The Brevity of Roses

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve read The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath?”

  “Indeed.”

  A slow headshake accompanied her sigh. “Indeed,” she said. Then, she graced him with a smile.

  Caught up in that memory, Jalal almost missed the tree he had spent the last hour hoping to find. He pulled to the roadside to study it. For a moment, nothing came, then he picked up the thread and followed it, letting it lead him to the words he sought. The road shoulder was too narrow for safety, so he drove on until he could pull off the highway. By then, the words had shaped themselves into another verse, and the tone of the poem had slipped into sadness. Jocelyn was still on his mind.

  In his loneliest moments, Jalal thought about trying to find her, but reality always sobered him. She would be married now, probably a mother. She had moved on. He had moved on. But then, really, there had been so little to move on from. Still, when Baba announced they would be leaving Paris, Jalal had envisioned a different plan.

  “You knew from the beginning we would be leaving Paris,” Azadeh told him one day in their attic hideaway. “You only met Jocelyn because of the English lessons.”

  Jalal swallowed and handed the bottle of wine to her. “But that was in the future … a dream. Now, just because of one bombing, Baba has applied for our papers.”

  “Maman shares his fears, Jalal. If you paid attention to the real world once in awhile, you would too. Because of those radicals, all Persians here will be persecuted.” She took a drink from the bottle and slammed it down between them. “I want to leave.”

  He kept his eyes focused on his legs stretched out along the dusty floor. “Well … but that is a few months away. Who knows what could happen before then?”

  “A lot of bad could happen. Have you forgotten why we left Iran?”

  “No. I remember, but I meant … I will be eighteen by then.”

  Azadeh dug her fist into his thigh muscle. “How can you dare think of doing such a thing, baradar-jan?”

  In the end, he had no reason to stay behind in France. Jocelyn flew home to Connecticut to spend Christmas with her family. For only three weeks, she told him. He threw himself into his own family’s celebrations to help pass the time. For two days after her scheduled return, he tried to slip away to her apartment, but between school and Baba keeping him busy in the shop, he had no opportunity. Then it was Thursday, and though he would have no chance to be alone with her, Jalal knew he would see her in class that night. He was wrong.

  They had a new English teacher, an old man. He explained he was a temporary replacement for Miss Adams, who notified the school she had accepted a marriage proposal and would not return to Paris. Jalal, aware that Azadeh tried to catch his eye, refused to acknowledge her because to accept her sympathy, would be to admit this news was true. He preferred to believe that when he went to Jocelyn’s apartment tomorrow, she would open her door. She would smile at him. She would walk to the café with him. That he would never see her again was simply impossible.

  After school the next day, he phoned Baba to tell him he had to do research at the library for a school project and would be late coming to the shop. His real destination was Jocelyn’s place. He stood across the street, where he had stood a year ago, when he only dared to watch her door. A moving company van was parked out front, and through the open curtains, he saw uniformed workmen packing Jocelyn’s things. He did not notice the old woman who lived upstairs from her until she held out an envelope toward him.

  “From the teacher,” she said.

  Jalal took the envelope from her and as she scurried back home, he stared at the single word written on it—his name. Too numb to face reading the letter, he slipped it under his shirt where it lay against him for the next two hours while he worked. Jalal, fearing its presence easily discerned, paled at his father’s every word or movement until Baba, assuming he felt ill, released him early. Jalal ran all the way home and straight upstairs. Finding no privacy there, he grabbed a flashlight and climbed to the attic. His breath plumed in the freezing air, yet sweat beaded on his upper lip. He sat against the chimney with the light clamped between his knees and ripped open the envelope. Jocelyn had written only a single page.

  My dearest Jalal,

  I’m sorry I deceived you. I know it will take time, but I hope you will forgive me. I know you must have been shocked to find out I wasn’t returning to Paris. I thought it would be easier this way. Please understand, I enjoyed our time together, but this is where my life must go now.

  Eric and I had plans to marry before I moved to Paris. In fact, I took the teaching job there because I was about to break our engagement. I wasn’t ready to be a wife. I ran away. He forgave me after a while, and we renewed contact this past September, but I wasn’t completely sure how I felt until I came back here. I know it was selfish not to be honest with you. You deserved better. Again, I’m sorry.

  You will love America. Be happy, Jalal. I will never forget you.

  Jocelyn

  She had been right about America; it felt like home from the moment he arrived. Sometimes he wondered if she had also predicted correctly when she said she would never forget him. While living in New York, its proximity to Connecticut tempted him. He had connections. It might take only a phone call or two and he would find her. Except her surname was no longer Adams. Except his name was still Jalal Vaziri, not a common one in America, and he would have been easy to find. Except she had evidently never tried.

  What would have happened if she had? Would he again have felt like nothing more than a boy with a crush on his teacher? Aza had been right; his relationship with Jocelyn was only one of his fantasies. How was it he had a sister who knew him so well and a father who would just as soon not know him at all? If Baba cared for him, why would he not accept him for what he was? He had just spent a week in the man’s house and not once had he asked about his writing. They only talked about money. It was always about money.

