Farewell, Fair Child

By J.J. Amirikhas

This book is about a young man's coming of age while going through four years of high school. It is autobiographical, but not an autobiography. It also has allusions to the story of Cyrano de Bergerac, and some references to Catcher in the Rye. It is in three parts, with a prologue and an epilogue. Part one covers freshman year, part two sophomo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gotham Books
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798887750170

Book preview

Prologue

Prologue

I walk down the halls of my alma mater, reminiscing. It is the same old school, all right; and yet, it isn’t. The building is the same, the archways, the roof structure. But the atmosphere is different. It is unfamiliar, strange. Not even a flicker of my old strong love for the school stirs within me. Faces pass me by, faces that I do not recognize, that do not recognize me. To them, I am an outsider, intruding upon their stomping grounds. No one stops to talk to me, to ask me how I am doing. Ofcourse, most of them do not know me, while the others do not remember me. I am not part of the school. I will not be anymore.

When I first entered the school, I had many expectations. For one thing, I expected to be recognized; recognized as a person, not just a conglomeration of features that one might have seen before but cannot remember exactly where. For another, I anticipated an exhiliration, an elation or excitement of some sort to surge within me upon my setting foot in the narrow halls of Paris High; but no such noble feeling touches my breast. All I feel is an emptiness, a hollow vacancy that has my stomach aching and my throat dry.

I stop by the honor roll in the lobby and glance at the names there. I recognize some of them: Conrad Hollander. Jim Lazarus. Debbie Womack. They are seniors now. In another year they too will graduate and become nameless faces like me. I peer into a couple of the rooms, poke a head into the auditorium, then go downstairs into the cafeteria. They are all empty, the kids and teachers in class, the custodians busy elsewhere. Empty.

I stand by a post and recall with aching nostalgia the many happy moments I spent flirting with Salonne, pulling up her skirt playfully, wanting to know what size underpants she wore. It was a game with us, begun when I bought her a pair of gag panties for Valentine’s Day; which she wouldn’t wear because she claimed they were not her size. Now I do not even know where she is. She may even be out of the country. I have not seen her since graduation night some eight months back.

Then there was Mary Ann. Mary Ann. I remember the prom and wonder if she is still angry about that. We were so close and now we are so far apart, both geographically and emotionally.

And Janice. Deidre. I will probably never see any of them again. They are gone. We spent four wonderful, fun-laden years together and now they are gone. I sigh wistfully.

I go back upstairs and enter the Boys’ Room. Two clowns are in there smoking. They start when I step inside, but relax quickly when they see I am not a teacher, or an administrator.

Hi, Jason, the taller of the two says to me.

I look at him. Lenny Clarke. He is the only member of last year’s senior class who did not graduate last year. My eyes flicker anxiously to his companion, half expecting him to be Chute Sands, Lenny’s vicious sidekick of last year, but it is not as I knew it could not be. Chute was as lazy and lackadaisical about schoolwork as Lenny, but he was sharp, unlike Lenny, and he managed to accumulate enough credits to graduate.

Hello, I respond to Lenny.

How’s things?

So-so. I shrug.

Like college life?

It’s not bad.

I am half tempted to say, You must really like high school life,

but I refrain.

Lenny nods listlessly and, dropping his cigarette butt on the floor, he toes it vigorously. He motions to his companion and the two of them leave. He sure was interested in how I was doing. Yeah. But hell, what could I expect from Lenny? We were never exactly buddies. I should be thankful he even said hello to me; and did not try to pick a fight.

I look around, recall the time Mary Ann coaxed me into following her into the Girls’ Room. She had to show me something, she said. She showed me something, all right. I laugh out loud as I remember the incident, laugh as I had laughed then; shake my head. It was not so long ago, but it seems years.

The usual profane epithets are scrawled on the walls above the urinals. Some are funny. Dracula sucks, one declares. Smile, You‘re on Candid Camera, says another. To Pee or not to Pee, states a third. I chuckle and then rear back my head and laugh uproariously for no reason whatever. I just feel like it.

Smile, You‘re on Candid Camera. That was one of the signs we put against the back window of the bus going to see Camelot on stage in New York. Scenes of Janice parting her knees, of Deidre lifting her skirt float before my mind’s eye. We sure had a gala time in back of that bus.

I leave the Boys’ Room hurriedly, hating the school now. It is no good anymore. It has lost its appeal for me. It depresses me, reminds me of too many happy moments, moments gone which I will not own again.

There is a basketball game after school. I decide to stay and watch it. Whatever derogatory remark I might make about the rest of the school, I cannot justifiably degrade Paris High’s basketball team. It is still a great team, despite the loss through graduation of its All-State center, Chris Neville, who averaged 30 points per game. The boys reeled off eight straight victories before finally bowing to their arch-rival from across town, Fairland High, on the winners’ court, and now sport a 13-1 record. When the game is over, they have easily boosted their record to 14-1.

