Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“No problem,” he said, and I sensed that he was somewhat surprised that I had met his challenge.

After awhile, I excused myself, saying I thought they would like some time to catch up, and that I could use some rest. An hour later, my room phone rang. “Ian,” said Erikka. “I didn’t realize you already finished your book. You never told me.”

“It’s just a first draft,” I said, wondering whether she suspected anything. “In fact I’ve just written another page which isn’t included in the printed draft.”

“I’m so curious-can I see it?”

“Sure, meet me in the lobby.”

I quickly copied longhand from a printed page the CIA had prepared for such a contingency. I tore the printed page to pieces and flushed it in the toilet. I couldn’t give her a printed page I said I’d just written.

A few minutes later we sat on the soft couches in the lobby and I gave her the text. “Razak, can I ask you a personal question?” she asked shyly, ignoring the staring looks of guests at the restaurant. Abelina felt encouraged that Razak had agreed to meet her publicly. “I think so, but I don’t promise an answer.” “Have you ever loved a woman that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?” “I thought I did, but I was wrong.” “Do you think it could ever happen again? I mean, falling in love?” Abelina clenched her fists in anticipation. “I hope so, but it hasn’t happened yet…” Razak thought of the too-many introductions his family made to eligible young females. He was tired of the futile efforts and the not-so-subtle pressure of his family to marry. They had to realize that times had changed. “What would she have to be like?” Razak hesitated. The questions were too direct. Iranian women didn’t discuss these matters with men who are not family, but he felt mysteriously drawn to this fair-skinned woman with the soft voice, making him forego custom. “It’s difficult,” he said, looking at her blue eyes, resisting the urge to hold her hand. “Because there are rules I set for myself that I must follow before I bind myself forever.” “Rules? What rules?” asked Abelina as she looked him in the eye. She bent over the table and he smelled her perfume. Razak took a deep breath. “I must love her with all my heart so that I will never make her cry from sorrow. God counts her tears.” “That is so nice,” said Abelina softly. “Any other rules? “Yes, equality,” he said. “I read in the Bible you gave me that Eve was created from Adam’s rib, not from his feet, nor from his head. Therefore my loved one, who loves the Bible so much, cannot be below me or superior to me, but at my side to be my equal. She’ll be under my arm to be protected, and next to my heart to be loved. But she’ll always have to remember my tradition and follow my lead through it.” Abelina sent her hand under the table and held his hand.

Erikka gave me back the page. “You’re so talented,” she exclaimed. “It’s so romantic. I can’t wait to read the rest of the novel.”

“This piece is also just a first draft.”

If Erikka had had any suspicion of me, I think reading that page shelved it.

The jangling telephone woke me up. The sunrise was just beginning to send rays through my window.

“Hello, Ian. This is Hasan. Remember me?” His tone was unnaturally friendly. “I read most of your book last night, and enjoyed it immensely.” I felt proud until I remembered I hadn’t written it, and that in fact I didn’t believe he’d read it, maybe just flipped through it.

“Thank you, it’s very kind of you. I need every bit of criticism to fine-tune it, but people seem just to compliment me rather than criticize.”

“Of course there’s always room for change,” he quickly agreed. “Although I’m not a professional writer or reviewer, I think that as an Iranian I could draw your attention to a few points that could be better explained.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“Good, then we’ll have lunch and talk about it.” A Revolutionary Guard top executive moonlights as a literary critic? Hello? Add the sense that he was too eager, though in a polite and subtle way, and the conclusion could be ominous. Was I the mouse in Aesop’s fable about the lion and the mouse? I didn’t care to think what usually happens in these rendezvous. In the fable they live together in friendship and in harmony forever after, but in reality I knew who got devoured. Never the lion.

Hasan, all smiles, came to my hotel at noon. He drove me to Shandiz Jordan Persian Restaurant on Jordan Street. Where was his driver? I wondered. Hasan was warmly and enthusiastically welcomed by the owner, who practically bowed and danced around him. I felt embarrassed. We sat at a corner table without ordering anything, and a school of waiters started loading our table with delicious Iranian chello kebab and shishlik. Contrary to a rule of thumb I’d coined after eating in fancy restaurants in Europe and the U.S., where the bigger the plate was, the smaller the portion, here both the plates and the portions were huge.

“What I like about your book…,” said Hasan, as he dipped naneh sangak, the Irani an flat bread, in a plate containing a white sauce and placed a small piece of shishlik on the bread. I waited for him to continue, but his mouth was full. He swallowed and said, “As I was saying, I like the candor and the realism with which the novel describes present-day Iran. It doesn’t criticize our culture and the Islamic direction the Iranian people have decided to take, but rather tries to understand it and yet bridge the differences between the man’s and the woman’s respective cultures. I hope many people read your book and that more people will come here to see the real Iran, rather than listen to political propaganda.”

“Like what?”

“I hear false accusations distributed by the Zionists and America that Iran is sponsoring terrorist organizations. I can tell you that these rumors are baseless.”

Why was he kissing up, talking about “my” novel? Why was he mentioning terror when it wasn’t even in the book? This person didn’t strike me as a man who wasted words for no purpose. What was going on?

“I didn’t get the impression that Iran was encouraging tourism,” I said cautiously.

“Oh yes, we do, but many don’t seem to be convinced to come.”

“So what do you suggest doing?”

“If people don’t come here, maybe we should bring the message to them, to the place where they live, so that they’ll see we aren’t lepers.”

“Who do you think can do that?”

“We have cultural attaches at our embassies in Europe,” said Hasan. “But they aren’t trained in public appearance.”

Sure, I thought. These undercover agents are trained to recruit informers and shoot dissidents; therefore, they have no time to promote cultural events.

“Why don’t you go?” I suggested. That was a bold question, and the answer would define who the lion was and who was the mouse.

He paused. “I would think about it, if I received an invitation.”

“From whom?”

“From an academic institution, such as a university. It could assemble hundreds or even thousands of students to listen to an open debate about the true vision of Iran’s Islamic Revolution.”

“Any university? I can ask some leading Canadian universities if they’d be interested.”

“It’s important that the inviting entity will be respectable and fair enough to let me voice the truth. It doesn’t have to be a university; it could also be a cultural association or a research institute.” He paused for a moment to mea sure my reaction and continued. “It would serve Iran’s interests best if an invitation were arranged soon. Some matters need to be brought to the public’s attention before things happen for which Iran could be blamed-incorrectly, of course.”