{"id":110,"date":"2011-11-28T12:13:06","date_gmt":"2011-11-28T17:13:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/?page_id=110"},"modified":"2012-06-05T14:37:57","modified_gmt":"2012-06-05T18:37:57","slug":"illegal-dreams","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/past-issues\/236-3\/illegal-dreams\/","title":{"rendered":"Fiction: J. Kevin Shushtari"},"content":{"rendered":"

ILLEGAL DREAMS<\/h1>\n

This story was first published in Meridian (www.readmeridian.org) and won their 2011 Editor’s Prize.<\/span><\/h2>\n

You come home from school wearing a blood-red headband and a black and white scarf. Your mother takes one look and starts to cry. Baba says it’s a great honor\u2014\u201cHe\u2019s a soldier of God now.\u201d<\/p>\n

You ride in a caravan of buses through the desert in a cloud of dust and diesel exhaust. At the front in Ahwaz, you outlive each fresh wave of Basij recruits. Before the attacks, Ink Eyes hands out plastic keys painted a shiny gold from a cardboard box marked Made in Taiwan. The keys to heaven, you tell the new boys. Wear them around your neck and never take them off.<\/p>\n

Ink Eyes ropes the youngest together in groups of twenty, running the white nylon cord through their belt loops. He tosses out metal tubes of ointment. \u201cFor your eyes if you smell rotten eggs.\u201d He\u2019s saving the gasmasks for the real soldiers. \u201cThe tall one\u2019s lucky,\u201d an officer says as he collects rials from his comrades. They\u2019re making bets on you to survive another march. Make them proud. Bring your father glory.<\/p>\n

Ink Eyes gives blankets to the older boys. \u201cWrap around, lie down and roll.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it cold at the front?\u201d asks the fat boy with the buzz cut.<\/p>\n

Ink Eyes laughs. \u201cTell him, Anoush,\u201d but you don\u2019t. It\u2019s better not to know.<\/p>\n

You like your blanket. It protects you from the sting of exploding sand and pebbles, and cushions you from the spent ordnance scattered on the sand, still warm despite the darkness. Yours smells musty, as if it\u2019s been stored in a cellar far away. Pictures of cool evenings in your grandmother\u2019s garden in Esfahan, the Syoseh Pol Bridge straddling the Zayandeh River, arms crossed, palms against your chest, elbows tucked into your belly. \u201cJust like when you get shrouded,\u201d your cousin calls as you roll, giggling, down the hill in the dark until you\u2019re too dizzy to stand.<\/p>\n

The fat boy stops short, sobbing, as the others tumble across the minefield and the little ones run ahead, holding hands. He screams for you as dozens of sandaled feet stampede over him. You run toward him but there\u2019s a burst of dirt and rock. All sound ceases. The brightness illuminates the dust floating onto the blankets, heavy with the weight of corpses. Your left foot burns as if held over an open flame. Rolling, rolling until you find a chubby hand reaching for the dirty sky. You don\u2019t know if it\u2019s his, but you hold it anyway. Finally, you pry your fingers loose from the stiffening grip. At least his family will get the Martyr\u2019s Loan. Five hundred thousand tumans.<\/p>\n

Stay awake. Listen to your mother\u2019s voice. She practices her English, reading your favorite scary stories, wrapping her soft arms around you to keep you safe. On the Rue Morgue, the fearsome ape mangles another victim. The heart of a dead man beats wildly through the floor. The blanket holds your body parts together. Nevermore. Nevermore.<\/p>\n

Ink Eyes collects his winnings, but this time they take you to a tent hospital near Shush. Two Revolutionary Guards stand over the bed. A blood-ribboned bandage bobs below your left knee.<\/p>\n

The short one gestures at the stump. \u201cWe\u2019ll have to kick Sadam\u2019s ass without this one.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Fridays at the market, all day waiting, and when you finally reach the head of the line the shelves are almost empty. No bread, the dairy case barren. People on the sidewalk begin shouting and an old man lobs stones that bounce off the plate glass. The shopkeeper\u2019s son turns everyone away, and there\u2019s just enough time before curfew to run across town to buy eggs and frozen vegetables from the refrigerated truck in the alley behind the American Embassy.<\/p>\n