As I watch the game, sitting by myself high in the grand-stands, I wonder if Salonne sees much of Chris anymore. They did not go to the same college, but that does not preclude the possibility of their seeing each other. There are the weekends and they are not that far apart. I feel a fleeting pang of jealousy at the thought of his being able to see her while I cannot. I was never certain how much Salonne cared for Chris, and how much for me.

After the game, I call on Miss Fleming, my first English teacher, to acquire my sophomore year term paper from her. Only she is not Miss Fleming any longer. She got married during the summer and now bears the name of Mrs. Lawson. For me, however, she will always be Miss Fleming.

Though it is rather late, she is still around. But she is on her way out, and she has five words for me: In the bottom drawer, Jason, pointing to a file cabinet in the corner. I smile grimly and, taking my paper, I get out of there. I hop in my car and drive around; aimlessly.

The empty feeling persists inside of me, stronger now, really twisting my stomach. I had set my hopes high, expecting to be greeted as the returning hero on my visit back to Paris. When that did not come off, I had a long way to fall. As a result, I have found out an important thing. It was not the school I loved those four years; it was my class: my many friends, male and female; my teachers. The school was only a symbol, a place where we could congregate, be together. Without us, the school is nothing. It is an old grey façade made of brick and cement like any other.

I tool by Mary Ann’s house, hoping she might be out on her porch, by her door, or somewhere. She is not, as I knew she would not be, and I drive on. It has begun to rain. The sky is grey, thick blankets of clouds full of harsh noise and wetness scudding across it. It suits my mood well. I switch on the windshield wipers and steer on through the haze and the slop, unconcernedly. It is really coming down now. Thunder groans portentously in the distance and lightning streaks now and again, blazing brightly. For a day that started out so promisingly, it sure is turning out to be a drag. I curse, loudly and with passion. It makes me feel a little bit better.

Mary Ann was not a big girl. Neither was Salonne. They were both around 5’2 or 5’3 and had slim, shapely figures; great legs. Mary Ann was a bit slimmer, perhaps. She had blonde hair, long and silky, and brown eyes, and freckles speckled the ridges of her nose and under her eyes. Salonne’s hair was copper-red, and she had purple eyes that appeared to be iridescent, changing color with each new outfit she wore. Her lips, sensuously full and red, fringed over white, even teeth, which were like small tusks of ivory; and she had a small nose, sitting like a large button on top of her upper lip. She was the best-looking girl I have known.

I was closer to Mary Ann, but Salonne always attracted me more, and would always do so, I guess. I sigh deeply in the car. It was my vacillation between the two girls, my uncertainty about which one to go with, that in the end cost me both of them.

I catch sight of myself in the rear vision mirror and wipe the sad smile off my face. I switch off the recollection screen and endeavor to concentrate on the road, but I cannot. I remember back, back over the years, back to my first days of school.

I remember Janice again; Deidre. Russ, Rick, Mike. Mr. Oldham, Mr. Lawson. Miss Fleming. Mr. Terretier. I remember them all. They all played a memorable part in that segment of my life. I wish I could start the four years all over again, from my first day of school to my last. I really wish that.....

Part 1. FRESHMAN

Part One

FRESHMAN

Section One--High School-first day

Section One

High school-first day

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

On that special Thursday morning four years ago, I woke up with a groggy feeling and a bitter taste in my mouth. It was still dark outside. Either it was still night or damn cloudy. I hoped it were the former; I could have used another three-four hours of happy snooze.

Unfortunately, however, dawn had broken. Beyond repair. I checked the luminous face of my alarm clock on my night table and discovered, to my horror, that it was past seven. The alarm had not gone off. Damn! It was time to get up, get dressed, eat breakfast.....

My eyes opened wider. The sleep suddenly, quickly evaporated from my lids.

School began today. High school. Summer was over.

I groaned. My stomach tumbled. I have always been ambivalent about school. I like the social aspect of it: the meeting of people, new and old; the carousing, the fun and frolic. But I don’t like the study part: the tests, the papers to write, the homework. I have a special hatred for homework, bordering on the pathological.

After a few more whines and grunts, I willed myself out of bed and pulled off my baby blue pajama tops. Shahar came in while I was slipping on my undies and told me to hurry it up, it was getting late. Shahar is my older sister.

I sighed. A few sun rays splashed through the window now and got into my eyes. I cursed and drew the shades. The cloudes were clearing. It looked like it might turn out to be a golden day. I did thirty sit-ups and twenty-five push-ups to get the kinks out of my body, then crossed into the bathroom to wash up.

