Iranian Romeo

Ïåðåâîä ðàññêàçà "Èðàíñêèé Ðîìåî"

Instead of Valentina — the senior of our group of shuttle traders — Farhad went to the Iranian embassy in Ashgabat to get our visas. They wouldn't have spoken with a woman there. It was 1994. He came back without the visas.

- Foreign women under 45 are only allowed into Iran if accompanied by a husband or close male relative.

A fearful murmur swept through the group. Many women in our group were under 45. Three or four were very young.

- But there’s a way, - Farhad continued, - We’ll rewrite the list and pair everyone up as married couples. They can’t really check it. We’ll just need to stick together as couples and answer correctly if we’re questioned at the border.

- And how will we check into hotels? - someone asked, - As couples too, in one room?

- We’ll figure that out later. The main thing now is to get into the country.

Ten minutes later, a new list was ready. I was “married” to Olga, a melancholic woman a bit younger than me, about forty.

Farhad went again, and soon returned with the visas.

- And one more thing — don’t drink before crossing the border. Iran is a Muslim country, alcohol is strictly forbidden. Not long ago, one of our traders breathed on a border guard — just breathed — and was thrown into a dungeon without a word. He was only released when the group came back. All his money went to pay the fine. It wasn’t enough, the group had to chip in. That’s how his trip went.

Back then, "shuttle traders" was the name for people who, after the collapse of the USSR — when livelihoods, jobs, and savings had all vanished — took matters into their own hands and started traveling abroad using tourist visas. They bought goods to resell back home. Decades of Soviet rule had left people unaware of even the simplest comforts. Tour companies appeared to organize shuttle traders into groups, taking care of tickets, visas, and hotels. Each group had a leader who traveled for free and, in return, handled all organizational matters, including the critical task of paying bribes to border officials. The leader had to be a skilled negotiator. The average trader didn’t deal with any of that — they just paid. That’s when I became a shuttle trader.

Our group was mostly Uyghurs. There were a couple of Kazakhs and about five-six Russians. Just like Almaty — the capital of newly independent Kazakhstan, where we all came from.

Farhad continued:

- Don’t bring vodka. If customs finds it, you don’t even want to know what’ll happen. Also, don’t bring Coca-Cola.

- Coca-Cola? Why not?

- It’s banned. America is Iran’s enemy.

But how not to drink? The official rate of the Turkmen manat was extremely inflated. Passengers from our plane arrived from Ashgabat offered to sell us manats at ten times cheaper — and some of us bought them. Officially, importing manats into Turkmenistan was forbidden, but nobody checked. So, with just a few dollars, I ended up with a thick wad of local cash — quite a sum over there. The women knew how to spend it. But what was left for us men? What else could we do with the money?

I returned from the market with grapes, fruits, and snacks — and a bottle of counterfeit cognac, as my stomach soon confirmed. Everyone was already seated under the trees at a long table. The place resembled a summer camp — neat one-story barracks, with life happening outdoors, in the garden.

Among us was a sharp-witted Russian border sergeant, always joking. Just as I was about to go to bed, headlights flashed — a military vehicle had arrived. Russian officers got out. The Turkmen border was under Russian control.

Later I came to understand that Russian officers, receiving their salaries in rubles, were significantly wealthier than the nearly destitute local population, and felt like white sahibs in India. They behaved accordingly. Women were easily swayed by such behavior. That said, those officers probably weren’t advised to walk around alone at night through the local streets.

In the morning, Valentina complained that she and others hadn’t slept because of partying that lasted until dawn. Apparently, Russian officers were mingling with the younger women from our group. She was surprised I hadn’t heard anything and slept peacefully.

At the border crossing, we spent almost the entire day waiting in line, consisting of groups of shuttle traders similar to ours. On our side, there were stalls selling alcohol, smoking grills, cauldrons on stoves. It smelled like a festival. The sergeant acted like a toastmaster at a wedding. Mountains around us, a murmuring river — you could sit on a rock with a drink in hand, watching the water — like a picnic.

Meanwhile, the officers continued their flirtation with the girls — clearly not unwelcome. The girls actually seemed to enjoy it.

