This book of short stories is the first volume in English translation that is dedicated entirely to the work of Mahshid Amirshahi. Previously, several short stories written by this significant Iranian author had appeared in English in volume three of the journal Edebiyat (1978) and Stories from Iran: A Chicago Anthology, 1921-1991, edited by Heshmat Moayyad. This present volume contains eight works from those quaintly referred to as "Suri Stories" by Iranian readers. Although related thematically, these stories originally appeared in different collections published between 1968 and 1971. Here, these "Suri Stories," appearing together for the first time in one volume, give English readers an opportunity to look at Amirshahi's short stories as a whole, from a social perspective as well as that of style and content.

Mahshid Amirshahi was born into a wealthy upper-class family. After primary and secondary education in Iran she was sent, like most members of her class, to Europe to get a degree of higher education, preferably by her family in some aspect of science and technology. This she acceded to by attending the Woolwich Polytechnic of London University where she received in 1963 a B.S. degree in physics. However, Amirshahi's personal interest was not science. As soon as she returned to Iran in 1964, she plunged into a career of writing that included numerous translations from English to Persian, non-fictional essays which she contributed to literary journals, and editorship of a children's book program. Among her various translations into Persian, the most noteworthy are James Thurber's Fables For Our Time; E. B. White's Charlotte's Web; Lawrence Durrell's Alexandria Quartet; and P. L. Travers' Mary Poppins. Amirshahi's first collections of short stories were published at intervals in Tehran in the 1960s and 1970s. These were received enthusiastically by the general public and by writers and literary critics. Due also to her attractive presence and outgoing personality, she made many friends and, eventually, a circle formed around her whose members included men and women of letters who represented the intellectual elite of Tehran society. She is perhaps the only Iranian woman writer who has held regular literary gatherings at her house for authors and artists and other interested members of the Iranian elite.

By the time her first collection of short stories appeared in 1966, Amirshahi had developed the style by which she was to make a name for herself in the Iranian literary scene. This approach, which she still uses, as in the case of her 1987 novel Dar Hazar (At Home), rests comfortably upon the classical Persian language in its purest form: clarity, directness, simplicity, the right usage of words, and correct syntax which results in solid, lucid sentences containing her own original stamp. She is not interested in creating special literary effects which too often result in dense cumbersome prose. She is interested in a form of writing that makes for easy reading. Her effort is to make her work understood by readers, rather than making readers conscious of unusual writing. The mixture of spoken and literary language makes her work somewhat reminiscent of that of the early twentieth-century Persian writer Mohammad Ali Jamalzadeh, or the American Ernest Hemingway.

Amirshahi s short stories, particularly those selected for this volume, depict the lives of the upper-middle-class Iranians who lived in the busy metropolis of Tehran between the 1950s and 1970s. This is the period in which the author grows from childhood to adulthood. It is also a dynamic and critical period in Iranian history. It is the apex of modernization in Iran. Modernization, which for all practical purposes could be called Westernization, was a process which began in the nineteenth century, but not until the early years of the 1920s did it begin to accelerate. At first this was a slow process, for Iran lacked both funds and technologies. However, by the late 1950s, certain crucial factors had quickened this process. The political upheavals of World War II and its aftermath led to the nationalization of the country's oil industry. Despite its unfortunate international political repercussions, once the oil crisis was resolved in 1953, gold began to flood Iran's treasury. State revenues from oil which in 1952 were essentially nil, in 1962 reached 323 million and by 1975 had soared to an annual 28.5 billion dollars.

The city of Tehran was the symbol of this amazing era which transpired. In many ways a golden period of increased prosperity and apparently solid achievement, it was shattered, finally, by its excesses and widespread lack of perception of the potential violence of the disparate social and economic forces which had been unleashed. Portions of population had embraced a totally Western way of life and other larger portions of it had become various mixtures of older tradition and modernity. In Tehran, most of the upper middle class lived in the northern part of the city. Its members patronized its fabulous hotels, shopping centers, restaurants and night clubs. They also consumed or patronized the quintessence of twentieth-century cultures worldwide, including that of Iran. This was a Western style of life quite different from that which existed in the south of Tehran.

