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— I'm already speechless! And she keeps repeating it, looking into my eyes and asking: «Do you like it, Irina-Khanum?»
I sensed something was wrong and began to move towards the front door to escape into the courtyard. But Dad anticipated my maneuver.
• Stop right there! It seems to me that you were involved in this!
— And you can't even tell her that it's bad! — Mom continued the story, deliberately not looking at me. — Well, I asked her: «Where did you, Parizad Khanum, hear such a word?!» And she said to me: «There is a charming and well-mannered blond boy walking in our yard, he told me so! And the older dark-haired girl translated what it means in Russian — beautiful! Such a little boy, and already compliments the ladies! It's so lovely! So I remembered the word, so that on occasion I could also compliment one of the Soviet women. And you, Irina-khanum, are the most important pendushka!»
Then Dad roared with laughter. But Mom wasn't amused:
— That's how you educate her, with your jokes, and I get the results! Stop it! — she yelled — I would have liked to see your face if this Parizad had come into your office with the message that you were the biggest jerk!
Then they started lecturing me. But they quickly came to the conclusion that I wanted the best. In any case, I had no other choice. As for little Sasha, it's not his fault — he got it from his older brother, who, in turn, got it from his father. And I could even guess where! Seryozha could have «sourced» the word «pendyushka» from the very operation where his father took us: in the process, this word has been uttered and I even remembered it. Another thing is that I’m not five anymore since long ago, and I would never apply it to an adult, especially to a foreigner.
As a result, my parents decided that if Sasha was scolded now, then, on the contrary, he would remember this obscene word for a long time. And if you pretend that nothing terrible has happened, then maybe he will forget. And Sasha's parents don't need to be upset — they've had a number of important surgeries the other day. And our «Paris-up-the-ass» will be discharged soon anyway — and then, let her call everyone pendyushka! In the meantime, while she hasn't checked out, I just need to warn all our people so that, if anything, they don't react to «compliments» from Parizad Khanum.
And so it turned out. Parizad Khanum called all the nurses in gynecology names for another week, and then she was discharged. They say that after treatment in a Soviet hospital, she managed to get pregnant — and Sasha's father played an important role in this; he had to cut something out from her.
Darband cable car
Darband, like the other northern district of the city of Shemiran, is located almost 2,000 meters above sea level. And the funicular from Darband lifted to Mount Tochal as much as 4,000 meters. I remember this information clearly because I couldn't visualize it at the age of 9. Here we are with mom and dad walking along Darband, and below us, two kilometers below, the sea! And where is it then? Later, of course, I had to realize that for such a geographical statement, the sea does not necessarily have to be nearby. And it just means that we are in the mountains, and the sea, above which we are located, can be anywhere.
Nearby was the main one of the shah's residences, the Niavaran Palace. It was there that the Pahlavi family spent most of their time before their flight. There have been many fine restaurants in the vicinity since the shah's time: they were still working, they just stopped selling wine.
In Darband, what I liked most was admiring the luxurious villas surrounded by magnificent gardens with waterfalls and fountains, surrounded by mulberry hedges instead of fences. There was also a mansion of the Iranians' favorite national singer, Googoosh, but at that time she had already fled the country.
One of the houses was built in the shape of a giant ship, and Dad told me that the owner of this villa was a former captain. And with such architecture of the house, he supposedly tried to drown out his longing for the seas and oceans. And that since he came ashore, every morning he goes to the «bow» of his house-ship, stands at the helm, which he installed there, and begins to give orders to the crew of his ship — that is, the household. I had no idea how Dad knew all this, but a house-ship with a master-captain who had brought home a real steering wheel from a real ship, became doubly interesting in my eyes.
I also loved going up to the observation deck of Darband, from where the city was in full view and seemed like a toy. But my main passion for a while was the cable car. Until that very time, when Dad caved in to my whining and bought me a round-trip ticket to the nearest station for one toman. It was still oh so far from the top of the Tochal from there, but that was enough for me.
