by Sara Farizan
“What do you think, Sahar?”
“I think you look perfect.” I think this whole thing has gotten out of hand and I want to take you away from it. “Do you like it?” Nasrin looks at me with so much affection, I think I might burst. People don’t often ask Nasrin her opinion.
“I like the other one better,” she admits, and before her mother can protest I butt in.
“Then go try it on. You will look beautiful in that one, too.”
Nasrin smiles at me and steps down from the little makeshift stage with mirrors surrounding her. The attendant follows her with the dress Nasrin selected, leaving me with Mrs. Mehdi again.
“I thought it was a lovely dress,” Mrs. Mehdi grumbles.
“It was. But it’s her special day.” Mrs. Mehdi raises an eyebrow. It’s the look she used to give my mother when they would disagree. Maman always took it in stride. Funny how daughters mimic their mothers.
“Sometimes the best things for us aren’t necessarily the things we want,” she says, and it’s such a loaded statement I’m not sure how to answer. If she does know about me, the way I am, I wish she’d let me know. Just tell me what to do—and I don’t mean just marry some man and have babies. But she has nothing to say at the moment. I continue to sit on my hands and wait for Nasrin to come out. When she reappears, she looks even more stunning than the last time. I can’t help but stand and approach her when she steps up on the platform. Other women in the shop stop to compliment Mrs. Mehdi on her beautiful daughter.
Nasrin meets my gaze and smiles softly. “How do I look?” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Nasrin and I haven’t discussed what happens to us once she is married. I can’t just come over all the time and kiss her in her bedroom. Homosexuality is dangerous, but adulterers can be stoned to death. We can’t continue if she goes through with marrying him. Both of us are afraid to bring it up. I can’t think this way; everyone will notice. I do my best to shake off my gloom.
“I like the other dress better, but you look beautiful,” Mrs. Mehdi says.
“I think this is the one!” Nasrin exclaims, and the store attendant looks so happy, she may cry. The rest of the women who have stopped to watch give a bloodcurdling shriek in unison to commemorate the joyous occasion.
“You made the right decision,” I say sadly. Nasrin looks at her mother and her mother shrugs. I sit next to Mrs. Mehdi while the women of the store crowd around Nasrin.
“I guess we can’t always get what we want,” Mrs. Mehdi whispers to me. She is talking about the dress. But now I know she knows about me. I can’t tell which of us is the bigger coward. I sit on my hands again, watching Nasrin twirl in front of the mirror. I wish she would be so confident in all her decisions.
10
MY GRADES HAVE BEEN slipping a little. We have three tests a day. It’s been that way since middle school, and I’ve always been near the top of my class, but lately the only math I can do is counting the days until Sahar’s wedding, and the only questions I can concentrate on are the ones I have about surgery. Time is running out if I want to go through with my transformation. I want to end up like Jamshid. He knows who he is, he goes to school, and he goes about his life as an actual man. But Shahab and Behrooz look like sad little boys who got in way over their head. What if I end up like them?
Baba isn’t home yet, and I should be studying physics, but my mind won’t settle on the pages in front of me. This evening it’s whirling with possibilities of what I will look like after I change. I don’t think I’ll ever be a muscleman or anything, and I’ll probably have a baby face. At least I won’t have to bleach my mustache anymore. I get up and go into Baba’s bedroom. The room is tidy because Baba is hardly ever in here. He usually sleeps on the sofa or in a kitchen chair, and then only when weariness overtakes him.
Maman’s side of the room is completely intact. Her perfume bottles, designer brands from Europe, are still on the dresser. Expensive perfume was one of the few luxuries she allowed herself. All the photos of the three of us on her bedside table are collecting dust.
I go to Baba’s closet and open the heavy door, revealing a wardrobe fit for a mortuary. The black suit coat will do. That and a button-up shirt, though it’s a shame Baba isn’t my size. I strip to my underwear, looking in the full-length mirror to the right of the bed. Nasrin is the one who inspects herself, pinching her hips and looking at everything that could be wrong. Now I am the one. My chest is too big and my hips are wide. Can that be fixed? Jamshid is flat chested, but he also has small hips. It’s like he was meant to be a boy. The mirror seems pretty convinced that I was meant to be a girl.
