Pomegranate Sky

Louise Soraya Black

• Publisher: Aurora Metro Books
• Year: 2010
• Print ISBN: 9781906582104
• eBook ISBN: 9781906582203
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

WINNER OF THE VIRGINIA PRIZE FOR FICTION

Living in post-revolutionary Tehran, Layla refuses to bow to the ayatollahs' rules, resisting her mother's relentless attempts to find her a suitable husband. Instead, she embarks on an illicit affair with her art teacher, Keyvan, and they tentatively imagine a future together.

But the sudden death of her uncle, an outspoken journalist, raises many unanswered questions and when Layla's cousin, who is visiting from America, is arrested by the morality police, the komiteh, Layla's plans for the future begin to unravel.

"I was totally captivated by this novel. Layla is torn between her heart and the restrictions of her culture. She obeys her heart though not without a price. This wonderfully poetic story keeps you hooked right to the very end." - Stephanie Hale, author and broadcaster

"a bittersweet tale of betrayed trust and ruptured innocence… the feel for colour and language is vibrant" - featured in The Guardian first novel selection

"Vividly written, fresh and eloquent, a girl's poignant tale of love and menace in contemporary Iran." - Fay Weldon

"I loved this book. It gives you real insight into the world of educated middle-class Iranians in the early 21st century. We are so used to the Iranians we meet in the UK that we do not realise how hard it is to live under their political regime at home. A joy to read." - www.openingthebook.com

Louise Soraya Black

Born in England in 1977 to an English mother and Iranian father.Her father worked for UNICEF so she spent 17 years living overseas, in countries including Iran, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Indonesia. In spite of all this travel, she had strong roots: the family spent their summers in England and winter holidays in Iran. She began an English degree at University College London, but after a year switched to Law. She spent 8 years in corporate law but was unfulfilled so began writing in her spare time. She felt it was important to write about Iran because Iran is portrayed in the media as a bleak and oppressive place. She wanted to show Iran as a beautiful country, where the food is delicious, and Iranians are warm and hospitable. And while the media tends to paint a portrait of Iranian women as submissive and voiceless, this was not at all her experience so she created resilient and brave female characters in her novel. She had just about given up hope of finding a publisher for this novel, when she found out that Pomegranate Sky had won the Virginia Prize, a new literary prize for unpublished women writers. She was astonished and overjoyed, particularly when the novel received excellent reviews. After the birth of her son, she didn't return to law and instead, decided to focus on her writing. She has just completed her second novel.

Chapter 1

Layla

Tehran

January 2001

---

The bell rang and five rows of veiled girls looked up at me expectantly.

I nodded. “Yes, you may go.”

The classroom was suddenly filled with chatter and laughter, the rustle of papers and the thud of books being thrown into bags. Gossiping and giggling in little groups, they drifted towards the door and then filed out of the room.

“Have a good weekend, everyone. Don’t forget the exercises for next week,” I called after them.

“Have a good weekend, Khanoom,” one or two called.

The door swung shut, muffling the din of delighted students making Thursday night plans in the corridor outside. Their excitement was infectious; it made my heart leap, for I too, had plans that evening. Goose bumps pricked my arms and in spite of the close warmth of the classroom I shivered, running my fingers over the hot columns of the radiator, first one way, then the other.

I went over to the window. The girls streamed across the courtyard below me, through the school gates and out into the street where the younger ones were whisked into cars and the older ones gathered by the corner shop. Beyond, the sun was melting into the horizon, an amber and ruby haze in the night sky. As if someone had pressed a switch, the street lamps flickered on, throwing rings of light around the plane trees lining the winding street. The last few notes of the muezzin’s call to prayer echoed in the distance. It was getting late.

I wiped the blackboard clean, rubbing out the day’s vocabulary and grammar lessons, clapped my hands free of chalky dust and locked my desk. As I was gathering my books and papers, Mina popped her head round the door.

“We’re all going for coffee. Want to come?”

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy.” I smoothed my maghnaeh and tucked in an unruly curl.

“Layla, you’re always busy these days. Is your mother trying to set you up again with some balding middle-aged businessman looking for a trophy wife?”