Now this device would be called a first-generation chairlift: in the 70s, under the shah, it lifted up skiers, but in the 80s it remained out of business. My mother believed that Iranians couldn't have anything working properly, so I was strictly forbidden to ride on what seemed to her to be an abandoned «cable car.»
It was forbidden, and therefore it became the sweetest fruit that I regularly remembered every time we came to Darband.
And one day, when mom didn't come with us, and I was nagging dad, he said what I was actually trying to get from him: «Okay, just leave me alone!» And bought one ticket, saying that his «Parizad» probably wouldn't fit in a narrow seat.
I was seated in the coveted seat, and I was completely alone on the entire cable car, there were no other passengers in principle. Dad stayed waiting for me near the control room, from where the device was operated by an elderly Iranian.
It was a magical feeling, sitting alone in a tiny chair, flying first over Darband mansions and gardens, then over restaurants in mountain gorges, over a waterfall and a mountain river, bravely watching how houses and people below turned into small bugs before my eyes. And suddenly the creaking of ropes and gears stopped, my seat jerked and froze — and I hovered over an almost bottomless abyss. At first it was scary, funny, and breathtaking. But a second later, I was gripped by icy horror and a feeling of utter helplessness and loneliness — I still remember this nasty feeling. I suspect that the man who ran the cable car turned off the switch at the highest point for a couple of seconds at my father's request, since they chatted while I was riding. If that's the case, then my father's trick was a success: since then, when I came to Darband, I have never mentioned the cable car again.
Pul farda!
I loved it when the daughters of the owner of the neighboring grocery store, an Iranian named Rukhi, came to play in our hospital yard. We spoke a hellish mix of English, Russian, and Farsi, but we understood each other perfectly in a strange way. And having picked up everyday Persian words, I again stumbled into a linguistic incident. Or rather, I disguised a deliberate crime as one, and I've already been punished for it. My parents rarely indulged me with sweets, but I loved them very much — especially caramel cornflakes. They were sold in large, beautiful boxes in the store of my friends' father and cost quite a lot — 15 tomans. At some point, the thirst for enjoying taste became stronger in me than common sense, and I figured out how to arrange this pleasure for myself. I've already noticed that on certain days and hours, my friends' father leaves his 15-year-old son Hamid behind the counter while he goes shopping. Hamid was a very polite guy, or he just liked me, but he smiled all the time when he saw me. And when I first showed up at his store without my parents and pointed at the treasured box, Hamid gladly handed it to me. And even though instead of paying, I said «Pul farda!» («Money tomorrow!» — Persian), the kind guy also nodded happily and smiled.
That was actually my plan. Initially, I expected to eventually confess to my dad and ask him to give Hamid 15 tomans. But then I somehow forgot… especially since everything was going so well, and the young salesman was still smiling happily at me every time! Every time, because I began to visit regularly for treats. And not only myself: I brought my boy friends and with the help of my magic phrase «Pul farda!» I treated them to any goodies. Of course, my girl friends had plenty of sweets anyway, because it was their store! And the boys, although they could be nasty, just like me, they were not spoiled with treats. For almost a month, the owner's son meekly gave me everything I asked of him. But one day the hour of reckoning finally came: apparently, so much «fard» had accumulated that Mr. Rukhi himself noticed the shortage — and Hamid had to «turn me in.» I don't know how exactly everything turned out there, but I remember the scandal at home very well! On that fateful evening, my dad had just stopped by Rukha's shop, where the friendly owner usually chatted with him in a friendly way — as with the only one who could communicate in his native language in a Soviet hospital. But this time, Mr. Rukhi looked confused and upset: after a word of apology, he presented my father with a bill that had already exceeded a hundred tomans. And that evening, instead of dinner, my parents gave me a debriefing, which they were very successful at. Perhaps it was because of this that I had never been involved in any scam in my life since that very distant Tehrani 80s.
