A Hundred Veils

By Rea Keech

The Islamic revolution in Iran did not arise out of thin air. For years, the country had seethed with repressed resentment of the Shah's heavy-handed, authoritarian policies. Illegal societies operated underground, some tracing back to the beginning of the Shah's reign. Nationalists, socialists, Marxists, and Islamic leftists and reformers--all

• Language: English
• Publisher: Real Nice Books
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780983699095

Rea Keech

Rea Keech taught English at the University of Tehran from 1967 to 1969. He says he wrote A Hundred Veils as a tribute to the warmth, humor, and love of the Iranian people he came to know. He is the author of five other novels. One is set in Japan, one in Afghanistan, and three in a fictional American suburb. He lives is Severna Park, Maryland.

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Copyright © 2015 Joseph Rea Keech

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except that a reviewer may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN 978-0-9836990-4-0 hardback

ISBN 978-0-9836990-3-3 paperback

ISBN 978-0-9836990-9-5 ebook

ISBN 979-8-9856670-5-9 audiobook

Library of Congress

Control Number: 2015936809

Catalog call number: PS3611 .E332 H86 2015

Real

Nice Books

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Baltimore, Maryland 21228

www.realnicebooks.com

Publisher’s note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, institutions, and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events, incidents, institutions, or places is entirely coincidental.

Sketches by Barbara Munjal

The cover photograph of Mount Damavandand the title page image from it are by Hamed Saber. Licensed under CC BY 2.0.

(https://www.flickr.com/photos/hamed/164348283/in/photolist-5GnTcY-fwk26-hfK9V-TpZ3G-aRoQmt-65D6xA-xEmAu-onuZFd-haSYks-nGz1Qr-8jsgD4-ntSsKe-nxKyYQ-4WtjZs-nPQfBn-6nzmo-q6Ta8C-6kqzZ-isi2Db-4Mv8Zs)

The tile pattern on the cover was created from the photograph Iranian Tiles 1 of the Sheikh Lotfollah mosque in Esfahan by مانفی. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

(http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Iranian_Tiles_1.JPG#mediaviewer/File:Iranian_Tiles_1.JPG)

Printed in the U.S.A.

MAPS

PART ONE

Roses and nightingales

With an abrupt drop, the plane banked sharply. Through his window, Marco could see men, women, and children in pajamas getting up from mats on the flat rooftops below. They were stretching, yawning, turning towards the red sunrise. None looked up. He was flying unnoticed through the bedrooms of hundreds of families.

Don’t look directly at the women—cultural-religious thing. The sight of so many women in their pajamas caused this warning to keep replaying in Marco’s head as the plane landed in the Shiraz airport.

At the gate, a rag-tag soldier in khaki shirt and mismatched olive green trousers held a machine gun across his chest, not standing at attention but simply loitering, ogling each disembarking passenger like a star-struck girl.

The airport smelled of sweat. Marco stepped around a carpetful of flowers spread in front of a frail man sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Salaam aleikum.

Marco turned, pleased he had understood the man’s greeting, and returned it.

Being spoken to by a foreigner seemed to be a first for the flower man. He jumped up and asked Marco where he was coming from—and got an answer.

Where he was going—and got an answer.

Men in shiny suits and collarless shirts began edging in close enough to take in the action. They stood with shoulders and arms touching Marco, their faces uncomfortably close to his, encouraging him to talk more.

Some pushed through to get a closer look—all men at first. But then some women in paisley chadors, holding the cloth across their faces, edged towards the fringes of the circle that was developing. Listen to him speak, they said to each other. Marco had pretty much already used up all the Farsi he knew.

A scuffle broke out on the outer edge of the crowd as more and more bystanders tried to shove in to see what was going on. A turbaned mullah had been watching at a little distance but then, as two soldiers carrying machine guns approached the crowd, he shouldered a brown sack and walked away. The soldiers hadn’t come to break up the scuffling crowd, however. They simply wanted to see, too.

Marco was twenty-three years old and had never been the center of so much public attention. Now a few more men elbowed in to try out their English—or any foreign language they knew.

