Teheran had changed. Occidental imitation abounds there and accompanies hideous images of the mullocratia, the inquisitive glance of the supreme Guide replaced the patriarchal image of Schah Riza-Khan Pahlévi. The crowd differs, for sure. It is almost as animated, joyful, childish. The traditional women were there before, in great number, cloistered behind their somber veils, looking at the world through the wire netting tissues of their strange nikabs, they are not alone any more. All the other women accompany them now, isolated behind the obscurantism of the sharia, they transformed acutely these chaste masks into new baits to excite the sexual appetite of men, displeasing, in doing so, the Niroye Entezame, guardian of the Islamic morality. These women artlessly avenging, brood their beauty as of a supreme weapon against stupidity.

I roam on the boulevard Keshavarz, renamed by the new masters; I have difficulty to recognized the locations, the immense places, the pompous monuments; the squalid open-air sewers, that then lined up the sides of the streets, had disappeared; the avenue is congested, undisciplined, suffocating with diesel oil; the guardians of the revolution are installed near the Bagh-e-Meli gate, perched on their 4 by 4, shamelessly wearing their black beard, their Kalash and their sufficiency. I find finally an excuse, the park of the Gelestan garden, an oasis finally, discreetly away from the shambles of the streets of Teheran.

It is twilight over Teheran. The night is slightly cool, the sky is lit by a full moon, the oppression of the street does not exist any more, I integrated myself slowly into the atmosphere of the park, charmingly peaceful. I roam among the occupants of the park: families in full enjoyment, old women in conversation on benches, males assembled in endless discussions, groups of women imprisoned behind their somber drapes, people playing subtle games, cheerful girls wearing pretty chadors designed as to underline their individualityl; some girls in restricted groups, they enjoy defying the foreigner that I am, exchanging interrogative glances, collusive exclamations, roguish laughter, subtle physical provocation's, as to tempt the devil, or to maliciously escape from the omnipresent protection of the mollahs over the public morality.

Will I risk public opprobrium if I answered their advances and decided to fraternize as I had to live the vindication of the male companions of that beautiful Algerian girl, long time ago, in the streets of Constantine, having sustained too long a glance at her, captivated that I was, by her strange beauty?

I continue my muddled investigation of the shaded paths of the immense park, roaming casually, soaking myself with the serenity of the place, weakly disrupted by the imperceptible rumbling of the city close by; the shouts of the graceful crowd of these girls that follow me and defy me and amplify their roguish harassment, as to make me stumble, risk a short conversation, allow them this short and harmless contact with the foreigner, with the outside world, with the satanic angel from the West.

	So the group becomes more individual and I discover little by little, the characteristics of each one of them, their personalities and their physical appearance that their austere disguise do not manage to neutralize totally. - "My name is Maliheh, what is your name?" - My name is Marco, - "Marco, She is Habibeh. Maliheh, diminutive and cheerful as a young girl, whose piercing eyes detached surreptitiously from me, just to accept collusive approval from her companions; and Habibeh, as tall as a gazelle, thin and elegant, who roguishly reveals parts of her body to my furtive glances. - "My name is Veeda, here is ShAhzAdeh, Shaheen and Farah" Veeda, a little bit plump, animated like a marionette and who speak French, ShAhzAdeh and Shaheen who hold hand by hand, as a couple of prudish lovers, and Farah with her intellectual look discreetly shaded off behind thick glasses. There is Jamileh, Faezeh, Masoumeh, and the others, and there is also ZahrA staying behind, unmoved, with her black and piercing glance, she did not speak, and she did not stop looking at me, fascinated and fascinating. There is ZahrA who attracted my glance and awaked in me, a perceptible carnal fantasy. There is ZahrA, the beautiful ZahrA, whom I do not stop looking at now, subjected I am by the beauty she projects, the shapes of her body, her provocative black eyes, mysteriously underlined with bistre, the sudden ejection of a jewel by the edge of her chador, her frayed fingers garnished with multiple jewels, an adventure with ZahrA whom I would gladly lay on my bed, there close by at the hotel where I lodge, an adventure with ZahrA, in the country of the impossible adventure.