My first sheep
On the eve of Nowruz, the Iranian New Year, the week-long celebration of which begins on the day of the vernal equinox on March 20, Dad informed me that the Rukhi’s family was inviting me to spend the night. From Tuesday evening, Chaharshanbe Suri will be celebrated in their house — the last night from Tuesday to Wednesday of the outgoing year, on which it is customary to perform interesting rituals, this tradition was inherited by Iranians from the Zoroastrians.
Mom tried to resist: a child, alone, all night, to a local house, for religious celebrations, but Dad assured her that Chaharshanbe Suri, like Nowruz itself, came from pre-Islamic times and had nothing to do with religion. Rather, it is a folklore heritage like carols and Yuletide fortune-telling in Russia.
But the main argument for mom was that since the child — that is, I — was deprived of Soviet children's educational activities, then at least let them look at the Iranian ones, and at the same time practice in English and gain knowledge about ancient history and the philosopher Zarathustra. My mother couldn't resist the concepts of «educational activities» and «knowledge,» and I was safely released.
At the appointed hour — by 9 p.m. on Tuesday — Dad escorted me to the door of Rukhi's house, promising that he would pick me up tomorrow evening.
The whole family gathered in the apartment, which occupied an entire floor — Mr. Rukhi and his wife, my friends Romina and Roya, their older brother Hamid, and a neighbor's girl named Janet came in and brought her cousin with her. While waiting for a festive dinner, the girls and I sat on the roof of their house, which was universally accepted in Tehran before the war, and enjoyed a warm, calm evening, telling scary stories in a circle. When it was my turn, I also gave out another «horror story», although the task was complicated by the fact that I had to «tell a story» in English, otherwise others would simply not understand me. Gesturing actively, I invented a literary translation of children's idioms like «longest of long arms» sticking out of the wall of the «darkest of dark rooms.»
Meanwhile, Mr. Rukhi, his wife, Hamid, Roya, and two other strangers with a large bag came up to the roof. The bag was moving and making noises.
— Let's go look faster! My friends shouted. «They brought the sheep!»
A small curly-haired lamb was indeed pulled out of the bag. He was bleating monotonously in the arms of one of the men and did not even try to escape. The lamb was given a piece of sugar and he began to munch it with pleasure.
«Will they kill him?» I pointed at the men in horror.
Before that, I had only seen sheep so closely in a field around the very holiday home near Moscow, where the usher let the kids go to the cinema without tickets.
— No, our father and Hamid will kill him themselves! — Romina replied proudly. — But don't worry, the lamb won't understand that it will be killed. See, they gave him sugar? So that he would taste sweets and die in joy.
— How can you die in joy? — I was amazed.
«It's very simple, — the Iranian girl replied calmly. — If you don't know you're going to die and your mouth feels sweet. — He won't see the knife, because they'll put a bag over his head so that the meat is halal.
— Halal is the meat of an animal that has not been affected by stress hormones from fear of death, — Hajji explained after overhearing our conversation. — For this, the animal must not know that it is being prepared for slaughter. There should also be no blood left in the carcass so that it becomes pure food for the faithful.
— The carcass will be hung up so that all the blood will flow out of it, — Romina added.
I shuddered. Not so much out of pity for the ram, but from the matter-of-factness with which she said it. If we had heard this at the Yunnatov station in Sokolniki Park, where we were taken to Moscow school, Romina would definitely have been expelled from the pioneers. But she was clearly not in danger of that in Tehran.
I realized from my friend's tone that this was probably an honorable case, and it was inappropriate to express my horror at the imminent death of the ram.
The only thing that bothered me was that everyone was clearly going to witness the procedure of his death, and I didn't want that. I knew that I couldn't save the lamb with this, I was just afraid to spoil the mood. And it was wonderful for me at the end of a long and eventful day.
When I saw the lamb, I was reminded of Alyosha the goat from Dad's stories about his Turkmen childhood. Dad told me how in his hometown, on the edge of the desert, he went far away with Alyosha so that the goat could graze something other than camel thorns. Dad loved this goat very much and cried a lot when Alyosha disappeared one day. His dad, my grandfather, told him that his beloved goat had run away. And his mother, my grandmother, while clearing the dishes after a hearty meat dinner, suddenly said: «Thank Allah and Alyosha the goat that we are full today!». That's how Dad found out that he, along with his siblings, had eaten his beloved pet, which he walked and played with. He cried terribly, and his mother shamed him: «War, hunger, men are fighting, and a woman's duty is to feed her family, son!» It was during the Great Patriotic War, when Dad was five years old.