Hello Mister! This was the country’s universal English translation of Salaam aleikum.

A portly man with amber tasbih prayer beads in his hand said something in Arabic to Marco.

Idiot. Does he look like an Arab to you? The women on the fringes giggled.

Marco tried to hear what was being said on the airport loudspeakers. Today, the King of Kings, Light of the Aryans . . . . All he understood was that the Light of the Aryans was going to Washington. Marco looked over the heads of the crowd for the baggage area.

The flower peddler put a red rose into Marco’s hand, took him by the other hand, and pushed through the crowd. "Pardon the sholugh," he said. Marco recognized the word for ruckus or public disturbance.

Huff and Dooley were standing beside their bags at the unloading area. Hurry up, Huff said. There’s a jeep waiting for us outside.

Marco looked through the remaining bags and realized his were missing.

A burned-out English expatriate named Boggs picked them up in the shimmering, furnace-like heat. He was apparently in charge now. Nobody seemed to know Boggs’s first name. He had something wrong with one arm. It worked, but it didn’t hang straight from his shoulder.

Without any baggage other than the thin vinyl briefcase he had carried with him, Marco climbed into the front seat of the dusty Land Rover while the others loaded their bags into the back. They bounced across a bare valley surrounded by jagged, barren mountains. On the highest peaks, huts perched atop wooden towers. Boggs said they were army observation posts. Below each tower stood a thin little soldier in a bleached-out uniform holding a machine gun.

What are they on the lookout for? Marco asked.

Ghoshghai, Boggs told them. Tribes. They sacked the city of Shiraz twenty years ago. There’s some of them over there.

The guys in the Archie hats? Huff said. They don’t look that scary.

Boggs grunted. The Shah likes to be extra careful.

The open Land Rover left a mile-long wake of dust behind it. When Marco blinked, his eyelashes were crusty. He licked his teeth and felt grit on his tongue. He now realized why Boggs’s hair stood up like that.

As they entered the city, Boggs said, You’ll notice you have to use the horn a lot more than in England, or the States. He leaned on the horn, and the Land Rover jerked one way, then the other to avoid a white Mercedes coming head-on. It didn’t seem to be quite set in stone which side of the street you drove on.

What are all those strings of lights everywhere? Marco asked Boggs. They look like Christmas decorations.

Getting ready for the Shah’s coronation.

As Boggs came to a stop at a traffic light, all vehicles going in his direction lined up side-by-side across the whole road like horses in a starting gate. The sidewalks on both sides of the road were also used. Vehicles coming the other way did the same on their side of the intersection. Now there were two rows of vehicles facing each other as they waited for the light to change. On either side of the intersection, only one vehicle was in what Marco would have called the proper lane.

Keep your arms inside, Boggs said. The two phalanxes of vehicles rushed at each other. Bluff—showing no regard for the vehicles coming head-on—was the predominant tactic. Speed and size had the advantage. The Land Rover, on the wrong side of the road but biggish in the current lineup, shot out with horn blaring and claimed a space between two on-coming three-wheelers, which were forced to turn aside, bringing traffic to a stop on either side of them.

Traffic’s not as bad as I thought, Boggs said. He swerved to avoid a donkey backing into the street. You’re going to love Shiraz, the City of Roses and Nightingales. I’ve lived here for fifteen years, and I never want to live anywhere else. The home of the poet Hafez. I hate it when I have to be in Tehran.

He stopped at a three-story building attached to a cinema broadcasting out into the street the Farsi soundtrack from The Ten Commandments at a piercing volume. Here you are. In there somewhere.

The City of Roses and Nightingales smelled like urine and garbage. Straw and scraps of greenish vegetables floated slowly along in the dark water of the open jub or water-supply sluices that lined each side of the street. Vegetable peddlers were washing their produce in the jubs. Donkeys were urinating on the sidewalk.

Huff stood beside Marco on the low balcony of the Pahlavi University dormitory, where he, Dooley, and Marco would stay until Boggs decided where the International Teachers Association would send them. Huff’s face was engraved with a permanent tight-lipped grin, the kind sometimes described as shit eating. On the plane to Shiraz he had asked the hostess for Johnny Walker. It is not, she had told him.

