Sex & The Islamic City: part 8

In these days of war and international threat, life in Iran has taken an even stranger turn than usual. Inflation is raging, every day my aunts come back from the grocer with news that chicken has doubled in price or today tomatoes have become unaffordable. Evry day we seem to be saying goodbye to our wealthy friends who are leaving in droves for second homes in Canada, the UK and Dubai. Those who can't leave but have the resources are transferring their assets out of the country. But ordinary Iranians who have no choice but to stay here and face whatever comes instead are too busy enjoying themselves to even comment, busy having fun with increasing urgency.

They don’t talk about war or sanctions but instead plan parties and holidays; the cult of bi khial is taking on epidemic proportions. It is only within the foreign community that these things are discussed, among the diplomats, foreign correspondents and hyphenated Iranians like me (British-Iranian or American-Iranian). We stand around sipping fine wines safe within the walls of embassy compounds revelling in diplomatic immunity, wondering what will happen. We can do this because we all have a choice, we can decide to leave. We all have other passports, other lives, other homes and other bank accounts with foreign currency waiting for us in our other countries. Ordinary Iranians, for better or worse, have to live with whatever happens, and since what will happen is not in their hands, ordinary Iranians choose to not to take anything very seriously, instead pouring their energy into diversions. And as I soon found out, one of the biggest diversions of all is sex.

My lover called me late one evening and instead of discussing the possible threat of war, I asked how the passeggiata had been. ‘Well,’ he said with a note of pride, ‘it was interesting tonight. I was in a really bad mood and I got so many looks! I could have got lots of new “friends” tonight…’

I have seen this small town passeggiata for myself and it is a vibrant scene, with boys gelled to perfection and girls made up as if for a wedding. I have also noticed the looks that pass between boys and girls, having been on the receiving end of several of them myself. Being English by upbringing, I have a habit of looking people in the eye and so when the passeggiata boys threw me those looks, I looked back, noticing a crescendo effect in the suggestiveness of the looks that came back. So I learnt to drop my gaze and adopt a degree of Islamic modesty at this late point in my life.

Me: ‘What do you mean looks? What do you mean friends?’

Him: ‘Well, you know, girls look at you to let you know they fancy you and you can start something with them.’

Me: ‘Oh, and did you want to start anything tonight??’

Him: ‘Listen, English, since you have been in the country I haven’t started anything new. I don’t want to. Because I am in love with you so even though I know you will leave, I can’t get interested in anyone else.’

That’s when he explained to me what a loose concept fidelity has become in Iran. By the rules of engagement here, he is perfectly free to pick up other girls – we are not married, I am not with him and soon, I will be on the other side of the world, with no future decided between us. So I had to appreciate his forbearance.

Me: ‘OK, thanks. So tell me how it works?’

In Iran, where all contact between the sexes is tightly controlled by both the family and the Islamic regime, people – young people but by no means is this behaviour just restricted to the young – have found their way around the rules and, particularly now that the mobile phone and internet chat room have given boys and girls a private domain of their own, have carved a new social code that is anathema to the courting rituals understood by their parents. As ways to meet the opposite sex are thin on the ground, the contact possible on the street is precious. So in my lover’s small town, the passeggiata is the time to meet members of the opposite sex. I say ‘meet’ but in reality what happens is a mere exchange of glances; just two are enough to let you know if a girl is interested, says my lover. ‘She looks at you in a certain way and you look at her and then she may do something that indicates she likes you. You know a small smile or, well, a look…’

I ask him to be more precise but he struggles to explain. It seems you just have to be there.

Once the interest has been established then the man will follow the girl and her friends until an opportunity presents itself to speak. ‘Of course in small towns it is hard to go up to someone and speak to them. But in a crowded shop or something, then you can approach them and give them your phone number.’

Me: ‘What, just like that?’

Him: ‘You’ll say something like, I have something I need to say to you, I can’t tell you here, may I give you my number?’

Me: ‘What, and she just takes it?’

Him: ‘God no. You know how it is here. Girls are supposed to be modest so she will at least pretend she doesn’t understand you so you go back and forth a bit until she takes your number. Of course a few don’t bother pretending, they are just up for it.’

Me: ‘Hmm…’

He went to on to tell me that in his town, you can’t always approach people and so you have to pass the girl in question a note as you pass her in a narrow alley or some such place. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘this way is the most fun. It’s not even about the girl, but just about the hunt, about managing to make the contact, give the number. It’s quite exciting.’

I am amazed by the thought of my lover and his friends out every evening hunting the narrow streets.

Him: ‘Well, so you give her the number and she does the honour of calling you.’

Me: ‘And you don’t even know her name or she yours?’

Him: ‘No, but you chat on the phone and get to know each other a bit and then look for an opportunity to be alone. Of course it’s easy for me because I have my own house, so usually after about two or three phone calls, I invite them round if I still fancy them.’

I say nothing. Rather unreasonably, I am burning up with jealousy of every girl in his town.

He goes on: ‘You both know you want to meet up for sex, but you have to pretend. You say things like, let’s be somewhere where we can talk comfortably, or some girls like bullshit like, please come over so we can read poetry together.’

Me: ‘Poetry!’

Him: ‘Well, you know, Hafez, Sa’adi, Maulana. So they come over though you have to persuade them a bit cos they can’t be seen to be too easy. And you should see them, English, they come all scared of being spotted and then sit on the other side of the sofa and some don’t even take off their headscarf or manteau. You can tell perfectly well they aren’t really virgins or religious but they have to pretend till the last moment in order to preserve their honour. And the smaller the town, the more they talk of marriage. You kiss them and they immediately say you should go round for a formal courtship. I always tell them straight away this isn’t about marriage but it’s like they just have to keep on pretending. And you know, what’s worse is that they want you to pretend. They want you to lie to them, to tell them you are in love with them and you can’t live without them. Even though you both know you will probably never see each other again after you have fucked. Mostly it’s like that.’

Me: ‘Can you be bothered to do all this?’ My lover is one of the most honest and straightforward people I know.

Him: ‘No, I can’t really do the bullshit, which means lots of times it doesn’t work out for me. Which I prefer – you know there have been times when I am inside some girl and she is still trying to pretend that we are reading poetry!’

Me: ‘Darling, don’t you think this is a bit, well, messed up?’

Him: ‘My love, this is Iran. Haven’t you worked it out yet? Everyone here is acting in a film. Everything is changing, particularly for women who are no longer into their traditional roles but society hasn’t caught up, so they just do what they want and pretend they are doing something else all the while to make it palatable. They even lie to themselves. No one can deal with reality, and they prefer the film anyway. There are 70 million people in this country, English, and they are all giving Oscar winning performances.’

Me: ‘But not you?’

Him: ‘Oh I can act too. But, darling of my heart, with you I don’t have to, I can be myself. That’s why you are my best friend.’

And I realise in this world of pretence and deception, where in order to survive you have to lie to your family, friends, lovers and even to yourself, this is the biggest gift he can give me – his real, honest self.