Prologue:
When I was a student at Warren College, one of a cluster of colleges at the University of California at San Diego, I took a job as a janitor, cleaning dorm rooms during the transition from Spring to Summer Quarter in 1980. One day, I was browsing the cork bulletin board at the Student Center in my spare time and came across a 3 x 5 inch flash card soliciting a ghost writer for a book about the Iranian Revolution. American hostages were still being held in Tehran at the time, and being a Lit./Writing major, I took down the phone number on the card and contacted ‘M’ for the first time. ‘M’ was a newly arrived resident of the United States, a former professor and the Director General of Educational Research of the National University of Iran, Tehran (1966-1978); we started work on the book in San Diego on July 7, 1980. I was so happy working on a book about a major media event I remember riding my brown Schwinn ten-speed all the way from La Jolla to the Marine Corps Air Station—Miramar. Stardom was just over the next hill, or so I thought. That was thirty-four years ago.
We worked almost every weekend for a few hours and then his wife would cook an Iranian dish for the family which we would share at the kitchen table once we were finished working on the book. It got hot and steamy toward dinner time and Mrs. ‘M’ smiled as we relinquished the dining room table back to her to set. The whole family was called in from the other rooms in the house and we would sit down together at a big round table adjacent to the kitchen to enjoy each other’s company and the delicious food prepared just for us.
The book was ready for submission that winter under the title The Iranian Revolution: Iran’s Struggle with a New Father. Although I did not find a publisher willing to take on the responsibility of publishing such a controversial work at the time, I did get two encouraging rejection letters, one handwritten simply stating the work was not their “cup of tea.”
‘M”s son wrote me in 2014 that the gist of the story which follows was sold to an unidentified buyer by his father for “not much money” in my absence.
The names of the people, places and institutions in this work of historical fiction have been changed to protect the innocent and a few conjectures added due to the benefit of revelations gained from continuing education and the added perspective from the mere passage of time.
Prelude:
Call me Khalid. I’ve got a story to tell you about the Baugi Revolution, or what I remember of it, back in 1978-1981, but I’ll begin by telling you some of the major political events that took place twenty-five years before that in the early 1950’s which had some bearing on the seminal stirrings and the foment of revolution that took hold in the late 1970’s:
Father May I?
Doctor Rahmat, a populist, led the people of Baug from 1950-1953 as their Prime Minister. He supported inclusive government but his administration became increasingly criticized because the population of Baug was disjointed and spread out over a large geographical area. The metropolis of Tealandir was the governing seat of Baug and as its Capitol, rulings from Tealandir affected every Baugi, even if they lived thousands of miles away. Many grew dissatisfied with life in Baug, and opponents of the Rahmat Administration became openly vocal about the incessant compromising that had to be done to mollify every stakeholder and citizen of the country.
For their part, the huge oil companies of United Corporate [UC] could not stand Rahmat’s laissez-faire government and decided to overthrow him with a coup d’etat. UC supported the coup because they wanted to install a former leader of Baug, Amir, back to lead a dictatorial government allowing UC greater influence in the ways and means of petroleum procurement. The Amir Administration would be hailed as a model of the Common Concept of Mutual Interest [CCMI] between Baug and UC, which had been strained for as long as anyone could remember.
Someone named Jaleh told me the logistics of the 1953 coup d’etat were spear-headed by the Central Wombat Agency [Wombat] of United Corporate, in conjunction with disaffected youth of Baug. In the first salvo buffeting Rahmat, demonstrators shouted taunts, degrading his name while alternatively lifting praises to the Amir day throughout the day and night. The relentless distraction of the loud demonstration, and Rahmat’s misplaced trust in the lawfulness of the assembly allowed the demonstrators to overcome Rahmat’s Guard and enter his compound. After a brief struggle, strong men of the coup seized Dr. Rahmat and transported him to prison for further judicial handling once the Amir’s government was firmly established in Baug.