Scrape yogurt from the sides of your mother\u2019s mouth with a tiny spoon. Run her bath. Pull the bangs of her wig low to cover where her eyebrows used to be. Roll the mascara wand upward against her lashes, which turned white but never fell out. You look pretty, Maman-Jon. She smiles and squeezes your thigh just above the prosthesis. Lie to her as Baba lies, night after night, sipping tea with gaz: all is good, the same as before the Revolution. No mention of the public hangings, the ban on alcohol, the demonstrations supporting the hostage-takers. She doesn\u2019t know that even her hot pink robe is illegal, all bright colors condemned by the Islamic Republic, or that when the electricity goes out at night, her husband sits in the dark drinking the contraband Russian vodka he keeps in his desk.<\/p>\n

Eight months after your return from the front, you walk into your mother\u2019s room balancing the silver tray with her breakfast. The large windows are open, the twin minarets of the family\u2019s mosque framed by perfect rectangles of dusty sunlight. The humid breeze smells faintly of car exhaust as the frenzy on the street below chokes to its morning standstill. Her body lies perfectly arranged on the bed, and atop the white shroud rests the picture of you, at four, a lamb sucking on your finger. From a chair in the corner, Baba rises. He sags in your arms, his weight nearly pulling you to the floor.<\/p>\n

The aunts and uncles arrive from Shiraz and stay until the seventh-day ceremony: red rose petals scattered on the grave. The youngest cousin shares your room. On the third night he climbs into bed with you, trembling. \u201cI dreamt I held hands with a girl,\u201d he whispers. \u201cI kissed her mouth and it tasted sweet.\u201d It\u2019s okay, you tell him. \u201cBut Anoush-Jon!\u201d he sobs. \u201cMy dream is illegal! I\u2019ll be punished!\u201d Go back to sleep. They\u2019ll never know your dreams.<\/p>\n

On the forty-first day, you visit the family\u2019s favorite caf\u00e9, run by an elderly Armenian couple. Large black letters on the front window: RELIGIOUS MINORITY. The old woman bows. \u201cWe say prayers for your mother.\u201d She serves plates of kuku sabzi, your favorite, but the aroma of egg and garlic sickens you, and you\u2019re startled when she claps loudly. A white SUV blocks the sidewalk. Morality Squad. A teenage boy dashes to a table across the room, away from his girlfriend. Four armed Revolutionary Guards, two men and two women, throw open the door.<\/p>\n

One of the men points to Baba. \u201cRed necktie! You look like an American.\u201d<\/p>\n

Baba tries to stand but the guard pushes him down. \u201cMy wife\u2019s mourning period just passed. It\u2019s bad luck to continue wearing black.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTake it off, you idiot!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you wearing that T-shirt?\u201d a female Guard asks. She\u2019s young and pretty; a wisp of black hair escapes her hijab, falling over one eye and down her cheek.<\/p>\n

You pinch the cotton and pull the shirt outward: Rolling Stones World Tour 1979. A gift from your cousin two years ago. The guard raises his black baton. \u201cHow dare you look in the eye of a Muslim woman you don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Baba drops to his knees. \u201cPlease, sir. He lost his leg in the Holy War.\u201d<\/p>\n

Get up, you tell him, ashamed that you were once a member of the Basij.<\/p>\n

The guard strikes him across the face. \u201cInfidels!\u201d<\/p>\n

You exaggerate your limp and hobble toward the guard. Your father is Sayed, a direct descendant of the Prophet Mohammed and a true Muslim. You point at the Armenian couple: you\u2019re not like them.<\/p>\n

The guards walk out without a word. The others watch silently as the old woman glares at you and wipes the blood from your father\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

That night, Baba calls you into his study. Dark blood crusts his nostrils. He slices a lemon, and on a separate saucer waits a small pile of sugar. From the nearly empty bottle of vodka he pours you a shot. \u201cFreedom offends them,\u201d he says, raising the bottle. \u201cTo undreamed shores.\u201d Follow his lead and dip the lemon in the sugar, suck on it, and then have your first taste: a burning, medicinal crispness on the tongue, and into your nose.<\/p>\n

Days flatten into weeks at Immigration. Each time they ask for something different: birth certificates, proof of Muslim identity, bank statements, names and addresses of family members, payment equal to one year\u2019s salary. But they never grant even a passport, let alone official permission to travel abroad. Over several months, Baba sells everything. He empties the bank accounts. Be ready at a moment\u2019s notice.<\/p>\n

