A Beginner's Guide to Acting English Page 18

  Mitra typed out his poems and articles and Baba drew lots of cartoons for it too. The printer printed out all the pages of the magazine. Baba bought the pages home in boxes and Mr Canning helped him carry them up to our flat. Mr Canning couldn't read Farsi but he liked to look at Baba's cartoons and say, 'Oh well, you're a braver man than me, mate. I wouldn't wanna mess with this lot.'

  We bound the pages of the magazine together ourselves because it was cheaper than getting the printer to do it.

  'What's it called then, this paper of yours?' Mr Canning asked.

  'Asghar Agha.'

  'Who is Asghar Agha?'

  Baba shrugged. 'Mr Asghar is everybody and nobody. He is just an ordinary everyday person.'

  'Ah,' said Mr Canning. 'Joe Bloggs. I know him.'

  The production and distribution of Asghar Agha took place in our living room. Simin, Banou, Mitra, Ida, Mr Ghavimi and Shireen and, of course, Peyvand and I, were among the core group of regulars who spent hours folding pages of the paper, inserting the correct pages with one another according to page number, folding lengthways the completed magazine then stapling, stamping, labelling and bagging them ready for Baba to take to the post office. News of the magazine spread around the Iranian diaspora like wildfire and new subscriptions, and donations, came flooding in.

  You could not move for paper in our flat on Fridays. The stapling was the most fun job but I hardly ever got to do it because I wasn't very fast and I couldn't get the hang of fitting in new staples once they had run out. The stamping and labelling were the most prestigious jobs to get because you needed the most amount of concentration. If you were folding or layering, as I usually was, you could just drift off into your own world and do it without thinking. Occasionally you might come across a page that was blank because the printer's ink had run out and he hadn't noticed, but that didn't happen very often. Folding and layering may have been the easiest, but they were also the most dangerous. You didn't get paper cuts stamping or labelling. Paper cuts really hurt and you had to be very careful not to get blood on Asghar Agha. Maman had a supply of small sticking plasters and I was usually her first patient.

  Labelling was a highly skilled job. You had to keep an eye on whether or not some had been printed more than once, that the addresses were not smudged by shoddy printing. I was not allowed to label until I was much older and even then, only if no one else was available.

  Stamping too was a job only for the most keen-eyed and responsible workers. You had to be sure you were putting the correct stamp on the correct label.

  I longed to be promoted to stamp-sticker. Peyvand was allowed to do it now and then, but I was always folding. Just because I was the youngest, I always got the baby's jobs. After I had worked for a whole morning without complaining and supplying everyone with biscuits without being asked, Baba finally gave me a job sticking on stamps. There was no better way he could have let me know that I was as trusted and respected a member of the team as Peyvand. I messed up almost straight away. I put stamps enough for America on Asghar Aghas that were only going to Europe. This was a serious mistake. Simin put the kettle on to steam off the stamps. Baba was trying not to sound annoyed as he explained, 'Stamps are money! Do you know that? The stamps for America are a higher value because they are going furthest. Do you understand?'

  Of course I didn't understand. Stamps were just little squares with a picture of the Queen on them. 'You can put the airmail stickers on.' I was demoted and even though a monkey could put the little blue par avion stickers on, it was still better than folding for a change.

  On production days Maman kept chai flowing endlessly out of the kitchen. For lunch, Baba bought everyone chelo kebab or he got Mr Esfahani to make biriani for everyone.

  Workers were discouraged from reading the paper as they worked as fits of giggles slowed down production. 'What are you laughing at, Simin?' Simin was always the first to succumb.

  She read out the article which had made her laugh and everyone laughed loudly and repeated the joke to Maman who had been making tea and had popped her head around the door to join in. 'Come on, come on! Back to work!' Baba was both pleased and shy about everyone enjoying what he had written.

  I never knew what was funny about what Baba wrote because it was for grown-ups and my Farsi wasn't good enough, I didn't understand the big words and I didn't know enough about Iran.

  JUST LIKE HER FATHER

  Watching my own Baba standing at a party with all of the guests gathered around him roaring with laughter, even if they were elegant ladies who were usually very poised, gave me a feeling in my chest as though my heart was growing fast and would burst out of my chest.

