The following piece is the continuation of the story below:
The Wrong Calculation
I got back from the bathroom, a bit more composed and collected. I sat down quietly, trying to familiarize myself with my surroundings.
Back in 1991, the Hamshahri Newspaper hasn’t yet moved into a new building. In the old building, the newsroom was divided into two floors. My floor was a gigantic space with large conference tables and comfortable chairs. There were around six tables with sufficient space between them. I was sitting at the Social desk with four people, including yours truly.
“You do not need to engage in any conversation if you do not want to participate,” Ms. Ghaderi whispered in my ear. “I loved your answer to those two bastards. They are friends and almost in everyone’s business. Once I came back from the bathroom and saw the contents of my handbag on the table. They were scrutinizing every item. I was mad. I picked up my tampon and shoved it in their face, ‘Did you want to see this?’ I asked. Don’t bother to make friends with them if you do not want to. I think Tabeeb, the older one, is a bit more collected than Shams. But, I do not count on them,” she said talking to me in a such hushed voice that I could barely hear her. However, the message was loud and clear.
“Until a man has opened his mouth, his art and fault are hidden.” I was determined to keep Pandora’s box closed as long as I could.
“Ms. Ghaderi, please do not bother to talk behind our backs,” Tabeeb said. “Well, we both know how gorgeous and perfect you two are,” she said with a sarcastic smile. She then stood up and left the table. I felt grateful for the hint she gave me.
I grabbed the Adineh Magazine from my knapsack and started reading it. I knew the men were still looking at me. I didn’t engage with their stares or say a word.
Generally speaking, I was a quiet person. I never opened my mouth unless it was necessary. I grew up with a line of poetry that my dad recited from Sa’di, a famous Persian poet: “Until a man has opened his mouth, his art and fault are hidden.” I was determined to keep Pandora’s box closed as long as I could.
“I loved your answer to those two bastards. They are friends and almost in everyone’s business,” Ghaderi said.
He finally came back
I was getting restless, having waited for an hour until I saw Mousavian coming back.
“I hope you haven’t waited too long,” Mousavian said. I smiled and didn’t say anything. I knew I was already two hours late for our appointment earlier. It was just fair to wait for him one hour.
As he sat down, positioning himself on his chair, I turned to my knapsack again to get my papers out. I gently placed the papers in front of him, and softly slid them towards him as he adjusted himself on his chair.
“I rewrote an article about time. I do not think that Iranians are on time or respect time. I’m exploring the idea.” I said.
“Yeah, we even have proof in our small interaction,” he said. Then he slid the papers toward Tabeeb, “Can you read this and help Ms. Jamshidi to clean up her draft?” he said, very matter-of-fact. “Sure,” Tabeeb said. “Fuck,” I quietly whispered.
Mousavian could see my dissatisfaction. To make a quick attempt to repair the rupture, he pointed out the magazine in front of me. “You read Adineh,” he said with a tone of surprise and warning. “Just make sure you don’t pull your magazine if you go talking to conservative lads. They don’t like the magazine, and they may judge you accordingly,” he said.
Adineh Magazine, along with 18 other periodicals, were shut down in one day right after Ayatollah Khamenei, Iran’s Supreme Leader labeled the publications “agents of the West who are distributing lies and attacking our Islamic culture.” Three of my journalist friends were imprisoned shortly afterward.
The First Time
Tabeeb glanced at the article and looked at me. He was a youngish middle-aged man. I couldn’t gather anything from his expression. I was wondering whether he heard the word I just muttered. We do not have “fuck,” in Persian literature! The equivalent of the “f” word is “gayeedan which is equally denigratingly impolite.
“God has given you two legs to serve you …”
“One,” he interrupted.
“What?” I asked.
“God has given me one leg. I lost the other one at the war,” he said.
My grandmother and a few aunties tried to teach me never to swear. “Women don’t swear in the Jamshidi family,” they kept saying. I guess I proved to be a “fake” Jamshidi there.
Tabeeb started reading the story. After a few short minutes, he put it down. “This is a very good composition. We need to turn this into a news-worthy story, or at least to a social-based feature story,” he said. “How?” I asked.
“Hey Tabeeb, you need to show her a few of your writings,” Shams said sarcastically.
