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BahAr Mazanderani felt awful. Sweat beaded her forehead, dripping into her eyes. Her cheeks, resembling maraschino cherries, glowed red. Hurriedly, she crossed The Embarcadero and headed toward Jefferson street. Her hotel, The Radisson, loomed before her. Stumbling inside, she hunted in her handbag for her room key.
When her brother, Arastoo, offered the trip to San Francisco, she thought he was joking. Then, he surprised her by producing plane tickets. He only required one small thing. Neatly wrapped in her luggage, ten small vials hid. Each contained four to six fleas. If she could spread them around, he would pay all her expenses. BahAr found the prank amusing. Readily, she agreed.
Fourteen days prior, BahAr arrived in California. Departing from Tehran, she traveled to Addis Abba, Ethiopia. Then she changed planes for Dhaka in Bangladesh. Deplaning in Tokyo, she hastily abandoned her hijab. She boarded her next plane to San Francisco wearing skinny jeans and a crop top.
BahAr Mazanderani adored Western Culture. Along with her sister, Mahasti, American sitcoms and pop music enthralled her. Even in Iran, blocked internet sites were not obstacles. Topping her list of favorite pop groups, she admired the Yum-Yums. The three young women, wearing tiger-printed leotards, strutted across the stage and sang provocative lyrics. Then, they shimmied up long dance poles.
BahAr dreamed of becoming a pole dancer in a Las Vegas club. When she arrived in California, she deleted her return ticket. Once she reached the States, she knew she would never re-enter Iran.
The city enthralled her. BahAr walked to Fisherman's Wharf every morning. Through a morning mist, the Golden Gate Bridge soared. Alcatraz Island sat across the channel. The harsh bark of the sea lions filled the area. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, BahAr hugged herself and twirled. America meant freedom. Freedom from hijabs and calls to prayer.
In the afternoon, BahAr shopped. Wandering through Union Square, she spent lavishly. Gathering several garments, she locked herself in fitting rooms. Once or twice, she released a vial of fleas. Arastoo cautioned her to let them go a few at a time. Imagining the next customer getting bit, she chucked. Her severe brother thought of the funniest games.
BahAr met Ivy Masterson in a coffee shop restroom. A tall figure stood beside her as she washed her hands in the sink. She'd never encountered such a muscularly built woman. At first, the young lady believed a man hovered next to her.
“Have you been in San Fran long?” Ivy asked, turning toward the hand dryer.
BahAr's languid brown eyes roamed upward along with her companion's husky figure. The grey skirt and paisley blouse convinced her. In the states, women appeared in all shapes and sizes. Relaxing, she continued to soap her hands.
“Only fourteen days,” the Iranian responded. “My brother’s treating me to a vacation.”
"I've been here a month," Ivy remarked. She took her time beneath the warm blowing air. "I have to get a job soon. My funds are beginning to run low."
“Yeah, well, good luck,” BahAr cheerfully answered. Although heavily accented, she spoke perfect English. Taking a swift glance behind her, she emptied a flea vial into Ivy’s opened handbag.
“Good luck to you too,” the former Ivan Talbot called. Snapping her bag closed, Ivy slung it over her shoulder.
Nonchalantly, BahAr dug in her bag for a lipstick. She applied her make-up and exited. She did not notice the open vail or the four fleas that crawled amongst her belongings.
BahAr Mazanderani and Ivy Masterson never crossed paths again.
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Three days later, BahAr felt a chill, then a fever. Passing it off as excitement, she crossed the Embarcadero and entered Fisherman’s Wharf. At the Codmother, she ordered a fish and chip lunch. She left a balled-up napkin containing six fleas by way of a tip. Believing she emptied the tenth one, BahAr mentally patted herself on the back. It finalized her obligation to Arastoo.
New plans filled the frivolous Iranian's head. Freedom beckoned her. In her mind, BahAr imagined her sleek olive body unrestrained. Wrapped around a tall silver pole, she slithered. The cascades of black hair enveloped her near-naked body. Music pulsated around her; green, pink, and yellow lights flashed across the dance floor.
Frequently she had practiced belly dancing in her Iranian bedroom. When her father caught her, he harshly whipped her. Gulzar Mazanderani did not tolerate lewdness in his daughter. Angrily BahAr resented his cruelty. Amongst her peers, she railed against injustice toward women. She viewed her insipid mother as intolerably weak. Her sister-in-law, Yasmina, fell within the same category. Longing to escape, she used her brother’s offer as a path to freedom.
“America!” BahAr shouted at San Francisco. Spreading her arms wide, she ran down the sidewalk. Then, a sudden flash of heat throbbed beneath her glistening skin. Skidding to a stop, she held her trembling hands out to steady herself.
After a moment, the feeling passed. Slowing her step, BahAr crossed Jefferson and approached the Radisson hotel. The cool air-conditioned lobby froze her. Goosebumps appeared on her arms. Reaching into her handbag, she searched for her key. Something pricked her finger; she ignored it.
Stumbling over her feet, BahAr fell into the opened elevator. Pressing the third-floor button, she slumped against the back of the car and slid to the floor.
A strong arm forced the elevator door open, and a man stepped in. Kasra Anvari knelt beside his best friend's sister. Covertly, he kept an eye on her since her arrival in San Francisco. Arastoo would not appreciate his report. He abhorred her lewd behavior. Dressed in Western garb, BahAr flaunted her sensuous body. He noticed roaming male and female eyes traversing her petite form. Hot, angry blood pulsated in his veins. Many times, he stepped forward to intervene. Then, remembering Arastoo's words of warning, he remained unobserved. He'd kept his distance until he spied her staggering gait.
Luckily, no one else noticed the two Iranians. Kasra managed to drag BahAr into her room. Carefully he placed her on the bed and covered her. For three days, she tossed and turned beneath the blankets. He bathed her forehead with a wet cloth and kept vigilance. She lost consciousness and never awoke. A bubble appeared on her armpit; another formed on her groin.
Kasra wrapped her in the hotel bedspread when his friend's sister died. He felt no emotion toward her. Dutifully, he cleaned up the room, removing all traces of the young Iranian woman.
During the silent overnight hours, Kasra Anvari dragged her downstairs and out a side entrance. Borrowing a boat, he took her out into the treacherous waters surrounding Alcatraz Island. After lowering her into the Pacific, he watched the makeshift shroud bob. It sank beneath the hefty anchor tied to her ankle. The unpleasant business behind him, he returned the boat to its moorings. Hidden in the shadows, he re-entered the hotel. No one suspected his midnight activities.
In the morning, Kasra Anvari settled BahAr Mazanderani’s bill.
"The young lady went ahead to New York City," he casually told the hotel clerk. "I plan to join my sister in a few days. I still have a little business to attend in San Francisco."
The clerk hardly paid attention. He never listened to the guests’ chatter or explanations. After working at the reception desk for twenty-five years, the multiple check ins and outs became routine. Dismissing the Iranian patron, he smiled at the young couple waiting patiently behind him.
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