At first, I stuck to beer, but then had a couple of stronger drinks — for company’s sake. We were all tipsy, but Yusuf — a huge, bald-headed Kazakh — was completely wasted.

"We’re headed straight for a dungeon," I thought as we were called forward. But it turned out fine. We crossed into Iran without incident. Two bearded soldiers with worn-out rifles roamed among us. One had a gun stock wrapped in wire. They scanned faces intently.

- Hey! — the rough shout was directed at me.

I had been examining a portrait on the wall, trying to tell if it was the late Khomeini or the new one, Khamenei. I turned. The scowling soldier pointed at me with his rifle — as if to say, "Don’t stare at our righteous leaders with your impure gaze." I backed away, and he calmed down.

A notice in Russian said all border procedures were free. If anyone tried to charge money, it was illegal, and there was a phone number to report it. That was a nice contrast to the way things worked on our side. It showed what a difference high-level will could make.

At night, we arrived in the city. We were in two buses, and the Iranian drivers raced each other along the mountain road — with a cliff on one side and the abyss on the other one.

The men were put in a private apartment — supposedly because there wasn’t enough space at the hotel. Probably to resolve the issue of the fake couples. The apartment was clean, with minimal furniture. We slept on thick mats on the floor.

In the early morning, I heard the patter of footsteps. Looking out the window, I saw a group of women below, similar to a flock of crows. They were dressed entirely in black, shapeless garments, with mesh over the eyes.

The night before, our group received a briefing on Iranian behavior rules, led by a man in a turban. He handed out a Russian-language pamphlet explaining how women must dress. It said clearly that a woman’s natural form arouses lust a man and distracts him from serving the Almighty Allah, may His name be blessed. Therefore, her body forms must be completely concealed — no bright colors, no patterns, no curves. Bare ankles, wrists, or hair strands are especially arousing, and must be hidden. A special police force enforces this.

Our women knew this in advance. They wore plain, modest dresses, headscarves tied like my grandmother’s, dark tights or socks, and flat shoes.

During the day, we shopped at the bazaar in couples. In the evening, I went out alone and wandered into the jewelers’ quarter. The shops were brightly lit, their windows full of gold. Outside, each master worked at his bench.

I noticed a pile of silver scrap next to one — mostly coins. I gestured to ask if I could see them.

It looked like Ali Baba’s treasure cave!

It was obvious that there weren’t many coin collectors here. Otherwise, these beautifully preserved items wouldn’t be melting down. I picked out medals with the Shah and Queen, an old military badge, a handful of coins like new. I could read the Islamic dates and picked coins from different years, hoping to find a rare one.

Persian script differs visually from Arabic, though the alphabet is the same. Arabic is linear and uniform; Persian is calligraphic, artistic — at least on coins and medals.

The jeweler sold me what I chose at a price no higher than scrap silver. I bargained, and he agreed. Silver was probably cheaper here. He didn’t mind the deal. "Take whatever you like."

I decided to return again — but Yusuf the Uyghur cooled me off when I showed him my finds.

- How are you going to export that?

- What do you mean? Why not?

- They don’t allow exporting anything except modern industrial goods. One guy couldn’t even take out 500 prayer rugs.

- Why?

- He said he was Muslim and bringing them for other Muslims — but everyone knew they’d be used as bath mats. Anything traditional is forbidden. Old books, for example. And you’ve got silver — a precious metal.

Hmm. Problem.

The city was clean and cozy, but something felt off. I realized: there were almost no women on the streets. Men were everywhere. The rare woman, wrapped in black, was always accompanied by a man. Sometimes they moved in groups, likely watched over by a senior.

There seemed to be no traffic rules — people drove however they wanted. Most cars were dented. Despite traffic lights and police, crossing streets was terrifying. But I learned: if you follow a group of women, traffic will stop for them — instantly. Lights were ignored by both drivers and pedestrians.

Men stood in groups chatting. I couldn’t imagine what they talked about, with women and alcohol off-limits. What’s left in life? Football? War?

TV was unwatchable — either all-male patriotic plays or bearded men preaching.

One day, I found Kasim in a shop with the owner.

- This is Mansour, - Kasim introduced him, - We fought in the same war."

One was Uyghur, the other probably Uzbek or Turkmen. Their languages are similar and they somehow understood each other.

