Supposed to be in love? I wonder, bitterly.
Zari puts a sugar cube in her mouth and starts to drink her tea while looking at Faheemeh. “I always wondered how it happens,” she says. “I mean, what makes two perfect strangers fall in love? How do you know you’re making the right decision?”
Faheemeh looks at Ahmed, and he shrugs his shoulders.
“You don’t,” I say, as though I’m some kind of an expert on love. “In an arranged marriage, you rely on the wisdom of the elders; in cases like theirs, on the intuition of your own heart.”
I wish Mom were here to see that I’m not as introverted as she thinks I am. I have no doubt, however, that she would claim her engine oil is working.
Ahmed gives me a smile and a little wink.
“Intuition of the heart,” Zari repeats with a spark in her eyes. “I like that: intuition of your own heart.”
“He’s got a way with words, doesn’t he?” Ahmed boasts. Then he looks at me with an expression that tells me he’s about to inflict some serious pain.
“His words are like beautifully composed vignettes strung together unabashedly by characters and time.”
I know at that very moment that Ahmed will not live long enough to marry Faheemeh.
Zari looks at Ahmed for a while. I think she’s trying to figure out what he just said. Then she turns to Faheemeh. “Giving in to the intuition of your heart must’ve been a lot more exciting than going along with the wisdom of your elders, huh?” she says, obviously thinking of Faheemeh’s narrow escape from her arranged marriage.
“It was,” Faheemeh confirms joyfully.
“It’s like what you see in Hollywood movies,” Zari says. “Letting someone new into your life, sharing your secrets with him, learning new things about him, all of it sounds so romantic to me. It also sounds risky and dangerous. I never had to deal with any of that with Doctor.”
“You didn’t?” Faheemeh asks.
“No. He and I were playmates as children,” Zari explains. “Of course now I only get to see him a couple of times a week. He’s much too busy. And he only comes over when my parents are home. He doesn’t want people to talk; you know what I mean? He’s very traditional in that sense. I suppose there is a lot of good in our relationship, but your story is the kind of stuff people write books about.”
I can tell from Zari’s restless body language that she is not comfortable talking about Doctor’s visits to her house. Is her discomfort due to wanting to see Doctor more, or because she’s not excited about her arranged marriage?
Faheemeh smiles as Ahmed winks at me again. I know exactly what is going through his head. The next time we are alone, he will say that Zari is not really in love with Doctor and that theirs would be a marriage of convenience. This, Ahmed will argue, is a custom an educated guy like Doctor has a moral obligation to resist. What would everyone say? The promising young scholar marrying a girl his parents picked out for him before he was even born? Ahmed will try to convince me to do something stupid, like shouting from the rooftop that I’m in love with Zari, and that Doctor should step aside as her intended husband and devote his life to emancipating our country from the grip of backwardness.
Later in the day, Zari tells us about her relatives and parents. Her mother was raised in an extremely religious family in Qum, one of Iran’s holiest cities. Most of the women on her mother’s side cover themselves with chadors. She has a cousin who could be a movie star if she lived in the United States or in Europe, but she wears a burqa that covers her from head to toe, like the women in Saudi Arabia. Zari calls her the “Masked Angel.”
“The Masked Angel?” I ask. “Sounds like a great title for a movie.”
Ahmed uses this opportunity to promote me again. “He’s seen every classic American movie ever made,” he says. “He’s like a movie encyclopedia. He knows all the actors, all the directors, and all the producers. He’ll be a great filmmaker himself someday.”
Zari looks at me and says, “You want to be a filmmaker?”
“I do,” I respond.
“That’s very exciting.”
Ahmed grins in triumph.
“I like the American movies, too,” Zari says. “But Doctor believes Hollywood is dominated by the Jews promoting Zionism.” She adds that she doesn’t know what Zionism means but knows that it’s not good to be a Zionist.