Mahshid Amirshahi grew up, lived and worked in north Tehran. Her success as a writer may be attributed to the fact that she can write confidently about her own class and its environment. More than any other Iranian writer of this period, she has been able to interpret in human terms the cataclysm which occurred in Iran in the latter 1960s and 1970s, brought about by the meeting of the East and the West. The stories that appear in Suri & Co. reflect to a certain extent the author's own life. One may surmise that Suri is a fictionally altered Mahshid. Whether it is the Suri collection or other stories, Amirshahi always works within her own milieu. This fact, along with her clever satire and her masterful dialogue writing, makes her a great rarity among modern Iranian writers. Her slashing wit delivers devastating blows at Iran's ruling class although she herself is part and parcel of that class. Extremely critical but not judgmental of the society which she describes, she does not hold a grudge against any particular segment of it. Many characters in her stories are men and women of depressed classes. Yet, she does not necessarily feel obliged to angrily defend their rights. Unlike many contemporary Iranian writers, her works do not reflect class warfare. She does not defend radicals against conservatives, poor against rich, people against government, peasants against landlords and so forth. In short, Amirshahi is not a wrathful author. An observer and sympathizer, her writings are humorous and rational.

After the Islamic Revolution of 1979, Amirshahi left Iran, perhaps permanently. Like many self-exiled writers, she has chosen to live in Paris. In 1987, she produced her first long work, a novel entitled Dar Hazar (At Home), which is about the coming of the Islamic Revolution and its immediate aftermath. At present she is completing her second novel Dar Safar (Away). After arriving in Paris, Amirshahi joined one of the Iranian opposition groups in exile and has become a political activist. It seems that now she has finally found a cause to join the growing ranks of rebellious Iranian writers.

The stories in the present volume are translated by Jutta Edith Knörzer who holds a Ph.D. degree in Persian and Islamic Studies from the University of Toronto. She has published several articles dealing with Persian literature. A book of hers is a scholarly study of the earlier twentieth-century Iranian writer, Ali Dashti, released by Mazda Publishers in 1994 under the auspices of the Persian Cultural Foundation (U.S.A.). The Middle East Center at The University of Texas is most pleased to present this talented scholar as translator of this collection of short stories by Mahshid Amirshahi.

Hafez Farmayan
Professor of History and Director of Iranian Studies
The University of Texas at Austin

If you only knew what comical contortions they got into over naming Simin's new child. Everybody was playing his or her own tune. Now that Uncle Ardeshir has established his claim to be an expert on things Western, he occasionally gets the whim to demonstrate that he knows Persian better than anybody else. So he went and practically killed himself trying to find a name for Simin's child in the Shahnamah. And what names: Haftvad, Kharad, Gostaham, Arjasp, and Shaghad! I'd never heard of any such names as these. The only name I had heard of a similar sort was Hovakhshatarah. This is why I said, "Come on, Uncle Ardeshir, this simply wont do."

"What wont do?" he asked.

"Just think! How can one say, 'Come and do pottie, Hovakhshatarah!'? It just won't work."

Uncle's reaction was, "How's that?! What's this Hovakhshatarah business? Are you talking rubbish again?"

"Well, the names you suggested sound just like Hovakhshatarah too," I retorted.

Uncle Ardeshir, not to be put down, came back at me: "Don't talk nonsense, child. Those are all good Persian names, straight from the Shahnamah."

I acknowledged that: "I know, but..."

At this Uncle asked with great contempt, "You know, do you?"

I forgot that I am not allowed to know anything in Uncle's presence. And I have to admit, at first I was merely guessing that he'd found the names in the Shahnamah. But when I saw him, in the last few days, flipping through an abbreviated version of the Shahnamah and mumbling words to himself, I sensed that something was going on.

I pretended that I wanted to be instructed and asked, "Those names you mentioned—what were they?"

Uncle Ardeshir cleared his throat and recited the names distinctly, one by one, as though he were addressing some kind of donkey.

I then objected, "Who'd dare to slap the hand of a child named Shaghad or Gostaham—or that other one, what was it again? With such names it is obvious they all know karate."

Mama gave me one of those looks which mean, "Watch that long tongue of yours!" My dear old Khanom Jan had no idea what karate was, but she wrinkled up her eyes and smiled at me. Whatever I do, she always reacts in that way. I felt strongly moved to explain karate to her, but Uncle butted in, "You done your homework? Standing here, interfering in high philosophical matters!"

Whenever Uncle can't think of a blistering reply, he asks a question back and upsets you that way. I shot back, "Yes, I've done it," so that he should understand, even if I hadn't done it, it was none of his business.