I laughed. “No, thank goodness. My aunt Nelly has invited me round to taste her baklava. She wants to make sure it’s authentic.” I need not feel guilty, I told myself. I wasn’t lying, just not telling the whole truth.

“Join us later, then. We’ll probably end up at my house and order pizzas.”

“I’ll try, but I expect she’ll ask me to stay for supper. With Roxana in England, she and my uncle like the company.”

“I was going to introduce you to Davood’s cousin. He’s cute. Rich, too.”

“Now who’s matchmaking? You sound just like my mother and Nasrin.”

“If I do, it’s because I love you like a sister, azizam. I don’t want to see you end up alone.”

Across the schoolyard, shadows stretched out in dark corners. There were no stars, and the moon was hidden behind cloud. The icy wind cut through the night and tugged at my maghnaeh. Although there was no sign of the komiteh, the morality police, I gripped the black cloth to keep it in place, slipped through the iron gates and turned into the street that would lead me home.

As I hurried down the hill, I did not look down. I knew every bump and dip in the pavement by heart. I had traipsed up and down this street with Nasrin when we were students at the Azad School for Girls. Sometimes time played tricks, and once again, I was running down this street after Nasrin to hide in our basement while Saddam’s planes dropped bombs.

Tonight I thought only of the secret that smouldered in my heart, and the past fled like ghosts into the inky night.

I rushed in through the front door, pulled off my maghnaeh and shook my hair free.

“Layla? Azizam?” My mother’s voice floated into the hall.

I walked down the corridor and pushed open the door to my parents’ room. “Yes, Maman.”

“These gold earrings or those pearl ones?” She held them out for my inspection.

I pointed to the pearls, my favourite since childhood.

“You always choose the same ones.”

“I don’t like gold. It’s too flashy.”

Maman put her hand on one hip and contemplated her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a new black shift dress, which her tailor had billed as very chic, very Jackie O. “You know, one day your mother-in-law will pin a gold brooch on your wedding dress. What will you say then? Thank you, Madar joon, but it’s too flashy?”

In my mind, I rolled my eyes and stalked off like a moody teenager. How I wished my mother would stop dropping hints about marriage. In other cultures, a twenty-four-year-old girl wouldn’t need to worry about husbands and in-laws. But here, in the Islamic Republic, I was swiftly approaching the point of no return after which I would be an old maid.

“Maman, I haven’t got time for this now,” I protested, edging towards the door.

She sat down on the bed. “You never have time for anything anymore. Always rushing here, hurrying there. Never thinking of your future.” Her voice was tight, her eyes dark and still. I could sense a storm brewing.

I sat down beside her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She continued as if she had not heard me. “You never let me introduce you to anyone. What about that handsome son of Aunty Afrouz’s neighbour? He was such a catch, but you refused to even meet him for a coffee.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I promise to meet whoever you like next time. I’ll even meet the son of Aunty Afrouz’s gardener. But I really have to go now.”

Her eyes softened. “Very well. I suppose I’d better hurry too, or we’ll be late for Zahra’s dinner. Your father will be cross if I keep him waiting. Where are you off to tonight anyway?”

“Aunty Nelly’s, to try her baklava. I mentioned it at breakfast, remember?”

“So you did,” Maman said. She went to the mirror and slid a tortoiseshell comb into her hair. “What will you do later? Surely you won’t stay with Mammad and Nelly all evening.”

I had hoped to escape before she asked that question. “I don’t know. Probably go to Mina’s for pizza and movies.” Then, as I’d already lied, I thought I might as well make her happy. “She wants to introduce me to her husband’s cousin. Apparently, he’s very well-off.”

Maman’s eyes lit up. “Joonam, why didn’t you say so before? Mina’s a nice girl. I see her mother at coffee mornings. A good family.” She smiled approvingly.

I turned away, hiding the shadows in my eyes. I never used to be any good at telling lies, the guilty look on my face always gave me away, but I had changed.

It broke my heart to deceive my family, but I couldn’t tell them the truth; my mother’s eyes would flash with anger and fill with tears, my father’s brow furrow with disappointment.

And so I learned to weave a web of deceit, and as one falsehood led to another, the silken threads of my duplicity tangled and I was lost in a labyrinth of lies.

