Page 39 of People Change

Tehran

Now

December. Her planned visit to Tehran is a much-needed escape. No one cares about Rob Grayson there. The whole UK publishing industry means nothing there either.

While Shirin would not say she has a strong connection to Iran – having lived in England all her life – it is her Maman Bozorg that she associates with the country. There is nothing Shirin relishes more than sitting next to her grandmother while she speaks about the universe and Allah’s love, imparting calm wisdom and grounding guidance. Iran is special to Shirin solely because it is where her Maman Bozorg is.

She takes a direct flight from Heathrow Airport to Tehran, via Iran Air. At the airport she takes a picture of her ticket and passport and posts it as an Instagram story with the caption ‘Goodbye ’. When she is in Itsu getting a pre-flight snack, Kian replies to it:

@KianRahimi:Sick – I didn’t know you were going. I hope you have a great trip

She has no right to be jealous that he is seeing someone, but she is. They have not spoken much since the night at hers.They sometimes message, though she is cautious not to entertain the conversation for too long. He asks her how she is and Shirin always says she is great, even though she is tearful most of the time and is constantly thinking: I want to die. Though she does not actually want to die, she doesn’t think. She just wants things to be different.

She Hearts his message, though she would like to reply. It’s simpler this way.

The plane is loud, with Iranians shouting across their seats to each other, some laughing, others arguing. There is always a buzz on planes to Iran; it is unlike any other flight she has been on. The familiarity of the language they are speaking, combined with quite how fussy her people are, makes it both a stressful and humorous experience.

Two women, one next to her and the other in the row behind, get into an argument because the lady in front leant her chair back, and the one behind asked her to pull it back up. Shirin cannot help but think if they were English they would be more passive-aggressive in their response. Perhaps the person next to her would do as asked, but grumble about it.

But instead the woman says, ‘No, I don’t want to.’

The woman behind says, ‘Fine,’ before turning to the person next to her and saying loudly, ‘Some people are so selfish. I’m not going to be able to sleep a wink for the next seven hours because of this khar.’Donkey.

Shirin is not sure what happens next as she puts her headphones in and cranks the volume up. Each time she shuts her eyes, though, she’s taken back to Hull, to North Oak. It wasn’t like this before she saw Kian back in the summer; he’sawoken a time she’d buried in her mind. She lets her thoughts wander to what would have happened if she had never met Rob, if he’d gone to another school. Kian wouldn’t have been suspended and forced to go to a different college. They wouldn’t have been forbidden to speak to each other. She wouldn’t have said the things she said to Kian – ugly, untrue words that she wishes now she could take back, but alas. Their lives would be different.

Six hours later they are informed that the plane is about to land. The women who do not already have their hijabs on get theirs out of their bags and begin to put them on themselves and their young daughters. Shirin gets hers out of her backpack. It is a navy cotton-polyester blend. She has patterned ones in her suitcase, but made the decision to be subtle when going through security. Her mother always warned her, before flying to Tehran, that it’s not good to stand out in airport security. That if they saw her British passport they might take it away, as they don’t believe in dual citizenship, leaving her stranded in Iran.

Passing security, however, is smoother than she’s built it up to be. She is not even asked why she is visiting. She only shows her Iranian passport, keeping her British one safely tucked away in her backpack’s inside compartment.

Once she retrieves her suitcase, Shirin scans the people waiting at Arrivals. She sees a group with red roses, even balloons, waving towards her. Her heart skitters, she looks down, briefly embarrassed, until she realises she does not recognise any of them and that they are waving at the woman behind her. She shoves her hands into her coat pockets, gazingahead, trying to find her mother’s face. She cannot see her. After five minutes of waiting she perches on a nearby bench and attempts, unsuccessfully, to log onto the airport’s Wi-Fi. She keeps trying, even though it is clearly not going to happen. She went to the toilet on the aeroplane because she cannot bear to use an Iranian squat toilet – especially a public one. But because she knows she cannot use any nearby toilet, she now feels as though she needs to go. She crosses her legs and gives a heavy, prolonged sigh.

Twenty minutes later her mother arrives, tapping Shirin on her shoulder from behind, jolting her into awareness. She gives a string of half-hearted apologies, blaming everything from traffic, to parking, to Shirin being early (she wasn’t), to the airport being too big and getting lost.

‘Don’t worry,’ Shirin says, hugging her mum. It is only when she is next to her mother that she realises how petite she is. From a distance she has a real presence about her, which makes her appear much taller than she is.

Her mother wears her hijab loose on her head, the top of her hair marginally showing. This is not her mother bending the rules, as many in Iran do, but likely because it is the dead of night and her mother has rushed over to the airport. She wears a long monto that falls above her ankles, and she can just about see the black leggings she is wearing underneath. Her mother is slender; she is habitually on a diet, which she habitually breaks, continuing a cycle of cheat days and restriction. Her face, though, looks a lot more relaxed, compared to the last time Shirin saw her in person.

Shirin is led to the car, a white Fiat that has seen better days. The inside is clean, however, with brightly coloured cushions on each seat. Her mother puts the heater on, and initially it blows out only cold air.

‘It just needs a minute to warm up,’ her mother says, pulling out of the parking spot. ‘Did you have a good flight? No one bother you?’

‘It went smoothly, thanks.’

Silence drags between them. She loves her mother, but she has nothing to say to her. Shirin has always been hyper-aware of what people want from her; what kinds of conversations she should have with the different people in her life. There is nothing she dreads more than being considered boring or uninteresting. So, knowing that any life update she gives her mum will not pique her interest, she assumes silence is better.

‘Thanks for collecting me,’ she eventually says.

‘Of course. Remember, though, no one but your Maman Bozorg and aunt know about the divorce, so if anyone asks,hecouldn’t take time off work for it.’ Her mum sighs heavily. It is like the sigh pushes her mother’s worries onto Shirin. She can feel them heavy inside her now, and instead of telling her mother how she is feeling – her own struggles – she stacks her mother’s troubles atop her own.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ A pause. ‘When do you think you’re going to tell people?’

They slip onto the motorway, her mum’s car audibly straining in its attempts to go more than 65 kph. Shirin looksto her mother, sees the way her lips are pursed, the curves of her eyebrows.

‘I don’t know. I’m just trying to get through one day at a time. There’s a lot going on here, you know. I’m glad I’m here to help Maman Bozorg. I think now that’s all that matters.’ Her words are cagey, alluding to something. This is something her mother often does. She knows Shirin will prod. How can she not?

‘What do you mean? What’s going on?’ Her mind jumps to the worst-case scenarios: cancer. Dying. Death.

‘Your grandma’s carer.’ She shakes her head before indicating to change lanes. Even so late at night the highway is busy, with cars cramming together, not following the three lanes, but creating five, sometimes six. Driving in Tehran lacks rules – you need to be comfortable with constant near-misses and the occasional bump to your car. ‘We fired her.’