  Jalal was nearly home when he passed the Welcome to Coelho sign and recalled Baba’s words to him before he left yesterday. Do not be a stranger. All his life, Baba had been a stranger to him. Did the man not know that? This was an extension of his cruelty, to pretend to be the loving father, when his heart toward his own son was as dry and barren as the land around Coelho in summer. When Jalal stopped at a red light, he caught his reflection in the rear view mirror. “Forget him,” he said. “Think of pleasant things.”

  Though he had stopped twice more along the road to write, he had eaten nothing, and the scent of garlic wafting from some nearby restaurant made a decision for him. Instead of turning left toward home, he swung out of the turn pocket and continued on in search of a late lunch. A few times before, he had passed a restaurant with a French name not far from here. Did it wear the name in pretension, or would he be lucky enough to find they served true French cuisine? His hopes were not high when he walked into Pain sur la Table.

  Two

  IN THE FOOTHILLS ON THE eastern slope of the mountains along California’s central coast, where summer temperatures rise like lava and ooze into fall, rain between April and October is only a wish. So when heavy-laden clouds slid low over the town of Coelho on the first afternoon of September, Meredith took notice. She sat alone in Pain sur la Table, at her usual corner table by the windows, and chastised herself for not checking the weather report before spraying her roses for mites. For the next few minutes, she tried to cling to thoughts of her roses, but a stronger thought ripped them from her. I am more dead than alive.

  That revelation had first shocked her on the morning of her fiftieth birthday, but it sneaked up on her at random now. On that day, three weeks ago, she acknowledged the literal truth of the statement; she would not likely live another fifty years. The deeper meaning she pushed aside. Then, of course, her subconscious had thrown up a series of nightmares, which Meredith interpreted as a challenge: lie there and take it or get up and fight. She had not yet made the choice. She had little faith in
her decisions. Take the timing of the rose spraying, for example.

  She sighed and turned back to her scallops Provençal, but within seconds, a murmur from a table to her left pulled her away. The sound had come from the three younger women who sat looking toward the restaurant entrance. Meredith followed their gaze. They watched a man as the host led him through the dining room. The shock of recognition nearly choked her.

  His face angled away from her, but she could tell. It had to be Ravi. As he took his seat at a nearby table, she lowered her gaze and seized her wine glass, draining it to give her heart time to find its normal rhythm. A mixture of joy and fear and memory jumbled her thinking. Should she speak to him? No, let him make the first move. Should she try to leave now before he noticed her? No, he knows where I live. She was the only reason he would come to this town. But why would he come here after all these years? And what would he see when he looked at her now?

  She tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear and smoothed her neckline. If only she were wearing something in salmon. Ravi had loved her dressed in that color. It brought out the blue in her eyes, he said. But it had been years since she owned anything in—

  All these years …

  She looked at him again. His eyes were downcast, his face partly hidden behind a menu, but she could see his hairline, his smooth brow, his hands. Like a snowflake falling into the fire, her joy melted instantly. He was not Ravi. Of course not. This man was too young. Her face flamed and she ducked her head. What a fool I would have made of myself, if I had called out Ravi’s name! Her hand shook as she poked her fork around the remnants of her lunch. Her breath came in shallow little puffs, until her poised self took over and forced her to slow down, breathe deeply, find her center. A minute later, she risked a quick study while the man gave his order and then, she signaled for a refill.

  He had a book lying on the table, face down. Was it one she had read? At the same moment she looked to see if the title was visible, he reached for the book and glanced in her direction. Instantly, as though she were practiced in the art of subterfuge, she blinked rapidly and positioned her fingertips below her lashes ready to catch a misbehaving contact lens. Said imaginary lens now dealt with, she picked up her magazine and made a pretense of reading. It took a minute for her pulse rate to drop to normal.

  As often as she dared, Meredith raised her head as though only to cast a casual glance around the room, but each time her eyes darted toward him. Stop this! Your behavior is ridiculous. She forced her attention back to the article, reading the same paragraph three times without comprehension.

  Again, she abandoned her reading, but this time she turned her face toward the window, away from him. The sky had brightened. Those dark clouds had offered only a false promise. If she left now, she would have plenty of time to garden before sunset. Or she could stop by the salon and let Phillipe suggest a style change. Then again, maybe a better use of her time would be to shop for the trendier clothes her friends urged her to choose. Ditch the classics was how they put it. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock, well past time to leave here. What excuse did she have to linger?

  At that moment, the sun broke through and a ray filtered through her wine glass casting a bright pool of pale gold on the tablecloth. She slid her hand over to the light and smiled when her index finger appeared to become a magic wand with glowing tip. As if she could wave her hand through the air and transform her life. As if she could envision that life. As if she dared.

  Well, why not?

  She surrendered with a sigh. She drank the last of her wine, turned away from the window, and picked up her magazine again. They had not even served the man his lunch yet. How could she leave?

  Unlike her friends, Meredith seldom encouraged desiring looks from men, and though she attracted her share of them, she just never imagined herself on the giving end. She simply did not stare at strange men. Yet it was hard to ignore this man with his beautiful skin, like fine tea-dyed silk, and hair, as black as any she had ever seen, curling down to his shoulders, and if he chanced to look up from the book he now read, she was certain his eyes would seem as deep and dark as temple pools on a moonless night. Oh, and his mouth—

  Startled by the server’s approach to her table, she snapped, “What?”

