Childhood Memories at the Office
Summer holidays, when we were young, we would often go to Club Gorgan. Mama would sit with her friends. They would loll about by the pool side and chat amiably, or swim and sun themselves. We, the children would merrily dive in and out of the pool, weave in and out between each other’s stretched legs underwater or play leap frog in the water. We would spend days frolicking in this manner. Sometimes our fathers would meet us there for lunch, at other times we would go back home and there were days we did not go to the club. Those were the days Papa would take me with him to the office. I felt very important. I had a job at the office! My job was to go through Papa’s Financial Times newspapers. I still remember the colour and feel of that paper. I did not like the colour too much. It was a pale pink but slightly tinged to an orangey colour. To my eye the colour was discordant. I would have preferred it to be a purer pastel pink. However, I loved the feel of the paper as my eyes crept down the columns of the stocks and bonds to find the ones that Papa owned. The paper felt richly smooth like a luxurious piece of silk satin duchesse beneath my fingertips. I always delighted in the touch of good paper, whether it was the pages of a book, fine art paper or even a newspaper. I must admit, newspapers were not usually printed on fine paper. The Financial Times, however, used better quality paper. I had a thickly bound notebook by my side, as I worked. There were columns and columns going up and down with the name of the stock across each line and the dates on top. Once a week I would spend half a day writing down the rise or fall of the stocks and bonds. It was tedious work to me. Numbers were never my passion. They bored me to tears. I would much rather read, listen to music or paint. But that was not a choice when I went to ‘work’ with Papa. Once I was done with that, I had to file the correspondence. After that I would wander about the office and chat up anyone who would not be too busy to talk to me.
The office was on two floors. There were numerous rooms on the first floor. My father and uncle occupied the two front rooms that faced Maidan Sepah, the huge circle that was surrounded by the various buildings. The other rooms were used by the various men that worked there. In addition to that, there were a kitchenette where a samovar was constantly gurgling, with numerous estekans, the tiny glasses, in which tea was served arranged neatly on a brass tray. Each time a client came to the office, he was served tea with tiny cubes of sugar. Then there was the filing room and bathroom. Upstairs there was the loft. A female typist occupied that. She was the only female amongst all the men that worked there. Her room also overlooked Maidan Sepah, a busy hub of activity. From her large picture window, she had a panoramic view of people who seemed to be constantly rushing about the maidan in a busy hive of activity. Some rode bicycles, others had pushcarts offering food; leaning against walls, impudent idle louts ogled the women as they passed by, making insolent comments to each of them. There were smartly dressed businessmen hurrying to various meetings. There were beggars asking for alms, as they clutched your arm in plea. It was a lively and colourful kaleidoscope of life. When not busy, the female typist could watch the activity that passed by her window.
I cannot recall her name, if I ever knew it. She had tight curly hair, high cheek bones, deep sunken eyes, thin lips and the longest pointed nails to which she seemed to constantly apply scarlet nail varnish. At first I feared her a little. I was convinced she was an evil witch from one of the stories in my Russian Folk Tales book whose name was Baba Yaga. Once I got to know her, I felt much more comfortable. I realized that she was a nice lady who took time to talk to my ten or eleven year old self. She was not Baba Yaga at all!
Papa also had another employee in the office who had been there since the firm was established. His name was Hossein. He had started as an errand boy. He used to serve tea to clients. Later on he was responsible for going to the post office and the bank. On occasions, he even cycled me back from school on his bicycle! That was one of my most vivid memories! I couldn’t have been more than five years old then. Eventually, Hossein attained a more responsible role.
They hired a younger man to do the menial errands, giving Hossein more responsible tasks. Papa liked Hossein and trusted him. They had one thing in common. For a long time, they both were fathers to daughters only, although Hossein had more daughters than Papa did. Finally they were both blessed with the son they deeply yearned for, the son who arrived in later years. Both of them considered their sons, when they at last did arrive, as their crown princes, their demi-gods! Hossein’s wife had her hands full with all her children. Hossein began to bring his son, Mehdi, to the office with him during the summer holidays. I now was promoted to a new job. I was officially assigned to tutor Mehdi in English. I enjoyed this task. Mehdi was an astute student. He was eager and studied hard. Because of the tutoring, he became the favourite of his teacher in school. His mind was like a sponge and he hungrily absorbed everything. I tutored him for two summers after which time my parents sent my sister and me off to boarding school in England.
Years passed. I came back; I got married and had my own children. One day we received an invitation for a wedding. Mehdi was getting married! His wedding was being held at the posh Officers’ Club. Only officers could hold functions there. Mehdi had risen to a high position and had distinguished himself. He had done so well in his studies, that the Iranian government had sent him to England to study. Upon his return, he went on to become an officer in the Iranian army! I was delighted! From his modest beginnings he had become a well respected man in a fairly high position!
I remember the wedding was in winter. As we entered the sumptuous Officers’ Club, my first impression was that of the logs blazing in the various fireplaces in the vast impressive reception hall. Mehdi and his bride stood in front of one of them. He looked splendid in his uniform. His chest was covered with various medals decorating his the front of his jacket. He saw our family approaching, he smiled broadly and bowed to me and my mother. He kissed my proffered hand, when I congratulated him and his bride. He said, “Thank you for all your encouragement. You helped me to arrive to where l am!’’
“My absolute pleasure Mehdi! It was your efforts and determination that got you to where you are, not me,” I replied with a choked voice and happy tears in my eyes. “We were two children brought to the office by our fathers. One was told to teach and the other to learn.” I smiled. “We just did what we were told, and you accomplished your part perfectly.”
I did not see Mehdi again. I was busy raising my family. Years seemed to rush by. Before we knew it, the overthrow of the of the regime and the Shah tore us painfully away from the life we knew. We did not have time to bid farewell to the people we knew. In a matter of a few weeks, we sold our belongings, packed the rest and fled the country.
What happened to Hossein? What happened to Mehdi? What happened to the countless people who were somewhat integral part of our lives? I don’t know, but it does not stop me from wondering about them. I pray they are well, if they are still alive, these forty years later…