Things We Left Unsaid

by Zoya Pirzad

  Mother scraped back her chair and stood up. ‘I agree you should keep the socializing to a minimum.’ She picked up the gold foil and tossed it in the garbage pail. ‘This woman did not have a sterling reputation in Julfa.’

  ‘So the mother didn’t have a sterling reputation,’ said Alice. ‘What’s that got to do with her son?’

  My eyes met Mother’s. I knew what was going through her mind: ‘Not another bachelor prospect.’

  Arsineh burst into the kitchen. ‘Rapunzel’s red dress is gone!’ She turned to Mother. ‘You know, the pleated dress you sewed for her.’ She stomped her foot on the floor. ‘If it’s lost, Rapunzel is not coming to the party. If Rapunzel doesn’t come, me and Armineh aren’t coming either.’ She stared straight at Armen, hands on her hips.

  Armen was ready an hour ahead of time. He wore his bighorn ram shirt with the worn and faded jeans that I had tried to toss out several times. Every time, he raised a ruckus to stop me. Now he wiped his shoes, first with spit and the kitchen dust cloth, and after I shouted at him, with water and the shoeshine cloth. I said, ‘It’s not a bad idea. If Rapunzel’s dress doesn’t turn up, Armen will stay home, too.’ We were all staring at Armen.

  Armen looked first at me and then at Arsineh. He seemed unsure whether to keep up his prank or not. He took a few grudging steps, opened the tea tin on the counter and produced the doll’s dress. Arsineh huffed loudly, snatched up the dress and ran out.

  I knew Mother and Alice would now burst out laughing at Armen’s antics, and my son would therefore completely ignore the brow-beating I was about to give him. ‘Go to our bedroom,’ I told him. ‘Your father left his tie there.’

  Artoush was tying his shoelace. ‘I said I would not wear a tie.’

  With a silent nod, I sent Armen to fetch it.

  As soon as Armen stepped out of the room, Mother remarked, ‘He carries it off so magnificently! I wonder who my boy takes after with all his charm?’

  Alice laughed. ‘After his aunt.’ Then she looked at Artoush. ‘What did you say her son does?’

  Artoush said, ‘Structural engineer,’ and chocolate number two dropped in Alice’s mouth.

  ‘Structural engineer. Hmm.’ And she stared at the flower box on the ledge.

  Mother couldn’t hold her tongue: ‘Now she’s popping chocolates again like they were peanuts.’

  This time I cleared the gold-foil wrapper off the table, surprised at my sister. Since when did she show interest (it was Alice who used the English word) in a previously married man who already had a child? Mother returned to the theme of Mrs. Simonian’s not-so-sterling reputation in Julfa. I hoped she was not about to launch into a repeat of the whole saga she had told me just a few days ago.

  Artoush was shining his shoes with the cloth I used to polish the kitchen floor. I put the shoeshine cloth in his hand. He grabbed the cloth and said, ‘It’s not about what the folks of Julfa were saying then, or what they say now. I just have no patience for social obligations and neighborly entanglements.’

  Alice, chin propped in her hand, was still staring at the flowers on the ledge. ‘India’s famous for its emeralds.’ She took some gum out of her purse.

  In the hallway I looked at myself in the mirror one last time, unable to make up my mind if my sleeveless dress was too low cut. And wasn’t it too tight around my hips?

  Alice and Mother headed for the door. Mother looked me over. ‘We’re going. Why don’t you put on a shawl or something over your shoulders?’

  ‘Do you want Artoush to take you home?’ I asked.

  Alice blew a bubble with her gum and popped it. ‘No, we’ll walk. We’re not far away, at least not for another four or five months. But when I get my promotion...’ She looked at Artoush fussing with his tie in front of the mirror. ‘When I get my promotion, I’ll have to trouble my dear brother-in-law to take me home in his latest-model car.’ She laughed uproariously and looked at me. ‘One can’t go from Bawarda to Braim on foot! Bye. By the way, that dress swallows you up – makes you look scrawny. Bye, kids.’

  I closed the door behind them and drew a deep breath.

  7

  It was Emily who opened the door. She was wearing a white dress with puffy sleeves, and white socks and shoes. Her pigtails were tied with broad white ribbons. She looked like a white feather that might suddenly float up in the air.

