I was sitting on the fifth step out of the eight leading to the schoolyard. The scorching sun of July lashed at the top of my head relentlessly. I had forsaken the shade because it didn’t offer a view of the principal’s office from the far end of the yard.
My dad had gone to collect my fifth-grade final report card, and I was anxious and restless, staring at the cursed room’s doorway and thinking to myself, “How long does it take to get a report card? Surely, the worst has happened.”
Every now and then, classmates would pass by with their parents, and five minutes later, they’d return, report card in hand, smiling. But there was still no sign of my dad. My eyes wandered between the office and the empty schoolyard. I was worried and full of fear.
My usual battalion of imaginings was at war with the numerous columns of soldiers of anxiety and distress. Sometimes my fantasies would advance and conquer the space with memories, and sometimes they were pushed back by the infantry of anxiety.
But finally, the scorching sun did its job. The steam of imagination evaporated from my head and settled like fog over Ferdowsi Elementary’s vast yard and the five summers that had passed. A large school with ample space for all kinds of play and mischief, unlike today’s cramped apartment schools where the fresh breath of childhood suffocates.
Every corner of that large yard was filled with colorful memories—from “Zoo” games, which ended with torn buttons and ripped uniforms, to the water fountain by the gate where we’d go thirsty, begging the weak water pipes to quench us, returning soaked and waterlogged like a drowned rat.
From skinned knees and patched trousers to chapped, cracked hands in winters—its memories were like a heap of millet that generously scattered over its gray mosaics the irreplaceable opportunity for the lightness of childhood.
We were like a flock of pigeons, pecking greedily at the moments to fill the crop of our childhood, until it was time to fly toward adulthood through middle school and then high school.
I was supposed to also fly out from that elementary school with good grades and entrance exams, to nest on the rooftops of Alborz High School. But oh, the fever of soccer and cycling had taken the sense out of my head.
In the first two years of elementary, although we had no soccer ball, we had learned to play so well with small stones that, aside from the natural bruises and a couple of broken teeth and a black eye, we had no serious injuries. As we grew older, various types of rubber and plastic balls made their way into the yard and school.
And so, soccer and balls whirled into my life.
From time to time, worriedly, I glanced at the closed door of the principal’s office, but still, there was no news from my dad.
I was about to retrace the third summer in my head when suddenly the door opened, and my dad, with his usual dignity, came out. As soon as he stepped out, he stood at the top of the stairs and lit a cigarette. His drags were deep and consecutive—one hand holding the cigarette and the other my report card. From twenty meters away, the redness of his face and the fury in his eyes were evident.
It seemed as if his sharp, angry gaze, in collusion with the sun, were all aimed at me, and I was melting in the convergence of anger and heat.
He didn’t notice that his usually neat tie had slipped from its clip and twisted around his neck, and this disorder was as terrifying to me as an unwritten exam paper forcibly pulled from under your hands.
I didn’t have the courage to stand up and face the danger—that was my dad. Like a limp, flattened piece of dough, I was squashed on the steps. I shifted a little to avoid direct eye contact with my dad, sliding down to the fourth step. With each puff of his cigarette, his gaze shifted between me and the report card in his hands.
He tossed his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and with a sharp jerk of his head, signaled me to follow him back to the principal’s office. I wished those twenty steps would never end. I would have rather walked kilometers aimlessly, without destination, but not those twenty steps to the slaughterhouse.
As soon as the office door opened, all eyes shot towards me. Mrs. Kazerouni, the school disciplinarian, with her large bosom and expressionless, bulging eyes, instead of her usual stick, shook her head and fired the first shot: “Saeed! How many times did I tell you not to be so mischievous? Come here! Here’s the result! You’ve caused trouble for us and embarrassed your father with your actions.”
Then it was Mr. Teymouri, our principal’s turn. With his meaty, thick hands,
he pointed at me and said, “Come here, boy! You don’t even know how to subtract fractions? You added the denominators together? Why didn’t you answer these three easy questions? What have you learned this year?”