Below in the street, a Ghoshghai squatted on the sidewalk in a felt hat with the brim turned up on all four sides and canvas clog shoes with upturned tips. He was weighing tomatoes on a hand-held scale for a hunched-over figure covered completely by a black chador.

Two young soldiers walked past side by side, pinkie fingers linked together, swinging their arms.

Huff rolled his eyes. Goddam.

Dooley was still down on the sidewalk buying something. When he came out onto the balcony, he had a copy of the Kayhan English language newspaper and a huge paper sack of dried pumpkin seeds.

Marco silently stared down into the street. Despite the blazing heat, every man wore at least a threadbare remnant of a suit coat, usually over pajama bottoms. Two nurses in white uniforms walked together arm-in-arm towards a bus stop at the corner. Except for them, the women were completely hidden beneath black or paisley chadors.

Marco thought about the letter in his pocket. He had written it on the plane but was ashamed of the pleading tone he’d used and didn’t know if he would actually mail it.

Look at this, Dooley said. It’s the year 1346. We’re going back in time. Dooley had an omnivorous, indiscriminate appetite for facts and food. He took off his gold wire-framed glasses and wiped them on the huge thigh area of his khaki pants. "Khaki is a Persian word, he told them. So is pajama." He said pajama only referred to the bottoms. They’re baggy, unisex, one size fits all.

It might be fun to wake up on a rooftop in pajamas, Marco thought. Of course, Elaine wouldn’t have thought so. A picture of his ex-fiancée in her overpriced pink designer pajamas flashed into his mind. She had met somebody more attuned to her lifestyle, she had told him. And now here he was in Iran, moving on.

Not still brooding about that bitch dumping you, are you? Huff said.

No. Well, maybe a little, Marco admitted.

Get over it, I say. Huff rolled his eyes towards several formless female figures squatting on the sidewalk holding dirty black chadors in their mouths to hide their faces as they picked through a pile of pomegranates. An ironic grin spread over Huff’s face. You’re sure to find somebody new here. Oh, yes, I’d say you came to just the right country.

Not actually, contradicted Dooley, who never understood sarcasm. Even getting a look at a woman here is difficult. The customs here—

We know, we know. Huff cut off what was about to become one of Dooley’s rambling expositions.

Marco had a more immediate problem. Boggs had told them to wear coats and ties to a welcome ceremony that evening by the education ministry. I’ll just go down and buy a coat, he said, since all of his clothes were missing.

He walked fast trying not to step in donkey droppings or on the piles of fruit, seeds, and vegetables spread out for sale on the sidewalk. He passed a row of shops that sold nothing but square-toed shoes, shops that sold only Ghoshghai hats, pajama shops—he paused, but then went on—and turned into the first tailor shop. The word for coat was coat.

Hello Mister.

Marco looked around and immediately saw his mistake. Ready-to-wear was an American concept. The reason everybody in the country looked like he was wearing a tailor-made suit was because he was.

The proprietor tried out his English: You are welcome. Please. You drink the tea.

He poured a little estekān glass of tea and put it in front of Marco on a small white saucer along with a bowl of sugar lumps. You are welcome. Please. You drink the tea. Marco now realized he had already heard all the tailor’s English.

The welcome ceremony was held in the Cedar Gardens on the outskirts of the city near the tomb of the poet Hafez. The garden, bordered on every side by long rows of thin, towering cedars, was a peaceful and beautiful oasis walled off from the cacophony, odors, and heat of the city. Above the deep green of the trees, light brown ranges of mountains loomed in the distance against a cloudless blue sky. In the early twilight, cool air radiated from the trimmed hedges, the vast beds of roses, and the water in the central fountain.

A violin quartet played Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik while waiters in starched white coats stood everywhere with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. All the guests—men and women—wore elegant clothes that could have come from New York, London, or Paris. There must be two Irans, Marco thought.

Now this isn’t bad, Huff said.

A loud caw came from the top of a cedar tree.

Huff smirked. But that definitely sounds more like a crow than a nightingale.

