Exiles from Paradise

by Brigitte Ades

Genres: Coming of Age; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Through the friendship of two young Franco-Iranians, Exiles from Paradise is a novel that delves deep into the great conflict between enlightened Islam and fanaticism.

Despite their academic achievements, Farhad and his circle of friends feel estranged from Paris, the city they grew up in, as they face prejudice from prospective employers and rejection for their Islamic culture. Searching for his roots, Farhad travels to Iran where he discovers that his ancestors fought the Assassins, the first terrorists in history. Encouraged by this glorious past and in a quest to track down a long-lost heirloom, the rare Alamut stone, Farhad follows the trail to London. His closest friend Reza is working for an Islamic charity in London, but his behaviour is becoming increasingly withdrawn, prompting fears of radicalisation. Farhad's courageous response is a hymn to bravery and ancestral values.

First published in France to critical acclaim, Exiles from Paradise is a thought-provoking novel about discrimination, heritage and belonging. Brigitte Ades' captivating novel is a celebration of Iranian culture, community and connection, as well as a powerful interrogation of the nature of nationality and identity in the 21st century.

Translated from the French by Iain Watson and Rosie Capell

Release date: May 27, 2021

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 160

Sample

I

Farhad stopped to observe the sky. His eyes followed a few dispersing clouds.

An unpleasant feeling had taken hold of him.

He had felt a stranger in Paris, the city where he had spent most of his life, and he had sought reassurance. The sky was deep blue, just as in Tehran when the wind brought fresh air down from the mountains; just as in New York when in the early mornings he gazed through the peaks of the skyscrapers. This sky was the link that connected all his lives.

He recognised this unease, but let it overcome him for the first time. He stood still, for fear that this newfound aspect of himself might fade away again. It made him feel wholly present.

Before, he had never listened to himself. He had had to silence many voices in order to succeed. Now, at twenty-four, he had come back with a degree from a top American university and had been offered jobs that were difficult to refuse.

Farhad turned to face the passers-by. These four years of absence allowed him to see his surroundings with fresh eyes. His pale face and his thick black hair gave him a distinctive look. His face tensed slightly. He shivered at the thought of one day being part of this impassive crowd insensitive to the life in the trees. These bystanders came from various countries, yet they formed a homogeneous mass. If by some magic a genie had whisked them away to any other world capital, they would not have been out of place. They themselves would probably not have noticed.

He was reluctant to resume his walk. As people jostled past him, he wobbled before taking up his rapid stride. He felt better instantly, having decided to make space in his life for this other self.

The Champs Elysées stretched out before him. As he left the Rond Point and headed towards Place de la Concorde, he noticed the chestnut trees above him and he felt the urge to reach up and touch a few of the remaining flowers. In America, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Here, he knew how to act more constrained and mature. As he passed by the Théâtre Marigny, he considered aloud that it had been four years since he last saw a play. He stopped in front of the Champs-Elysées-Clemenceau metro station and looked at his watch: 2 p.m. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Hey!’

Farhad turned around. His gaze was met by a sincere, earnest look. The two men hugged for a few seconds.

‘You haven’t changed,’ said Bardia in his deep voice.

‘At our age, it's on the inside that we change the most,’ Farhad responded with a smile.

‘Come on, they’re all waiting!’ Bardia said as he led Farhad towards Avenue Franklin Roosevelt.

Sitting around two terraced tables at Le Grand Palais café, their friends were waving them over. They all got up at once and crowded around Farhad.

‘When did you get back?’

‘Just arrived. I still feel a bit dazed. I didn’t sleep on the plane.’

‘Exercise is the best way to combat jetlag,’ suggested Kamran, a vivacious young Iranian.

‘You’re right, and I’ve barely walked from the Etoile to here... It's so great to see you all! What's up?’

‘Here, nothing much’ Kamran replied. ‘But you must have had amazing experiences. Life must be so different over there.’

‘Completely different, I was so glad to leave, you have no idea.’ As soon as the words slipped out of his mouth, Farhad regretted them, seeing the disappointment on their faces. He tried to explain.

‘I missed Paris so much. But just now, for a minute, I got this feeling that I no longer belonged here either.’

‘You never fail to surprise me,’ said Kamran.

‘Here we were, expecting to find an over-confident student, well, an American,’ teased Vincent, the only native Frenchman of his high school friends.

‘I’m so happy to see you again, even with your sarcasm,’ sighed Farhad. ‘But I hope you didn’t wait for me to order,’ he added looking at the packed tables.

