The Heart in My Head

By Roxanne M.

Los Angeles, November 2009

My meeting with Claudia took place at her house in Beverly Hills just one month after I returned home to Los Angeles from my trip to Iran. It was Sunday in November, a crisp Sunday afternoon. The sun was getting gold over the ocean. The city was peaceful; the streets were quiet and the sidewalks empty. I took the main thoroughfare, Wilshire Boulevard, as I left Ocean Avenue. I felt a sense of victory and elation for not being caught in the traffic and the noise of the world. There is nothing more pleasant than driving on Sundays in Los Angeles; the city takes on an entirely different air. On weekend getaways, I would say I find myself totally in a mental exercise of freedom. As I looked around, I saw the sun come up red, red and dull. I thought it just looked like the yolk of a hard-boiled egg.
Since my relationship with Claudia was strictly professional, I must admit I felt a bit strange about meeting her outside the context of our work as she had suggested. She had called me and asked me to visit her—“Come have a drink with me”—something she had not done more than two or three times since the day that she had hired me. Even though we both had the art world in common, we only knew each other through our work. Who could suppose that this meeting would lead me to the first, and perhaps biggest, achievement of my life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493180738

Roxanne M.

Roxanne M. attended the University of Sorbonne and received her PhD in French literature. She came to United States in 1990, and since then, she has been working as translator and teaching at University of California, Los Angeles. Her first novel “The Heart in my Head,” based on a true story, was published in March 2014 and is optioned for a movie. She currently resides in California.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1:

Los Angeles, May 2010

I t has been six months since I met Claudia at her house in Beverly Hills. The subject about my trip to Iran had never come up again. We have kept our relationship only on a professional level at the gallery. However, I could perceive an expression of sadness on her face enveloped in a stormy silence that I had never seen before. Nothing would ever be the same. I found this very disturbing.

How time flies. It was already 9:00 p.m. on a Friday. On my way home at 6:00 p.m., I picked up a takeout dinner at Whole Foods, which I paired with a nice bottle of wine, after my regular workout in the gym. I proceeded to make a cheese platter to go along with my dinner, and just as I curled up in my jeans and soft sweater into my armchair to enjoy my feast since I was so hungry, the phone rang. At first I hesitated, but then I picked up the phone despite the late hour. It was Shirine from Tehran.

I am glad you called. I couldn’t reach you at your house, I said.

What’s new with you? she asked.

Not very much, just working to organize your exhibition. We finally got things settled.

Oh! she replied.

I hope this upcoming exhibition will open some doors for you. She remained silent.

It’s a dream come true! I said.

It sounds like someone else’s life, she said, and she burst into tears.

Claudia and I had invited Shirine to send us her paintings to be displayed at the exhibition.

After I hung up the phone, I watched BBC as I ate my dinner. I had been following the news with fear and anxiety. The American government had put sanctions on Iran trying to deter the country from developing nuclear weapons. In this political climate, given these circumstances, one might think it would be difficult to exhibit Shirine’s paintings. I expected to encounter a certain amount of resentment but have only received empathy from most art lovers.

It’s past midnight now. I am sitting in the quiet of my apartment on the fifth floor of an old peach stone building on Ocean Avenue. So far this has been the only place I have known since I moved here from Paris. At that time, it was beyond my dreams to live by the ocean with palm trees lining up the street. I wanted the building to have a certain character that would be in harmony with my personality. There is a charming balcony off my living room overlooking the ocean. Within walking distance of my building are the magical ocean and the beach, a promenade for lovers in the evenings. My apartment is not large, but it’s sunny. The massive fireplace dominates one end of my living room. It’s simple but tastefully furnished. There are paintings on the wall, a profusion of candles and bouquets of flowers on my coffee table, the photos of my family and friends in every corner of my living room, and a side table covered with books.

It is the kind of place you cannot easily find these days. I love walking around my neighborhood, going to the restaurants, coffee shops, and movies. Real low-key is the way I like to keep it.

Los Angeles had never been the right city for me, but tonight it seems different. What is it though?

I hear the sound of the fire crackling, a lovely and melancholy sound that breaks the silence. The French Vogue lies on my lap; I have been trying in vain to read the same page for the past hour. I feel strangely calm; a feeling of loneliness continues to haunt me. I open the window to take one glance at the world outside. It’s dark and silent. The sky is clear; it’s a full moon. I cannot sleep, will not sleep. My eyes are open and alert; I watch the ocean. I start to feel like I can hear the crash of the waves and smell the salt of the water. I feel myself plunging into the depth of my thoughts. I cannot describe what is happening to me at this moment. All I know is that it’s a flashback of my childhood happiness reflected in this ocean illuminated by the silver moonlight dancing across its effervescent surface. My magical balcony space enables me to embrace the outer atmosphere and stay in touch with nature.

The ocean is my great friend. I always like to spend time gazing at it and concentrating on traveling to wherever my heart desires. I truly think that this is magic.