  Armineh said, ‘Wow! Emily...!’

  Arsineh said, ‘You look just like an angel.’

  Arsineh put Rapunzel into Emily’s hand. The doll’s red dress seemed to help tether Emily’s feet to the ground. Artoush whispered in my ear, ‘What a sweet girl.’

  While waiting for the actual hosts to appear, I looked around. Their hallway was a replica of ours, but seemed a little bigger to my eyes. Maybe because there was no furniture in it, other than the telephone table. I was thinking they couldn’t have had a chance to set up their furniture yet, when Mrs. Simonian and her son stepped into the hallway.

  Her short stature was not the only thing that made us stare at Mrs. Simonian. She wore a black silk dress that was so long, it trailed on the floor. She had on a big brooch and pendant earrings, and her long, multi-strand pearl necklace hung all the way down to her thick gold belt. Armineh said, ‘Just like a Christmas tree!’ When I elbowed her, she and her sister stifled their laughter.

  Mrs. Simonian reached out with her small hand and shook Artoush’s. ‘Elmira Haroutunian-Simonian. Welcome!’ Still facing us, she pointed behind her. ‘May I introduce my son, Emile Simonian.’ I had only ever seen such formal introductions in the movies.

  Emile Simonian was the same height as me, which was unusual, because I was taller than almost all the men I knew. Except for Artoush, who was the same height as me – but only when I was wearing flats. I don’t know if I avoided high heels to keep from looking taller than my husband, or if flats really were more comfortable for me. I held out my hand to Emile Simonian. Good thing I had forced Artoush to wear a tie.

  Emile Simonian, with his green eyes, in his navy blue suit and grey tie, smiled. As I stretched my hand out, he stretched out his. But instead of shaking my hand, he bowed and kissed it. Artoush gave a little cough and the twins stared at my hand and the back of Emile Simonian’s head, with its thick, straight, neatly combed and shiny hair. I couldn’t tell which of the twins said, ‘How cute.’ The other one chimed in, ‘Just like in the movies.’

  I hoped the sweat under my arms had not left a perspiration stain on my dress. Armen wasn’t paying attention. I had no time to figure out what was on his mind.

  As Emile Simonian stood upright again, Armen shook Emily’s hand. Artoush looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I always told Armen, ‘You’re grown up now and should act like a gentleman. Shake hands with people.’ But he’d shrug his shoulders and go right on not shaking hands with anyone.

  Arsineh told Emily, ‘Rapunzel missed you very much.’

  Armineh said, ‘Very, very much!’

  I gave the little bouquet of red roses to Mrs. Simonian.

  I had planted the rose bush in the front yard myself. Despite all Mr. Morteza’s pessimism – every time he came he would say, ‘Mrs. Doc, it’s not my place to say so, ma’am, but I don’t believe them roses will take’ – the bush had been awash with roses for a week.

  Mrs. Simonian smelled the roses. She did not thank us, but gave a crooked smile and with a wave of her hand ushered us into the living room.

  The living room also seemed to be bigger than ours. On one side of the room were the easy chairs with metal armrests, and across from that, the dining room table with its six chairs. This was the furniture provided by the Oil Company to all the houses in Bawarda. Most families preferred, like ours, to buy a somewhat better dining room set, sofa, and easy chairs. The windows had no drapes and there were a few wires sticking out of the empty slots for the wall fixtures. The twins said with one voice, ‘We’re going to Emily’s room.’

  I felt Armen wanted to go too; he was shifting from
one foot to the other. I knew that if I told him to stay, he would go. ‘You stay with us,’ I said. He shook his head emphatically and went off with the girls. God, don’t let him pick a fight for at least half an hour, I thought.

  Mrs. Simonian smelled the roses again and headed for the large cabinet filling at least half the wall. It was made from a dark wood, with two mirror-mosaic doors. Between the doors was a niche, like a recessed shelf, on which stood two candelabras, each boasting two white candles. The heavy cabinet did not go with the rest of the furniture in the room; they must have brought it from India. Mrs. Simonian opened one of its doors and took out a crystal vase. The mirror mosaic on the doors was etched all around with fine designs of flowers and birds. Emile Simonian politely invited us to sit down.

