Sex and the Islamic City: part 7

Living in Tehran is not exactly like living in London, where I have a variety of ways to entertain myself any given minute of the day (nearly). It may be that a simple desire to go for a swim here is attended by the hassle of finding a pool which allows women to swim on the day and time I wish to go (of course swimming pools are strictly segregated); and going out to the latest hot restaurant, movie or concert may mean having to stay dressed in my manteau and headscarf throughout the evening, but at least there are some options. At least, of an evening when my date comes to pick me up to escort me to a party, I feel safe in the knowledge that the doorman of my very posh tower block is not going to ring the religious police to report me for being alone with a man, and as for his opinion of me – this foreign Iranian who only ever has gentlemen callers – I care not a jot.

The cultural life of Tehran is surprisingly rich, with private views of art, secret screenings of controversial documentaries and movies, underground rock concerts, officially sanctioned classical concerts, and even illegal fashion shows on offer almost every night, as long as you know the right people. Alternatively you can get on the party circuit with Tehran’s rich and beautiful, those expensively-suited men and their glossy, whippet thin wives who live in penthouse suites of marble towers or behind the walls of sprawling villas in the north of Tehran in the lap of the mountains. If this isn’t your scene then you can penetrate the circle of foreign journalists, diplomats and NGO workers with their unkempt hair who observe life in the city with a wry detachment always amusing to a girl missing the dry British sense of humour and longing to party in jeans with a face bare of the thick make up that is de rigueur in society here.

When I get bored during the day, I slick on some lipstick and ring my most glamorous cousin who screeches up at the gates in her huge white SUV, a pair of outsize Chanel sunglasses perched atop expensively blonde hair and the season’s latest silk headscarf knotted loosely at her throat. She takes me off to a number of very shiny shopping malls in the north of Tehran where we browse designer boutiques and drink coffee in wannabee coffee shops called things like Starcups. We swap gossip about the family, discuss the best shape for me to train my eyebrows into and laugh at the fashionistas who have taken the summer’s tanned look a little too far and are glowing bright orange. She drops me off when she has to pick up her son from his round of classes, always leaving me with a party invite. I love my cousin and I enjoy dipping into her Yummy Mummy routine once in a while, but after attending several of her parties, I feel life is too short for the vapid conversation and explicit competition that characterises the interaction of these Yummies when they are gathered together with their husbands.

Life in my lover’s town couldn’t be more different. With a population of 100,000 people, the quickest walk through town is delayed by hundreds of stops to ask after the health of my lover’s legion of acquaintances. With no recreation on offer, not even a cinema in town, come the early evening when the summer weather has cooled, everyone pours into the streets. Gangs of girls congregate and gangs of boys dawdle and they throng the bazaar and coffee shops and parks. It is a nightly passeggiata of which the Italians would be proud, and, despite the paucity of the entertainment on offer, everyone is determined to enjoy themselves.

While I was staying with my lover’s family, the Friday night passeggiata was the most extravagant of the week. Friday being the Sabbath here, and my lover’s home town being set in beautiful mountain country, it is traditional for families to spend Friday out of town, enjoying the multi-generational, elaborate picnics I remember so fondly from my childhood. Just after dawn we would start packing the car with essentials: a samovar and tea pot, a few pans full of saffron lemon chicken to kebab, rice and herbs, quantities of flat bread, flasks of water, the yoghurt drink so good at sending you off on an afternoon nap, and a few Persian carpets and cushions to sit on. The whole family would pack into several cars and by the time the sun was up in the sky, we would be breakfasting under a tree in golden fields. An excursion would follow, perhaps to an ancient fortress so neglected we would be the only people there (it’s hard to imagine a 2,500-year old fortress in Europe begin thus ignored) after which we – the young people – would maybe climb a mountain, my lover and I racing to get away from his brother in law and younger brother to steal a kiss. Panoramic views and cool breezes would greet us at the top, and we would spot where his parents and the other women of the family had gathered to start cooking lunch before racing back down, avoiding the locusts and the geckos, to join them.

Lounging on the carpets in the embrace of a venerable walnut tree, we would be fed steaming hot rice stained with saffron and chicken kebabed on an open fire. Afterwards, we would all lie back and doze, my lover lying on one carpet between his brother, father and brother-in-laws while I shared my carpet with his sisters and mother and little nephews and although I would be careful not to look at him too much, lying there under the walnut tree in acres of gold with folds of mountains stretching away, watching butterflies swoop and my lover sleep on a beautiful carpet in the middle of his tribe, was enough to make me feel content with my lot.

Back from our old fashioned day, my lover would then bundle me into the car and insist we go on passeggiata. Usually these days were long and I wanted nothing other than to sit in front of the television with more tea chuckling at inanities with his mother, but he would insist and we would arrive where a handful of cars were parked overlooking a main square and a park. It was crowded, the streets full of cars for once driving very slowly instead of the usual breakneck speed and the pavements thick with people. The first time he took me to this spot he explained that this patch belonged to just a handful of families who came here every Friday, since it was a prime spot for seeing and being seen.

Me: ‘But look, why are we here? Aren’t you tired? I really need to be at home having a shower…’

Him: ‘Patience, English, I’ll tell you why I insisted later…’

I acquiesced and, joined by his sisters and their husbands, we stood about by the car, greeting friends who drove up and crunching sunflower seeds. I noticed that he was not keeping his distance from me as he usually did, standing so close to me as we talked that I could feel his breath on my face. After having to fight all my instincts to be close to him all day, this sudden public intimacy was intoxicating. It was also puzzling, until I noticed how all the other girls gathered around were looking at us.

When no one was within earshot, I leaned into him and asked what was going on.

Him: ‘See how everyone is looking? Now they are all going to think I have found a fiancée and not told anyone. It’ll be the week’s headline news for all the gossips. It’s just too irresistible.’

Me: ‘So you are using me to get everyone off your back?’

Him: ‘You know how the big topic in town is why I don’t take a wife? Let’s give them something to talk about.’

Me: ‘What about your reputation?’

Him: ‘Well English, you are our honoured foreign guest, and all the gossips will be frustrated once word reaches my parents and they laugh and say that you are like a sister to me.’

Me: ‘Am I like a sister to you?’

Him: ‘Darling of my heart… Shall I kiss you right here right now? Would that answer your question?’

Me: ‘Oh yes please…’

And as we leaned into each other, locked into each other’s eyes, the cars and the lights and the jealous girls melted away and for one delirious moment we nearly broke every rule and convention and law and kissed right there and then. Of course our lips never actually met but the fire between us was burning so bright it must have dazzled anyone paying attention. And we looked at each other and laughed. After all, what could they say when I was his honoured guest and like a sister to him…