There is one good thing about Uncle Ardeshir: when he flares up, one gets a real kick out of it. Anyway, even if he had been in a position to chastise me, he never got the chance, because Uncle Hosain was getting all steamed up about the name business, and Uncle Ardeshir was forced to get back into the discussion again. Now, my Uncle Hosain is the exact opposite of Uncle Ardeshir, that is to say he's never grasped that if one wants to play the European to perfection, one must first learn to play the Iranian. That was why all the names he proposed were out-and-out Western. It was particularly funny because he insisted on giving all the names in both their French and English forms: thus, "Georges" together with "George," "John" alongside "Jean." (I couldn't help silently adding my own contribution, "Lousy" and "Shaddup!") After all, you tell me, who's going to give their kids names like these? But no one ever feels they have to answer Uncle Hosain, because his remarks are always so wishy-washy that they are a refutation in themselves. Of course, this doesn't include Uncle Ardeshir, who feels he has to reply to everybody.

He now said, "No, sir! Neither Georges nor George: what d'you mean by such nonsense?"

Uncle Hosain retorted angrily, "All right, call him Mamdali Ja'far, so that when he goes to Europe he'll be laughed at, and no one will be able to pronounce it."

This really upset Uncle Ardeshir: "Shit on them, if they laugh at him! Blast their eyes! Let them learn to pronounce it. What're you talking about, my friend? Did they laugh at me when I was there? I forced them to pronounce my name properly."

I blurted out, "Didn't you say they used to call you 'Jim' over there?"

At this Uncle Hosain was delighted, while Ardeshir became incensed. However, Khanom Jan now changed the subject, or rather brought it back to the original point, by saying, "Give him his grandfather's name, my dear." Auntie Fakhri, of course, had wanted to give the child her father's name from the very beginning. In short, the whole business turned into a donnybrook. About one lousy name they started such a free-for-all you'd have had to see it to believe it. Finally, when they'd had a fine old shouting-match, it was decided to open the Koran at random. I don't know whose suggestion it was, but it fell to Uncle Ardeshir to consult the Holy Book. Solemnly he inspected the page from top to bottom and bottom to top and then said, "It's opened at the Sura of Yusof."

The name of one of the most recent twelve forefathers—or it may have been sixteen—was in fact Yusof. So the child was named Yusof and everybody rested easy.

If Uncle Ardeshir hadn't himself been the one to consult the Koran, I'm certain he would have insisted on the name being Hovakhshatarah. But having himself consulted the Book, he behaved as though he were the Prophet and the Sura of Yusof had been revealed to him personally!

Simin's husband was standing near Uncle, and said with relish, "Simin, we're lucky. If it had opened at Chapter II instead of Chapter XII, our son's name would have to be "Cow." Then we'd have been in a fine mess!"

"Go on with you, don't make me laugh," replied Simin. "You know I can't laugh yet."

I began to wonder where Mama had dug up our names—Simin, Dadash, and Suri. Not "Dadash," of course, since that's just what we call him, "Big Brother," while his real name is Sasan. My own name is the least appropriate of the lot: Suri, that is "Rose": what sort of name is that for someone who looks like me?! Anyone who hears it and doesn't know me is bound to imagine that I am a plump young thing, with a red and white complexion, blue eyes, and hair hanging down like a mass of gold braid. There was a girl in Grade Four when I was in Grade One; I don't remember what her name was, but she could certainly have been a Suri. Anyway, this family of mine knocked themselves out to find a name like Suri for me, while I'm the exact image of a grasshopper. The only reason they did it, I believe, was so that they could call me "Black Suri," although I'm quite happy when Khanom Jan calls me "Blackie dear," and leaves the Suri off altogether. Still, this is just quibbling. After all, my name is O.K. Just take Mozhi's name, poor kid! Her full name is Mozhegan, which means "Eyelashes," though—God help her!—she doesn't have a single eyelash to her name. Or at least the few she does have are stuck like thorns into all the styes she's afflicted with. In short, if I were in her place, I'd really be embarrassed at my name. The only good thing is that she herself is unaware of it. But to get back to the point, I've no idea where my parents got these colorless names. Still, if everybody has to go through such trouble as Simin did in naming her child, they will certainly choose something—anything—and get themselves off the hook. That's doubtless how Mama did it. I once asked her, "Where did you get our names from?"

"I didn't get them from anywhere," was her reply.

I came back, "Then how did it come about that we got the names Simin, Sasan, and Suri?"

Her answer to this was, "If I had called your brother Ramin, you'd have been Nasrin"—which in no way answered my question.

I went on to ask, "If you'd had two more children, what would you have called them?"