I looked at Tabeeb, “Have you ever published any stories here?” I asked. “Only two,” he said with a low voice. “Oh,” I released a sigh showing my surprise. I thought I was supposed to work with a seasoned journalist. It seemed that he wasn’t any more experienced than I was.
After a few minutes, Mousavian left the table. Then, Ghaderi came back, grabbed something, and left. At the same time, the phone rang. Shams picked up the phone, listened tentatively, quickly hung up. “I’m going upstairs for our page layout. They need someone from our desk,” he said, grabbed a pen, and left.
“What do they do in the layout department?” I asked.
“There is a large group of people on the fifth floor doing the layout. They hand-cut and situate stories on a large piece of paper, the same size as the actual newspaper. Then they send it to the paper’s publishing house. Everything must be done before 10 pm. It is so much fun. You should go and see what they do for yourself,” he said.
“It seems that Shams has a lot of time. It is only 6 p.m.” I said.
“Oh, No. They figure out the layout for our page, and a few other none-newsy pages first. We are publishing Sham’s story which he submitted three weeks ago. Mousavian is responsible for making sure our page has a story to run every day. Otherwise, he is in trouble. I hope this story will be out soon,” he pointed to my paper.
“Thanks. Any suggestions to improve my piece?” I asked.
“You need to write the piece again,” he finally said. “This is your first draft, yes,” he asked knowingly. I nodded shyly. “That’s OK. You eventually learn how to write for a newspaper. Your article isn’t awful. It is just not good enough for Mousavian to read. I am your first filter. I guess Shams reads after I’m done. And Mousavian read last.”
He paused before starting again, “Shams’s dad is a famous journalist and editor. He has been freelancing at Hamshahri Newspaper hoping he gets hired. I am finishing up my Ph.D. in psychology at Tehran University. I also teach. I’m debating whether to approach faculty positions or come back to the newsroom.”
I could see Tabeeb was a good teacher. He was explaining everything fully and repeated important information if necessary.
“How can I improve it?” I asked.
“What are you trying to say here?” he replied.
“I want to write about our cultural deficiency in respecting time,” I said.
“No, we do not ‘write’ about anything. We show what is happening,” he interrupted me. “Go talk to people about their experience of time and appointments. Then, you need to find an expert who can comment on the issue. then, you put together your information, you write and bring your copy back to me to take a look,” he said. “You need to show,” he concluded.
“Where should I find people to talk to?” I asked.
“This is up to you and your magic. You need to talk to real people. Then, you need to find someone who studies the phenomenon,” he repeated.
Tabeeb changed his tone to a friendlier attitude and finally said, “Now, after teaching you what to do, I think I deserve a cup of tea here. Can you please bring one for me?” he said.
My eyes were bigger than my mom’s largest pan in her kitchen. “I am sorry, what did you just say?” I exclaimed.
“Nothing, just bring me a cup of tea,” he replied.
“I’m sorry,” I said as-matter-of-fact, “God has given you two legs to serve you …”
“One,” he interrupted.
“What?” I asked.
“God has given me one leg. I lost the other one at the war,” he said.
“Oh, No,” I threw myself to the back of my seat in surprise. “I am so sorry,” I said.
We were sitting the whole time. I couldn’t see his legs. Even if I did, I couldn’t make out anything wrong. He was wearing pants. His prosthetic leg was covered.
“Now that you know I can’t walk properly, could you bring me tea? I’m so thirsty” he said.
“I am so sorry for your legs, but the answer is still no,” I said. “You got at least one good leg to use. You can pour your tea yourself.” He looked at me with fascination. I couldn’t detect an ounce of anger in him “Ms. Jamshidi, I’m telling you now, you’ll make an excellent reporter. I can see it from here, exactly where I sit,” he said pointing to his legs.
Just then, as we were drawing boundaries and negotiating power, a man stepped inside the newsroom. He was carrying a large tray of glass tea cups. He put one in front of me.
Related stories of the same series:
#1: To change hijab law, I had to become president
#2: Mr. Mousavian and my next step toward Iran’s presidency
#3: Sexual Attention in Iran, Don’t Even Mention It!
#4: Komiteh or Morality Police in Iran Created Fear & Intimidated People: Personal Story
#5: I Barely Escaped the Morality Police and the Whipping
#7: Obscurity of Boundaries of Public and Private Lives in Iran and the United States
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