A palpable, heavy ‘shame on you’ was in his tone, unspoken only because of my father’s presence. He glanced at my paper and asked two more math questions, which I hadn’t written anything for. I knew the answers, but in that situation, my mouth was locked.
With frustration, he flung my exam papers towards me. The papers spun in the air and as they fell to the ground, the grade eleven sprawled between my sneakers. I hung my head and stared at the floor. The number eleven, which I had wished for in soccer, lay dying on my math sheet, mocking me.
I braced for the blow I expected to land on my head at any moment. Mr. Teymouri turned triumphantly to my father and said sarcastically, “I told you, Mr. Yavari! We don’t give low grades for no reason. He didn’t study, sir! He didn’t study. And you still don’t believe us?”
The sounds echoed in my ears and mingled together. My head was spinning, and I was drenched in sweat. The lump in my throat blocked my breath. I felt the weight of my father’s gaze from behind, and suddenly, with a slap on my back, I jumped up.
Calmly, but angrily, he said, “Go outside!” As I stepped out of the office, a rain of tears fell on my face. I was so hot and sweaty that the summer breeze cooled me down.
I sat back down on the fourth step. I thought to myself, “At least I didn’t cry in front of that fat-assed Mrs. Kazerouni.” Secretly, I cursed her with all the swear words I knew at the time. But honestly, I knew I had messed up.
By my calculations, I should have scored fourteen in math. I left the paper half-finished and handed it to the examiner because the soccer ball was calling me, and the field was filling up with kids who had finished their exams.
Geography and history were full of irrelevant and useless names I couldn’t care less about. My only hope was to raise my average with good scores in dictation, composition, and science, so I could go to Alborz. Alborz, where my father had graduated and dreamed of forcibly enrolling me to secure my future. He just wanted me to study well for this one year.
And I hadn’t studied at all that year. Oh, the fever of the ball and the net and the grass that burned through my soul and mind. That damned year, like a whirlwind, they swallowed me up, and schoolwork was just a potential addition to their roster. It seemed my brain cells only transmitted messages about the ball.
The books had dived into the corner of the room. The end-of-day whistle for me was the 8 a.m. school bell that signaled the end of the pre-school soccer game. The meaning of class was waiting for the next break and soccer, and home and homework were just countdowns for the next early morning.
Every day, I dribbled past the lessons, received penalties from the teachers, and my record piled up with yellow cards.
It wasn’t long before the reopening of the principal’s office door snapped me out of my reverie. Dad, with his face flushed and elevated, came out again. He lit another cigarette as he walked away, and I jumped down the steps, like a condemned man with no escape, waiting in his path. Two steps above, he stopped in front of me. His stature loomed larger, his head high in the sky, nearly touching the sun. The cream-colored shirt he wore trembled with the intensity of his heartbeat. I could see the red veins in the whites of his eyes. The thin cigarette, under the pressure of deep drags, couldn’t hold up and fell to the ground, extinguished under the twist of his shoe.
He said nothing but stared into my eyes, and in those long moments, I thought, “The next cigarette is me, getting crushed under his foot.” In that heavy silence, he handed me the “verdict” or the report card.
Below it was written: average 14.93.
I don’t know if it was for a few seconds or years that he looked at me without speaking. Time, complicit with my father, stood still. His heated gaze burned my body like a magnifying glass focusing the sun’s rays.
He took a deep breath and said, “Really! Aren’t you ashamed? You had all this talent, and I didn’t know? Fifth grade and an average of fourteen? This report card should be framed and hung in a museum! It’s my fault. It’s my fault for trusting you so
much and giving you free rein.”
My head was down, and the report card was before my eyes. My gaze fell on the only twenty, which was for Persian. It seemed to be laughing at my nonexistent beard.
Even the composition wasn’t perfect, and thoughts… thoughts are beyond one’s control; they just come: “What an unkind woman Mrs. Sorati is! Couldn’t she have given me a twenty for the essay? What would it have cost her, that dirty, complex-ridden old woman?”
