“The First Story_section2:Persian is sugar.”

“The first story: Persian is sugar.”

They appeared before us like a mirror of misfortune. As soon as their eyes fell on our documents, it was as though they had received news of the Shah being struck by an arrow or an order from Azrael himself. They suddenly froze, their lips quivered, and their heads jerked. Then they stared at us, scanning us from head to toe, and after a while, one of them asked, “How is it, are you Iranian?” I said, “Well, what a question you’re asking! Where else would I be from? Of course, I’m Iranian, my seven ancestors were all Iranian, and in the whole Sanglaj neighborhood, no one could be found who wouldn’t recognize your humble servant!” But the gentleman was not impressed by this response. It was clear that the matter was not that of a royal decree or a hundred dinars. He ordered the guards to “keep the master here while the necessary investigations are carried out.” One of the guards, with a half-foot-long, pipe-like stick hanging out of his tattered shawl, grabbed my wrist and said, “Move forward.” We realized that it was time to act prudently. We could have put on a show of defiance, but we saw the situation was too tense, and the only reasonable course was to comply.

The rest is something we would rather not recount—how, in an instant, they stripped us of everything except our Western-style hat and our faith, which, at least, they didn’t take away in the blink of an eye. They locked us in a dark cell at the Anzali customs house. The first night felt like being in the grave, with spiders hanging on the walls, and the door was locked behind us. They left us to the mercy of God.”