Beyond the fountain, where most of the dignitaries and guests were gathered, there was a long table covered by a white cloth. Lined up from one end of the table to the other were bottles of Pepsi Cola.

I see that Johnny Walker is not, Huff said.

Dooley took a Pepsi.

Huff was talking to a gray-haired man from the provincial Ministry of Education. We have just the person to answer your question about American literature, he said, turning towards Marco. Marco stepped forward wearing a coat with huge padded shoulders, wide stripes, and sleeves that didn’t come very far down his arms—a loaner from the tailor.

The minister took in a sharp breath.

I see he’s impressed with your zoot suit. Huff grinned. To the gray-haired man, he said, I’d like to introduce you to Mr.— No, I guess I’ll let him tell you his name himself. Huff’s smirk deepened.

Mark O. Something-or-other, Marco said. The family name was muttered. I’m pleased to meet you.

Pleased to meet you Mister Marco, the gray-haired man said.

It seemed to work every time. Since his first Farsi lesson, Marco had worked out this way to avoid using his last name, which in Farsi meant penis.

Pajama party

ساقیا جام میام ده کـه نـگارنده ی غیب

نیسـت معـلوم که در پرده اسرار چه کرد

Sāghiā, jām-e-meyam deh ke negārandeye qeib

Nist ma’lum ke dar parde asrār che kard.

—Hafez

Huff was sent to teach at the University of Esfahan and Dooley to teach at a boys’ high school in a northern province. Marco didn’t know if he would see either of them again. While Boggs was waiting to confirm Marco’s assignment, he sent him on an overnight trip to the nearby village of Hichja in the desert foothills of the Zagros Mountains. The idea was to practice his Farsi. It was there that Marco met Farhad.

The bus was festooned with plastic beads and silk tassels. Above the windshield hung a large picture of the Shah in a white military uniform decorated with about a square foot of military medals and ribbons. On the dashboard was a smaller picture of Mohammad’s grandson Hossein Ali in a white robe. The picture of Ali was surrounded by red tassels and decorative script from the Koran. Like a Catholic holy card, Marco thought.

As the bus leaned into curves at the edge of cliffs, several passengers began throwing up in the aisles. Marco noticed others holding flowers to their noses. He tried to open a window, but it was stuck. Never mind. This trip was just a kind of initiation devised by Boggs that Marco had to get through. In a day or two he would get his permanent assignment, probably in Tehran.

Out of the window, as far as he could see were endless plains of tan dirt and endless ranges of tan mountains. Now and then there were sheep or goats. Some had their heads down as if grazing, but no matter how hard he tried, Marco couldn’t make out what they could possibly be eating.

The bus stopped in the village, and the driver’s assistant opened the door. Marco stepped down and immediately drew a crowd.

Do you know where you are?

Did you come here alone?

Where is your mother?

As instructed by Boggs, he told the villagers he had come for sightseeing. Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to Boggs that they might take this for sarcasm.

There is nothing here, they said.

For sightseeing you want to go to Esfahan.

We don’t even have a cinema. The nearest cinema is in Shiraz.

As the crowd waited for an explanation, a little bald man in a shiny suit sidled up and stood right next to him without saying anything.

Marco had no friends or relatives in Hichja. He had no business to undertake. There was no sightseeing. Finally he had an inspiration. I want to see your mosque.

It was as if he had declared a town holiday. The mosque! Well, all right, then! Someone shouted, Clear the way. He wants to see the mosque. In a great state of excitement, the whole town accompanied Marco to see the mosque, as if they expected through his eyes to see something they had never noticed before, that had lain hidden all their lives.

A mullah, followed by a gangly teenage boy with his hair cut close to his head, came out of the madreseh, the school attached to the mosque. The boy began speaking, not to Marco directly but to the whole crowd, in a formal, public voice, quoting heavily from the Koran, Marco presumed. His eyes glared, and spittle dripped down one side of his mouth. Shut him up, somebody yelled from the crowd.

What an embarrassment. Go home, Mohammad.

Move aside. We’re showing our guest the mosque.