‘You kidding?’ snickered Vincent whose light brown hair stood out against the others. ‘I haven’t got much time, I have to be back at the office by half past three.’

‘Don’t worry, we know you’re always in high demand,’ joked Farhad as he ordered a rib steak and fries.

It had always been easy to take the mickey out of Vincent.

Their table bubbled with excitement. His friends had broad smiles on their faces, and you could sense their happiness. Farhad was determined to make the most of this reunion.

‘How about you guys?’ Farhad asked, looking cheerfully over to Cyrus and Teymour.

‘We’re out of work right now,’ admitted Cyrus, looking into his lap.

‘How come?’ asked Farhad in surprise.

‘It's not like we haven’t tried everything,’ said Teymour defensively. ‘We get part-time contracts but nothing permanent. Bosses here are reluctant to take people on because of the risk of severance payments. Plus, our Iranian names don’t help.’

Farhad went quiet for a moment. While he had been away, he had idealised France and he had always planned on settling there once he graduated. He was a little disconcerted to hear that even the best students from the Condorcet school, who had got places at prestigious universities, could have such limited career prospects.

‘Who cares. After a few tough years, we’ll start up our own company. I’ve got it all planned out,’ said Farhad optimistically.

‘But you haven’t told us why you left the US!’ exclaimed Kamran. ‘We’ve all dreamed of going to California. It's like Iran without the mullahs!’

‘Even before I went there I knew that I didn’t want to stay forever. And my experience didn’t change my mind. There is a lot of prejudice in America. You’re better off here.’

Everyone nodded.

‘You’re right. Though France has its difficulties, at least here nobody's on the street from one day to next,’ agreed Vincent, looking for approval from the others.

Farhad was about to respond when Bardia interrupted. ‘Has anyone heard from Reza? Did no one tell him to come?’

Farhad had already noticed Reza's absence. Even though he could be quite difficult, Reza had always been his closest friend.

‘Nobody knows. He moved out of the blue and cut ties with everyone. Even his parents don’t have a clue where he is.’

‘Maybe he's found someone?’ Farhad wondered aloud.

‘That's not it,’ Kamran said. ‘I’ve seen him going into the mosque a few times. I think he's got a job there.

Farhad started. The news hit him like a ton of bricks.

There was a pause.

‘So you still live right next to the great mosque?’ he asked Kamran, trying to keep his composure.

‘Reza? At the mosque? What's got into him?’ cried Cyrus.

‘He's not the first this has happened to, as you know,’ Teymour said. ‘If Reza wants to practise his religion, we shouldn’t make a big deal out of it. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll turn out to be a fundamentalist.’

Kamran shared his thoughts. ‘Reza must have had his lot of disappointments, just like the rest of us. At school they told us that if we worked hard, we’d be sure of a bright future. We all played the game. We were brought up on Western culture, we know their philosophers, their writers, as well as they do. But we’re still thought of as foreigners, when all we want is to find our place here.’

‘Sure we do, like most people. But you know well it's the vocal minority who gets the spotlight and then we’re all painted in a bad light,’ Cyrus observed.

‘The worst mistake you can make is to let them speak for all of you,’ cried Vincent. ‘If none of you is brave enough to stand up to them...’

The conversation continued in this vein. Over the past four years, they had become adults.

As he left, Farhad was deep in thought. Economic segregation was clearly unacceptable, but joining the radicals wasn’t going to help their public image.

He decided he would arrange as soon as possible a catch-up with Reza, who had failed to answer friendship's call.

II

Farhad's first night was restless. His bed felt too narrow. He had got used to American proportions. The ambience of his room, which he had so often dreamed of, wasn’t as he recalled it. In a moment of insomnia, he thought of renewing his Iranian passport. The Institute of Global Affairs had asked him to write a report about Iran. Why not take them up on it? His expenses would be covered, and he hadn’t been back since he was a child. Now was the time.

With this thought, he eventually fell asleep late into the night, and awoke to the sound of the front door gently being closed. Drawn by the smell of coffee and toast his mother had made, he stumbled out to the kitchen. He took his time: the first meal of the day would be crucial to help him recover from jetlag. He woke up properly once he was in the shower. Then he came out and walked naked down the corridor, his athletic body almost too wide for the narrow walls. He pulled a pair of jeans and an old blazer from his cupboard, for a look that would maintain his style without raising the eyebrows of the bearded embassy staff.

He went out into the street. The locals gave him slightly surprised looks, as if they were wondering which woman in the building this dark, handsome man had spent the night with.

As he was about to push open the gate of the embassy railings, a familiar voice called out to him.