  From this side of the room, which seemed unrelated to the other half, I watched Mrs. Simonian. She put the crystal vase back in the cabinet, picked up a red china vase, closed the door and turned around to face me.

  ‘This vase will complement the colors of the flowers better than that one.’ I don’t know what she saw in my look that made her smile. ‘Do you like the cabinet? It’s made in England, late eighteenth-century.’ Then she extended the hand holding the vase. ‘Emile!’

  Her son got up, took the vase and went through a door that I knew opened to the kitchen. ‘Complement’ the colors better? It had been a while since I had heard this formal Armenian vocabulary. Had it been me, I would probably have said, ‘it matches better’ or ‘goes better.’ The black silk dress and jewels certainly went better with the cabinet – ‘complemented the cabinet better’ – than the rest of the furniture.

  In another corner stood a black piano, dominating the room, its open fallboard revealing yellowing keys. There were a few pages of sheet music on the music shelf. I was too far from the piano to make out the name of the piece.

  Mrs. Simonian held the roses in front of her. She was still looking at me with that crooked half-smile. ‘What a pretty ribbon you wrapped the flowers with.’ From the corner of my eye I could see Artoush shifting in his seat.

  That afternoon I had tied and untied the red ribbon around the roses several times, looping it again and again until I was finally pleased with the bow. Whenever I wrapped a present for someone, I had to tie the ribbon just right. If Artoush was watching, he would say, ‘What a perfectionist! Who’s going to notice the ribbon?’ This was the first time anyone had noticed the ribbon.

  Emile Simonian returned with the vase full of water. His mother set the vase on the dining table and put the roses in one by one.

  Artoush and Emile were talking about the heat as I watched Mrs. Simonian’s hands. The vase was exactly the same color as the roses, and the only light in the room came from a bare bulb dangling from a long wire next to the ceiling fan. My neighbor wound the ribbon around the vase and straightened out the loops in the bow. She went and sat on the sofa, beckoning me to sit next to her. I went over to her and sat down. The springs creaked. She patted my knee several times with her little hand, then said, ‘Emile!’

  Emile went out again through the door leading to the kitchen.

  Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Mrs. Simonian’s feet just reached the floor. She had on black satin shoes, high-heeled and open-backed, embroidered with rhinestone moths. She turned to Artoush. ‘Your wife is among the limited number of Armenian ladies of culture I have been honored to meet over the many years I’ve lived in the far-flung corners of the globe. You are a fortunate man.’

  Artoush blinked several times. Then he nodded and loosened the knot of his tie. The room was quite warm and our short neighbor’s long sentences contained words Artoush and I had not heard in years.

  Emile came back into the room, a small silver tray in his hands. A white doily embroidered with flowers decorated the tray, and on the doily stood a pitcher of orange juice with four glasses.

  I swallowed the bitter, lukewarm juice and listened to Mrs. Simonian compare the heat of Abadan to the heat of India. She explained that ‘the chill breeze of air conditioners causes irreparable harm to those suffering from back problems.’ I would have said, ‘It’s not good at all for back problems.’ My critical streak grew weary of this game and chided: ‘Stop it! There is no need to relentlessly translate your neighbor’s formal Armenian vocabulary to colloquial.’ My positive streak chuckled at that: ‘There you go, speaking formally yourself.’

  I was trying not to look at Artoush. The demeanor and stiff behavior of both mother and son, the forced conversation, the bitter lukewarm orange juice, the heat and the bad lighting of the room – it was all unbearable for me. Not more than ten minutes had passed before Mrs. Simonian stood up. ‘We eat dinner early.’

  Artoush volunteered ‘We do, too,’ with such haste that I felt sorry for him. Why had I forced him to come? Why had I accepted this invitation in the first place? Probably because the twins had been talking non-stop about Emily for several days and because, well, we were neighbors, after all.

  This time when Mrs. Simonian barked, ‘Emile!’ I got up. ‘Please allow me to help,’ I said. Emile, half standing, looked at me, smiled, and sat back down.

  The kids’ menu was steamed rice with boiled chicken, which they were to eat at the kitchen table. Whenever we were invited somewhere new for a meal, I would feed my kids something in advance. It was a good thing I had given all three of them sandwiches before we came over, because steamed rice and boiled chicken was the diet Mother imposed on them when they were sick, and they would never eat it.