I am amazed how images from my childhood have come together in my mind; so many sweet memories. This silence is very heavy but very relaxing and meaningful. I am all alone with my thoughts; and the ocean is calm and peaceful, ready to listen to my story, roaming the highlights of my memories through a series of unbelievable circumstances.

Like all stories, mine is going to begin with a blank page. It is mine to fill. When the unexpected happens, I capture it. Not simply to collect things but to collect the kind of experiences that add to the narrative that is my life. Out here, I believe there are as many beautiful stories as there are drops of water in the ocean. The question is, how will I write mine?

I use a pen to transcribe my story; no computers. I am not certain of how much of the details I can still remember, but I am sure that I want to bare all my feelings that lie hidden within the deepest abysses of my heart.

CHAPTER 2:

Tehran, 1954-1963

I was born in 1954 shortly after the days of rioting, which took place in my city Tehran, the capital of Iran. Communists and Mossadeq’s supporters demonstrated in the streets of my homeland. Everything got out of hand; there was great chaos. Soon, with the return of the shah after a short exile, life went on peacefully.

For the first years of my childhood, my memory of that period of my life is very hazy. All I remember: I was a romantic, sentimental child who entertained myself in solitude, studied, and played with my dolls. My parents had been loving and devoted. They were serious with good values and solid morals.

Looking back on it now, I recall home sweet home. During that time, I was seven years old and I was living in a beautiful old house in the northern part of Tehran. A little rose garden in front of the house led to the main entrance of white marble floor. It was a calming pause between the busy world outside and the sublime peaceful interior behind the front door. Past the front door, a long corridor unfolded, leading to the salon and the dining area.

A colored crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling of the salon witnessed a beautiful silver-framed picture of my grandfather and King Reza Shah in an old black-and-white photograph taken years before the king’s death. They were standing in a park near the Caspian Sea and staring straight ahead at the camera. Who took this photo and when I have no idea. There was also a picture of my parents. I was three years old in that photograph, and I looked like a happy child. My mother, smiling, was holding me in her arms.

A tall marble fireplace decorated the dining room where my parents loved giving beautiful parties and warmly receiving friends and family.

Dining rooms really need to be about who is there, not what is in it, that is what my mother always said. Therefore our dining room was as clean and simple as possible.

The wide windows overlooked the terrace, viewing the garden planted with seasonal flowers, and at the center of which we could see a serene swimming pool in the shadows of tall oak trees. The terrace was very charming, especially in summer afternoons; my parents and, from time to time, my aunts, uncles, and friends had always been content passing their teatime sitting there, chatting and enjoying the view of the Zen garden.

My father’s library revealed floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with thousands and thousands of ancient and contemporary books; it had been in many senses the center of our house since my father reserved that place for receiving his colleagues and special guests. My father’s books had gone with him from place to place—always his first priority. I still remember seeing him often there, reading and writing books with the sound of music or the radio broadcasting the news. He also enjoyed the view of the trees and flowers framed by a square window in the library.

When I was a little girl, I just walked in there and threw myself at him in a childish way.

My father, who loved to cuddle me, took me in his arms, onto his lap, and ran a hand through my hair. More views were offered through three of the four sides of the house. Upstairs was my bedroom and my parents’ room.

About the same time, my parents decided to have painted the entire house, not necessarily wanting to change the entire environment but just to open a space with white walls and mirrors. Once the house had been given a total white wash, the designer created a look that would be both contemporary and cozy. Yes! It was an old home with a big heart. It was certainly not the most beautiful house in the neighborhood, but it was for sure unique. Unique as it was the only white marble stone house in this residential area.

I hope I have not bored you with the description of the house. I just think it is important to know where I lived during this period of time. To continue my description, in the east end of the garden, Marjan, our housekeeper was living with her daughter Shirine in the guesthouse.

Marjan gave birth to Shirine in a small village by the Caspian Sea and lived there until she moved to Tehran in search of a better and safer life. Marjan herself was born into a farming family, the third of three girls. Shirine’s father had joined the army like so many other provincial families. He had left Marjan one year after the arrival of Shirine. She was a sweet little girl who won everyone’s heart. Shirine means sweet in Farsi. Not long after that, Marjan heard a rumor that her husband found another woman and had started a new life. How much of the rumors were true?

As an ambitious woman, she was very excited about being in the capital and improving her quality of life. As a single mother, she was responsible for bringing up her child; it was very difficult for her to give Shirine a good education on what she earned.

My parents were a great comfort to her. My mother, who had been very generous in the household, was always very thoughtful of Marjan and her child. The poverty of people had always affected her. Marjan never hesitated to ask my mother for help if any difficulty had occurred. Marjan and Shirine had always appreciated the joys of family life.

Marjan was plump and round face, dark haired, and olive skinned. She was in charge of the laundry, ironing, getting meals on the table every day, making snacks, and packing lunches for me to go to school.

