I sit in my usual spot on the sidewalk across from the hotel. Its name, HAFEZ, in neon above the door, is glowing against the dim air of dawn. People, young and old, male and female, come out of the hotel and rush in different directions. Where are they going at such as early hour? Oh, they must have so much to do, urgent matters, important tasks. They aren’t going to the mosque to pray. I don’t see any of them going inside it. Most of them come from far away countries. They probably don’t understand the mullah’s language. I understand the words, but I don’t believe in them. I myself don’t even pray. Why should I? I like foreign tourists. For one thing they have more money to spare. Some days my bowl gets filled up. Occasionally I find dollar bills in it. That’s the best; the dollar goes such a long way exchanged for toomans.
Then who do I see coming out? The manager, Lynn. She is holding a cup and a plate. “Salaam khanoom joon,” hello dear woman, she says in Farsi, in which she is fluent. She is also wearing a head scarf and a rupush like Iranian women, of course being forced into it.
“I brought you tea and pastry.” Her tone is respectful, not rude or pitying.
Even though I don’t believe in religion I say, “God will pay you back for this.”
“You can use the basement bathroom any time.” She looks up and down the street. No one is passing by now. She leans over and says, “Will you do me a favor, keep your eyes open for anyone suspicious looking coming into the hotel or anything strange happening.”
“I will, Madam.”
“You’ll get a reward.” She looks at me with sympathy and says, “I certainly understand pain.” Then she walks back inside.
One of the chambermaids, Fatemeh, told me Lynn’s story. Lynn came to Tehran on a short visit many years ago, married an Iranian man, and stayed on. Then her husband got killed. She is still waiting, after all these years, to find out what happened, who did it. Why doesn’t Lynn make me a chambermaid? Because I don’t want that and she senses it. I can’t be held to a job because of my condition. Something in my brain has been destroyed after that fall. I still can read and write-- I finished one year of college-- but there is a lot that I can’t perform. This is my story. It all happened when I ran away from home, afraid they would discover that I was pregnant. My strict father would never forgive me. I don’t know exactly what he would have done, I didn’t want to find out. One day I took a bus from Ghom to Tehran. When I got here, as I was looking for a cheap hotel, I fell and hit my head on the hard ground. I blacked out. When I came to myself in a clinic, where the police had taken me, I found out I had had a miscarriage. “You had a beautiful little girl,” the nurse said to me, not having any idea of course that the baby was out of wedlock. Lucky, or else I would have been sent back home.
But from that day, the day of the fall, I’ve never been the same. I keep falling and blacking out, unless I take my medicine. “Something happened when you fell but it isn’t clear what,” the doctor told me. Then, as if getting a special pleasure out of being blunt, he added, “A part of your brain doesn’t function well, not all the time.”
I look carefully at everyone going in or out of the hotel. The day is getting on but I haven’t yet seen anyone doing anything strange. I take out the money from the bowl and put it in the pouch which I then save in my large canvas bag. I put the bowl into it too and get up. I go to Motaveli Avenue to take a bus. Finally the bus comes and I get in, go to the back, the section for women. Some of the women stare at me in a way that says, “What’s she doing on this bus?” I get out by the Hejabi Mosque and go in, not to pray but to get something to eat.
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