenly leapt up from his chair. "Ma'am," he said, addressing me. "My being a judge, does it mean I cannot say anything?"

"Of course not," I said, after which he proceeded to deliver a long and garbled tirade about the valley of the ashes and the decadence of Gatsby's parties. He concluded that Fitzgerald's main failure was his inability to surpa.s.s his own greed: he wrote cheap stories for money, and he ran after the rich. "You know," he said at last, by this point exhausted by his own efforts, "Fitzgerald said that the rich are different."

Mr. Nyazi nodded his head in fervent agreement. "Yes," he broke in, with smug self-importance, clearly pleased with the impact of his own performance. "And our revolution is opposed to the materialism preached by Mr. Fitzgerald. We do not need Western materialisms, or American goods." He paused to take a breath, but he wasn't finished. "If anything, we could could use their technical know-how, but we use their technical know-how, but we must must reject their morals." reject their morals."

Zarrin looked on, composed and indifferent. She waited a few seconds after Mr. Nyazi's outburst before saying calmly, "I seem to be confronting two prosecutors. Now, if you please, may I resume?" She threw a dismissive glance towards Mr. Farzan's corner. "I would like to remind the prosecutor and the jury of the quotation we were given at our first discussion of this book from Diderot's Jacques le Fataliste: Jacques le Fataliste: 'To me the freedom of [the author's] style is almost the guarantee of the purity of his morals.' We also discussed that a novel is not moral in the usual sense of the word. It can be called moral when it shakes us out of our stupor and makes us confront the absolutes we believe in. If that is true, then 'To me the freedom of [the author's] style is almost the guarantee of the purity of his morals.' We also discussed that a novel is not moral in the usual sense of the word. It can be called moral when it shakes us out of our stupor and makes us confront the absolutes we believe in. If that is true, then Gatsby Gatsby has succeeded brilliantly. This is the first time in cla.s.s that a book has created such controversy. has succeeded brilliantly. This is the first time in cla.s.s that a book has created such controversy.

"Gatsby is being put on trial because it disturbs us-at least some of us," she added, triggering a few giggles. "This is not the first time a novel-a non-political novel-has been put on trial by a state." She turned, her ponytail turning with her. "Remember the famous trials of is being put on trial because it disturbs us-at least some of us," she added, triggering a few giggles. "This is not the first time a novel-a non-political novel-has been put on trial by a state." She turned, her ponytail turning with her. "Remember the famous trials of Madame Bovary, Ulysses, Lady Chatterley's Lover Madame Bovary, Ulysses, Lady Chatterley's Lover and and Lolita Lolita? In each case the novel won. But let me focus on a point that seems to trouble his honor the judge as well as the prosecutor: the lure of money and its role in the novel.

"It is true that Gatsby recognizes that money is one of Daisy's attractions. He is in fact the one who draws Nick's attention to the fact that in the charm of her voice is the jingle of money. But this novel is not not about a poor young charlatan's love of money." She paused here for emphasis. "Whoever claims this has not done his homework." She turned, almost imperceptibly, to the stationary prosecutor to her left, then walked to her desk and picked up her copy of about a poor young charlatan's love of money." She paused here for emphasis. "Whoever claims this has not done his homework." She turned, almost imperceptibly, to the stationary prosecutor to her left, then walked to her desk and picked up her copy of Gatsby. Gatsby. Holding it up, she addressed Mr. Farzan, turning her back on Nyazi, and said, "No, Your Honor, this novel is not about 'the rich are different from you and me,' although they are: so are the poor, and so are you, in fact, different from me. It is about wealth but not about the vulgar materialism that you and Mr. Nyazi keep focusing on." Holding it up, she addressed Mr. Farzan, turning her back on Nyazi, and said, "No, Your Honor, this novel is not about 'the rich are different from you and me,' although they are: so are the poor, and so are you, in fact, different from me. It is about wealth but not about the vulgar materialism that you and Mr. Nyazi keep focusing on."

"You tell them!" a voice said from the back row. I turned around. There were giggles and murmurs. Zarrin paused, smiling. The judge, rather startled, cried out, "Silence! Who said that?" Not even he expected an answer.

"Mr. Nyazi, our esteemed prosecutor," Zarrin said mockingly, "seems to be in need of no witnesses. He apparently is both witness and prosecution, but let us bring our witnesses from the book itself. Let us call some of the characters to the stand. I will now call to the stand our most important witness.

"Mr. Nyazi has offered himself to us as a judge of Fitzgerald's characters, but Fitzgerald had another plan. He gave us his own judge. So perhaps we should listen to him. Which character deserves to be our judge?" Zarrin said, turning towards the cla.s.s. "Nick, of course, and you remember how he describes himself: 'Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.' If there is a judge in this novel, it is Nick. In a sense he is the least colorful character, because he acts as a mirror.

"The other characters are ultimately judged in term of their honesty. And the representatives of wealth turn out to be the most dishonest. Exhibit A: Jordan Baker, with whom Nick is romantically involved. There is a scandal about Jordan that Nick cannot at first remember. She had lied about a match, just as she would lie about a car she had borrowed and then left out in the rain with the top down. 'She was incurably dishonest,' Nick tells us. 'She wasn't able to endure being at a disadvantage, and given this unwillingness I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard jaunty body.'

"Exhibit B is Tom Buchanan. His dishonesty is more obvious: he cheats on his wife, he covers up her crime and he feels no guilt. Daisy's case is more complicated because, like everything else about her, her insincerity creates a certain enchantment: she makes others feel they are complicit in her lies, because they are seduced by them. And then, of course, there is Meyer Wolfs.h.i.+em, Gatsby's shady business partner. He fixes the World Cup. 'It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people-with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe.' So the question of honesty and dishonesty, the way people are and the way they present themselves to the world, is a sub-theme that colors all the main events in the novel. And who are the most dishonest people in this novel?" she asked, again focusing on the jury. "The rich, of course," she said, making a sudden turn towards Mr. Nyazi. "The very people our prosecutor claims Fitzgerald approves of.

"But that's not all. We are not done with the rich." Zarrin picked up her book and opened it to a marked page. "With Mr. Carraway's permission," she said, "I should like to quote him on the subject of the rich." Then she began to read: " 'They were careless people, Tom and Daisy-they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made . . .'