At the side of the mosque, Marco caught sight of a tall, curly-haired young man wearing a sleeveless undershirt and vivid blue and white pajamas. He was laughing with a woman in a chador and a little girl holding her hand. As the crowd approached, the couple turned, froze, then rushed off somewhere behind the mosque.

Was that Farhad? Mohammad said. Who is he with?

Mind your own business, somebody shouted at him.

Inside the mosque, the smell of dirty feet hit Marco as he walked in his socks onto an expansive floor covered from edge to edge with Persian carpets in deep red, yellow, blue, and white floral patterns. Yellow tiles with elaborate light blue designs covered the walls. The mosque was a concentrated cache of color secreted in the monotone dust of the village, a shady and quiet haven open to anyone who wanted to pray or think in peace. Marco felt like standing there longer, but the crowd was watching him, waiting for some reaction. He nodded and left.

Next, they took him to see the bazaar. On the way, the serious little bald man who seemed to be sticking by Marco’s side brushed against the mullah. The mullah addressed him as Bikhod. The crowd laughed, and Marco heard others address the bald man as Bikhod while they approached the arched, enclosed marketplace.

It’s late. Maybe he wants to eat, someone said.

The crowd seemed to agree that Marco was hungry. They led him to what passed for a restaurant in Hichja—two small tables set up at opposite sides of a dirt walkway through the bazaar. The proprietor stood beside a brazier of sizzling shish-kabobs. He dispersed the crowd and greeted Marco with a hand over his heart.

Only one of the tables was empty. The little bald man quickly sat there and called for tea.

Now where is Mister going to sit? the kabob man scolded him.

"Befarmāid," called the customer at the other table. Please. He had a thick black mustache and a gold tooth that gleamed when he smiled. He put his hand over his heart and gestured for Marco to sit with him and share his food. He stood, shook hands, and introduced himself—Mr. Sufizadeh. He wouldn’t sit back down until Marco sat first. Then he moved his plate of minced lamb kabob closer to Marco.

"Somagh, the kabob man said putting a shaker of reddish-brown sumac down on the table. Mr. Sufizadeh sprinkled some on one skewer of the marinated meat, again saying Befarmāid." Seeing no utensils, Marco picked up a piece with his fingers. Mr. Sufizadeh and the kabob man watched intently as he chewed.

Good. Marco bobbed his head.

The two men relaxed and smiled.

Mr. Sufizadeh said he was an oil tanker driver, originally from Hichja. He had moved his family to Tehran. Because I’m in Tehran as much as any other city, he explained. So when I drive to Shiraz, I always stop here in Hichja to visit my parents. He ordered more kabob and some tea. But it seems my parents went to Shiraz this morning to visit relatives and see a movie.

Marco told him he was a teacher, and the truck driver started to talk about sufi poetry. Marco tried to follow, but his Farsi wasn’t up to it.

We need my nephew Farhad, Mr. Sufizadeh said. He speaks English like an American.

I’ll get him, the kabob man’s assistant said. It seemed like everybody in Iran had an assistant.

When Farhad arrived, Marco realized he was the young man he had seen beside the mosque talking to a woman and her child, then rushing away when the crowd approached. He had thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle, a thin nose, and a rather mischievous smile.

Farhad and his uncle shook hands. The uncle brushed his mustache against both of Farhad’s cheeks. Farhad put his hand on his chest. The uncle put his hand on his chest. Farhad put his hand on his chest again. They shook hands again. Uncle asked nephew to sit down. Nephew couldn’t sit down until uncle sat down. It took a while to sort itself out.

In very good English, Farhad said to Marco, We have to do that.

Oh. Well. Sure, Marco said.

So, what are you doing here? Farhad asked him. "Not that everybody doesn’t want to see our village. Yes, they come from far and wide." He squinted at Marco as if to see if he’d used the phrase correctly.

I’m just here for a day. I think I’m going to be sent to teach at the University of Tehran soon.

Tehran! Oouee!

So you’ve been to Tehran?

Naw. But I’m going next week.

Farhad said naw and yul as he’d heard cowboys say yes and no in movies. He said he was about to start at Tehran University’s Faculty of Translation.