Before dawn, you board a train together, all your belongings in a heavy canvas satchel. In Tabriz, you sleep on watermelons in the back of a truck until dark. \u201cWe must be on guard,\u201d Baba says. \u201cSome guides are informants and will lead us into the hands of the militia.\u201d At the old Khatoon Bridge in Khoy, an Azerbaijani man dressed in Bedouin robes waits with three donkeys. Ten days, and he hardly speaks. \t \tFrom the mountain path at sunset, several soldiers man the official Endere Crossing checkpoint. On the Iranian side, the bearded face of Ayatollah Khomeini, twenty feet high, is lit by spotlights anchored to rock ledges. You speak softly to your donkey as Baba lifts the coiled barbed wire. Its ear snags, but you keep tugging, leaving a clump of flesh dangling from the sharp metal prongs. When you\u2019re at last on Turkish soil, the guide turns and points to a large sign on the road below: Well Come In Iran. He spits on the ground. \u201cImbeciles.\u201d The snowy summit of Mount Ararat shimmers several miles to the north. \u201cDon\u2019t trust anyone,\u201d the man calls back as he leads away two donkeys. Give him your donkey, you beg Baba, but he shakes his head. No crying. You\u2019re almost seventeen. You bury your face in his neck until he pushes you gently away.<\/p>\n

In Ankara, a few days at the Otel Konagi to rest. You wake to mosquitoes biting your left calf, but when you reach down, feel only the damp, tangled sheets. Now the last push\u2014the bus to Esenboga Airport\u2014where you board a flight for New York. First time on a plane, your stomach tumbles as you brace yourself during take-off, leaving behind all you know.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The INS agents don\u2019t kick or hang you upside down or threaten your life. Two months in a juvenile detention center in Brooklyn, the African Muslims with their kufi skull-caps milling in the exercise yard. Nobody bothers you. Your bunkmate has spread the word: he\u2019s a known revolutionary, blew his leg off for Allah. But you know you\u2019re a fake, just like the golden key you still wear around your neck. The mullah who comes on Fridays preaches jihad: all true Muslims should prepare for holy war.<\/p>\n

The judge sits like a queen, without even a headscarf for modesty, as she explains that keeping you locked up is a burden on the American taxpayer. \u201cHe was a boy soldier,\u201d the court-appointed attorney argues. He lifts the leg of your jeans to show her the prosthesis tucked into the high-top sneakers your mother bought long ago, the only shoes you have. The judge agrees to a three-month sentence at a state farm while the lawyer works on getting Official Refugee Status.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The pregnant cow bellows so loudly you get out of bed, buckle on your leg, and climb down the ladder to the stall. Unchained, she\u2019s shifted her backside into the corner. Your feet slide in the damp straw as you yank. If you wake old Edie, she might give you a demerit in her next report. No choice, so you trudge up the hill to the trailer. You\u2019ll never get used to the cold in Elmira. Heard stories the South is warm\u2014palm trees in Florida\u2014but you doubt it. Knock. Nothing. Slap the rusty metal siding, push a milk crate up to the only lighted window.<\/p>\n

A girl! You haven\u2019t seen a girl in months, not since Juvie, and those girls cursed and slept with the guards and had dirty hair. This one\u2019s hair is shiny and blond, curls looped over the pillow as she lies reading. Legs long and slender emerge from a big T-shirt lettered B.U. Track & Field. What is Edie doing with a girl like this? She shifts and the white triangle of her panties shames you, a virgin, never even kissed.<\/p>\n

The cow\u2019s moos carry up the lane. You hop off the crate and pound with a fist on the dented metal door. It finally opens and there\u2019s the girl, pulling a fuzzy pink robe tight across her chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you the guy from prison?\u201d<\/p>\n

Edie appears behind her. \u201cTrouble?\u201d This morning she threatened you with the cow shears\u2014\u201cIf you don\u2019t cut that kinky hair, I\u2019ll shave it off myself!\u201d Her white wig is on crooked: Edie\u2019s lost her hair just like your mother, but swears she\u2019s getting better. Is even cancer easy in America?<\/p>\n

The girl comes out and starts the pick-up. \u201cJennifer,\u201d she says. \u201cThe granddaughter.\u201d<\/p>\n

