It was the spring of 1975. The film crew, who had come from America to make a documentary about Neda several years back, now returned for the second installment. They wanted to see how the simple, yet famous Persian poetess lived now; and if fame and fortune had changed her. They were surprised to see that she had bought a house; that she had a dog and a cat; and her nephew, Aria, the little boy who had run after them the entire time then, now was a ten years old boy, who appeared very different both in look and behavior. Now he was a very well behaved boy, on the fifth grade, going to a privet school, courtesy of his aunt. This time he did not pay attention much to them. He said that he did not remember them. After all he was only three years old the first time they had come. Now he was mostly in his room, behind his desk, studying. But he still called Neda, "Aunt na".
To this American, Neda had also changed a lot in the last seven years. She looked much older. She had a lot of grays in her hair; however she had lost some of her carelessness. She was more sure of herself. They saw that Kasra was still there. She had now fifteen published books; one of which was written by the request of her publisher about her critical view of past and present poetry in Iran. The film crew were there for two weeks. When they left, again they promised to send Neda a copy of the finished product. Iranian television decided to show both series of this one and the one from seven years prior back to back. However they edited so much of them that they were nothing like the copies Neda had seen.
After the American film crew left, Neda had time to enjoy the spring. Every spring she said that she felt the influence of the spring for the first time. Her arms glided the realm gracefully. Violets, she had planted them herself like many other flowers, bloomed in great profusion. Would she live to see them for ever or replace them every year? Her voice, her art, her writing, she thought, were incoherency of her inactions in spring. She spent more time out in nature than in writing. She picked up again her mountaineering.
Her mother was trying to get her and Sohrab to visit their father. He was now sixty eight years old. Mehri told them that he was sick. Was that a trick? Something strange her mother said that would not go away. He had come with pneumonia in winter and he was still sick. The doctor, same old doctor, that had delivered Neda's and Maryam's babies, had said that his lungs were filled with water.
One evening they had a family discussion at Neda's home. Sohrab was very adamant of not going. Maryam was neutral. To every one's surprise, it was Neda who insisted on a visit to their father.
"How are you going to visit a father who took you to the court for your money?" Sohrab was very angry. He banged the table with his fist.
Neda calmly poured a glass of wine for herself. She did not offer to anyone else. "They can get it if they want!" She said that to herself. But to Sohrab, after a long pause, she finally said composedly, very methodically, not in a manner that she always talked:
"Then I will be like him. The man is dying. I talked to his doctor the other day. He told me that our dad doesn't have much to live. He is our dad whether we wanted or not. Everything changed with Sima. I should have left him alone. The man wanted passion in his life. Our mother is not capable of it. I got that from her, not having passion for men. But at least I use all my passion for my writing. He would not have given me to that terrible marriage if I have left him alone." She paused for a moment, took a sip from her wine. She had made sure to put some emphasis on the words "our dad". Finally when everyone thought that she was finished, she said again:
"There are people who leave no impression in life; if they do, it is not as lasting as the imprints of your feet on sand. That is the life of our mother and father together. Whatever he is, she is not. What ever he is, we are not ; but he is our dad!"
To Be Continued
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