- On opposite sides, - Kasim said, - In Afghanistan. Our camp was at the foot of the mountain, and they were up on the mountain, shooting at us. The Mujahideen. He was there, described everything correctly. Maybe he even saw me from that mountain.

- And how did you end up there? - I asked. Kasim was a bit too old for the army.

- They called us up for military training as reservists, gave us uniforms, and sent us out. There was a whole division of people like us there. Then they stopped sending reservists. Sent everyone home and brought in conscripts to replace us. A lot of our guys died there because, at first, they didn’t even know if it was okay to shoot back.

- And you? Did you shoot?

- No, I served as a cook.

Mansur, a former Mujahideen, who now looked quite peaceful, was pouring me tea.

In the evening, Rashid told us that some new acquaintance from the bazaar had taken him to an underground nightclub.

- What can you do in a nightclub without booze? - I asked.

- Who said without? There was booze. Expensive, though, and secretly. I didn’t drink it at that price.

- Where do they even get it?

- They smuggle it in, I guess. Our own women brought it in. Farida told me she sold her bottle of vodka for 25 dollars.

No way, I thought. Risking so much for 25 dollars. I had taken the warnings seriously. I wondered, where did the women even hide those bottles? Their luggage was scanned.

Four days later, we were on a bus heading back to Ashgabat. The road wound through a gorge, its slopes dotted with mud-brick houses with flat roofs. It was lunchtime, and down the steep trails leading to the river that snaked through the gorge, girls in long dresses were walking with basins. At the riverbank, they were washing dishes. The only sign of modern times was the plastic bowls and dishes—everything else looked like a scene from centuries ago. And they probably still live the same way now.

I was sitting at the back of the bus, elevated above the others. In front of me sat Sveta, and next to her—a young Iranian, no more than twenty years old, slim and handsome. Farhad said we had been asked to escort him to Ashgabat. He wasn’t Azerbaijani or Turkmen; he only spoke Farsi, which none of us understood. I noticed they had already been communicating for some time.

Sveta was the youngest in our group—round-faced, smooth-skinned, and cheerful. She was short and stocky, with thick wrists and ankles, a bit wide in the waist. She was wearing a gray uniform-like robe, typical of middle-class Iranian women, black knee-high socks, and a hijab that left only her face visible. Just as required in Iran.

They were holding some kind of tourist brochure with a map, talking through gestures. Sveta pointed on the map to show the route she took into Iran, and the guy pointed to where he lived.

From the last Iranian border post to our checkpoint, there were still about five kilometers of mountain road. As soon as we crossed the border, the women took off their headscarves. Sveta did too, scattering her light hair over her shoulders. Her face was sweet-looking, like many full-figured women.

From above, I saw the Iranian going crazy, squirming in his seat. Probably, he had never even touched a woman before, and now he could lean against Sveta’s warm side—and she acted like she didn’t notice. Bus seats are tight, after all. They kept pointing at things in the brochure, and he tried to brush against her hand.

Even now I don't know where the vodka came from—suddenly little cups started getting passed down the rows. Maybe there was a kiosk on our side of the border? Who bought it? A cup reached Sveta, and she offered it to the Iranian. He recoiled, hesitated, then gestured for her to drink it. Another cup inevitably reached their row again. I saw the Iranian hesitate, wrestle with himself, and then, finally, pick it up. He still couldn’t believe it as he brought it to his lips. It was like he was renouncing his world—for a woman. When he awkwardly sipped the vodka, I knew he felt utterly lost, now on the same level as the surrounding kafirs whom every devout believer is taught to despise.

The next cup was meant for me. It didn't have much in it - just a couple of ounces.

After the vodka, Iranian boy got bolder. His hand crept toward Sveta’s shoulder—but we had already arrived at the checkpoint, or rather, the market zone near it.

Border officers were waiting for us—not all of us, actually, only some of the women they had previously gotten friendly with. There was a separate table set for them, barbeque smoking. The rest of us browsed the kiosks and open grills that operated as long as people were crossing the checkpoint. I placed an order and, beer in hand, joined the group of shuttle traders. The Iranian and Sveta were among them.

- What are we waiting for? - I asked Valentina, our group leader.