Maybe if I just flatten my breasts a little. Flatten them a lot. I put on one of Baba’s white button-up shirts, and it’s so big that I look swallowed up. I roll up the sleeves at the cuff. Next are his slacks, black and too long for me, but I put them on. Tucking in my shirt, I imagine Nasrin in the background, getting out of the shower and complaining about how she has nothing to wear for a party we have to go to. Women are insufferable. I can think that as a man.
She will tell me to wear the black sport coat and say she’s glad I don’t have too much facial hair. It’s a fantasy, but I relish it as I pull my hair back and put it under a fedora I know my baba hasn’t worn since his school days. I look at myself again. It doesn’t work. I’m a girl. I close my eyes, wishing I could transform into a tall, handsome man with strong wrists and shoulders. There’s Nasrin behind me in a dress, picking lint off my shoulders and telling me that we are going to be late for whatever stupid social occasion her mother has roped us into. I open my eyes.
“Sahar?” I freeze as I see Baba’s reflection in the mirror. He’s home early from the workshop! How didn’t I hear him come in? Damn him for being so quiet!
“It’s for one of Nasrin’s music videos! They need a boy for the dance routine!” I have become such a fast liar. If I don’t cry, he might actually believe me.
“Oh,” Baba says, looking at me. Even if he doesn’t believe my lie, he wouldn’t believe the actual reason I am in his clothes. I have never been afraid of Baba. I know some girls in my class have deeply religious fathers with strict rules. Other girls have fathers who discipline them physically. Baba is so gentle that it has turned pathetic these past few years. I think about how Goli khanum’s family mourned their loss of a son. I don’t know if I could put Baba through that. Though he’s so deep in his grief, I doubt he would notice I was gone.
“It doesn’t suit you,” he says.
I take off the hat and look at my reflection again. “No. I suppose not. But it’s important . . . for the video project.” I want to get out of these clothes. I don’t know what he is trying to accomplish by just standing there.
“Nasrin is always getting you to do these crazy things.” He chuckles, but the sound makes my eyes well up. I can’t let him see me cry.
“I’m going to change . . .” I whisper, and he nods, turning his back and walking into the kitchen. Tears fall from my eyes, and I try not to make too many gurgling noises. My nose runs as I look at how big this shirt actually is on me.
“I can make dinner tonight, Sahar. What would you like to eat?” Baba hasn’t cooked a meal in five years. The shock is enough to stop my tears.
“Um, aab gosht would be fine if you have lamb?” I know we have lamb. I do all the grocery shopping.
“That sounds fine. You like aab gosht!” he calls. I don’t actually. But it’s simple to make. Whenever Baba offered to cook, Maman and I would ask him to make it. Everyone in my family always spares one another’s feelings. It leaves little room for honesty. I put my jeans back on and hang the too long trousers back in Baba’s closet along with his shirt. They look better on the hangers than they do on me. How do Jamshid and Parveen look so natural, so confident? Maybe if—when—I go through the surgery, I will look the part too. Maybe.
“Mrs. Mehdi called me. She says there is a party for the bride and groom this Friday.” Baba keeps opening and shutting the cabinet door
s as he calls to me, and I can tell he’s struggling to find the ingredients.
“Don’t those two have enough parties?” I call back. Nasrin told me about this one during one of our last “study sessions.” Our head scarves came in handy to hide the bite marks on our necks. Nasrin has been putting lots of makeup on her neck to cover her bruises. I relish them. She’s mine and I don’t want her to forget it. But we need to stop. If Reza were to catch us, if anyone were to catch us, we would be done for. The love bite on my neck could one day be replaced by rope burn.
I pull a T-shirt over my head and notice the way my hips and breasts are showcased. I’m such a girl.
I walk into the kitchen, where Baba is stirring chickpeas and potatoes. He’s facing the stove, with his back to me. “If you want to buy a dress you can. I’ve been commissioned for a piece, and you never treat yourself.” Dress shopping. He doesn’t know me at all. I wipe my eyes and nose, and fan my face to give myself air. I don’t want him to ask more questions. I slump in a chair by the kitchen table, don’t comment when I see he hasn’t added salt.