  Even though everyone was laughing and listening to him, he was my baba, not theirs, and that meant that he loved me best. Nobody else had a baba like mine.

  I stood out from the other children, not because I was pretty or good at sums or anything like that, I stood out because I was Mr Khorsandi's daughter. 'Oh!' people said. 'You are Mr Khorsandi's daughter! Are you funny like your father?'

  It was a silly question – no one was as funny as Baba – but I enjoyed the attention and always said something or other so they laughed and said, 'She's just like Hadi! Isn't she like Hadi!'

  I was not just like Baba. People would never come for miles to hear me tell stories, or ask my opinion on this or that as though it was the most important opinion. I was funny sometimes but hardly ever as funny as even Peyvand, let alone Baba. It didn't matter though, because being his daughter was the best thing and it made people look at me and talk to me and whisper, 'She's Khorsandi's daughter, you know' and that was enough.

  Baba didn't have time to really find out what was going on for Peyvand and I at school. He was always writing or talking to people about Iran. He sometimes asked us what we had for lunch when he picked us up in his Ford Cortina, but I don't think he knew our teachers' names and he only went to school plays and open evenings because Maman shouted at him and made him go. This didn't mean Baba wasn't interested in what Peyvand and I did, he was very interested, but only if we had written a poem or drawn a picture or made up a funny song.

  Baba liked it the most when I came to talk to his guests and told them a little story or said cheeky things about my dad.

  I began to mimic the way Baba's friends spoke. 'Ay vai, Hadi Jaan!'

  Simin's voice was gravelly because she smoked quite a lot of cigarettes and she was very dramatic. 'Last night, I couldn't sleep, because I was laughing so much. I thought of a joke you wrote.' I did it perfectly. I waved my hands in the air like Simin did, holding an imaginary cigarette. 'I hadn't heard the joke before so I laughed and laughed until, bekhoda, I had a heart attack! Believe me, a heart attack!'

  Everyone laughed and clapped and encouraged me to carry on.

  I did Mitra. I put my hand on my hip and pouted.

  'Hello, my name is Mitra. I like to draw people, but only when they are naked. I can't draw clothes, they are just too difficult, I can only draw naked people. I draw naked men mostly.' Then I giggled and snorted the way Mitra did when she laughed and everyone burst out laughing. It was the best feeling in the whole word, better than cycling fast with Peyvand downhill at Hanger Hill park.

  The best thing was that Baba's eyes were shining with surprise and pride. He held his cigarette firmly in his mouth and clapped his hands hard together. 'Bravo! Bravo! Afareen, Shappi Jaan! Do more Baba Jaan!' So I did. I did Baba's 'these stamps are money. Money! You are wasting money!' I snarled exactly like Baba did when he was angry about something really stupid and everyone clapped and laughed, even Baba, who thought I was really exaggerating what he was like but really I wasn't at all.

  After that, at every party, Baba got me to perform for the guests. He would tell me who was going to be there and I'd stand in front of the mirror and practise something for each person. Everyone, especially the women, cried, 'Do me now! Do me!' I did my best to do everyone, but sometimes I had to tell someone I couldn't do them because I
didn't know them at all. So then, I would watch them for a bit and announce later on that I had something.

  Margaret Thatcher was posh and spoke slowly and in a very deep voice. I started working on my Margaret Thatcher impression because everyone knew her and talked about her and she was quite easy to do. She became my best impersonation and soon I did her all the time and hardly ever bothered with anyone else.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' my voice was just as deep as Thatcher's and I kept my tone gentle like hers and very, very posh. I held my back straight and my nose slightly in the air. 'Thank you so very much for gathering here to see me this evening. I am, of course, the most important person here. I am more important than Ronald Regan (there were proper titters here) more important than the Queen, goodness me, she looks like a horse (more titters) and I am much more important than the Ayatollah Khomeini.' There was proper laughter now. 'I mean, really, he looks like Father Christmas.'

  The grown-ups all laughed their heads off. Baba was smiling gleefully and raised his whisky glass at me, encouraging me to go on.

  'Thank you so very much, you are so kind. I do so love you foreigners, you make wonderful pets. Now, I must go. Dennis is running me a bath.'