- For the paperwork.

- And how long will that take?

- As long as the border guards need to say goodbye to our girls, - Valentina said cheerfully, exchanging looks with the other women. They smiled back. I was probably the only one unaware of these romantic affairs.

A girl left the table and came over to Sveta. It was her friend Gulya.

- What are you doing here? Come with us.

Sveta looked at the Iranian, then toward the table.

- Come on, come on! They’re inviting you.

Sveta hesitated briefly, turned to the Iranian, and gestured that she had to go. And went with Gulya.

We stood near a cauldron full of oil placed on a hearth. The cook was tossing in chicken quarters. They bubbled and sizzled as he stirred them.

The Iranian stood among us, still staring in one direction. It was clear from his face that he was trying to make sense of what was happening and deciding what to do. Then, with confident steps, he walked to the table where Sveta sat. It was hard to see what was going on, but it looked like he tried to sit next to her. A minute later, Sveta brought him back.

- Stay here. Don’t go back over there, - she told him in a slightly irritated tone, though he couldn’t understand her.

- Why is he following me everywhere? - she complained to us, seeking sympathy—but found none. She had taken off her gray robe and now wore a light dress. Bare arms, bare legs, swaying breasts—not just wrists and ankles on display. I think the Iranian was seeing such splendor for the first time in his life. Some of his compatriots may never see anything like it.

Sveta went back to the table. A few moments later, the Iranian rushed there again. I could see the border guards exchanging glances. Two of them stood up, blocked his path, and pushed him back toward us. Sveta sat, not turning her head in our direction.

- Stay right here. Don’t move, - they told him. And returned to the table.

The Iranian stood there tensely for a while, then walked to the kiosk and bought a bottle of vodka.

We all watched him with interest. He unscrewed the cap and raised the bottle. He must’ve seen something like that in banned Western videos. I remembered drinking vodka with a friend for the first time back in eighth grade. Even the river we drank by was like this one. I forced the vodka down, but it wanted to come back up, spilling down my chin. A few seconds after I finished, the whole world changed.

The Iranian, grimacing, drank more than half the bottle, then pulled it from his lips and smashed it on the rocks. Glass shattered.

- He could’ve at least given us the rest—we’d have wiped our faces, - Farida joked.

The Iranian stood alone, swaying, staring in the direction of the table. Then he walked toward it again, holding out his hand—there was money in it—dollars, no doubt. The border guards didn’t let him talk to Sveta or explain what he wanted. They were ready - grabbed him from both sides, lifted him into the air, and brought him back to us, flailing.

- You guys should hold him down or something. He’s bothering everyone.

- Yeah, sure, - someone nearby muttered, - That’s your problem now.

The Iranian didn’t stay still. He was about to move to the table again, but his legs stumbled, got tangled, and he fell, not having gone far. He tried to get up, but something in him failed, and he fell again among the rocks. It was a desperate struggle with himself—like the death throes of a crushed arthropod. His agony, fading away, lasted about five-ten minutes. Finally, he went still.

- Hope he doesn’t die from it, - someone said.

Someone else picked up the dollars and slipped them into his chest pocket.

Our chicken was ready. It was completely dark. We sat around the fire eating with our hands, tossing bones into the flames.

Mountains, starry sky, campfire, beer or vodka—just say the word. What more do you need? Maybe a conversation.

- Did he really offer her money? - Rashid asked.

- What money?" someone replied, - Kasim says it was ten dollars."

Ten dollars in Iran, Turkmenistan, China, and many other places back then was quite decent money.
Though, I don’t think it was meant for the kind of services the Iranian was looking for.
Maybe that’s all he had, or maybe he had no idea about the price scale in the rest of the world.

- What are we going to do with him? - someone asked about the Iranian, as we were boarding the bus an hour or two later.

- Leave him here, - Kasim suggested.

- No way, - said the border guard, - You brought him — you take him back. We don’t need him here.

We could hear the Iranian retching.

- We’ll carry him to the bus. I’ll just lay down a plastic sheet first, - said the driver. He was probably responsible for delivering the Iranian to Ashgabat.