Baba turns to me, still stirring. “There you are,” he says. “My clothes don’t even look good on me, never mind on a beautiful girl like you,”
Why is it now that he is choosing to be a parent? “I’m not beautiful.”
“You aren’t?”
“Baba, please don’t humor me. I’ve had a long . . . month.” More like a long few years.
Baba stops stirring the pot and turns to look at me again. My face feels hot. Baba has never made me angry before. Maman and I always had arguments. Sometimes Baba would mollify us. Sometimes he would bow out gracefully and let us deal with our issues. Maman and I would fight about little things, like how often I could play with Nasrin. Most of our arguments were about Nasrin, now that I think about it.
“You’re a beautiful girl,” he says.
I’ve never felt that way. I don’t feel comfortable in my skin, and that has nothing to do with my gender. Growing up around Nasrin made me pale in comparison. But I never cared because I felt beautiful being her friend. She chose me.
The pot boils over. Baba backs away quickly before water splashes on him. I rush to the stove and lower the heat. I look at him. He can’t even boil water. He takes his manhood for granted. What I could do as a man. Who I could be in this country . . . I would leave him in the dust. My jaw clenches. I can change. I don’t have to be stuck like this.
“It has been a while since I’ve cooked,” he says.
“Five years. It’s been five years since you’ve cooked.” I turn off the stove and watch the boiling bubbles pop in the pot. Maman died five years ago of a heart attack. Her smoking probably didn’t help. I told her to stop. She just smiled sweetly and told me not to worry so much. That’s what we do. Smile and not worry so much. Riot in the street? Smile and don’t worry so much. See the swinging bodies in the square? Smile and don’t worry so much. Can’t be with the person you love because it’s against the law? Smile, damn it.
“I’m not very good in the kitchen,” Baba says.
“You don’t try! At anything!” He balks at my yelling. His hesitation only eggs me on. “I do everything! I do everything to remind you that we’re still living, and you don’t care to participate.”
Baba doesn’t protest. Most fathers would tell me to shut up or send me to my room. He sits and lowers his head to his hands, running his fingers through his hair. I should back off, but I’ve had enough. Someone needs to feel my rage.
“Maman left one child behind, not two! You’re supposed to take care of me. Why won’t you take care of me?”
“I don’t know.” It’s the best and most honest answer he’s ever given me. He looks lost. He looks like he’s been kicked in the face. He makes it difficult to be angry with him. I look back at the bubbling pot on the stove.
“You forgot to add salt,” I say, and as soon as I do he’s up and finding the salt in one of the cabinets. He adds some to the pot and stirs it in, looking at me as though he’s asking for permission.
“I always forget salt, don’t I?” He’s finally noticing his shortcomings. Normally I would tell him it doesn’t matter or that the dish doesn’t really need salt.
“Yes. You always used to forget. Even when you tried.”
He nods and asks me to sit down while he continues to prepare the meal.
“Your Maman didn’t like my cooking at all, did she?” Baba asks. The question makes me smile a little. I shake my head. He chuckles, and it’s about time.
11
“WELL, AT LEAST THEY are serving decent food,” Ali says as he tosses another grape into his mouth. Baba decided not to come to the party now that he is actually grieving. Ali was more than willing to be my male escort.
“You look really good,” he says. “Nasrin should get engaged more often. You’d turn into a fashionista.”
I’m glad Ali is here, but sometimes I wish he would just shut up. I took up Baba’s offer and asked Parveen to go dress shopping with me. She was surprised at my wanting to buy a dress, but I explained it was for a party. I think all my groaning in the dress shop convinced her that I really want to be a man.
There are so many guests here, even more than last time. The Mehdis hired caterers, and Soraya is off for the evening to enjoy the festivities. She is dressed in a simple brown dress that is long enough to cover her thick, overworked legs. She wears a white head scarf, doing her best to dress up. Soraya’s daughter, Sima, is here, too. She gave me advice for the university entrance examinations. Even though I tried my best to listen, I couldn’t keep my eyes off Nasrin, who has had her namzad, her fiancé, right next to her all evening.