I was very impressed that Dad unknowingly had dinner made with his pet. And I realized that I would not be able to calmly watch a lamb being killed for the same purpose!
But at the same time, I realized that it would be indecent to defiantly refuse to be present at the ram execution. Judging by the reaction of my friends, for Iranians and even for their children, this is not only a familial thing, but also a festive one. By specially slaughtering a sheep, the Iranian hosts give a special honor to their guest. And in this case, the guest is me.
I didn't want to offend these nice, hospitable Rukhi, who started this main ritual of national hospitality for me. Watching as a clean canvas bag was put on the lamb's head, I was preparing to bail out and whisper to Romina that I needed to go to the toilet, for which I would have to go downstairs to the apartment, when suddenly everyone clapped their hands and shouted: «Mashalla!»
Hamid was hosing off the concrete area in the corner of the roof, near the rain drain And Mr. Rukhi was holding the lamb by its hind legs. He didn't bleat anymore.
«What, already?»?? I was scared. «I didn't even hear anything!»
— What did you want to hear? — Janet laughed. — Bloodthirsty screams, sounds of a chase and the screeching of a chainsaw?!
The carcass was hung by its hind legs, and I still ran to the toilet.
When I returned, I was in for a short lecture from Mr. Rukhi. Apparently, he was worried that grieving the lamb could ruin my holiday.
— You see, it's not by chance that the faithful prefer mutton,— he said. — Unlike other animals, a ram does not understand when it is being led to the slaughter. Before it dies, they feed it sugar and cover its eyes with a bag so that it does not see the knife and does not get nervous. It does not experience fear, so the hormones of anxiety and fear, cortisol and adrenaline, which are very harmful to humans if they enter their body with eaten meat, are not released into its blood. Before butchering the lamb, all the blood is completely drained from the carcass — these are the «halal» rules recommended by the Almighty. Consuming meat from a frightened animal or an omnivore like a pig, as well as meat with blood — is a sin for a believer. It seems to be a religious dogma, but it is medically justified. The lamb feeds on grass, is not poisoned by the hormone of fear, and is purified from blood, which may contain various elements that are not useful to people. Mutton is the cleanest and healthiest meat. Next comes the chicken.
— And mutton fat is best absorbed and does not make you fat! — Roya added an argument to themini-lecture.
Surprisingly, either because I didn't see any blood, or the ancient local tradition of honoring a dear guest with a steamed lamb absorbed the atmosphere of the holiday so well that it lost the taste of disgust and fear of death, but I somehow immediately calmed down and accepted the situation.
Or maybe half of the Eastern blood told me that in this place and with these people, it would not be considerate or wise to show pity for the lamb, judge their cruelty and refuse dinner. After all, I'm basically a random person here, and Oriental people have been slaughtering sheep for centuries, with or without me. And Alyosha the goat was eaten too. On the one hand, I felt sorry for it, but on the other, it was used to feed the hungry children of war, who at least sometimes needed to eat meat so that they could grow and develop.
Thinking this way, I quickly, as they would say now, closed my own «gestalt with the lamb» and smelled the aroma with gusto when they began to roast it.
The lamb was roasted right there on the roof, on a spit above a massive built-in barbecue. I've never seen such people in the Soviet Union. Even in the kebab shops of Sokolniki Park, skewers were placed on ordinary four-legged barbecues, not to mention family country kebabs on tiny homemade barbecues.
Mr. Rukhi's horse
The next morning, Roya woke us up at seven and said that it was okay, we would sleep well during the New Year holidays.
I was really sleepy, and I almost said that I didn't have any New Year holidays on Novruz! But then I remembered that I don't even have school!