Farhad’s uncle invited Marco to visit him if he came to Tehran. He took out a piece of paper and started writing down his Tehran address. The bald man, who was sipping tea across the aisle from them, suddenly stood up and started to come over to the table to see what Farhad’s uncle was writing, but the kabob man stopped him. Please. Leave these customers alone. Go home, now, Bikhod. What a nuisance.

I’m going to take the visitor to the town guest room, Bikhod insisted. I need to write down his information.

Marco feared another sholugh would break out. But Farhad rebuffed Bikhod and continued talking to Marco, who was now surprised to hear that Farhad knew the word asshole in English.

"We’ll all go, Farhad’s uncle said. Mister wants to hear some poetry. There wasn’t much the little bald man could do about it. Mr. Sufizadeh brought along his traveling bag. Farhad came along, too.

The guest room was on the second floor of a mud-brick house next to the bus stop. The landlady led them past the hoz, the traditional pool in the garden, and up an outdoor stairway.

We’ll need the form, the little bald man told her.

Ignoring him, she showed the guests into the room and began laying out three clean sleeping mats on the floor. Apparently it was out of the question that Marco would stay there alone for the night.

We’ll need the form, the little man repeated. He asked Marco to show him his passport.

What’s the hurry? Mr. Sufizadeh interrupted. Let him unpack. As he said this, everyone turned to look at Marco’s small black airline briefcase. It couldn’t hold much more than a toothbrush and a clean pair of socks.

I mean, let him relax, Mr. Sufizadeh said.

That’s all right, Marco said. I’ll be glad to fill out the form Mr. Bikhod needs.

At once, the whole room erupted. The landlady squealed and pulled her chador across her face. The little man stared malignantly at Marco. Somehow he had been insulted.

In English, Farhad managed to say, "What did you call him? Don’t answer

Reviews for A Hundred Veils

[imlilie · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Ifeel the storyline of this book is good. I realish learning aboutother countries and their customs. But there was something about it that just did not pull me in. After reading some of the other reviews I wouls have to say it was the narator that fell short. I just didn't feel the conviction in the reading.

[thehappylittlelady · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A star crossed love story that has some build up then it kind of falls off with some side experiences of the main character without anymore about the romance until the very end. Then a sudden ending without a clear conclusion. I just feel unsatisfied. It reminds me of gone with the wind. I think I would have enjoyed reading it better than the audio book. I like a quicker pace. I enjoyed the narrator's voice and characters. However, it was read at a slow lumbering pace and some parts felt rambling. It also didn't have a lot of action or excitement to keep my interest. The story has some moments I though were leading to some drama and action but, then the main character changes his mind or they are easily resolved. I did enjoy the descriptions and peak into another world and culture. I feel like some parts didn't add to the story at all. As much as I enjoy the descriptions sometimes it got in the way of the story and was distracting. Chapter 74 was disturbing to me.

[vintage1series1lisa · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A story about Marco who went to Iran to teach English. It was a very difficult time when the Shah was in power, many demonstrations and protests, shouting "Death to America". Religious and political turmoil, language barriers (Although he knew Farsi, he still faced difficulties), cultural differences. Through all of this, he fell in love with an Iranian lady. They faced many difficulties throughout the book. During a powerful earthquake, a twist of fate came for the two of them. Rea Keech does it again! He gets me to read books outside of my typical genre. Rea's own experiences while living and teaching in Iran lends so much character and credibility to the book. Rea Keech never disappoints!

[sheriawilkinson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A Hundred Veils by Rea KeechMarco is teaching at the University of Tehran, he is learning about the culture, religion and the people in this foreign land. Farhad is his colleague and his best friend is there to teach him the Irainian customs, religion and ways of life. Soon Marco starts to fall in love with Farhad's sister Mastaneh. This becomes a challenge since it is basically unheard of for and Iranian woman to be with a foreigner.Well written , moving at a steady pace, with well developed characters.I was able to feel the emotions of each person, and (really) get a feel of life in Iran. A heart-felt story of uforbidden love, friendship, and the trials of living in a a war torn country. I was dran in from the first page. I highly recommend A Hundred Veils .