The bitter taste persisted around my gums. I would have to stop those midnight snacks. I gazed at myself in the mirror over the sink. A disheveled, big-nosed, fuzzy-faced slob stared back at me. Gosh, but I was ugly in the mornings. Yech. Unfortunately, my looks did not improve that much during the day. I was fast losing my angelic, boyish cuteness. I smiled broadly at my reflection, with all the teeth. That made it even worse. I almost gave myself a fright.

The table was set and my corn flakes ready by the time I made it to breakfast. Corn flakes was all I ever ate for breakfast; corn flakes with banana. And milk, ofcourse. Shahar was preparing to leave for work, fixing her stocking; her skirt hiked up. Her foot was on the seat of a chair.

Mm, I commented, admiring.

Shahar smiled. Pretty, hm?

Yesss.

And it was pretty. Shahar had pretty nice legs. Which she didn’t mind showing. And I didn’t mind looking at them.

Uhm, a little higher, I grinned, referring to her dark green skirt.

Accommodatingly, Shahar drew her skirt up higher, up to above the top of her stocking. High enough? She asked.

Mn, yes.

She rubbed her uncovered thigh a bit for my benefit, her skin there smooth and friction-free; then she laughed, adjusted the seam of her stocking, put her foot down on the floor.

Do the other stocking too, I suggested to her.

I already did that one.

So do it again.

Smiling, amenable, Shahar did the other stocking; and then she held up her skirt, held it up high enough so I could get a good look at all of both of her legs.

Mhnnnnhhn, I expressed. Shahar really did have fine legs; especially in the thigh area.

Laughing again, she put her skirt back down and slipped on her two-toned overcoat. She had already eaten. There was no one else in the apartment. The two of us lived by ourselves, just Shahar and me. Shahar is twelve years older than me.

Are you going to walk or take the bus? She asked me as I made myself comfortable in my seat.

I put a spoonful of Kellogg’s in my mouth. I’m meeting Rick at his house. His mother’ll give us a ride.

Oh. Okay. Well, good luck. She came over and kissed my forehead.

Rick Prozanno was one of my two friends from grammar school who was going to Paris High with me. All my other friends had to attend Fairland High, across town. Fairland High, named after the city of Fairland, was a bigger school, with a larger student body, but Paris was newer, built in the late fifties, and reputedly had better facilities and a more competent faculty.

Rick was waiting for me by the stoop of his house, his rotund, pink face pinker than usual because of the chill in the air, and his corpulent body bundled up in a black imitation-fur coat. He looked like a kewpie doll. We muttered our good mornings, waited while his mother got their latest model Olds out of the garage, and then hopped in and were on our way.

The front of the school was jammed with jabbering, excited students. The buzz of conversation was loud and shrill, and we heard it while we were still a block away.

We got out of the car, said goodbye to Rick’s mom, and she drove away waving her hand; the car waving as well. Mrs. Prozanno was a notoriously bad driver and I had held my breath all the way up to the school. As had Rick.

As we walked toward the congregation of students, milling all over the newly-trimmed front lawn, someone detached himself from a small group and started walking toward us. I recognized Russ. Russ Wessler, my other elementary school pal who was going to Paris High with me.

Unlike Rick, who was big-shouldered and portly, Russ was slim and tall, standing half a head over Rick. And over me. He had a square face and straight black hair. As did I. Rick was round of face and had curly brown hair. The three of us said our hellos and indulged in small talk till it was time to go in.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The auditorium was big, roomy, new, and had a wide stage upfront. Thick maroon curtains hung over the side windows, letting little sun in, and chandeliers swayed gently overhead. There was a small balcony in back and chairs enough to seat 900 people, the estimated population of Paris High. An organ and a piano sat grandly beneath the dais, and a brand new flag, given to the school by the recently graduated class, stood still and unwavering in one corner of the stage.

When the ululation and the drone of voices had somewhat died, a tall, balding man standing in the center of the stage cleared his throat and tapped the microphone in front of him experimentally. The mike emitted a resounding hum and the man drew back with a start, provoking laughter. He smiled, waited for total silence before he attempted to speak.

Ladies and gentlemen, he began, and the students of Clifford J. Paris. I’m pleased to see so many of you showed up here this fine morning. My name is Melvin Oldham. I’m the principal of this fine school and, on behalf of myself and the rest of the faculty and staff, I welcome you to Paris High. This is, of course, a new experience for some of you....... and he rambled on and on in like manner, telling us how happy he was with everything, what a good year he expected from all of us, and that sort of crap. The man was aptly named: he was an old ham, all right.

At last he ended his speech with, .....And now Mr. Lawson will call off the roll and tell you all newcomers where to go. He smiled benignly. To what homerooms, that is. You will be given your schedules there. Mr. Lawson....

The man who replaced him on the mike was of an entirely different breed. He was of medium height, broad-shouldered and muscular; well built. Whereas Mr. Oldham had looked like a wimp, this man looked like he would make a good athletics coach. I learned later he was the assistant coach of the Paris High football team. He also taught history.