And another thought came unbidden: “Dad, not fourteen, fifteen! You have a right to be angry, but if you’re going to round it off, at least do it correctly.”
Small thoughts came and quickly fled, and I was left with my father’s rage. Dad was yelling at me, and I was yelling at the teacher, the disciplinarian, and the principal.
His voice echoed in the empty courtyard, hitting walls and bouncing back at me like a stray soccer ball during recess: “Really!… Really!… Be ashamed… Be ashamed…”
Finally, after several rounds of anger and sarcasm, he calmed down a bit and took a few deep breaths. He lit his third cigarette and walked on.
By the time the dizziness of the report card and the quarrel had cleared from my head, we had turned onto Takht-e Jamshid Street.
Without a chance to say goodbye to the quiet, empty yard devoid of balls and classmates, I ran after him, matching his brisk steps without looking back. The smoke from his cigarette whirled around my face, stoking the tears. I no longer had time for daydreaming, and I had to forget about the fog and clouds of dreams, walking on the hot, black reality under his shadow.
We walked, and every now and then, he said, “It’s my fault! It’s my fault!”
Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely blameless.
The first person to dribble a ball under my feet was him. Perhaps in those moments, he was also thinking about our weekends, always busy. If we had guests or went to parties, whether for mourning or weddings, he was at work.
And “he was at work” meant soccer games and Amjadieh Stadium. The sole, always disgruntled director of these recurring plays was none other than mom. And the constant companion of these delightful busy times was none other than me.
Twenty minutes later, we reached his workplace, Tehran University.
He turned to me and said, “Stay here, I’ll be back!” With a gesture that completed his authoritative movement, he repeated, “Stay here! Don’t move, no matter how long it takes!” and left.
I sat on the ledge of the university’s stone wall, leaning against the green iron railings, pondering my brilliant grades, when a boy on a blue bicycle with wrapped handlebars passed by. Under the shade of old plane trees, the wind danced with the ribbons on his handlebars, and he ruled the wide, deserted sidewalk of Anatole France Street. He rode on, disappearing into the distance, while I rubbed my back against the green railings.
And again, my mind soared to the second barrier to my entry into Alborz, which was nothing but a “bicycle.”
The first summer, dad said, “It’s too dangerous, you’ll get yourself hurt in the street.”
After second grade, he said, “I don’t have the money this year.”
And after the third year, he finally made it clear that a bicycle purchase was contingent on getting into Alborz.
He had the money, I knew it. But this was his usual way. He liked to simmer dreams on a low heat, letting the desire for them fully develop to make their eventual realization taste all the sweeter.
About twenty days after the start of my third-grade summer break, around dusk, the doorbell rang.
My brother Hamid, along with Behram, our close friend and neighbor who was five or six years older, stood there with a bicycle and triumphant smiles.
I asked, “What do you want, goalie? I’m not in the mood to play goalie!”
Behram, sitting on the bicycle, cut me off, “Wait and see, man! Hamid! What’s wrong with your brother? I brought him a bicycle.”
Surprised, I turned back to look at the bicycle and them. There was no need for words; my entire face and body had turned into one big question mark!
Behram said, “It belongs to my cousin. He bought a racing bike and doesn’t want this one. Want to take it?”
With a half-smile and astonished eyes, I began sizing up the bicycle that Behram was still sitting on.
I said, “Dad won’t buy it, and I don’t have any money.”
Behram, getting off the bicycle, said, “No, man! It’s free. I
told you he doesn’t want it.”
My eyes sparkled, and with a buyer’s gaze, I began examining the bicycle.
A red bicycle with tall handlebars but no hand brakes. The steel of the handlebars was rust-stained, and its gray grips were punctured and faded. Half of the plastic and foam on the seat was torn away, revealing the rusted metal underneath.
I asked, “Does it have brakes?”
Behram replied, “Kid, the brakes are on the pedals. When you pedal backward, it locks. It really skids well!”
With longing, I said, “Dad won’t allow it.”
Hamid interrupted and said, “I’ve already got permission from dad. He just said it has to go in the storeroom once school starts.”