‘Farhad Safandar, what brings you here?’

Farhad turned to face Mansour Dalavandi. This friend of his father's had always shown an interest in his development. He was stunned to see him outside of the walls which he had refused to enter since the revolution.

‘What a surprise! What have you come to the mullahs for? Are you back for good?’

‘Yes, I have a few job offers, but I want to take a bit of time out.’

This man who hated pretences looked him straight in the eyes and reiterated, ‘I hope you’re not thinking of going back to Iran?’

‘I might take a short trip there to do some research, which is why I need my Iranian passport.’

‘Don’t rush into anything! And if you do go, don’t stay too long or you might end up meeting a beautiful girl who’ll persuade you to stay.’

‘I’ll think of you if ever I’m tempted to peek under a chador.’

Remembering that he was also Reza's uncle, Farhad asked him for news of his family.

‘My aunt has just passed away. Come along to her memorial next Wednesday,’ he said. ‘We would love to see you there.’

Farhad promised he’d be there and excused himself.

An hour later he left the embassy. His passport would arrive in a matter of days.

The following week, Farhad pondered the roles of fate and destiny as he climbed the few steps up to Mr Dalavandi's apartment. Their chance encounter had given him a good excuse to see Reza, whom he still hadn’t heard from. What was he up to?

As soon as he rang the bell, the door opened and a man in a black suit asked him in. There was a low hum of conversation in the background. A large bouquet of white flowers was wilting in the heat on a Venetian console table. He caught sight of an elderly lady from behind as she was about to go into the living room. Farhad placed his hand on her arm. He had recognised her as his great-aunt Nasrine, a dear friend of the deceased. Their two families had owned neighbouring holiday homes on the Caspian Sea, where they used to spend their summers.

‘What are you doing here, my dear?’ she asked as they embraced. ‘I thought you were still in America!’

Farhad's heart melted as he smelled the familiar perfume that she had been wearing since he was a child.

‘I’ve finished university, Auntie.’

Farhad hadn’t seen his aunt since he had left for the US. He felt how frail she had become and promised to visit her in the coming days.

They sat down next to each other in the living room, with some Darjeeling tea and delicate halva cakes that had been made for the wake.

Visitors came in and took a seat on the chairs that had been set out along the walls. No one said a word. They all reflected in silence, simply nodding in acknowledgement as new arrivals came in. As it was customary not to stay long, Farhad was the first to stand up and take his leave. He had reached the hallway when two strong arms hugged him from behind.

‘Farhad, home at last!’

Ordinarily a little reserved and restrained, today Reza's face was lit up with a big smile. He led Farhad over to the corner of the room and told him how much he had hated this last year in Paris. His work hadn’t lived up to expectations and his contract hadn’t been renewed. He became more animated as he described how one day, he had felt the need to recharge his batteries, so had gone to the Paris mosque.

‘I spoke to the others in the prayer room; intense people who are staunch in their beliefs. Some of them are scholars. All of them are open to learning. I go regularly now. My parents disapprove; they’ve cut me out.’

‘You can understand why,’ said Farhad. ‘Our families have always been wary of religious groups, although they respect tradition.’

Reza explained that he would soon be leaving for a new job in London, as treasurer of a charitable foundation financed by wealthy Saudi Arabian families.

‘These people's generosity is astonishing,’ he exclaimed. ‘They already donate two fifths of their income to the poor, as the Quran instructs.’

‘Where does this money go?’ asked Farhad.

‘Often to refugee camps. I have done some research and they are everywhere; in Yemen, Lebanon, Egypt, Syria... It just goes to show how open these people are.’

‘Aside from that, are you still with your French girlfriend?’

‘No, you know, I’ve lost interest in women. Well, sort of...’ said Reza. ‘In any case, I don’t ever see myself with a Western spouse.’

Farhad couldn’t hide his surprise. All this from Reza, who had only ever been seen with European girls...

Reza continued jokingly, ‘And English girls aren’t going to persuade me otherwise!’

They laughed heartily together as if they had never been apart. Farhad promised to visit Reza in London soon.

The following afternoon, Farhad went to see his great-aunt.

‘I was expecting you,’ said Nasrine, as he came in.

The coffee table was full of his favourite desserts. His aunt wasn’t the slightest bit annoyed that he had been gone so long. They sat side by side on the sofa. Beneath his adult features, as she looked at him, she could see the face of the child she knew so well: a mixture of innocence and loyalty, a face that didn’t hide anything, where his emotions were always on display. His heart had not been tarnishe. . .