Just then, another teacher, a female one, emerged from behind the curtains to the left of the stage and occupied one of the empty chairs set on the stage and, as a result, I lost complete interest in what Mr. Lawson had to say. I sat there like a fool and gawked at the female teacher. And I do mean female!

She was tall: maybe 5’8" with heels; and she had layers and layers of chestnut brown hair piled on her head like a blossom that made her seem even taller, her hair glistening in the sill of sunshine sneaking in from under one of the maroon curtains on the window. Her svelte figure was clad in a blazing red dress, with a moderate slit on the side, and she wore black nylon stockings and red pumps, all a parade of dazzling color. From where I sat in the third row, I didn’t see any sign of a slip beneath her dress, which was good. I hated slips.

As she had sat down, the red dress had ridden up her legs some and now showed the tops of her stockings. I don’t know what she teaches here, I thought, but I sure hope I’m in one of her classes.

And then, all of a sudden, people were getting up around me and moving to the exit.

Come on, man, Russ said to me. Are you going to sit there on your ass all day?

What else would I sit on? I retorted. Uhhhh, where are we going?

To Timbuktu. Come along. We’re going to our homerooms, where do you think we’re going, vacuum-head?

Already? What’s my homeroom?

Didn’t you hear it?

No.

What were you doing, peeking under some girl’s skirt? He called it three times.

Who did?

Mr. Lawson.

Who’s he?

Russ sighed, grasped my arm and lifted me out of the chair. Come on, you’re sick, he commented. You’re not well. Your noodle must be fried. Mr. Lawson called the roll and told us our homerooms. You’re in 222, I think.

Are you sure?

Check that, anyhow. Now, let’s go. We’re late.

Oh, by the way, do you know where Timbuktu is?

No.

It’s between Timbuc one and Timbuc three.

Har, har.

Rick had disappeared somewhere and I followed Russ into the hallway where we separated. He turned right and I bounded up the stairs straight ahead, still thinking about that sexy teacher. Russ had been right. I had been peeking under some girl’s skirt. Girl teacher. I wondered what her name was. And her subject. Probably art.

I could not find room 222. There was room 221 and 223 but no 222. What the hell, I thought, where’s that damn class? Had Russ made a mistake?

The late bell rang and I was still wandering about, cursing. Finally, I found a custodian and asked him where the room was. He told me it was on the other end of the hall, around a curve, in a sort of cubby hole. I thanked him and started running that way, thinking what a fine way this was to start a new year in a new school, being late the very first day.

I was almost at the curve when a harsh voice behind me yelled, Young man!

I turned to see who was calling me. I should not have, for apparently someone was running to class from the other side of the curve and we collided. Notebooks and pencils clattered to the floor and rolled every which way. They were not mine because I carried nothing. Muttering, I looked up to see who the clumsy clod was and then I did not care if I ever got to class.

This was my day for seeing lovely females. First the crimsonclad teacher, now this one. Only this one was a student, and she had shimmering copper-red hair instead of chestnut brown, and bewitching purple-blue eyes, and she was the best-looking girl I had seen in a long while; which left me fully flustered.

I murmured an abashed apology to her and offered to help her scoop up her books and pencils.

I can pick ‘em up myself, she said petulantly.

The old hag with the harsh voice now reached us. Walk, don’t run, she said to us, her crusty eyelashes fluttering. Had you been walking instead of running, this would not have happened.

Lady, I thought, I’m going to run now every chance I get! I may even join the track team.

Blue-eyes, her books and pencils scooped up, hurried off to class. I stood and watched her go. She had looked vaguely familiar. Had I seen her before? Couldn’t be, I thought, I would have remembered.

She had on a simple lavender dress, which went well with her purple eyes. But it was tight. Form-fitting. Some form....... Mnnnnn.........I stood there watching her move on down the hall.

Finally, egged on by the old hag of a teacher, I sighed and made my own way to room 222.

All the kids were seated and looking attentive when I got to class. The teacher was Mr. Lawson, the muscular man in the auditorium. He was standing in front of the room by the blackboard, explaining to the kids some of the rules and regulations of Paris High. When I stepped uncertainly inside, he swiveled toward me and cocked a thin blond eyebrow. Yes, what can I do for you? He asked.

I--uh--think I belong here, I returned, which evoked an unexpected burst of laughter.

You do? Well.........suppose I don’t want you?

I relaxed a little. He wanted to make a good impression. So did I.

Well, you’re stuck with me, I said.

He smiled, adjusted the black, horn-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose and motioned me to a chair. Have a seat. Just don’t make this a habit. Did you get lost?

No. I was in the Boys’ Room.

Boys’ Room?

Yes, having a cigarette.