He was playing both his dad and his friend.
I thought to myself, “Good on you, brother! All the pocket money you’ve swindled from me, it’s forgiven!”
That was also where I forgave all the brotherly beatings in one go.
With a smile and shining eyes, I thanked them both and authoritatively placed my hand on the handlebars, which groaned, slipped about ten centimeters, and fell.
Behram quickly grabbed the other handlebar, put it back in place, and said, “The handlebar’s a bit loose, but they’ve welded the bottom; don’t worry! It won’t break.”
Hamid, with an affectionate grin, pushed me onto the seat and said, “Now go take a ride!”
I mounted it. The first pedal I pushed, under my left foot, had almost a quarter-turn of play and clicked emptily with a creaking sound.
The rear wheel wobbled so much that with each revolution, it thumped the seat, and the seat, with its sharp rusted metal, jabbed forcefully into my buttocks. When I pressed down on the left pedal, the handlebars moved ten centimeters back, and with pressure from the right foot, it wobbled and snapped back into place.
In short, once it got going, it rattled and creaked quite a bit.
But as it picked up speed, the jolts turned into tolerable vibrations. The bond between me and that beloved weary red was sealed when the wind caressed my face and hair.
I liked it. Whatever it was, it was a bicycle, and it moved. It was mine. My own!
And until the fifth grade, there wasn’t a child’s world I hadn’t conquered with that dear old junk.
Twenty-meter wheelies, afternoon rides around the neighborhood, three-to-four-meter skid marks on the asphalt, touring Tehran, and all the household shopping.
I was pondering the twenty-toman note I’d found under my pillow the next day when dad came out of the university, and with a brief and slightly rough nod, signaled for us to leave.
I jumped down from the curb and we started walking.
He still wasn’t talking.
I knew well his habit of delayed reactions, but this time, the limbo of silence was more terrifying than ever.
I thought to myself, “Alborz is gone! And I should prepare for a serious beating.”
In my imagination, Alborz was like a huge bird, really huge, taking off from the courtyard of Ferdowsi Elementary School. Attached to one of its legs was a five-speed Peugeot bicycle with tall handlebars, and on the other leg, sneakers suitable for grass.
They vanished into the distant skies, and I, with worn-out sneakers, ran after dad.
We didn’t head towards home but turned again onto Takht-e Jamshid Street.
I didn’t dare ask where we were going; I just knew we weren’t headed home. We passed by Ferdowsi Elementary again, and that was my last look at its empty courtyard. The report card in my hands was crumpled, and the ink of the grades mixed with the sweat on my hands.
After about half an hour of walking without exchanging a word, we reached a place filled with pictures from the 1974 World Cup.
It was the World Cup from my dreams, where I played alongside Gerd Muller and Franz Beckenbauer, and they had to pass only to me to score.
I couldn’t believe we were standing in front of a cinema.
A documentary film summarizing all the World Cup games. Dad went to buy tickets.
Confused, I was frozen amidst the heat of summer.
Like a goalkeeper who had conceded a goal from his own defender, like a forward who had kicked the ball out from an empty goal line; I was stunned. The cinema screen danced and swayed before my teary eyes. Fear gave way to embarrassment and shame.
Whether dad watched the movie, I don’t know; but I saw nothing. As we left the cinema, dad glanced at me and said, “Football is good, I like it too, but it shouldn’t be everything in your
life.” Then he took a deep breath and added, “If I insisted on you going to Alborz, it was for your own good. But it’s not everything. The world hasn’t ended! If you want, you can make up for it yourself.” And after that, he said nothing more.
The next year, the shame of Alborz and its grass fields spurred my pride, and I dove into my studies. I kicked the soccer ball into the corner of the room. The beloved junk remained alone in the storeroom.
At the end of the year, a delighted dad took my proud report card to Alborz for the entrance exam. The exam went well, really well.
Two weeks later, a pair of studded sneakers was under his arm on the grass field, and in his other hand, my acceptance result for Alborz.
At the rooster’s crow the next day, we went for registration.
