Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood

Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood
“The Letter” as narrated by Marjane Satrapi
I never read much during this period. My favorite author was Ali Ashraf Darvishian, a local Charles Dickens (weird name) who’d I’d often see in one of his book signings. His stories were sad but true: the tale of Reza who became a porter at age ten; the tale of Leila who wove carpets at age five; the tale of Hassan who washed cars when he was only three years old—that last one made no sense to me but as the saying goes: the difference between real life and fiction is that fiction has to make sense.
For this I felt ashamed to sit in my father’s Cadillac. This reason, I realized, stemmed from the difference between social classes. In Iran we criticized the West for its imperialist ways even though we here too benefited off the hardships of others; only difference is that here, those others are our own people. Iranians. In the world there are but two people: the rich and the poor. My family was not rich but neither were we poor. Our class was just better off than some. That’s I got to thinking about our maid at home.
Her name is Mehri. One of fifteen children, her parents gave her up to provide for her a better life. When I was born, Mehri took care of me. When I was bored, Mehri played with me. When I finished eating, Mehri ate my leftovers. When I was bored, she told me stories. She the closest thing I had to a big sister in the entire world. That was why when she fell in love with the boy next door and asked me to write love letters to him on her behalf, I could not say no.
I would write the letters for her each week for six months. Mehri was very poetic but could not read or write; a product of the class system, so I would write what she said. Over time, the two began to exchange notes more often and I couldn’t write fast enough. It got to the point where I finally told Mehri to stop writing and go talk to him. She didn’t want to. She was shy. So I went to speak with this boy on her behalf. His name was Hossein and it turns out he too was a servant. Unlike Mehri, Hossein was an only child and was given up by his mother when his father left one day and never came back. Hossein lived and worked for a stern master who would often beat him for the smallest things. I asked him what he thought about Mehri and he replied, “Oh, how I long to be with her, but I can’t leave the house.” To that I asked him, “Would you like to meet her?” And he said, “Yes of course.”
So being the good little sister I am, I arranged it. That day, it was a Friday, my mother and father took Mehri and me out when it was time for them to leave. “Mehri, take Marji home and fix her some chicken,” my mom said to which Mehri replied, “Yes, ma’am.” I waited until my parents were out of sight before I grabbed Mehri and told her to come with me. We returned to our apartment. We went around the back where nobody could see us. There, I knocked on the backdoor to the apartment where Hossein lived. I told him to wait for me there when I returned with Mehri. Hossein opened the door and the two of them met face to face.
They hugged. They started talking. I think they forgot I was even there and was the one responsible for bringing them together. I didn’t mind. I liked seeing Mehri happy for once. She may smile a lot but deep down I knew she was lonely. How can she not be? No one can be happy taking care of somebody else forever. Even mom will get tired of me one day.