Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

We just sat there talking about nothing for half an hour. Steve got up and said, “I’m going to the bathroom, and on my way back to our table, I’ll stop at her table and suggest that she join us.”

Moments later Steve returned to our table with Erikka. I got up. “Ian, I want to introduce my classmate. Erikka, this is Ian Pour Laval, a Canadian author whose novel my company is about to publish.”

I shook her hand. It was small and tender. She smiled shyly. “Erikka and I were students at the American School in Tehran until the Islamic Revolution,” he said.

“Really.” I sounded interested. “I didn’t know you had an Iranian past. Please, please sit down.” Steve grabbed another chair and they sat at my table.

“Yes, I studied there for five years, but Erikka was a lifer-K through twelfth grade, wasn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yes. All my childhood and adolescence was spent there.”

“Have you seen each other since you left Tehran?”

Erikka tried to remember. “Yes, I think we met once in Zurich, right, Steve?”

“Yes,” he said. “What a small world.”

“Does the fact that you spent time in Iran have anything to do with your management’s decision to send you to meet me?” I asked, as if I had just discovered America.

“A lot to do with it,” answered Steve. And turning to Erikka he said, “Ian is writing a novel on an impossible love relationship between a Muslim Iranian man and a Catholic Austrian woman.”

“Really,” said Erikka with a spark of interest in her eyes. “Where does it take place?”

“Mostly in Tehran in the early 1980s.”

“At the height of Khomeini’s period,” said Erikka. “That type of romance during that time was really problematic. Are you here also for the book?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “To do some research about Vienna and meet with Steve.”

“Are you familiar with Iran? Have you ever been there?” “No,” I conceded. “But I’ve got Iranian roots.”

“Now, this is a surprise,” said Steve. “How?”

“My paternal grandfather was born in Iran, but left the country when he was nineteen or twenty years old and never returned.”

“So, I’m sure you must have relatives in Iran. Do you know of them?”

“I think I’ve got a few second or third cousins, but I’ve got no idea what their names are or where they live.”

Steve’s mobile phone rang. Steve listened and said, “I’ll be right over.”

“I apologize,” he said. “I must leave, but you should stay. Erikka, where can I get hold of you? I’d love to see you again sometime.”

“How long will you be in Vienna?”

“Just one more day, but I intend to be back with my wife next spring.”

Erikka wrote her number and gave it to Steve. “While I’m at it,” she told me, writing again, “here is my number. I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions regarding Iran.”

“Thanks,” I said and put the note in my pocket. “I may call you on your kind offer.”

“Please do,” she said in a friendly manner. “And I could help you regarding Vienna as well. I’ve been living here for the past nine years.” There was a slight tone of despair in her voice, a yearning for human contact, or I was imagining things.

“Great, I’ll certainly call you.” We continued chatting for ten or fifteen more minutes. I paid for the drinks and cakes. “I need to leave. Thank you very much for your offer,” I said, and left. She stayed behind.

Later on that night I was driven to meet Casey.

“It went smoothly,” I said. “She sounded eager to talk to anyone about anything. I don’t think we’ll face major difficulties in recruiting her.”

Two days later I called her.

“Hi, this is Ian Pour Laval. Steve Corcoran introduced us the other evening at the cafe.”

“Of course I remember our meeting. How are you?” “I’m fine, thanks; gaining weight on the Austrian food.” “Unfortunately I’ve experienced it too,” she said in acceptance.

“Well, it looks nice on you and bad on me. Anyway, I’ve got a quick question for you concerning Iran. I hope you don’t mind the short intrusion.”

“Not at all, I’m actually happy you called. I like talking about Iran.”

“I’m lucky I met you,” I said. “My question concerns family customs in Iran, and how a traditional family would treat a Muslim member of the family who dates a Catholic woman.”

“Just dating? No marriage plans are announced?”

“Well, at the beginning it was just a date-I need to fine-tune the dynamics of the reaction of people in the respective cultures when they see what develops between the two. Does the couple hear objections, or do people just talk behind their backs? Once I get a better feeling for that potential conflict, I’ll move on to the issue of marriage, and how society and their respective families treat them.”

“Generally speaking, Iranian society, like that of any other ethnic group, cannot be regarded as homogeneous,” said Erikka. “For example, Iranian farmers in the south have different family values and religious beliefs from city people. So you’ll have to tell me more about the familial background before I can attempt to answer your question.”

“The man is a Shiite Muslim, born and educated in Iran. He works as a pharmacist in a pharmaceutical firm in Tehran. The woman is a Catholic Austrian who came to Tehran to teach German in a local school. Her parents are farmers in southern Austria. By Iranian standards, due to his education and exposure to Western values, the man is considered modern. His family follows the traditional Islamic customs of marrying within the religion and according men superiority in the family. He’s torn between his love for her and his loyalty to his family and his up-bringing and culture.

“These are the general pa ram e ters. But obviously there are nuances when they’re faced with changing circumstances in Iran, and when her ideas on equal rights for women in the society clash with what she sees in his family and in Iran in general. Although I’m writing fiction, I want the book to be as accurate as possible as it concerns facts on Iran and its people’s daily life.”

“I think I can help you if you describe a particular event, and tell me from what perspective you want my answer-from the European woman’s or the Iranian man’s. I could do both.”

“Well, it seems that you’re more qualified to help me than I thought. Can we have dinner, at a place of your choosing, and we can chat?”

“Of course. When do you have in mind?”

I had the impression that she was available at any time I’d suggest. All I needed to do was set it up.

“How about tomorrow night?” I wanted to suggest to-night, but I didn’t want to look too eager, or embarrass her by suggesting that I knew that she had no other things to do.

“Fine, I’ll meet you at Figlmuller’s at seven thirty. Is that a good time?”

“Yes, but where is it?”

“Just opposite St. Stephan’s Cathedral. Any cabdriver will know the place. They serve genuine Viennese food, and there are even some Swiss dishes.”

When I arrived at the restaurant at exactly seven thirty, Erikka was already waiting for me at the bar. The place had a beautiful decor of vaulted arches and wood-paneled walls. Erikka was dressed in a low-cut black dress and had put makeup on her rosy cheeks. She looked radiant, ready for a date, not the professional meeting I had in mind.

“Thanks for agreeing to help me,” I said as I sat down. The smell of food made me almost drool.

“I’m happy to be needed.” She smiled. “Look at the blackboard,” she said. “This restaurant is famous for its old-style gigantic Wiener schnitzels.”