She didn't need to think even for a moment. "If they'd been girls and you still had the same names, they'd have been Susan and Sara; if boys, Sohrab and Siyamak. Furthermore, if you three had been Simin, Ramin, and Nasrin, they'd have been Parvin, Afshin, and stuff like that."

At this I wondered, "Why, for heavens sake?"

"Very well, either you'd all begin with S, or you'd all end in the rhyme -in."

I burst out, "That's it? How unimaginative!"

I believe that Mama never thinks she can be wrong, and that was why she was upset by my remark. She retorted, "Thank God you were the last. If I'd been fated to have another two like you, I would by now have been in my grave seven times over."

At the thought of annoying Mama, I always feel a little sad. However, I know that I don't annoy her all that much, and her grumblings are never very serious. Still, I find it hard to put up with them, and at the same time, as I've told you before, I feel sad at provoking them. So I said nothing further. The only conclusion I arrived at was that if I have a child one day, I'm not going to call it Hovakhshatarah, nor give it the name of a chapter from the Koran, nor one that begins with S or ends in N, nor one with any other letter at the end or the beginning! You understand what I mean? What I'm trying to say is that nobody should name a child on the basis of such things. But to tell the truth, I myself don't know what name I would give. It's no good asking this bunch. In the first place, none of them knows a damn thing. Secondly, nowadays whenever I ask something, they exchange meaningful glances and suggest that my problem is I'm longing for a husband. It's enough to turn your stomach! A few days ago I said, "I've had enough of going to the seaside. This summer let's go somewhere else." Like somebody highly intelligent who—when a person merely says F.—immediately understands the reference is to Forugh Farrokhzad, they all looked at each other and then said, "O.K., you're at an age when the least thing tries your patience. As soon as you're married, everything will be all right. We'll have to give some serious thought to your case." For God's sake, can you see any connection? If I'm fed up with the sea, what does it have to do with getting married? If I dare to ask about naming children, all hell will break loose. Nor is it any use my saying I've absolutely no intention of getting married. I've said it a few times already and seen the result. All the women in the family say, "Ha! We used to talk like that." Even Maliheh declares, "I too used to say I would never marry." Just think, for God's sake! Even Maliheh, who I know talks nonsense anyway. And, of course, I shall never understand how anyone could want to marry Big Brother. Anyone who says that he is good-looking is talking rubbish. Still, Maliheh did want him—that much I do know.

Anyway, that's beside the point. What I was saying was this: in the last few days I have gone so deeply into the matter of names and created such a stir that even Rokhsar's brother became aware of it recently. By the way, did I tell you that Rokhsar's brother has lately begun to chase after me in a big way? Our Mama, of course, tends to purse her lips at such things. People say he's too good-looking but—heavens above!—is there anything wrong with that? When talk turns to Big Brother, they always say that on one side he has good looks, on the other he has virtues. But as for that kid Rokhsar's brother, wow! He really is a looker. I'm not that crazy about him, it's just that Mama is inclined to take the fun out of things.

The point is, as I was saying, Rokhsar's brother had also noticed that I was all the time worrying my head about people's names. Everybody calls him Kiki. You know how it is. I myself have never used his name because—I don't know why—I find it hard to address people I've just got to know, by their first name, or to use the familiar form. Whenever I speak to him, I always try to use the polite form, and so on ... When speaking to Mehri about him, I refer to him as "Rokhsar's brother." A few days ago I actually asked him, "They call you Kiki, but what's your real name?"

He answered with his own question, "What's the matter with you these days? Everyone you meet you start asking them what their name means or who gave it to them."

It wasn't that I didn't want to answer him, but I couldn't think of a way to put it so that he would understand. So in the end I said nothing. Finally he revealed, "My real name is Kayumars," but it was obvious that he was annoyed with me. After that we never spoke on the phone again. I don't really care, yet (I don't know why) I feel a little sorry about it. Not that I'm sorry about Rokhsar's brother—and yet in a way I am. If only I had at least said to him, that day, "Kayumars is a nice name." I do believe he thought I was putting him on. But if I'd only said this, he wouldn't think so. Even now perhaps I ought to pick up the phone and call him. Not for any special reason, you understand, but merely to tell him I wasn't making fun of him.

Kayumars isn't a bad name for a boy, but I'll never call a child of mine Kiki. It's real silly. If I have a daughter like myself, I'll name her Susk. I've only just now thought of it. It's a wonderful choice: anyone who wants can call her Black Susk. Moreover, Mama is bound to be pleased because it too begins with an S.