Memories of Khiaban Lalezar
It has been steadily raining all day, as if in sympathy for my neighbour who lives across the street. She had recently lost her mother and is inconsolable. She is younger than my children. As we chatted over the telephone this afternoon, I could hear her softly sniffling. My heart goes out to her. There was nothing I could say or do that would comfort her. Looking out of the window it seemed as if even the window panes wept along with her. They were splattered with torrential rain. One could hardly see through them. It was close to three o’clock in the afternoon. As we chatted I heard her trying to suppress an exhausted yawn. Her grief has drained her.
“Go take a nap,” I suggested.
“I cannot. I have to go shopping. The family is coming over for dinner. We have a need be be together. It gives us comfort.’’
For some reason, those words swept me back to the Tehran of the fifties and sixties. My neighbour is Russian. As she spoke it reminded me of the delicious hearty black bread that they eat. Next to the British Embassy in Tehran, there was a Russian baker who baked the most delicious black bread. When my father came back home for lunch, he would instruct the driver to stop at the bakery and buy a loaf or two. Even now, all these many years later, I drool just thinking of that hot freshly baked loaf of bread! In my mind’s eye, I picture myself carefully buttering a thin slice, spreading a layer of the delicious Beluga caviar on top. I would hold the slice in my hand, making sure that not one it of that delicious roe had escaped. I would then close my eyes, open my mouth and take a nibble. Aah, heavenly! I allowed the taste of it to roll up in my mouth as I gently caressed the flavour with my tongue, then slowly I allowed myself to chew.
As I said, my neighbour is Russian. Our countries both bordered the Caspian Sea, the home of the famous Beluga fish. We were once talking of the Caspian Sea and the home of beluga fish. I mentioned to her how once when I was very young, my uncle had taken me to the Caspian Sea. We went to a caviar refinery where I witnessed how caviar was processed. I think it was then that she discovered my great love for caviar. The next holiday, which was Purim, she brought me some of the black bread with some caviar, just like at home in Tehran! Except in Tehran it was Beluga caviar not the salmon roe of New York. Even though it is not beluga, it is still caviar. I relished it with utter delight! From then on, this sweet and thoughtful lady, once a year sends me black bread and red caviar. It is not Beluga, but it is so delicious and evokes such happy memories. And the bread? It’s just as delicious as the one the Russian baker next to the British Embassy baked it!
Like a horse which has been tethered for a long time, my imagination began to run wild. In my thoughts it was winter in Tehran. The weather was cold. The snow flakes were moseying lackadaisically down from the skies. I was a young woman then, on the verge of getting married. I was shopping with my mother and my aunt. We were on Khiaban Ferdowsi, where the Russian bakery and the British Embassy were located. As if by magic we then floated down Khiaban Naderi, which was a very popular shopping area. Sections of the street offered different goods. There various sections. In one area they had food, another jewelry, yet another fabrics and so on and so forth.
After shopping, the ladies went to the very popular café owned by an Armenian man. The café was called Café Naderi, after avenue. Sometimes the ladies whiled away the time after the serious business of shopping, as they sipped some of that delicious brew! This café was renowned for toasting their own coffee and the aroma was so very heady! It drifted down the street for several blocks? The aroma of their coffee gently beckoned one to enter and have some!
A few steps further down the street the fish monger displayed his fish on beds of ice just outside the store entrance on the sidewalk. On that cold winter day, the owner, his breath forming miniature spiraled clouds, called out the names of the various types of fish he offered. The fruit monger offered oranges, sweet lemons, tangerines, all kinds of winter fruits including my favourite citric fruit, narenj, which we used instead of lemons to squeeze over our winter salads. I loved how the aromas of all the foods mixed together to create a unique and delicious medley of its own. Add to it the chill of the cold winter air and it felt so very exhilarating!
As we progressed down the street we stopped and browsed at the various shop windows. We entered a jewelry store, then a fabric shop. We had whiled quite a few hours. It was getting colder and the snow was becoming heavier. We hurried back to where the driver had parked. He drove us home, after we dropped my aunt at her house. The chauffeur then returned to fetch Papa and returned back home for lunch.
As we entered the house, its warmth embraced us. Ah, home! Sultan had prepared a delicious rich borscht filled with marrow bones and the various root vegetables laced with bayleaves, peppercorns and whole allspice. That added another layer to the feeling of home.
We put away our shopping and walked into the dining room, where the potbellied stove was humming happily as it warmed the room. Looking out of the bay windows, we could see that the snow was falling faster and faster. By that time the driver had returned with Papa. Everyone was safely home.
I lean back and smile to myself. In my imagination only one person is missing and that is Peter. It’s my wish for Peter enters into the picture, even though in reality he did not enter into my life until many years later. But I can add anyone I want in there and mix as many different periods of my life as much as I wish. After all, these thoughts are coming from my imagination.
Peter enters dressed in his warm Cossack style fur hat, his thick
heavy of coat and his long hand knit woolen scarf, for it is cold! His outer garments are flecked with snow. He looks about him curiously. He smiles and says, “Ah! So here is where you come from!”
Now that we are all present we gather about. We are all hungry. Sultan and Khatoon bring in the food. We sit at the table and slowly sip our hot borscht. Outside the snow continues to silently fall…