More laughter and I sat down feeling flushed and pleased with myself. The kids gave me an amused stare for an instant and then reverted their attention back to the instructor.

I looked around. The class was not big. It contained some fifteen people all told. None were familiar to me and girls outnumbered the boys, which was a happy prospect, but none of the girls were any great shakes. Two in the back were not bad. None were like the one I had bumped into in the hall. None could be. I wondered if she would be in any of my classes. She had looked like a freshman. Or a freshwoman. I hoped so.

Just before the bell rang, Mr. Lawson gave us our schedules and our locker numbers and combinations. My locker was down the hall aways, opposite room 212, and it was alongside the locker of one of the girls in my homeroom who was fairly nice-looking. We were supposed to try to see if we could open our lockers with the combination Mr. Lawson had given us. I got stuck on mine and she helped me open it.

There, she said. Nothing to it. Now you try it.

I tried and it opened. Thanks, I said. I looked her over.

What do you have first period?

She checked her schedule. Science.

With Mr. Marco?

Yes.

Hey, so do I.

She smiled. Let’s walk together then. So we did.

My name is Mary Ann Wilkins. What’s yours?

Jason Tristrum.

Are you Greek?

My father was Greek, but I come from Persia.

Oh, really? How interesting.

We were there, and went inside. I took a deep breath as I peered around, wondering what my first real class of high school was going to be like.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

By lunchtime I had gotten somewhat accustomed to my new habitat. It wasn’t that much different from elementary school, really. It was bigger. Newer. It had more people. That was about all. It would be lonesome for me at first for lack of friends, I realized, but that was a problem that should take care of itself. It shouldn’t take me long to make friends, I figured, being the personable guy that I was. Ha.

My teachers so far had all been nice, though I was disappointed because they were all male. However, I had three classes to go yet and maybe my luck would change. It had to.

I popped open my milk container and stuck a straw in it, dragged at it without relish. I was not crazy about milk and drank it only because there was nothing else.

No one sat at my table but me, but all around me was a staccato of noise, which made me forlorn. Rick and Russ had both drawn fifth period lunches and, worse, neither of them had been in any of my three morning classes.

I ate my lunch of moldy-looking meat loaf quietly and quickly and then went outside to soak in some of the cold sun. It was pleasant outside, a crisp autumnal day, the sun shining brightly, the air dry, and a cool breeze drifting in from somewhere north. A couple of robins, perched high up in a tree, chirped harmoniously. A crow circled in the sky, hawking. I leaned against a tree trunk and watched the girls go by, my hands in my pockets. The breeze was strong and swirled the skirts of the girls as they walked by.

Some of the girls who passed me made my hands busy. I was agreeably surprised. That was another thing that was different in high school. Most of the girls in grammar school had been dogs. Barking dogs. High school girls took better care of themselves, it seemed. Especially of their bodies. And they dressed better. As their skirts swirled up from the wind, I had a glimpse of a shapely thigh now and then; and peeks at the supple curve of a buttock or two.

While I stood there at least ten females passed me whom I would not have refused for a date. Ofcourse I would have refused hardly anyone for a date. Well, maybe Godzilla’s daughter. Maybe.

A couple of the girls had been in my classes. One of them even said hello to me. The girl I had bumped into in the hall, though, did not make an appearance, and she had not been in any of my classes so far. Tough luck.

I could not get rid of the nagging feeling that I knew that girl from somewhere. Had she attended Columbia Grammar School, where I hailed from? Possibly. I might have seen her in the halls there. Then I mentally shook my head. Nah. I would surely have remembered her.

I saw Mary Ann fumbling with her locker when I got there after school. She seemed to be having trouble with the lock.

Here, let me help you, I offered and gently pushed her aside. What’s your combination?

She told me and I opened her locker for her with incredible ease. There you go, I said. Nothing to it.

She wrinkled her freckled nose at me and dug her books out of her locker. You pop up wherever I go.

That’s just your good luck.

She smiled, sweetly, dimpling, and leaned against her locker momentarily, watching me arrange the texts issued to me during the afternoon in my locker. I was not about to take any of the books home, even though I had homework in nearly all of them. Homework on the first day of school. Outrageous!

How do you like high school so far? Mary Ann asked.

I looked up, grinned. I like my English class.

You would. Isn’t she nice, though? Miss Fleming, I mean.

I’ll say! Miss Fleming, with the red dress!

I mean as a teacher.

Yes. I guess.

Everybody likes her.

I can understand that. Boys especially.

She sighed in impatience. You’re impossible. She tucked her books under her arm, pushed away from her locker. Well, so long. See you tomorrow.

If you’re lucky.

