The “Hajji” and Nina Ricci
At a large shopping center in Paris, a Muslim cleric wearing a black robe with a white turban, commonly known as a Hajji, caught my attention. He was intensely engaged in a conversation with a salesperson at a perfumery, as he purchased perfumes and occasionally looked at two young men, his companions, mentioning a name or two, asking them not to forget about them as well. So I stood and watched. He bought one, then another one, and soon there were several selections on the counter soon to be in his possession. Of course they were the most fashionable one, Nina Ricci. I felt good that clerics now bought perfume. But then another thought crept in: What happened?
It took me back to the Iran of 1984. Everywhere we went, we were subjected to body searches and frisking. We knew that the possession of a lipstick or an eye liner in the purse of a woman amounted to an “unforgiveable crime” in the Islamic Republic of Iran, just five years into the cleric “Islamic Revolution”. The cosmetics would be “confiscated” amid insults and public humiliation with such remarks as, “Till when do you wish to make yourselves look like Western dolls.” But I was free from such encounters. Why? Times were such that I had stopped even looking at myself in the mirror. My husband was in prison and I searched for news about him. My life revolved around going from one government officials to another to deliver a letter about my husband, about my life and present my plea. I searched for justice, to discover that there was none, or a person who would really listen to my story.
On that particular day, coming to yet another government office, I entered the room of “Sisters’ Inspections,” drowned in my thoughts. As unsure as I was about everything else, one thing I was certain of: I had no lipstick or eye liner in my bag. I was already wearing the required black veil given to me at the entrance, which also seems to have absorbed the grief of people like me whenever it was worn. And so I put my bag on the table in front of the “sister” (as these women friskers and inspectors were called, and who called us the same in return). Turning it over, out came the pens, paper, a book, etc. Then suddenly she screamed “Vay” (the closest English language equivalent of the term being a shocking Wow or, an Oh my God). The shriek returned me to the real world as heads turned and eyes gazed. “What is this garbage you put in your bags, oh”, she uttered in apparent frustration.
I too was shocked, but at her reference, and also wondered what was the “garbage.” Then the scent hit my nostrils and the story lit up. A small perfume vial resting in a buried pocket for years was shattered because of the “deep” inspection of the sister, its fragrance changing the immediate ambiance.
Fearing that the scent was going to prevent me from entering the building, I said, “This was there from before. I no longer even put on perfume.” My gaffe made matters worse. “So you did wear perfume before,” she said triumphantly with the satisfaction of an interrogator’s discovery.
In short, my crime now became wearing perfume in the past. Eventually, amid the disgusted look of the sister - as if she had just smelled crap - and her insulting remarks, I received permission to enter the building. But on that day too, my quest for justice fell on the cold floor of the building. The perfumed bag however remained in the balcony of our house so that its scent “from the past” would fade away under the sunshine. Which it did.
Now, that same fragrance rose in the Parisian store. And in massive volume. Probably for all the “sisters” of the clerics, as all the perfume on the counter could not be for just one “sister”.
The reason I mention this encounter is because seeing a cleric buying perfume is in fact a good sign. A sign that after staying in power for some thirty years, which if not pleasing to the people of Iran, had taught some to enjoy sweet scent. After all, what is life if not this kind of learning. Learning that could have brought so much less pain had it arrived earlier and then nobody would have been insulted and humiliated for possessing perfume; nobody would have been punished and flogged for possessing a video cassette; nobody would have been dumped behind bars for installing a satellite TV receiver in his house; nobody would have gone blind for drinking a home-made drink with the wrong alcohol, which these very moral authorities keep in sealed containers for themselves; and more. Each one of us can make lengthy lists of such painful episodes in our lives and in those of our loved ones.
Perhaps these games were meant to keep the scents, tastes, and pleasant moments away from those who recognized sweet perfume, a good film, an exciting drink, so that the pre-selected few would freely indulge in them to enjoy some moments of their own existence. But do they know that behind every scent is a flower, behind every film a story, behind every drink a world of pain which they would like to “forget” or momentarily leave behind?