by Sara Farizan
“What?”
“Do. You. Want. To. Come with me?” he says as he sits down on the sofa. He’s crazy. Go with him? Leave Iran forever like some fugitive in the night? He rolls his eyes. “What are your reasons to stay, Sahar?”
“I—I have school, and—”
“Right, but what if you don’t do well on the university entrance exam? There’s always that possibility. They’ll decide what future you should have. Maybe you’ll end up being an accountant, a fate worse than death.” He shudders. I haven’t been focused on my studies lately. That’s partially Ali’s fault.
“I couldn’t leave Baba.” As soon as I say it, Ali chuckles cruelly.
“You’re staying to be his maid? Do you plan on cooking for him for the rest of your life?” But Baba needs me. I’m all he has left. Then again, I can’t look after him forever. Maman wouldn’t like that.
“I don’t speak much Turkish,” I say, and Ali knows I’m stalling now.
“You’re clever. We’d pick up the local slang in no time. We can go dancing! You wouldn’t have to wear all those rags on your head in this scorching heat. You can drink in the open. No one can tell you what to do or how to think. There are even gay nightclubs! You could find a nice girlfriend with big breasts! We can be free. Can you imagine?”
“I can’t leave Nasrin.” That is the truth of my existence. I could never leave Nasrin. Even if she’s leaving me, I can’t leave her. Ali just takes a slow drag of his cigarette before putting it out in an ashtray with Saddam Hussein’s face inside. The kind of merchandise Ali had been selling.
“You’re sad, you know that? You obsess over that spoiled girl because you don’t know anything else. Do you think she’d miss you if you left tomorrow? All you are to her is a stray cat following her around. She just needs to pet you a few times and you’re satisfied.” It’s not true. She loves me. I know she does. He knows she does. “She’s marrying the good doctor and she doesn’t want you to stop her. Don’t you understand? She is leaving you behind and she’s happy to be rid of you.”
I leap onto Ali from the chair and beat my fists on his chest.
“You ahmag! Just because you don’t know how to love anyone, you have to make me feel like dirt.” I start hitting his face and he squeals like a little girl. He pulls my hair and I keep lunging, smacking his already bruised face. He pushes me off and I land on the floor, breathless and sweaty. Ali leans over me and grabs the collar of my shirt. “I’m just trying to let you see things as they are, Sahar. If she doesn’t want you, I could use a travel companion. I want you in my life, even if no one else does.” He lets go and leaves me on the ground. I hear him open the refrigerator door, probably getting ice for his face. I don’t get up to look. My cell phone rings in my jeans pocket. It’s Nasrin’s ring tone. What does she want now?
“Answer it,” Ali says. “Your precious, spoiled brat is calling you.” I run to my room. Foolish girl that I am, I answer the phone.
“Come downstairs!” Nasrin coos.
“What? I can’t, I have homework and—”
“I miss you. Come down.” I think about what Ali has said. How I mean nothing to her. Maybe I should leave with him. This afternoon might help me decide.
“I can’t be out too long,” I say. I definitely hear her chuckle. We both know it isn’t up to me what time I get home.
“Just come down, Sahar joon. And slap your idiot cousin upside the head before you leave,” she says before she hangs up.
I don’t even check how I look in the mirror before I exit my room. My idiot cousin—he does foolish things, but he’s not stupid. He sees things as they are. No, she loves me. Yes. She has to after all this time. But it’s ending; the wedding is happening in a week, and she didn’t even try. She didn’t even mention stopping it. Not once. Ali sits on the couch, watching the unfortunate pop singer from Los Angeles.
“When are you leaving?’ I ask him.
He smiles. “Right before her wedding. I think that’s as good a time as any.”
“It is.” I nod and put on my head scarf and coat.
“You aren’t going to keep her waiting?” Ali says, and my anger dissipates. He just doesn’t want to see me be a fool, as I have been.
“This is the last time,” I say. “She’ll belong to someone else soon enough.” I love her, but it’s all too dangerous now. Adultery and homosexuality are two things the law won’t abide. I don’t want to hang like those boys in the square, and I don’t want that for Nasrin.
This can be our good-bye.
When I exit the apartment building, she’s waiting for me in a taxicab. Gazing through the window, I see she looks as beautiful as ever, her hair cascading out of her scarf and those lips that curve to the side when she is deep in thought. I enter the taxi and she smiles at me, like she knows some secret that I will never figure out. I probably never will. Nasrin puts her hand on mine.
“Where are we going?” I ask her.
“To a memory,” she says, and I’m a little frustrated. We have so many memories. The cab driver almost runs over two children who are trying to cross the street. He needs to make his fare, can’t afford to stop. He has a George Michael CD on. I recognize it only because Ali loves George Michael. It’s the song with the saxophone, the one where he sounds so guilty. I don’t really understand what he’s saying. He sounds like he’s pleading, and I hate that it’s the song that’s playing right now. Nasrin has a smile on her face while her hand stays on top of mine. She keeps her hand on mine while we sit in traffic. It feels cold. When we finally reach a parking lot, Nasrin pays the driver.