She stuck out her tongue at me and shuffled off. I sat there watching her figure recede down the hall. She was not at all bad looking. Her hair was blonde which I liked and she had soft brown eyes and a neat figure. Facially, you might say she was average, but body-wise she was better than average; especially her legs. I watched her legs, followed them up to where her knee-length tan skirt hid them from further view, let my imagination trace them the rest of the way, up under her panties to her hips where they ended. I wondered what color panties she wore. And was she a real blonde?

Oh, hell! I said out loud, annoyed with myself, grabbed my pea jacket and went to find Rick and Russ so we could walk home together.

I had become a real hound. And to think that my childhood had been so innocent.

Section Two--Background-Shahar

Section Two

Background--Shahar

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I was born in the town of Adeh in Iran, but I grew up in the capital city of Tehran. I was two months old when the Soviet communists, the next door neighbors to the north, always waiting for an opportunity to engineer a coup d’etat and take over the Iranian government, decided the time had come and made their move.

They streamed across the border of Soviet Union into Iran and, in a matter of days, turned the country upside down, sparking upheavals in every city they reached. My parents were forced to flee from their home, leaving all their wealth and belongings behind, which was considerable. Eventually, they also left their lives behind.

My older sister Shahar (short for Scheherazade), who was l2, and I were the only ones who survived. We managed to reach Tehran, which had been our parents’ destination. Tehran, as it was the capital city and the seat of the shah, was the best protected and the most carefully guarded of the Persian cities, expectedly. Also, Shahar and I had an aunt there, Aunt Charlotte, with whom we stayed until she and her American husband transplanted to the U.S. many years later.

By then Shahar was eighteen and she had acquired a job, in the American Embassy, with the help of our uncle-in-law, and she and I were able to live on our own. We rented an apartment on the second floor of a two-storey building, over-looking a four-way intersection, and we lived contentedly.

The communists had been driven out, with the help of the British and the Americans; the shah who had had to leave the country, had returned, and the country was relatively stable now. We lived in Tehran in peace and tranquility.

I grew to love the capital city. It was the most advanced and progressive city of Persia, as one would expect, and the most Westernized, and it held many points of interest for me. I was too young to brood over the death of my parents and two sisters--I had not really known them--and was content to be alone with Shahar. Shahar was much more affected by the loss of our family, naturally. She’d been quite close to her mother and sisters; not to mention her father, who had been a minister.

Shahar was good to me. I was all that she had left and so she was devoted to me. She treated me well, sacrificed for me. She gave little thought to marriage or men because of me, even though she was attractive and could have had her pick of suitors. She was not only my sister, but became my surrogate mother as well.

For my part, I cared a lot for Shahar. I did anything she asked of me. I thought her the best sister and the prettiest girl in the country. She was pretty. She had shiny black hair that reached to her shoulders, smoldering dark green eyes, ivory white skin, and a very shapely figure.

Shahar looked like me a lot; or rather, I looked like her. I also had black hair and green eyes, my eyes a bit lighter green than Shahar’s and, for someone with Persian and Greek ancestry, who are given to swarthiness, I was quite light-skinned. As was Shahar.

I got a chance to see a good deal of Shahar’s figure. We used to go to public bath houses in Iran once in a while--we only had a make-shift tub at home--and we would hire only one room. I was about six then and innocent. The room was partitioned into two chambers, one for dressing and undressing, the other for washing. In the dressing chamber, while I took off my clothes, I would watch Shahar undress. She would strip down to her panties, as I did to my undershorts, and then we would proceed into the other room to wash.

The washroom had a marble rise on one side that took up half the space in the room; there was a shower on the other side; and there were taps for hot and cold water that opened over the rise. So you could either take a shower, or wash on the rise, or both.

I would wash on the stoop while Shahar used the shower. While I soaped my body, I would again watch Shahar: watch the water slamming down upon her and making her smooth naked skin glimmer in the dim light. She kept her panties on under the shower, and they clung to her skin as they got wet and I could see her dark underbelly through them. I wished she would take her panties off too-she made me take my shorts off when she washed me--but she would not. Not till much later.

Sometimes Shahar would sit on the stoop, to shave her legs and under her arms, and I would watch her from under the shower. She took good care of herself, in addition to taking good care of me, and I admired her for that. Not many Persian women shaved their legs or under their arms. Shahar always managed to look sprightly and attractive, well-groomed. It was the American influence.

It’s so unsightly when women have hair on their legs, Shahar said. And uncomfortable. I don’t know how the Moslem women can bear it.

Mm, I offered.

It’s so much nicer to have smooth, clean-shaven legs. Mm, so smooth now. She rubbed her well-rounded thighs. The only hair should be between our legs, where it belongs. She opened her legs, her panties off now, to show the triangle of hair between them; and then she closed them again, giggling.

Shahar was candid with me where matters of sex were concerned. She did not evade my pointed questions about sex, especially as I grew older and more curious about girls and their anatomy, and about the relationship between boys and girls.