Faheemeh says her father is a columnist for Keyhan—the largest newspaper in Iran—and his childhood dream was to interview Walt Disney, but someone at Keyhan told him that Disney is an agent of Zionism. She admits that she doesn’t know what Zionism is either, but from the sound of it, it must be awful to be a Zionist!
Ahmed turns his head toward me to coach me, mouthing, “Talk about Zionism! Talk about Zionism!”
“A lot of the kingpins of the Hollywood studio system were actually Jews,” I say, taking the bait. “Zucker, Meyer, Selznick—they were all Jews, but I’m not sure they made any movies that promoted the creation of the state of Israel, which is what Zionism is about.”
“Wow,” Ahmed says, in mock amazement. “How do you know all this? I’m always learning something new from you.”
“May I have some water?” I ask Zari, hoping to interrupt Ahmed.
Every time Zari goes inside the house to bring food and beverages, I wish I were somewhere else so that Faheemeh and Ahmed could be alone, but I don’t know where to go. Finally, Zari comes to my rescue. She calls me from inside the house. It is the first time she has called me by my name, and it sounds distinctive when she says it. Hearing my name on her lips makes me a more important person, somehow. I walk into the house and see her peeling an orange with her back to the kitchen door.
“I wanted you to come in so they could have a little time together,” she says, as she turns to smile at me.
“I know. What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. Just keep me company.” She turns back and continues peeling the orange.
The pressure is on. This is the first time I’ve been alone with her and I have no idea what to say. Keivan walks into the kitchen, gets a glass of water, and leaves immediately. Maybe Iraj isn’t such a bad guy after all, I tell myself as I think of how he looks at Ahmed’s sister.
Zari says, “They look lovely together.”
I agree. “It’s nice of you to do this for them.”
“Oh, I would do anything for Ahmed. He’s a great guy.”
“He is,” I concur, and realize that I’m out of things to say.
A long, awkward pause ensues.
“Are you always so quiet?” she asks, flashing me a smile over her shoulder.
“No, not usually,” I say, struggling to think of something profound to say about the way I interact with people, but failing miserably and slinking back to my silence.
“Is there anyone special in your life?”
I don’t know what to say. She notices my pause and turns around to see if I’m still there. She grins when she notices that I’m blushing.
“Don’t be shy. I’m only a couple of years older than you are. You can tell me anything. That is, if you want to.”
“Yes, there’s someone special.” I think this is the best answer because it gives me something to talk to her about.
“Ah, I thought so. I see you and Ahmed up on the roof every night. I figured you two must talk about girls.” She pauses for a little while. “So now I know he talks to you about Faheemeh. Who’s the queen of your stories?”
I feel tremendously excited to have her attention focused on me. I look around a little bit, throw my arms up, shift my weight from one leg to the other a couple of times and say, as she is intently watching me, “I can’t tell you who she is.”
A smile springs up to her face. “You’re so cute,” she says. After a few seconds, she walks up to the refrigerator and takes out some apples. “Now, why not? Why can’t you tell me?”
I don’t reply.
“Quiet and shy!” she teases. “Girls love shy and quiet
guys, the mysterious kind, did you know that?”
I shake my head no, while wishing my mother could hear that some people think being introverted is immensely attractive.
“Now you must tell me,” Zari insists. “You know how people become good friends? By sharing secrets. So tell me, who is she?” She walks back to her original spot. “Is she pretty? Do I know her? Does she live in our alley? Come on, who is she?”
“You know her,” I whisper.
“Oh, good. So she must live in the alley. This is good, we’re getting somewhere now.”
I keep quiet.
“Does she go to school?” she asks.
“She just graduated from high school.”
“An older woman! That’s always exciting. Is she pretty?”
“She’s the most beautiful woman on the planet,” I blurt out. “She has blue eyes, a lovely chin and great cheekbones.”
I notice that she stops peeling for a few seconds, and fear that I’ve gone too far. After all, she’s the only girl in our alley with blue eyes.