The success of the coup made the return of the Amir imminent. Another rival of Rahmat’s government, the Emilians to the West, were able to conceal Amir not only for his and his family’s safety but to preserve an opportune moment such as the one in 1953 where in spite of the odds Amir would regain the Imperial Throne of Baug as His Eminence. For his part, Amir was grateful and indebted to his Emilian benefactors, and planned to lead Baug to an alliance with them and their Western allies. The designs Amir had envisioned before the Great War, to lead a land of skilled and educated peoples as one nation could now move forward to fruition, or so he thought.
I’m going to see Jahan before he goes to Dilshad. His brother Jaleh was like a silent third party when I met alone with Jahan as I would this morning. I knew whatever I told Jahan would get back to Jaleh, but on the rare occasions I did speak to Jaleh alone, there was no indication he would be obliged to tell Jahan anything about it. I wonder if he’s a spy for Xerxes? Why does he want to meet so early on a Sunday? I thought to myself. We were supposed to meet at the Jahreel Cafe in the heart of Tealandir. On the way there I saw a woman in a white mini showing leg up to her hips. I’ve been sleeping in Sunday mornings too long. She’s a lurid example of an ear-plugging rehabilitated wind-up doll—all you need is the time, the money and the inclination; but not on Sunday. I wonder if it’s still Saturday night for her. No bags under her eyes. They working shifts in front of the Café? Oh, she’s probably a zealous hospitality hostess out on the sidewalk. As I was daydreaming of what the encounter would be like, (my approach would be to ask her if she wanted a drink) I continued briskly toward the Hotel Tealandir.
Jahan wasn’t there yet. Just like him, I made him wait last time. Instead of ringing the buzzer to get in the hotel, I waited outside by a fire hydrant. Nicer than it used to be. Kahane Construction read the sign on a new condominium complex across the street from the hotel. Somebody’s got to get rich in this recession. I wonder if the real estate crash was planned so these developers could make a profit on new construction, I thought to myself.
“Khalieeeeeee!” Jahan announced, calling me by the nickname he gave me.
See how he smiles—a cocoon smile, I thought to myself. “Hey Jahan.”
“Jaleh said to give you this”—Jahan handed me a small brown Sargonian joke book entitled The Bathroom Joke Book. I didn’t open it—I could barely get my eyes open despite the charge at the Café when I passed the hostess in the short white skirt. My wife kept me up ’till 2:45 in the morning watching outdated movies from the year 2000.
“Thanks…tell Jaleh thanks.”
“You look good. Keep wearing these,” he said, pointing but not quite touching my cotton chemise. I had bought it at a bargain-style French-themed boutique in Tealandir last winter but never wore it more than a few times so it kept its new shape and bright red and black design.
“Thanks Jahan. What time you leaving today?”
“About 4:57 this afternoon, something like that. What are you doing today?”
“Going to church. My significant other wants me home,” I replied, hoping my life was important enough to him not to ask me for a ride to the airport or take him to a nefarious hideout on the wrong side of Tealandir before his trip to Dilshad, and why am I standing in front of him at 9:00 a.m. on a Sunday?
“Your “significant other”. Some significant other!” he said under his breath.
“What?” Why don’t they like each other? I know but don’t want to admit it. She sees right through Jahan and he knows it. They are two of a kind and repellant to one another as much as opposites attract. What will he be doing for the next six hours before getting to the airport? Why’d he insist on me meeting here at nine?
“Well, I guess that’s it then,” he said.
“You’re going?”
“Yes,” he smiled, I could see the thoughts playing out like a checklist as he went over the “to-do” items which didn’t include me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to see more of you this trip” I said before we shook hands instead of embracing as we had the day before at the demonstration against police brutality after not seeing each other in almost a year. “It’s in the book?”
Jahan looked at me, sizing me up. “Don’t work too hard Khalid. It’s easier for me to get to your level than for you to get to the Transfiguration. Jaleh told me to tell you that.”
“Bye Jahan” I replied with a little more volume as we retreated from one another.
“Goodbye,” Jahan replied waving a right hand over his head in a sweeping motion. I wonder if he knows jiu-jitsu? He gave me a used t-shirt once that had the name of a jiu-jitsu studio from a Baugi region about a hundred kilometers south of Tealandir.
JOHN RUBENS is no Mother Teresa. 