  The adults were served rice with an okra and tomato stew. The table was set before we got there, with a white cotton tablecloth and matching napkins. The china plates decorated with orange flowers must have been old and were certainly expensive, though my plate was chipped in two spots. Mrs. Simonian sat at the head of the table and told Artoush and me where to sit. I remembered the twins’ quip – ‘Just like in the movies.’ The hostess opened her napkin, dropped it in her lap and, motioning to the wooden cabinet, said, ‘Emile!’

  Emile brought the candelabras from the cabinet, set them in the center of the table and lit the candles. Artoush stole a glance at me. Mrs. Simonian waited, still and silent, for the final candle to be lit, as if anticipating the conclusion of a ceremony. When her son sat down and opened his napkin, she said, ‘Please begin.’ In the candlelight, the white tablecloth looked yellowish. There were faded stains in several places, and a cigarette burn.

  I put the first spoonful in my mouth and tried not to look at Artoush. The stew was so spicy that even I, who liked spicy food, was on fire. Artoush hated spicy food.

  Mrs. Simonian offered a small china bowl to Artoush. ‘If the stew is insufficiently spicy, use some of this chutney.’ Artoush set his water glass down and just shook his head, no. If it were me, I would have phrased it like this: ‘If the stew isn’t hot enough for you...’ I told myself to shut up.

  Emile shifted in his chair and without raising his head, said, ‘Mother, maybe it would have been better not to make the stew so spicy. Not everyone is used to it.’ Then he looked at me and Artoush, and smiled. I felt he was apologizing.

  His mother put two spoonfuls of chutney on the side of her plate and, without looking at her son, said, ‘Please don’t give me cooking lessons. Okra stew must be spicy.’ Then she looked at me. ‘I learned how to make this chutney in Calcutta from our cook, Ramu.’ She carefully set the bowl of chutney next to the platter of rice. ‘Before dismissing him.’

  Emile ran his hand through his hair. His fingers were long and thin. Alice would say, ‘Sensitive people have long, thin fingers.’ She’d hold her hand in front of her face and flutter her fingers. ‘Like mine.’ I would look at my sister’s hands, which were a bit chubby, like the rest of her, and nod yes.

  For a while no one spoke. We could hear the frogs and crickets in the yard. The light in the room was so dim that I wanted to get up and turn on another lamp. Mrs. Simonian was eating her food in silence and I felt I should strike up a conver
sation. The children were laughing in Emily’s room. Had they finished dinner? How come none of them had come to tell me, ‘I don’t like it’? Emile was still looking down, and I could not think of anything to say.

  Artoush set his second glass of water back on the table and asked, ‘In Masjed-Soleiman, what department did you work in?’ Emile looked up and smiled. This time in gratitude, I sensed, for breaking the silence.

  I looked at Artoush and thought he and Armen must be in a father–son competition, vying to do things they had never done before. I could not remember my husband ever taking the initiative in a conversation, except to contradict my mother.

  Emile raised the napkin and dabbed the corner of his mouth, but before he could answer, his mother said, ‘Emile was a top student at university. In India, and of course in Europe, he had outstanding positions. The Oil Company was extremely lucky that my son agreed to its proposal for collaboration. In reality we do not need Emile’s salary, but now that I have decided to live in Iran, I thought it would be better for Emile to keep busy. I haven’t yet had a chance to hang up his degree certificates from the university. I took the certificates to the most expensive frame-maker in Calcutta and had him frame them, all in betel-nut wood.’

  Artoush was still looking at Emile. ‘What department did you say you were working in?’ As if he hadn’t noticed the mother had said a word.

  Emile gave a little cough, glanced over at his mother and started to speak. He looked just like his daughter in our kitchen that day, when her grandmother arrived. Tense and afraid.

  Artoush only ate the rice, only looked at Emile, and only nodded his head. Mrs. Simonian spooned chutney over her food a second time, with such precision you would have imagined she was measuring out a rare elixir.

  I was wondering how, once back at home, I would answer Artoush’s reproachful grumbling.

  Mrs. Simonian asked, ‘What time do your children go to bed?’ There had been no peep from the kids for half an hour. I started to worry. ‘Usually at eight-thirty, nine o’clock. But on nights like tonight, when they don’t have school the next day...’