She explained to me, for example, that what I had underneath my stomach was a little bird, while what she had was a flower. When boys and girls got married, she said, the boy put his bird inside the girl’s flower and gave her a seed, and that seed grew up inside the girl and became a baby.

I understood only a little of what she said, and it embarrassed me at times to have her talk to me like that, but Shahar would laugh it off and muss my hair. She wanted me to get a clear picture of what sex was about, she told me, so that I would not get any misconceptions later on. And, anyway, we were brother and sister, and much closer than most siblings because we had no one else, really, and we should not have any secrets from one another.

We had no secrets from one another; no physical secrets, at any rate. Shahar knew my body well and I knew hers. After she had washed me in the bath house sometimes, washed me thoroughly, includeing my bird, she’d let me wash her. That was fun.

It had been embarrassing at first having her touch my bird as she washed it, but I was over that now and felt comfortable with it. Shahar would fold down my foreskin carefully and wash under there too.

Always remember to clean under here, she told me.

It was fun soaping her and rubbing her. She had such soft skin. She only let me do her back, however; and maybe her legs.

Shahar was affectionate and we hugged and kissed a lot. At night, in the winter time, she let me sleep with her on occasion. She’d wrap her legs around me and hold my face to her chest so that I’d be warm.

Even in summer at times she let me sleep with her. And in summer, when it was hot, Shahar liked to sleep naked. Even then she would not reject me if I crawled into bed with her.

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Because she worked in the American Embassy and she got to know the American personnel there well, and she picked up the English language, Shahar acquired the notion of emigrating to the U.S. Aunt Charlotte was there and she could help arrange the way for us. Accordingly, Shahar wrote our aunt a letter, indicating to her her desire of reaching the American soil.

Aunt Charlotte responded with enthusiasm. She would be delighted to help us move there, she wrote. She would love to have Shahar and I with her once again. She would check with the proper authorities and let us know directly what needed to be done. Aunt Charlotte had always wanted us to follow her to America if we could.

Shahar was encouraged. Over the years she’d saved a sizeable sum of money, so the financial aspect of transportation was no problem. Aunt Charlotte promised to clear the bureaucratic and dwelling problems for us from over there. That left only one problem: me.

I had no desire to embark on a long journey to a far-off land. America was more than six thousand miles away! It was practically on the other side of the world.

Not that I had anything against the country. Not at all. On the contrary, I thought America was a sort of paradise, a fairyland, on earth. I had heard so much about it: from Shahar, from the Americans at the embassy, from Aunt Charlotte’s letters, from people in general.

I had heard about Disneyland, about year-round sunny California, about New York City and its skyscrapers, about the freedom there, the high standard of living; and I had visited the American Embassy on a few occasions to have lunch with Shahar, and I had found the American employees there warm and congenial. They all made much of me, because they all liked Shahar; were attracted to her. She was the archetypal mideastern woman: exotically dark and alluring. I noticed how the male employees’ eyes dropped whenever Shahar crossed or uncrossed her legs. The fact that Shahar shaved her legs, unlike most Moslem women, made her very appealing to them; made her seem more like one of their own women--while still retaining her exotic allure.

It was just that I was happy enough in Iran. I had friends, I had a home, I was in school; I did not want more than that. What more was there? Why give all that up, exchange it for some unknown?

But Shahar had made up her mind. We were going and that was that.

You want to see Aunt Char again, don’t you? Shahar said to me. You like Aunt Char.

I did, at that. I had been only three months old when we had come to her in Tehran, and Aunt Charlotte had nursed me. Like her own children. She nursed me till I was almost five years old………………

And sometimes, I remembered, I would get under the table in the dining room and, while the family talked, I would yap like a puppy and everyone would pretend it was a dog and wonder aloud how a dog had gotten into the room. And I would go by Auntie’s chair and mess with her: licking at her knees, as I had seen dogs do.

And then I would go to Shahar and do the same with her.

The women would squeal and chide me, call me a naughty dog; but they liked what I did, I could tell. They were amused by it. Intrigued. I was cute as the dickens as a young boy; pretty, even. I had large green eyes, a rosy complexion, and long, golden brown curls (the color of my hair changed later, darkening to black). Shahar didn’t cut my hair till I was six years old. Aunt Charlotte thought I was the most adorable child she had ever seen. And Shahar often told me that I was her life.

And so the women didn’t at all mind me messing with them under the table.

Getting bolder, I might slip my head beneath my aunt and my sister’s skirts. I liked having my head underneath their skirts. It was dark under there, but fun. I enjoyed the warmth and smoothness of their skins. The smell of them. Women had a very pleasant smell, I had discovered. Most women. While men reeked of cigars and drink, women smelled of powder and perfume: a musky, lemony scent.