The table was already set for breakfast: omelette with sabzi, toasts with my favorite processed paneer homei cheese, which looks like very thick cream, and tea with fresh shirini, already brought by Hamid from the Armenian bakery.
At the table, Maryam Khanum shook her head and softly explained something to Romina in Farsi. In response, Romina just smiled and spread her hands, saying, well, what can you do now?! I guessed that her mom was scolding her for the jug.
And I thought again, how glorious these Rukhi are! If I had deliberately broken a jug at home, my mom would have cussed me out much louder. And I could hardly smile carelessly like Romina, listening to what she thinks of me.
Hajji Rukhi announced that we have big plans for today. First we're going to the country club to ride horses.
«Do you ride?» Hamid asked me.
To me, it sounded like a movie about the life of aristocrats: «By the way, do you play tennis?»
My acquaintance with horses at that time came down to the fact that one day, walking with me through Sokolniki Park, Dad took me to the territory of the sports society «Urozhai», where we had a little look at the riders engaged in the arena. I remember the pungent horse smell, the crack of the whip and the strictness of the coach, which I already associated with any «big» sport. If the coach doesn't shout or swear, it means that these are not serious classes, but just a health group. Everything was serious at the Urozhai. At least because Dad and I were soon kicked out, saying that outsiders were not allowed to practice. And if we wanted to ride ourselves, then on Sundays in the morning there were rental groups for «dummies».
Remembering all this, I simply shook my head at Hamid's question.
— Our horses are entirely to Hamid's credit! Hajji said. — He visits them and walks them. Thanks to him, they are well-groomed beauties.
Hamid straightened out noticeably at his father's words. Taking care of the horses was clearly his pride. He probably goes to the riding section. At the Urozhai, Dad and I were also told that, in addition to riding directly, every rider should be able to take care of a horse — clean, saddle, feed. However, I didn't understand what had Hajji Rukhi to do with it and why did he say «ours» about horses? I was so curious, I even tensed up and remembered how it would be in English to «ride.»
— Ah, does he clean them, feed them, and saddle them? — I guessed.
— Yes, he knows how to do it all, — Mr. Rukhi admitted, not without pride. — But, of course, every day a groom, a saddler and a trainer do it, because Hamid studies and helps me in the store.
Hamid straightened up again.
— But my son visits our pets every week, — the father of the family continued, — checks if everything is fine and takes each one for a long walk in the fields so that they can run in the wild. Spends all weekends there! — Hajji added, looking at his son with approval.
Maryam Khanum also nodded her head in admiration of her son. Hamid was beaming.
— Since our daddy made this purchase, — Roya interjected, not without malice, — the whole family has responsibilities for it, not just Hamid! — Romina and I go to walk them too! And I also clean them!
— You've cleaned it only twice! — Hamid precised.
Romina, who had been the ringleader the day before, became quiet in the morning. She probably didn't get enough sleep. At breakfast, she did not hesitate to nod off. Usually glib of tongue, she only turned on Hamid's «two times» here. She opened one eye and said:
— That's not true! Roya and I spent the whole last vacation there! And we almost always go with Hamid!
— Everyone is doing well here — their father said soothingly, — everyone helps their parents with the horses.
Maryam Khanum nodded approvingly again.
And I was completely stumped. What kind of horses are these that they «need to help their parents with»?!
I decided not to be shy and ask the question directly. And then we were going to see these horses, what if I also have to «help» with them? But I couldn't, and I needed to warn them about it! Maybe after that, the kids won't want to take me with them. Although I really wanted to go to the horses, I was an honest girl, so I was sad:
— I can't clean, saddle, or feed! Are you not going to take me with you?
Everyone laughed. And even Maryam Khanum, even before my words were translated to her. I noticed that Maryam Khanum, although she did not speak English herself, understood almost everything without translation. Either she knows the language after all, just doesn't want to speak, or it's not the language at all, but her natural sensitivity and sincere interest in her children's conversations with me. I also found myself sometimes understanding what was being said in Farsi, even though I didn't know the language.