“She sounds great. Where does she live?” she asks, keeping her back to me.
“Close by,” I say, hesitantly.
“What do you like about her, besides her looks of course?” she continues, her tone a bit more serious.
“Everything,” I admit. “She reminds me of snow, pure and clean; of rivers, calm and flowing; of rain, revitalizing and refreshing; of a mountain, strong and majestic; and of flowers, delicate and soft.”
Zari turns around and stares right at me with a puzzled but thoughtful, crooked smile. Her gaze is loaded with questions, the kind that strike the mind like a flash of lightning, momentarily illuminating your surroundings then leaving you wondering, in the ensuing darkness, what you actually saw.
“Does Ahmed know who she is?” she finally asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to ask him—you know that, don’t you?”
She begins to laugh, and we carry the food and beverages out to the yard. I feel so weak that I have to use every ounce of energy in my body not to drop the fruit bowl. When we get back to the yard, Zari brings out her father’s camera and teaches Keivan to take a picture of the four of us sitting around the hose. She says she will make a copy of the picture for each of us, so that we can remember this summer when we became the best of friends.
That night in bed, I relive every moment of the day, including the part when I made an ass out of myself by comparing her to rivers and flowers. “What do you like about her, besides her looks?” she had asked. I wish I had not babbled on like a romantic idiot. I should have talked about her favorite colors, her favorite food, the kinds of movies she likes, and the books she enjoys reading.
I suddenly realize that I don’t know much about Zari. In fact, I don’t really know anything about her. I don’t know how she chooses friends, what her hobbies are, or what kinds of people she likes. All I know is that I love her. Is this how everyone falls in love? I wonder how much Ahmed knows about Faheemeh—probably not much. I know that my father first saw my mother on her way home from school and followed her every day for a month before finding the courage to say something to her. A month after their first conversation, he sent his parents to her house to ask for her hand.
God, I’m thoroughly confused. Love is an all-consuming affair; it brings life to a standstill. I can’t think of anything but Zari anymore. How do grown-ups fall in love and work at the same time?
I look toward Ahmed’s roof. He’s fast asleep, and I can hear him snoring. I walk over to his bed and wake him up.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Zari asked me what I liked about the woman I love, and I couldn’t think of anything to tell her,” I say in a desperate voice.
Ahmed stares at me with a confused look on his face
“I read somewhere that people in the West, like in the U.S. and Europe, date for a long time before falling in love,” I say, restless with anxiety. “Did you know that?”
Ahmed shakes his head no.
“It’s true. I’ve seen it in the movies, too. They date for a long, long time. Sometimes for ten or even twenty years!”
“Wow,” Ahmed whispers.
“But here in Iran, we look at someone, and we fall in love. All the girl has to do is smile, and we’re swept off our feet. No dating, no getting to know each other, no real opportunity to get acquainted, do you know what I mean? Like, do you really know what Faheemeh is like? Do you know her favorite colors, favorite food, hobbies?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
Ahmed nods with a troubled look on his face.
“What if she’s not the girl you think she is? What if Zari is incompatible with me? What if I married her and had kids with her and she turned out to be totally different from me? What could I do then?”
Ahmed puts his hands on his mouth and gasps.
“Don’t you worry about that?” I ask.
“Yes, yes, I do now that you’ve mentioned it.” He lights a cigarette. “My God, this is a real problem.” He scratches the top of his head. “Let me think about it. I think you’re onto something really big. I can finally see how all that reading is making you smarter.”
I begin to elaborate on my point, but he tells me to be quiet because he’s thinking. I sit there on the edge of his bed as he rocks back and forth and makes strange facial expressions, as if he’s concentrating, looking at things from different angles, forming hypotheses and then rejecting them as implausible. He mumbles to himself, emitting strange sounds, lifting his eyebrows, moving his hands, and covering his upper lip with his lower one while looking toward the sky. He puffs on his cigarette and then blows the smoke out while sighing, as if genuinely disappointed by his inability to solve a simple puzzle.