Edie stands on the front step as you climb into the bed of the truck. \u201cDon\u2019t be taking nobody hostage now,\u201d she says before slamming the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Jennifer yells. \u201cGet up here with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

She glances sideways as the headlights sweep the narrow gravel lane. \u201cNo wonder I haven\u2019t seen you. Nana says you don\u2019t leave the barn after work.\u201d<\/p>\n

You don\u2019t tell her that you never cross the fields unless you have to. Hate the cold, you say.<\/p>\n

She goes straight to the tack room and returns, stripped down to her flannel shirt and overalls, carrying wide leather straps over each shoulder. Together you manage to get them around the cow. She climbs into the truck, revving until the chain is taut and you ease the cow away from the wall. Jennifer squats at its haunches and reaches inside with a bare hand, grabbing hold of a front hoof. Within minutes, the calf slides out. She wipes away the wet birth sac, her scarlet nails glistening against the white coat.<\/p>\n

She winks. \u201cWe did it,\u201d she says, even though you did nothing but stare. The newborn sucks your finger.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You don\u2019t see her again until a week later when you\u2019re backing the empty manure spreader into the lean-to behind the barn. She\u2019s carrying a plaid blanket and a paper grocery bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cA picnic.\u201d Red-cheeked, Jennifer looks up at the milky gray sky as freezing rain begins to fall. \u201cIn the loft.\u201d<\/p>\n

The bales of hay are stacked halfway to the ceiling, and you both climb to the top. Can she smell the cowplop steaming off you?<\/p>\n

\u201cYou hurt your leg?\u201d she asks, shaking the curls from her hat.<\/p>\n

There is no leg.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean it\u2019s wooden?\u201d She sets out sandwiches, potato chips, and apples.<\/p>\n

More like metal and rubber.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou get around pretty well, considering.\u201d<\/p>\n

Your mother said it shouldn\u2019t be a handicap.<\/p>\n

You lean back comfortably on your elbows and bite into a sandwich, studying the weave of the worn blanket. You lift a corner to your nose and breathe in the damp wool. Silence, and when she asks what\u2019s wrong you want to tell her, but as you look into those wide blue eyes that have seen nothing bloodier than the birth of a calf, you laugh.<\/p>\n

Blankets are warm. Good to get under. She moves closer and you realize she doesn\u2019t think you\u2019re strange.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe read a story in English class about a girl with a leg like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

You watch her polish an apple against her jeans. She crunches into it. Juicy, you say, as you reach for yours.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s this bible salesman who kisses her.\u201d She pauses. \u201cIn a hayloft.\u201d<\/p>\n

You sit up. And then what happens?<\/p>\n

\u201cThe guy steals her leg.\u201d<\/p>\n

What kind of story is that? You stand so fast you almost fall over. You have to clean the stalls, you tell her. Thanks for the sandwich. She starts to say something but you\u2019re down the ladder as fast as you can go, hating the thump of your prosthesis against the rungs. Let her sit in the loft and make up more stupid stories.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The fat boy leads you by the hand to the stall where the calf was born, dragging his blanket behind him. He points to the fifty-pound bags piled next to the blocks of salt lick. You empty the fertilizer into a trashcan and mix it with gasoline. Remove the lattice that covers the cinder block supports just below the girl\u2019s window. Ease the trashcan onto its side and roll it under the trailer. Scratch a large X on the metal siding. Your mother stands in her bare feet, her bald head gleaming against the snow. \u201cAmerican dreams,\u201d she hisses.<\/p>\n

You stump to your room, and when the girl\u2019s light comes on, aim the .22 just below the X. Pull the trigger. The blonde hair glows like sunset against your golden key, and the long and perfect legs melt away from her body. In a field of scattered helmets and combat boots, you sit like a beggar, staring straight ahead. You see the calf on the sooty horizon as it struggles to stand, and decide not to shoot it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

ILLEGAL DREAMS This story was first published in Meridian (www.readmeridian.org) and won their 2011 Editor’s Prize. You come home from school wearing a blood-red headband and a black and white scarf. Your mother takes one look and starts to cry. Baba says it’s a great honor\u2014\u201cHe\u2019s a soldier of God now.\u201d You ride in a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3755,"featured_media":0,"parent":284,"menu_order":1,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/110"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3755"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=110"}],"version-history":[{"count":25,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/110\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":159,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/110\/revisions\/159"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/284"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=110"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}