Oath of Office

A metallic rattle drew his attention to the door. His hand drifted to the 9x18 Makarov in his jacket pocket. He sometimes felt a little outgunned by the larger SIG Sauer .45s the IRGC carried, but the little Makarov had been around since the Cold War, was still issued — and he could shoot it with deadly effect.

He relaxed a notch when Maryam came through the door and pushed it shut with her lovely hip. She flipped the deadbolt while she juggled a briefcase and a canvas bag of bread and vegetables. At thirty-seven, she was a year younger than Dovzhenko. She wore a fashionable pantsuit of dark blue, loose enough to hide the swells and curves that he knew were underneath. With most of her body covered, he was immediately drawn to her eyes — and what eyes they were, wide and round and the color of mossy agate — not exactly brown, but not quite green. She reminded him of the American actress Natalia Wood. Dark hair, damp from the rain, peeked from the front of a compulsory headscarf that matched her blue slacks. Ya rusari ya tusari, she often said. A scarf or a beating.

He rose quickly, taking the bags.

“Any trouble?” he asked.

She’d not had to walk far, but the morality police often patrolled the areas around the metro stations and grocers at this time of the evening.

“None,” she said, voice husky, matching the earthy intensity of her eyes. “I used Gershad to get me past the idiots quite unmolested.”

Dovzhenko would have laughed had it not been so tragic. Gershad was an app used to avoid the Gashte Ershad, or morality police. Similar to mobile applications that warned of a radar trap, users of Gershad posted locations where they had seen the chador-clad women and uniformed officers. Icons of bald, bearded morality goons appeared on a map of the city. To Maryam and other women who wished to wear their scarves pushed back an extra inch or enjoy a cup of tea with a male acquaintance, the app was as normal as using a GPS to navigate to an unknown address.

“I found fresh cucumber and tomato — hothouse, this early in the year, but they looked nice.” She kissed him, grabbing him by the belt buckle when he turned for the kitchen.

“What a cold little hand,” he said, quoting her favorite opera.

She scoffed. “You are aware that Mimì dies in La Bohème?”

“I know,” he said. “But I do not feel like being happy today.”

She pulled him closer. “Do you feel like being hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Nor do I,” she said. “Not for hothouse tomatoes, anyway.”

She turned for the bathroom, as she always did when she got home. He joked that she was conditioned to pee as soon as she saw her own front door. When she came out a moment later, she was minus the rusari and her jacket.

“That is much better.” She sighed, tripping out of her shoes as she led him by the hand into the bedroom.

21

Later, much later, Dovzhenko lay with one hand behind his head, the other tracing the small bumps of Maryam’s spine. She sat hunched forward, arms hugging the tangle of sheets that was pulled over her knees. Shoulders bare, she was beautifully exposed down to the twin dimples at the small of her back. An engraved pendant was suspended on a silver chain against her breasts. Usually one for quiet banter, she was silent now, which meant she had something important on her mind. Dovzhenko continued to run his fingers along her skin, and gave her time to think.

At length, she leaned against the headboard and lifted the necklace over her head. She held up the pendant, letting it swing to and fro as if to hypnotize him. “Do you know what this is?”

“A flower,” he said, giving a little shrug. He let his hand slide down her side to touch her knee.

“It is an inverted tulip,” she said. “A lily, actually, that grows on the mountains above us. We call it ashk-e-Maryam—Maryam’s tears.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I tell you this because I want you to know me.”

Dovzhenko sat up beside her and put a finger to her lips. “I know enough to be happy.”

“You Russians,” she said. “You are so fond of fairy tales that you shy away from real life.”

“I am being honest,” Dovzhenko said. “I know you well enough.”

“No,” she said, pulling away. “You do not. But I know you… what you do.” She rolled to reach for her cigarettes on the side table, flicked open the metal case, and then held out a trembling palm.

He gave her his lighter and then sat back again, eyeing her.

“Okay, then,” he said. “What do I do?”

“Do you think I am stupid?” She picked a fleck of tobacco from her lip and blew a cloud of smoke at his face, clicking the lighter open and shut, open and shut. “Any Russian who stays in Iran for as long as you have is either a scientist or a spy.” She gave him a wan smile. “And you are not quite boring enough to be a scientist.”

“Maryam—” Dovzhenko began to trace a circle on the hollow of her hip. “I am merely an adviser to your government science programs. I am telling you the—”