They laid the Iranian down in the aisle, on the plastic. He had nothing left to throw up. His body convulsed with dry heaves. I noticed that no one sympathized with him — quite the opposite. Maybe it's because from the very beginning he behaved arrogantly, like a fastidious person among a dirty crowd. Ànd now everyone was gloating.

Soon we arrived at the place where we were supposed to spend the night and started unloading.

- What about him?

- Take him to the Iranian embassy, - said Kasim.

How can he not understand that this is the one thing that absolutely must not be done — it would ruin the man’s life forever, I thought. Or maybe that’s exactly what Kasim wanted?

- I’ll take him to the garage, - said the driver, - He should’ve had an address with him — where he was supposed to be taken. But who knows where it is now. We’ll sort it out tomorrow, when he sobers up.

We stayed in a private house adapted to host shuttle traders. The elderly Russian hosts served us tea in a grapevine-covered gazebo. I immersed myself in the sweet southern provincial atmosphere of my childhood. How many times had I sat just like that, watching adults, listening to their stories... The main thing about that atmosphere was that time didn’t exist — tomorrow would be just like yesterday. There would always be delicate porcelain bowls, rose petal jam, unhurried conversations in the gazebo wrapped in grape leaves...

We were given sleeping spots in the yard and the gazebo. It was amazing — to sleep under the southern sky. In our parts of Asia, people sleep outside during the summer. Those who have a yard, of course.

- What about the Iranian? - I asked the driver the next morning as we were getting ready to go to the airport.

- We came to the garage in the morning — and he was gone. Woke up at night and ran away.

For some reason, I felt close to and sympathetic toward this Iranian. In just a few hours, he had gone through what took me years — what some people never get through in their whole lives. He had discovered that women exist. Then he fell in love, without even realizing it, and dreamed that something extraordinary now awaited him. He felt uplifted, then began to sense something was wrong — got jealous. Then he realized he couldn’t live without this woman. He renounced his roots for her, bravely entered a battle for her on unfamiliar ground — and suffered a humiliating defeat.

Probably, that Iranian will never forget Sveta. These memories will be both a curse and a comfort. He’ll keep wondering: where did I go wrong? What could I have done differently to change the outcome? What was it, really?

Just like I used to wonder in my youth, in similar situations. Everything that happened seemed like a riddle — one for which no answer would ever be found. And that drove you mad.

What united me and him was that in situations like these, we never truly knew or understood what was really happening. Understanding and reality existed in entirely different dimensions — never crossing paths.

But in reality — where’s the mystery? Just the most banal of situations. A random, sordid little incident. It gains meaning only because of our ignorance and imagination — meaning it doesn’t deserve.

Where are you now, brother?

Are you a brave warrior of Islam, bearded and now aiming your sniper rifle at the figures of kafirs, Jews, heretics, and idol-worshipers somewhere in Syria, or on the border of Lebanon?
Do you feel a special satisfaction when your scope lands on a short, stocky woman with bare arms and legs, and hair cascading over her shoulders?

Or maybe, having once broken the law, you continued down that path — and now sit in an Amsterdam caf;, with a liter of beer in front of you? Are you waiting for your girlfriend — a stocky red-haired woman with strong legs and thick ankles?

I’ll never know.

In any case, you won’t be able to rid yourself of memories of Sveta the she-devil, Sveta — your own Manon Lescaut.

Forgive me, but I can’t picture you living in a mudbrick hut with a flat roof, clinging to the slope of a gorge, where your daughters walk down the path to the river to wash dishes.

You don’t seem like one of those people to me.

After events like these, some become bin Ladens... others start writing poetry.

We were flying home to Almaty.

- And here he is — not the worst guy! - I heard someone say, addressing me as I wandered through the Ashgabat airport terminal, waiting for boarding. Standing in front of me was that same cheerful warrant officer, with the bottle in one hand, offering a small glass.

All this time, I’d avoided him — never once spoke to him.

- How about a drink for the road?

That was his way of saying goodbye. I said something in return and drank.

- My God, that’s wonderful, - I blurted out.

- What was that?

Back then, most of what we drank was counterfeit — with colorful imported labels. The real taste of fine liquors was still largely unknown.

The warrant officer showed me the bottle. “White Stork, five stars.”

- We don’t stock bad stuff, - he said proudly, pleased by my compliment.


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