When he finally finishes his cigarette, he walks up to the edge of the roof, puts it out, and throws the butt on the neighbor’s roof to make sure that his father doesn’t see it. Then he goes back under his covers and whispers, “I think I know what you should do. Why don’t you go to the West, date somebody for a while, get to know her really well, and then come back and marry Zari.” And with that, he turns over and begins to snore.
I sit there watching him for a few seconds. Then I get up, kick him in the ass, and return to my bed.
6
Vignettes of Love
Ahmed, Faheemeh, and I spend almost every day at Zari’s house. I complain to Ahmed that all we do is sit around and talk, and that as wonderful as being with Faheemeh and Zari is, we should be doing other things, or the girls will soon get bored with us.
“Doing what else?” Ahmed asks.
“Take them out, go to the movies, go out to dinner,” I say. “You know, exciting stuff.”
“Really?” Ahmed asks sarcastically. “Now, would we tap into your checking account or my savings for that?”
I frown and shrug.
“And where the hell do you think we live, in America? This is Iran, and we’re in our neighborhood—”
“Okay, okay, forget I said anything,” I interrupt, knowing never to broach the topic again.
As the summer passes, it’s evident that we’re becoming better friends because we easily share our most intimate and personal experiences with one another. It’s hard to say good-bye in the evenings. No one wants to leave, and we joke about it endlessly.
“It’s time to go,” one of us will say.
“Yeah, definitely time to go,” someone else confirms, but no one moves and we all laugh. “Okay, maybe just a few more minutes, but then we really ought to go.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely. Just a few more minutes.”
It’s easy to see that Ahmed and Faheemeh are in love. A special softening and sense of contentment take over Ahmed when he’s around Faheemeh. He says he feels almost religious in her presence. “It’s like I’m not me anymore. I can even tolerate being around Iraj,” he says.
“It’s so exciting to watch their rela
tionship evolve,” Zari says one time when we’re alone. “They look more like a couple every time we see them, don’t they?”
“They do.”
“Their relationship is so different than mine with Doctor.”
Every time she mentions Doctor, I involuntarily begin rolling up my shirtsleeves.
“Theirs is exciting and new,” Zari continues dreamily. “Ours feels sort of dull in comparison, you know what I mean? Like we’ve already been married forever.”
Then, as if she suddenly realizes that she is talking negatively about Doctor, she giggles and says, “Don’t get me wrong. I adore Doctor. He’s a wonderful human being. He’s so smart, so compassionate. I feel so lucky to have him. Can you imagine a girl like me getting a guy like Doctor?”
She’s trying too hard. Doctor is a great guy, but Zari cannot be entirely happy with their arranged marriage and with the lack of opportunity to experience love on her own. Does Doctor know how she feels? What would he do if he knew? Does he really love Zari, or is he just relying on the wisdom of his elders instead of the intuition of his own heart?
Every once in a while, Zari makes up an excuse to go inside the house to do a chore, and she always asks me to go along.
“Let’s leave them alone for a little bit,” she whispers as soon as we are a couple of steps away from them.
“Yes, let’s,” I respond, exploding inside with excitement.
One day when we’re in the living room, she shows me a notebook and asks me if I can keep a secret.
“Of course,” I say, relishing the thought of being promoted to the status of a trusted companion. She opens the book and shows me pencil drawings of our alley.
She doesn’t want anyone to know that she draws and I assure her that I will keep her secret. Then she points to one of the pictures and says, “You guys playing soccer! Can you tell which one is you?”
“Which one?”
“You weren’t there that day!” she teases with a smart-aleck smile on her face. I grin back. She says people and places are her favorite things to draw, and shows me a picture of Ahmed’s grandma and her late husband. Grandma is standing still under a tree while he is walking toward her with a warm expression on his face. She seems oblivious to the fact that he’s only a few meters away from her.
Rooftops of Tehran Page 6