  They loved me. My audience cried out for more. Beaming but remaining utterly professional and in character I gave them a regal wave and returned to my dressing room, the bathroom. There, I waited for a few second for the adrenalin to calm down before I went out to receive my praise.

  I did my shows at every party. I didn't care so much about playing with the other kids any more. I practised in the bathroom and waited for the time in the evening when Baba waved his whisky tumbler in the air and announced: 'Now, ladies and gentlemen! Mrs Thatcher will be here to address you all in just a few minutes.'

  Sometimes, I got such bad butterflies in my stomach that I felt sick. 'I'm too nervous,' I whispered to Peyvand once in the bathroom. Peyvand usually stopped whatever game he'd been playing with the other kids and came into the bathroom with me to help me prepare and practise my lines. 'I can't do it!'

  'Don't be nervous, if you are, just pretend it's Margaret Thatcher who's nervous and make a joke about it.'

  There was no need, once I was up there, I wasn't nervous any more and once I got the first laugh, I completely relaxed and enjoyed myself. Later in the evening when people were all sitting on cushions on the floor, Maman was pestered to sing a song. Sometimes she pestered me to sing a song, but I shook my head and backed away. I made jokes, I didn't sing.

  The most horrible thing ever happened once when we were at Mr Esfahani's house. I did my Margaret Thatcher impression and nobody laughed. I did all the same lines I usually did but all they did was smile politely at me and not laugh. I felt really bad, so bad that I wanted to tear my insides out. I sat on the edge of the bath of Mr Esfahani's house and burned with shame. There was a knock at the door and Baba told me to unlock it. Baba was smiling and said, 'Are you all right?' I burst into tears and Baba laughed and hugged me and said, 'Do you know what happened?'

  'They didn't think I was funny, I couldn't get them to laugh.'

  Baba said, 'You were speaking too fast, you didn't take your time and you kept forgetting to do the voice. You messed it up tonight. Never mind, just do better next time.'

  A few minutes after we went back downstairs, Ayatollah Khomeini entered the room. Me and most of the other people jumped and one lady gave out a loud 'Vai!' that was almost like a scream. Khomeini remained composed. He walked to the audience; Baba offered him a seat. The Ayatollah hesitated then bent over, wiped the seat with his hand then sat down and crossed his legs.

  At last I realised it was Peyvand and started to laugh. The mask was so lifelike that I froze when I first saw it but now I was laughing hard with everyone else, my failure forgotten. Peyvand was a little short to be an Ayatollah though, he almost tripped on the robe a couple of times. The mask was passed around and people shook their heads and declared they honestly though it was the man himself when Peyvand first walked in.

  'I picked it up in Paris,' Mr Esfahani said. 'You kids can keep it.'

  IRAN–IRAQ WAR

  We were on our way home from school one day in 1980. It was raining but only a very fine misty rain. I was carrying home some artwork. It was a collage with pieces of felt and bits of coloured macaroni on it. Maman said it was very good and asked what it was a picture of. I didn't know. It was just a picture.

  I didn't want to get it wet so we had to walk quite slowly so I could stay under the umbrella. I held on to Maman's umbrella arm and Peyvand took the other one. Maman said suddenly, 'Iran is at war now.'

  She said it in a way which meant she wanted to talk about it to someone but only we kids were there so she said it to us. Peyvand and I had learned about war at school. 'Is it the First World War or the Second?' I asked Maman.

  She laughed and said it was neither.

  'But Iran already had a war,' Peyvand said. 'You know, when Khomeini came and wanted to kill Baba.'

  That wasn't a war, Maman explained, that was a revolution.

  I was getting confused. 'Then who is fighting Iran?'

  'Saddam. Our neighbour,' Maman explained.

  'Maman Shamsi's neighbour?'

  Maman laughed again and said, 'No, azizam. Saddam Hussein is the leader of Iraq. Iraq is next to Iran. Saddam has attacked Iran.'

  The news showed pictures of the night skies, rockets raining down on Tehran.

  Because it was only different to Iran by one letter, people kept getting it wrong. 'Are you from Iraq?' Lee Windsor asked.

  'Durrr! NO! Irannn!'

  'Do you speak Arabic?'

