Asp (Parts 3 & 4)

3.

 

   In Porta cabin number 4 she introduces me to two Iranians - Ali and Mohammad, father and son. The father is a small, olive-skinned man with large, splayed feet; the son is my daughter’s age and is the Middle East’s version of Brad Pitt.

   Their accommodation is a single room of some twenty cubic metres, furnished with two beds, a chair, and a sewing machine donated by the local church. It’s in here that Ali, a depressive, spends most of his time, working his machine and trying desperately to justify the beliefs that have led him to abandon everything he’s ever known, emerging from the room only to collect his fortnightly cash payment and make a trip to the local supermarket.

   My daughter tells me their story:

   The two of them had left Iran eighteen months previously and travelled a route through Turkey and Germany before crossing into Scandinavia. Ali had been forced to leave his wife and two daughters as he fled a right wing militia – a militia intent on persecuting members of the trades union Ali had been instrumental in setting up. According to the statement he gave to Scandinavian immigration officials the Conservatives opposed to Khatami’s reforms were targeting socialist sympathisers and Ali, whose left wing ideals had blossomed under the Shah, was added to the long list of individuals whom these dark forces wished to silence. So, in the short space of a few hours, the family abandoned the top floor of the tiny downtown shop where Ali worked as a tailor, the three women travelling south to be with relatives, the two men fleeing their homeland in the rear of a vegetable truck before masked gunmen could lay the balding 46 year old to rest in a Tehran ditch.

   So much for the easy part.

   Hitching a ride into the EU was both riskier and costlier. This time they were packed down with twenty others in an articulated lorry, enduring hours of darkness, nausea and pain. Ali has suffered swollen feet for over twenty years, the result of police beating his bare soles with lengths of wood in the early 90s (punishment for attending an anti-Khomeni demonstration) and when the lorry driver unexpectedly dumped his human cargo 200 kilometres short of the French border, father and son, fearing the German police, began to walk. They walked for over a week, sleeping in forests, lay-bys and bin shelters, collecting money on the empty beer bottles they found along the way. Then, after crossing the border into Scandinavia, they endured three months in a transit camp before being shuttled across country - in line with the government’s policy of  ’redistribution’ – to my daughter’s camp, or, as Mohammad, in his hesitant English, likes to describe it: ’The end of the world.’

    Ali’s initial objective had been to reach London. Not only did he believe that the British capital was paved with gold for industrious Iranians like himself, an image generated by the well-heeled émigrés who, in the mid-1980s, collected their expensive suits from the best tailors in Ali’s neighbourhood, but it was also the home (or so he believed) of his idol, Tom Jones. The twenty year old Ali had seen Jones the voice shaking his hips live in Tehran in 1975, barely four years before Khomeni climbed onto a Tehran stage and started shaking his fists in the direction of the United States. Every word of English Ali knew had been learned listening to the Welshman’s LP’s and it was constant renditions of ’Help Yourself’ and ’What’s New Pussycat’ that gave Ali succour during his long and hazardous trip to the West.

   Before we leave, and after several verses of  ’The Green Green Grass of Home,’ Ali wraps and presents me with a pair of shorts, stitched by him from off-cuts earlier that day. Outside I discover the shorts are the same mustard-yellow colour as the mud that has speckled my trousers.

 

 

 

4.

 

As we’re driving home my daughter (who’s ignored the No Smoking sticker on the dashboard of my new Mondeo, but no surprises there) confirms my suspicions and tells me she’s having an affair with Mohammad.

   ’Isn’t that against the rules, sweetheart ?’ I ask, treading carefully. ’I didn’t think that staff were allowed to have relationships with the refugees.’

   She ignores this too and follows a different path. ’They’re not going to get asylum, dad. They’ve had one application turned down and it doesn’t look good for the appeal.’

   I’m trying desperately to concentrate on the road at this point in time because I can see where all this is leading. ’Well, that’s a real shame’ I say. ’That’s really too bad…..but I’ve heard that it’s policy to send people to a third country, so don’t worry too much. Maybe Ali and Mohammad will get sent to Germany and you can go and visit…..’

   She doesn’t answer. For the first time in her life she’s silent. But I can guess what she’s thinking…..and for the first time in my life I pray – pray that what I’m thinking is wrong. Then sure enough, four weeks later, along with confirmation that the appeal has failed, my daughter calls me to announce that she and Mohammad are getting married.

   ’Are you going crazy ?’

   ’No dad – I’m going to get married.’

   ’Just so that he can stay in the damned country ?’

   ’I’m getting married because I want to get married…..’

   ’Sweetheart – I don’t think you’ve thought this through…..’

   ’Of course I’ve thought it through. I’m not stupid, dad…..’

   ’I didn’t say that, but…..’

   ’But what ?’

   ’Please, please – let’s talk about this properly…..’

   ’So go ahead: talk.’

   ’It’s just…..the consequences of marrying a foreigner…..’

   ’Didn’t you marry a foreigner, dad ?’

   ’That was different.’

   ’Why was it different ?’

   ’Because it was different…..’

   ’You mean because you and mom both live in the EU ? Because you’re both from a Christian background ? Both Westerners…..?’

   ’Yes…..No……’

   ’Are you being racist, dad ?’

   ’Of course I’m not being racist.'

   'Well, it sounds like it to me! It's about time you started broadening your horizons - a horse doesn't have to be called a horse. Sometimes it's called an asp!'

   I ignore this and change tack. 'What does your mother say ?’

   ’She thinks it sounds fun…..’

   ’Fun ? Fun! Your mother thinks marriage is fun ? What about your brother ?’

   ’He thinks it’s fun too: he’s going to be best man.’

   And that’s not all: just to make sure that the immigration department isn’t left in any doubt as to their new status she goes and gets herself pregnant – and not pregnant with just one kid, oh no, but pregnant with twins. And what a delivery that was: half the damned refugee camp in the hospital waiting room and Ali singing ’Delilah’ when my daughter’s waters finally broke. The twins are called Tommy and Jamilla (can you believe that ?) - English/Iranian/Scandinavian, both the colour of strong tea. And next week this extended family of mine will include Ali’s wife and two daughters who have finally been granted permits to travel out of Iran.

 

 

 

Epilogue.

 

   It’s Saturday, eighteen months after delivery. I’ve met up with Ali and we’ve brought the kids into town. We’re sitting outside the Choco Chip ice cream parlour, spooning soft ice into Tommy and Jamillas’ mouths. We’re doing this because Brad Pitt is on a photo shoot: my daughter has set her handsome husband up as a model, earning more money in a day than I earn in a week.

   ’You help us so much, Mr Mike…..’ Ali says, getting sentimental over his 99. ’And now we're all together – one big family…..’

   ’That's right’ I say, taking a lick of my cornet, 'and who would have thought that at my time of life I wouldn't be calling a horse a horse, I'd be calling it an asp.'

   He hasn't got a clue what I'm talking about.

 

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