If I could travel back in time, I’d go back to the time I last saw my father. I was nine years old and my younger sister, Hadiss, was just five. We lived in Shemiran, the wealthiest district in northern Tehran. Our two-story home was in an unrestrained French provincial style, over-grand and much too large for a family of three, but well lived in.
We were sitting In the upstairs TV room on the sofa side by side with our father anchored in the middle. I had already used the sharpest pair of scissors we had to neatly open the plain brown unmarked padded envelope so that my father could ceremoniously remove the VHS cassette tape without delay. This was Kojak night and my father and I especially loved that show. My sister and I always cheered every time my father took out that evening’s cassette. It was our favorite family ritual.
I suppose some American colleague of my father’s taped Kojak every week and sent it along with other things. We never saw who the cassettes were actually from and it really didn’t matter to us.
Our eyes were fixated on the envelope with anticipation as he held it in his hands. Just moments away from taking out that prized next episode, someone from our staff entered, the guard at the front gate was calling.
My father left the room and when he returned he said that he had business to attend to and that we could watch anything we wanted. When he turned away he said offhandedly to me in his courtly yet easy-going manner, “Be a gentleman and take care of your sister.” I recalled him saying this only years later as an adult. As a child I didn’t take notice of this parental instruction, but maybe he knew what was to come.
As much as I wanted to watch Kojak, I just couldn’t watch it without my father. While my sister found an old episode of Scooby-Doo on the shelf, I hid behind the curtains, looking down at our driveway, waiting to see who had ruined our Kojak night. I amused myself by timing when I would see the car appear and guessing its make, knowing it would probably be just another Mercedes Benz. If the gates were opened when my father was on the phone they would be here in two more seconds. I timed it too quickly a couple of times, then finally a Range Rover, with its high beams on, drove straight up the drive to our house then parked on the circular driveway in front.
I watched as a bodyguard, in a dark European suit, open the door for a man in green army fatigues carrying a leather valise. His pants were tucked into his boots and from what I remember he looked like a Moshe Dayan look-a-like without the eye patch. The bodyguard stood by our front door and another waited closer to the car. The driver remained ready behind the wheel.
I wish that I could go back in time and enter my father’s office like a precocious child, “Just looking to see what the grown-ups were doing,” while he brought out his best cigars and best whiskey or red wine or whatever they were drinking. I would walk behind my father’s desk, open the top drawer, remove the loaded Baretta 92 and shoot the visitor dead. But I guess that wouldn’t really have helped the situation and I’m not even sure if this visitor was related to what happened later that evening. But when I was younger I used to wish that I had killed that man and his two security guards and driver, but in the end it wouldn’t have mattered. And I sincerely think I would not have been able to figure out how to shoot that pistol anyway.
I’m pretty sure that the man left his valise with my father. I don’t know what was in it, maybe American dollars, or heroin or frozen pizza. It’s absolutely impossible to speculate. All we knew at the time was that our father was in the business of shipping. He would say that he was a shipper, like “a junior Onassis,” but in reality that was a lie, he had been an arms dealer, like a drug trafficker, but with weapons; assault rifles, submachine guns, grenade launchers, and explosives for both personal and small unit use.
He did have an office, but a lot of his work was done at home with visitors stopping by, so it wasn’t unusual for this visitor to see my father that evening.
(We did get a basket of fruit from the Shah once, when my mother passed away. I never met him and I don’t think he ever came to the house.)
The last time I ever saw my father was later that evening, in the dead of night, the perfect time to add terror and confusion to any situation. The butt of rifles pounded at our front door. A man was yelling for someone to, “Open up.” It felt like we were being attacked by an invading army.
I rushed into my sister’s room where she was sitting up in her bed, silently listening. In my haste, I yelled at her to stay where she was and that in turn caused her to panic and start wailing. I ran down the stairs to see our worried butler in black socks, slippers and a thin white robe over white boxers waiting by the door for instructions. The pounding increased and the yelling became louder and incoherent. My father casually walked down the stairs and waved for the door to be open. Men with rifles in desert fatigues rushed in. The Artesh, our own army, seized my father.
I wish that my father had taken our gardener’s daughter to Monaco for a shopping spree and had not been at home. We had twelve gardener’s, and I’m just guessing that one would have had a daughter, sister or aunt that my father could have taken out of town for a good time. Or why wasn’t I smart enough to stall them at the front until my father could make a run for the chauffeur’s room and pull the covers over his head, “and not be found at home.” But he had been watched and they would have known.
At that time my father slept in New York Knicks sweatpants. When he was led away he wore Adidas trainers, his New York Knicks sweats and a large puffy St. Louis Cardinals jacket. I was so embarrassed to see him walking away in that red bulky thing. I wished he had been wearing a slim zippered Manchester United or Arsenal jacket. That’s what I was thinking when my father was led away.
He had been allowed to speak to us briefly with soldiers tightly surrounding us in a huddle. My father calmly leaned close to our faces and told us that he would be coming home soon and not to worry, that it was just some mix-up. I believed him. I believed every word that he said even though a militia had just raided our home in the middle of the night. This wasn’t a secret death squad or insurgent forces that took my father away, we had seen their faces, it was our own military, so of course this was a mistake. He didn’t hug me or my sister before he left and I know why. If he had, his emotions would have taken over and I’m sure he would have cried and then we would have known that this was much more serious than he let on.
My sister and I left that night with a well-paid housekeeper and we never returned. My father probably knew that this was a possibility and had this scenario in place. I don’t know who my father dealt with, but I’m sure he sold to everyone regardless of country, race or religion. But who knows who had my father taken away. It could have been a jealous husband (highly unlikely), someone my father knew too much about or maybe someone was sending a message to others and my father was just the one that they had picked. It could have been someone we affectionately called, “uncle,” who gave me presents for my birthday. It is just impossible to know.
I wish that I could go back in time, to this one night, so that I could tell my father that everything came out okay. My sister married her college sweetheart, a defensive lineman for Rutgers. He is a good provider and enjoys riding his lawnmower on the weekends. Sometimes if I find myself talking to an excruciating American I use variations of my airport lounge icebreaker, “I love my former Rutgers defensive lineman brother-in-law. I don’t want my nephews to go to war.” My sister is the go-to pediatrician in Fairfield County, Connecticut for all Fortune 500 A-Listers.
I used to want to think that my father did what he did to stop all wars, but I’m sure he did what he did because that’s what he did. He was probably a double-dealer, too. In a way I am my father’s son, but instead of selling armaments to his former clients I am their negotiator, a diplomat. Maybe it’s a son’s atoning for the father’s sins.
Sometimes I meet someone and I think, “Maybe he’s the one who had my father killed,” but it’s an easy thing to think and who would admit that they had someone killed? And I can’t keep asking every aged Iranian chauffeur I meet, where he was on that night. And the man who had come to the house that night, who knows where he was from. My sister and I never tried to find our father’s killer. He knew the company that he kept. None were innocent.
I wish I could go back in time and let my father know that everything is all right. We did well. I don’t know if I would tell him that my sister celebrates Christmas now. I guess I would, I don’t think he would think that was such a big deal. He would probably put the Kojak DVD box set on his Christmas list.
The End
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