And if the women were feeling frisky, which they did often, they might draw up their skirts, mischievously exposing their legs, up to the tops of their stockings, as they looked down at me, smiling indulgently.

Because I was innocent, and Aunt Charlotte and Shahar were basically innocent as well, especially Shahar, they thought little of me having my face beneath their garments. It was just playfully pleasant teasing.

They smelled good, and the insides of their knees were warm and soft against my cheeks. Had it been out in the open, they might have had reservations about doing as they did, but under the table it was secret and enticing; even if a bit naughty. I was like a pet, and you can do anything with a favorite pet.

And when I, playing at being a pet, a frisky puppy dog, licked at their knees, they did not resist. They might giggle and squeal, but they allowed me a relatively free reign.

A lot of times--most of the time, in fact--the women initiated the playful action. They would get impatient with my playing with their feet and they would open their knees invitingly, beckoningly. And if I still didn’t respond, they would put their hands behind my head and draw my face to them. They would press my nose and mouth to their flesh. Aunt Charlotte liked to have my nose tickle her. Shahar liked to have my mouth on her……………

Being members of a Christian minority in a Moslem country (we were protestants--American missionaries had gotten to us), we were persecuted and discriminated against too much, Shahar felt. Religiously, as well as politically, and socially. And sexually.

Below us on the first floor of our building lived two young Moslem brothers, Hassan and Amir, and they were always after Shahar. They pinched her behind, or they slapped at her thigh or attempted to pull up her skirt; or they made suggestive remarks to her. Once one of them had hugged Shahar from behind and cupped his hands over her breasts. Shahar had slapped his face for that. But there was not much else she could do. The Moslem authorities would not listen to her.

And it was like that all over. On the bus one time, Shahar, standing because it was crowded, had felt a man’s hand under her skirt. She couldn’t tell who it was, and it was too crowded for her to move away or to turn around. She had stood there helpless while the man had squeezed her buttocks beneath her skirt. And then he had moved his hand to the front, slipped it inside her panties; touched her down there. She’d pressed her legs together, but that was worse. Boldly, the man had kneaded her most sacred spot.

When she had come home, she had washed the area several times, but she still felt unclean.

Another time Shahar had gone to a Moslem doctor, against her better judgment, to have her appendix checked, and the doctor had put her under and when Shahar had awakened, she had found her blouse unbuttoned, her bra undone, and the doctor’s hands on her breasts. He had caressed and kissed her breasts, brazenly. He had teased and mouthed her nipples.

And then he had knelt before her and, pushing up her skirt, he had caressed and kissed her thighs.

Shahar, groggy and half-dazed, couldn’t make herself move to stop him. She had watched, groggily, in shock, as the doctor had assaulted her.

And they would pinch Shahar: on her buttocks and on her thighs. She showed me the black and blue marks one time. She had had enough of it. I would go first and she would follow me soon after. She was determined.

Shahar also revealed, on one of our trips to the bath house, that the older brother, Hassan (not the one who had fondled her breasts), had shown himself to her.

He just dropped his pants and flashed me, she said. Shameless. Totally shameless. She spat.

Mhhm, I muttered.

And there wasn’t much to see, Shahar went on scornfully. I don’t know what he was so proud of.

I was glad that Shahar wasn’t too upset and could be scornful; and playful, even.

Shahar was playful often, a quality that I greatly admired and enjoyed in her. Though that was probably what got her into trouble.

At work a lot of times, when I was there having lunch with her, Shahar would cross and uncross her knees deliberately, so the men would notice her legs. She had good legs and she liked showing them.

If I’m going to go to all the trouble of shaving them, I want to show them, she maintained.

I agreed whole-heartedly with her on that.

As did the men at the embassy. They loved seeing her legs: seeing her smoothly shaven, shapely, relatively long, nylonned legs.

And sometimes Shahar might part her legs a bit, impishly, so the men could catch a glimpse of her stocking tops; and maybe even see a bit of her panties. Shahar wore no girdle; nor even a slip. As most women in Iran did. Just panties. And she liked showing her panties--some. Just as she liked showing her legs.

And she didn’t mind showing her bra either; and what she had in her bra. She’d drop something, deliberately again, and she would lean over to pick it up, and, in doing so, she’d reveal the tops of her heaving breasts to the men in the office; parts of the cups of her bra. Shahar was just too playful, too western, really, for her own good. And too attractive. She was like an adorable little girl, in a big girl’s body.

Or maybe that was her reaction to the trauma she had endured as a young girl: the upheaval in the country, and the death of her parents and sisters.

In our bedroom at night, Shahar liked to put lotion on herself: on her legs, on her thighs, and on her breasts. She would be sitting there on her bed with only her panties and a short robe on and she would slowly work the lotion into her knees and thighs; and then, opening the robe, she would work the lotion into her breasts. While I watched. She liked me to watch, or at least