I flung open my wardrobe doors, wondering what to wear. This would not be an easy decision. It wasn’t simply a matter of putting together an outfit that would take me from day to evening, a dilemma often considered by the foreign magazines I leafed through at the salon. No, I had a more complex predicament: I needed an ensemble that would take me from tea with a demure English aunt to a romantic evening date, of which the aunt must suspect nothing.

I rummaged through my clothes, pulling out a skirt here, trousers there. Nothing was right. If I could tell my family, my life would be easier. But I had no regrets; my eyes had been opened to a world full of colour and possibility.

I considered one outfit, then another. Eventually, I decided on my best pair of jeans with a cashmere cardigan for Aunty Nelly’s, which I could unbutton later to show the lace on my silk top.

I ran a brush through my hair, trying to smooth the stubborn waves, wondering what we would do that evening. In spite of my protests, he had insisted on picking me up outside my aunt and uncle’s house. He would wait for me on the corner of their street. Where we would go from there, I did not know. There was no café, no restaurant, that was off limits to the komiteh.

I didn’t want to go out. I disliked sitting in my hejab in a corner and sipping fruit juice, my heart pounding every time the door opened or a waiter smirked in our direction. If we were caught, we would have to pretend to be cousins or brother and sister. If we were unlucky, and the komiteh refused to believe us or fancied a bit of fun, it would get unpleasant. Unmarried couples caught together could be jailed and lashed, the girl’s virginity tested and both shamed in front of their families.

The best place for us to go was his flat in the basement of his parents’ house. There, I could take off my headscarf, and we’d talk freely and drink vodka without worrying about the komiteh. There was still a risk that we would be discovered, but the risk was not so great.

But going to his flat would have to wait until his family were asleep. To pass the time, we could drive around town, avoiding checkpoints and places that might attract the komiteh. I’d tell him to steer clear of Jordan; he was from downtown and might not know that on Thursday nights, teenage boys and girls drove round Jordan in packs, exchanging phone numbers through rolled down windows. These antics drew the komiteh like wasps to jam; they liked nothing better than hauling rich kids off to jail and threatening beatings until their parents turned up with wads of cash to plead for their children’s freedom.

I stood in front of the mirror. The thought of seeing him in just a few hours had brought a flush to my face. It had been a week and the days had dragged; now the moment was so near, my heartbeat quickened just like it did when we first met in the summer – had it really been six months? The girl I was now – in love with him, lying, sneaking around, risking everything – was not the Layla I used to be; truthful, dutiful, virtuous, attending her art class.

*

Summer 2000

I had been drawing a bowl of fruit, shading it in to catch the fall of light. The room was quiet, with only the sounds of pencils sketching and the whir of the fan.

At the end of the lesson, Pari Khanoom smiled. “Well done, everyone. Next week is watercolour painting, and I am delighted to introduce an artist who will be helping me teach the class,” she said, gesturing to the back of the room.

Leaning against the wall was a young man. His eyes were dark, almost black. His arms were tanned and strong, but his hands looked gentle and sensitive.

He walked up to the front of the room and as he passed, his hand brushed mine. I looked up, startled, and pulled my hand away, as if it had been burned. My face flamed. I glanced around, wondering if anyone had seen, but all eyes were on the young man now standing beside Pari Khanoom.

“This is Keyvan Siyahpush. We’re lucky to have him join us.” Pari Khanoom clapped her hands and the rest of us joined in.

When the applause faded, she continued. “I know what some of you are thinking. If you feel uncomfortable, by all means, wear your hejab. But these are private lessons, given in my home, so please feel free to unveil. Personally, I can’t paint with a headscarf on, but the choice is yours – all I ask is that you respect mine. While these lessons go on, we are not in the Islamic Republic. We are in the world of art.”

There were nods and murmurs, and whispers behind hands. I didn’t know my fellow students well. They were from other neighbourhoods. Most were about my age; some were housewives, others working women. We exchanged smiles and polite conversation, but it never went beyond Pari Khanoom...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• About the Author
• Copyright
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Glossary
• Other Aurora Metro Books – Sacred
• Other Aurora Metro Books – Mosaic Deceptions
• The Virginia Prize for Fiction
• Back Cover