  'No! We're not Arabs, they are. We speak Farsi.'

  No one at school knew anything about Iranians.

  Baba and Maman were glued to the crackling radio waves, trying to get snippets of news each day. The Iraqis seemed to be better armed than the Iranians. Every day there were more and more reports of Iranian cities being carpet bombed. I imagined soldiers on ornate flying carpets dropping bombs on the city below.

  'Tehran! They bombed Tehran last night!'

  Maman frantically began to try and call Maman Shamsi's house. The lines were dead. 'I can't get through.'

  'Calm down, it's okay, Fati, the lines just aren't back up yet.'

  'Have they bombed Maman Shamsi's house?'

  'No, don't worry, azizam, Tehran was on red alert last night, they will all have gone to Karaj.'

  Nadia was playing in the yard with Tara. She ran the miniature comb through Tara's hair and took her little pink cardigan off. The sun was setting and soon she would be called in for bed.

  'Would you like to sleep with me tonight, Tara? All right then, if you are very quiet and don't snore, you can sleep in my bed tonight.'

  Sindy sat patiently waiting for them, already in her pink pyjamas. She had arrived from Landan, from her big sister far away, and came with her very own pyjamas and dresses. Nadia had had to make Tara's new clothes herself. Her big sister in Landan had also bought Nadia some pink pyjamas to match Sindy's. The pyjamas were big for her because her sister thought she could grow into them and keep them for longer. Her sister didn't know that Nadia kept the clothes from Landan long after she had outgrown them.

  Nadia gathered Tara and Sindy up in her arms.

  Just as Nadia stood up, the slow wail of the air-raid siren began to sound. A flock of sparrows who had been settling down for the night in the trees outside the house burst out from the branches and flew purposefully over Nadia's head, across the yard. The sparrows were organised and did not panic. They flew over Nadia's head urgently and calmly to wherever sparrows go in an air-raid. From behind the orange gate she heard mothers go out to the street calling for their children who were already running homeward. Everyone was gathering up those they loved to run and hide.

  Nadia's mother ran to the yard. She was carrying the basket she always kept at the ready for when the sirens sounded. They were so loud now. The yard was bustling.
Her father was ushering in some neighbours who did not have a basement of their own.

  The man put his hand to his chest and performed the Iranian nods and gentle bows. 'Salaam, Mokhtar Khan, Shamsi Khanoom, how are you both.'

  'We are very well,' Shamsi returned the pleasantries, 'we are very well, delighted to see you, please, do come in.'

  She gestured her guests towards the basement hideout and they accepted with utmost courtesy as though they were about to sit down to tea and sweets and discuss a possible marriage rather than go down into a basement bath and wait there as their city burned.

  No one slept properly in the shelter. The neighbour snored even louder than Baba Mokhtar. Nadia kept Tara close to her and wrapped her hands around her ears so at least she would get some sleep. Even though Maman Shamsi and Baba Mokhtar's rugs and pillows kept the floor of their basement soft, the family gave up on sleep. They sat up all night listening to the shelling and the rumbles of nearby buildings collapsing. Whose house was it? Had they got out? Had they gone to the mountains or were they safely in a shelter?

  Dawn brought silence then sounds of normality. Birds sang and cocks crowed. The district was eerily silent after the night's violence. There was no suit man calling, no chatter of children going to school, no women laughing with their neighbours.

  The rescue operations began soon after dawn. So did the sobbing and the screaming and the wailing as the damage was surveyed. With only their hands as tools, the men went in search of bodies under rubble. Mehdi, who, since his brother Masood's death had lived in a haze, answered a neighbourhood call to help at a house three streets away. The house had been hit and the family had been home. Mehdi and other men began to unpick the ruins. They heard moans and cries. An old woman was pulled free, bloody but alive. She called for her daughter and her daughter's children. She screamed for them to be found. Dayee Mehdi picked up a slab. A woman's hand. Quickly he unpicked the rubble around her. Her arm was clear, now her head. She was face down, probably unconscious. Excitedly he shouted for aid and unearthed enough of her upper body to be able grab her underarms. He braced himself to carry her weight and lifted her out. He stumbled backwards and almost fell. The weight he imagined was not there. Beneath her chest there was nothing.