“It was a mistake to come tonight. No one would have noticed if I wasn’t here.” I’m muttering to Ali, who not so subtly glances at Cyrus Mehdi’s ass. Ali has always liked boys who are dumb and cute. Cyrus is talking to Mr. Mehdi’s business associates and can’t stop tugging on his shirt collar. Mr. Mehdi just smacks his son’s back, laughing and being the man of the hour. Mr. Mehdi always likes to be the center of attention. Nasrin gets that from him. While Cyrus tries his best to appease some old businessmen, Dariush is across the room, chatting with Sima. She laughs a little, and Dariush looks pleased. I would worry about Sima, but then Soraya comes to her daughter’s side and the three of them continue to talk.
“I’m surprised you haven’t been at Nasrin’s beck and call all evening,” Ali says.
“That’s because the groom is always with her! Doesn’t he have to use the bathroom?”
“He would probably bring her in there. Bathrooms are sexy sometimes.” I don’t want to know how he came to that conclusion. “Besides, I thought we were here to get to know the enemy.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. Reza’s palm is at Nasrin’s lower back while they talk to some doctor types. You aren’t married yet! Don’t get so carried away with your hands!
“He must have a weakness. Something unappealing that might make the family rethink giving their precious daughter away. A secret drug habit, perhaps? He has two wives already? Maybe he’s related to Saddam Hussein.”
“Ali, be serious.”
“I’m just saying that you can’t compete if you don’t better acquaint yourself with the competition.” He has a point, and I do have some morbid curiosity. What do Reza and Nasrin even talk about? She’s barely an adult and doesn’t know anything about medicine, and he certainly doesn’t know anything about her. Another part of me doesn’t want to know him. I feel guilty enough as it is, spending time alone with Nasrin.
“He’s busy talking with all the grown-ups. Doesn’t he feel ashamed having a wife half his age?” I ask.
“He’s a man. He can do whatever he wants,” Ali says flippantly, and pops another grape into his mouth. He picks them off the stems from bunches on the table rather than just taking a small bunch on to a plate. I hate when people do that. “He is a handsome man. And he didn’t even have to get a nose job or anything.”
Many young people in Tehran get nose jobs. It isn’t uncommon to see men and women alike walking around with bandages on their noses without embarrassment. Three girls in my class had nose jobs at the same time. After the bandages came off, I couldn’t tell them apart from one another for a week.
“Nasrin hasn’t even looked at me all night,” I grumble.
Ali laughs. “That doesn’t mean she hasn’t seen you. Don’t you notice how red her face gets when she knows you’re nearby? I’m telling you, Parveen knows her fashion.” I blush, realizing my twin sisters are more exposed than usual tonight. “You and Parveen have been spending a lot of time together,” Ali adds.
“She’s a nice girl,” I say.
“You know you aren’t her type,” he says.
I laugh, glad the music is so loud. “Why does everything have to be about lust and sex with you?”
“Because everything else is boring, Sahar! So if you don’t have a thing for her, why do you spend so much time with her?” I’m not going to tell him what I’m planning. He would probably just laugh at me and tell me how foolish an idea it is. I don’t care if the plan is naive; it’s all I have right now.
“Parveen’s kept me distracted, and she’s a good listener.”
“Whatever you say, cousin.” Ali takes great strides across the crowded room and stops in the middle, looking over one shoulder to me. He raises his eyebrows, and I don’t want to do this, but I would rather chaperone Ali than let him loose around Nasrin at her own party. I trail him as he approaches the doctors and Nasrin. He was right. She’s blushing.
“Nasrin! My, you two make a handsome couple!” Ali exclaims as he pats Reza on the back. I make my way into the circle and look at Nasrin. She stares at Ali, but her face becomes an even deeper shade of red.
Nasrin makes the introduction. “Reza, this is Sahar’s cousin, Ali. Don’t listen to half the stories he will tell you.”