  “Excuse me,” he said, “but would you like me to bring you another glass of the pinot grigio?”

  “Oh.” She smiled, repentant. “Yes, please.”

  Now, what had she been thinking? Oh, yes, his mouth. She marveled at her silliness. One would think she spent her days reading romance novels rather than anthropology journals. All right then, look at him that way. What could his ancestry be—Indian, Greek possibly, or Middle Eastern … ah-h … a Persian Prince?

  Oh, my.

  Eyes closed, she breathed in, held it, then exhaled slowly through her nose. She opened her eyes and focused on his book, which she recognized and thought little of, but was glad he seemed too absorbed in to notice her scrutiny. What concerned her was the presence of those three young women at the table next to his—fringe members of her social circle—who had noticed her fascination. She caught their glances, their quiet laughter. They judged her pathetic. And why not? Even though her friends joked that she had piped the water supply to her house directly from the fountain of youth, clearly, she was too old for this man. Yet, there she sat.

  “Can I get you anything else?” asked the server when he returned with the wine.

  “Not just now,” she said. In a few minutes, she would order coffee, and then dessert, both perfectly good reasons to prolong her stay. Besides, if she drank this third glass of wine, she would have to sit here a while before attempting to drive home. With her schedule settled, she gave way to imagining who this mysterious man might be. Possibly a lonely traveler who would welcome her as a tour guide—an interpreter even—though she had grown rusty in most of the languages she knew, and if he spoke Farsi, well to be honest, she was never fluent in that to begin—

  Good lord! She had progressed to full-blown fantasy. It was time to order that coffee. Strong coffee. A double espresso.

  Oh!

  Meredith found herself looking straight into his eyes. Frozen in mid-stare, she watched him speak briefly with the server, then push his chair back, pick up his book, drop it in his leather messenger bag and—Oh, my lord!—head directly toward her table. Another blush warmed her face and she prayed he would blame the wine.

  “You have watched me since I arrived,” he said. He had only a slight accent—more a formality than accent really.

  “I … I’m … I’m sorry …”

  A smile sparked in his eyes a second before it spread to his lips. “May I join you?” he asked.

  Motioning for him to sit, she took another deep breath and regained most of her composure. “I apologize for my habit of staring. I didn’t mean to be rude. You see, I was an anthropologist, so I often observe people and try to guess their genetic ancestry.”

  “Persian,” he said.

  “Ah-h.”

  “And from your appearance, I assume your ancestors were from a country far closer to the Arctic Circle.”

  “Denmark.”

  “Ah-h,” he said and smiled at her again.

  He looked into her eyes—into her—until she began to feel she was an imposter, some distant cousin to herself. Another apology crept toward her lips: I’m sorry; I don’t seem to know who I am. But the words went unspoken. She told herself such disorientation was only the effect of too much alcohol, and yet when his lunch arrived with a bottle of bordeaux and two glasses, she did not refuse to share his wine. He would consider that rude.

  He studied her face as he tasted the wine. Never taking his eyes off her, he nodded his approval to the server, then waited until the young man left before he spoke. “You say you were an anthropologist? You look far too young to have retired.”

  “Age is not the only reason to retire.”

  “Indeed.”

  �
��Esman Meredith ast,” she said, offering her hand. When he arched a brow and a smile played at the corners of his mouth, she feared her grasp of Farsi had deteriorated to the point she had failed to even properly introduce herself.

  “I am Jalal,” he told her. Instead of shaking her hand, he clasped it in his and lowered it to the table, holding it for a few seconds before he let go to pick up his knife and fork. “I hope you will not find it rude of me to eat as we talk,” he said, “but I am starving.”

  “Not at all.” She felt so exquisitely aware of Jalal’s presence she could barely breathe. The fear he might look into her eyes again and discern this kept her from looking directly at him. Instead, she watched his hands, perfect hands, whose touch would be gentle, yet firm and oh so certain in their movements …

  Stop stop stop!

  She tasted the bordeaux. “Jalal is an interesting name. It means greatness, or something similar, does it not? Your parents must have had high hopes for you.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Despite her focus on Jalal, she had not forgotten the women at the other table. She heard their muted voices, and would like to think they shared her astonishment at this turn of events, but dared not look to see. More likely, Jalal’s move to her table would only add juice to their gossip.

  A voice in her head—it sounded like her mother’s—piped up. What on earth are you doing sitting here with a strange man who, for all you know, could be half your age? Despite her irritation at this intrusion, Meredith examined his face. There was a fine web spun at the outer corners of his eyes, and a thin, dull blade had pressed a vertical crease between his brows. When she argued that surely he was older than twenty-five, silence fell within, as it had without, and though she reasoned there ought to be some awkwardness to the silence at their table, she felt none. She took sips of his wine, allowing him a few uninterrupted moments to eat. Then, she pointed to his shoulder bag. “I’ve read that book.”