At the school gate, dad said, “We have time, especially since I brought you early to go around first. I want to show you the school myself.”
What a school it was! It won my heart at first glance. The football field with grass, the indoor hall, rows of volleyball and basketball courts, and even a tennis court.
Several multi-story buildings with numerous classrooms.
It was a city unto itself! One side started from College Square and stretched near Pahlavi Street (now Valiasr).
Standing in the middle of a football field, he said, “You see this spot?”
With wide eyes, I replied, “Yes.”
“I shot from here towards the goal, powerfully! The ball was going straight into the goal when someone crossed the field and the ball hit him hard in the chest! I yelled, ‘Are you blind, ass? Don’t you see we’re playing?'”
And he continued, “When I looked up, I saw it was Dr. Mojtahedi.”
He asked, “Do you know what he did?”
I said, “Did he come to hit you?”
Dad laughed, “No, son! Dr. Mojtahedi laughed and said, ‘You must have eaten lunch to shoot so hard, my boy!’ And as he walked away, he said, ‘The kids are right, the ball was in the goal.'”
Tears welled up in dad’s eyes, and with a smile still tinged with embarrassment, he said, “He’s a great man, may God preserve him!”
The taste of a year’s hardship and separation from soccer and the bicycle turned sweet in my mouth. It was worth it.
In the registration hall, I stood mesmerized in front of the list of accepted students. I found my name.
I felt my stature had grown, my head scraping the ceiling with pride. My dimensions filled the entire hall with their expansiveness. I wanted to circle it with a red pen. I wanted to shout, “This is me: Saeed Yavari, a student at the great and venerable Alborz High School!”
I turned to show my dad my name but…
But I saw his face crumple, engrossed in reading a notice posted next to the list of accepted students.
“Due to the enactment of a new law, only those residing in the specified area are eligible for registration.”
Below the notice was a photo of a section of Tehran with several municipal areas highlighted in blue.
And our home was outside the eligible area, far outside!
It felt like a giant bucket of ice water had been dumped on my head. My vision darkened, and my legs weakened. With tearful eyes, I looked at dad with all the pleading in the world. With decisive steps that seemed to shake the ground, he headed for the office.
I leaned against the door of the registration room, listening to their voices.
At first, dad spoke calmly, but the “It’s not possible” voices were louder. Dad’s “Please, sir” gradually grew louder. Then suddenly, his shouting filled the space: “What do you mean, sir! You’ve started this impossible talk with me! Then why did you conduct the exam and get this child and us hopeful?”
The registration officer also shouted: “Sir, lower your voice! What can I do? The directive came two days ago; it’s not up to me.”
Dad shouted, and the registration officer’s words firmly stood on “It’s not possible.”
The registration man shouted louder, “Mr. Moradi! Mr. Moradi! Come and guide this gentleman out of the school.”
A sturdy hand pushed my shoulder and moved me aside from the door. A burly man entered the room. The voices intertwined, becoming a vague murmur. Soon, dad emerged from the room with slow steps and a flushed, furious face. From his red eyes and sad look, I understood everything.
We left Alborz but didn’t head home. The smoke from his cigarette billowed around my face. Silently, I caught up
to walk beside him.
Right under his shadow.
He put the blue five-speed Peugeot bicycle in the back of the van. I also sat next to the bicycle. From Naser Khosrow, we reached Ferdowsi Square and then College Square. At the end of that wide street, the sign for Alborz High School spun briefly before my eyes, disappearing quickly behind the tall buildings of the city.
The hot summer wind blew over my wet face.
And my gaze from the back of the van remained fixed on the lofty Alborz of my life’s dreams. On “dad,” who was sitting next to the driver, smoking.
The End
—
1) Takht-e Jamshid Street: renamed to Taleghani Street after the revolution.
2) Anatole France Street: renamed to Quds Street after the revolution.
3) Goalie: Common colloquial term for goalkeeper.
4) Pahlavi Street: currently Valiasr Street.
5) Dr. Mojtahedi: Principal of Alborz High School from 1944 to 1978.
No comment