Shirine was a pretty girl with dark brown hair, big brown eyes, and rosy cheeks. I had so much and she had so little, but she never expressed jealousy of me. I always thought of her as my friend. I grew very close to her, and whenever my friends came over to visit me, I included her in our circle. I never thought of her as an embarrassment. She was my friend and we were determined to stay together and nothing was going to change that. We had our secrets that we could not say aloud, and we played with my dolls that my parents had bought for me on their trips to Europe.

I remember that particular blonde doll that talked and walked; Shirine longed to hold her in her arms. She suggested we name her Scheherazad, but I insisted to name her Catherine since my doll came from Paris.

We never missed Shirine’s birthdays. When she turned eight years old, I put my doll Catherine in a big fancy box and gift wrapped it and surprised her.

She took a long thoughtful look into the box and whispered, This present, I will keep it forever.

Only a handful of kids in all of Tehran owned that kind of doll, and now Shirine was one of them.

Marjan was illiterate, but she knew passages of the Koran by heart. She had great ambitions for her daughter, who wished to become a nurse or a social worker in order to be good to people.

They were both very creative though. Marjan was a great gourmet cook. I often heard my mother saying, I don’t know what I would have done if she had not been here.

And Shirine’s paintings had always been far more appreciated in school. She was very gifted, just naturally, and she loved to paint. She never wished to take up painting as a profession; she was painting for the fun of it. Her first painting known as a piece of art was at the age of ten when she drew her mother’s portrait. Marjan carefully preserved it among others. That painting had made a powerful impression on everyone in her school. While Shirine was drawing and painting, I was reading art books and literature.

Born in Tehran, Iran always remained a legendary country in my mind. I had felt around me the tranquil prosperity of a happy home. Since I had been attending the French school in Tehran, I spoke the language very well. As far as I can remember, every morning, before going to school, I rushed in that little rose garden to pick roses for my French teacher Mademoiselle Annie. The roses had an overwhelming sweet perfume. Other than her, I cannot recall my teachers in Iran whose names and faces have left no more trace on my memory.

My parents stayed married for nearly sixty years until death parted them. If they went out with friends in the evenings, they always made sure I could stay with my grandmother. It was my greatest pleasure to be in her company; she was pretty, elegant, and just wonderful. She fell in love with my grandfather in Paris and moved to Iran. She belonged to the generation when girls were required to wear hats and gloves to school.

In the evenings, my grandmother, who loved beautiful stories, was pouring herself a cup of tea and drank it always with a lump of sugar in her mouth the way Persians do. While she was sipping her tea, she was telling me the story of Mille et Une Nuits with her soft voice. She continued reading Les Misérables and Le Petit Prince frequently, and I was listening to her with great attention. As long as the tea lasted, she could talk endlessly. My grandmother on my mother’s side was French, and my mother had basically been raised that way.

My grandfather on my mother’s side was a handsome, wealthy philanthropist. He set up a foundation for an orphanage where he housed hundreds of orphans over the years and took care of them. Many of them went to school and got an education. My mother was the kindest person I have ever known. She always tried hard to please everyone. She was a quiet, reserved woman who was very supportive of my father during her entire life.

My father came from the city of Shiraz, known as the poetique capital of Persia because two of the greatest poets of the world, Hafez and Sadi, came from this city. From the beginning, he was always an intelligent student, and he studied law and political science at the University of Paris. On his return to Tehran, he became a professor; and not only did he teach political science at the University of Tehran but he was also a great writer. Unquestionably he was among the Tehran University’s most respected and influential men. I remember once when he gave a speech; I was there sitting among the crowd, and I was so proud of him.

We were not rich, but we had a comfortable life. We had a farm that was located on a very high altitude in the north of Iran situated about twenty minutes from the tiny town of Ramsar, a few miles from the Caspian Sea. The early mornings and evenings were cold even in summers. The farm was surrounded by over several acres of orange, grapefruit, and lemon trees. It was home to two horses, one pony, and chickens. Nearby the farm, there was a land where my parents, who loved the rice plantation, grew rice. It was very much hard work to keep the business going; they hired someone local to take over its management.

When my parents first had come to the farm, there were no cars and they rode in a cart pulled by two mules. They enjoyed spending some time in their country house, in tranquility, in the country air. My father had hoped the days away from Tehran were more contemplative and productive as a writer.

My weekends and my holidays are the only times I get to be alone with my thoughts, he said to my mother.

We always had a great respect for traditions. I recall celebrating the New Year, which falls on the first day of the spring. The aroma of jasmine flowers everywhere was intoxicating. I also believed in Santa Claus for longer than I should have, partly because I wanted to, but also because my parents never tried to convince me otherwise. On the night before Christmas, holding my breath in my bed, I was wondering when and how Santa was going to make his way into our house. The next morning, I was looking in our living room for signs of his presence without much