“Oh no . . .” I say as I recognize where we are. Mount Tochal. We came here with our mothers when we were five. We rode up the mountain in a rickety télécabine, and I clutched my mother’s leg the whole time while Nasrin squealed in delight next to me. They could fit four of us inside one car because Nasrin and I were so small. I remember looking out the glass for only a moment. We were so high! In the winter the télécabine serves as a ski lift. In other seasons people ride just because it gives them something to do.
“Don’t be scared, Sahar,” Nasrin says as we walk into the park area. “They’ve really made great improvements. Nobody’s died here in a long time.” Orange juice vendors and men with gray beards tending ice-cream stations watch Nasrin as she passes by. We hop onto the shuttle with three little children with their mother. Usually the mountain is populated with couples, especially during the winter ski season. Women wear long coats and head scarves that fit snugly over their faces and hair, with goggles usually holding the scarves in place.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask. I hate heights. Nasrin knows this. She looks so relaxed as the shuttle bus ascends the mountain. She takes my hand in hers. Holding hands is a luxury couples aren’t allowed in public, but we are just a pair of friends.
“The wedding is next week,” she says, as though I didn’t know that. As though I haven’t been counting down the days and making myself sick over it.
“Is this my parting gift?” She tightens her grip on my hand. It means, “Shut up, we’re in public.” We don’t talk again until we exit the shuttle bus and Nasrin buys two tickets to ride the télécabine up to the top of the mountain. The attendant in a blue jumpsuit looks at her strangely because that’s a lot of money for a teenager to have for the expensive joy ride. She doesn’t pay any attention as she drags me into the télécabine by the hand. I’m too angry to be stuck in an enclosed space with her. She doesn’t give me a choice as she waits for me to enter the télécabine. This is the last time I will see her. I’m going to leave with Ali, and I’m not going to tell her. To hell with her . . . I don’t mean that.
“Sahar, get in! Hurry,” she commands.
I do mean it. She can go to hell. I get in quickly and she rushes in after me. The attendant closes the door and we ascend. The rickety, creaking noise coming from above has me terrified. I look down at the rocks and trees, which are growing smaller as we climb. We’re going to
fall, I’m sure of it. This is not how I expected to die. On a rickety ski lift with the girl I love and hate all at once. How will I be remembered? I can just imagine:
“You heard that Sahar Ghazvini died?”
“Who?”
“You know, Nasrin’s puppy dog.”
“Oh yes! The closeted lesbian who chickened out of a sex reassignment surgery, and never wore enough makeup. She was a homely thing, wasn’t she?”
“So where is he taking you for your honeymoon?” I want to know. I want to pretend like I am there.
“Dubai,” she mutters. She looks the antithesis of an excited bride.
“Very fancy. He can afford that, working at the transsexual clinic.” She gazes out at the scenery, her jaw set. “You know how I know that. Don’t pretend like you didn’t know what I was up to.” I’m seething now. I expect her to look at me with those I-have-no-idea-what-you-mean! eyes she reserves for when she knows without a doubt she has done something wrong. I never exactly told her what I was doing, but she never asked, either. We lived within our respective delusions for far longer than this whole wedding debacle has existed.
“I didn’t think that you . . . that it was something you were seriously going to do,” she says.
“Does he know about us?” I ask.
“No. He didn’t mention you were at the clinic. He’s very earnest about his job.” Of course he is. He doesn’t want to compromise my patient confidentiality. I feel so embarrassed.
“Damn you, Nasrin!” I scream at her. “Damn you for doing this to me. Why would you let me fall in love with you? You knew you were never going to settle for me. Was I just something to keep you busy? A toy like the ones your parents bought for you? I hate you for leaving me behind. You were all I had after Maman . . .” She puts her arms around me and I cry into her shoulder. No, I won’t let her comfort me. She doesn’t deserve it.
“Sahar, look at me,” she pleads. “Look at me.” I look away and down the mountain. God, we’re so high! I can’t breathe. We are either going to fall, or I am going to hyperventilate. She grabs me, turns my face to hers, and kisses me on the mouth. I rip myself away from her.
“What are you doing?” I look around, in back and in front of us. She steadies my face in her hands, clutching my cheeks, making me feel like a chipmunk.
“I’m kissing you in public. No one can see us up here,”
“Yeah, no one can see us up here. You’re ashamed of me.” She squeezes my cheeks harder.
“I’m being who you want me to be just once, and in public,” she says. I kiss her forcefully. I hope her lips bruise. I hope no lipstick will be able to cover up the marks I leave. She kisses back, no hesitation, no tension or fear. I stop for breath and confirm that we have a few minutes before the next stop up the mountain. The last thing we need is for an attendant to catch us.
She tugs my hair, just like she did when we were little. “You belong to me, Sahar. I just assumed you knew that I belonged to you. I always will.” She kisses me again, and I keep my eyes open to make sure we have enough time before we reach the platform. Her eyes stay closed. She really means it. I back away. I wonder if I should tell her I am thinking of going to Turkey, that I want her to come with me. She would never say yes. It would be too difficult for her to leave her life of luxury.
“I’m not waiting for you anymore, Nasrin. After the wedding we can’t carry on like we have been.” Her mouth gapes open in shock. She’s such a petulant child.
“But just because I’m marrying him doesn’t mean that we can’t . . . that you can’t—”
“Your husband would figure it out eventually. Then what? I won’t sacrifice my life or yours for some high school love affair.” I’m being intentionally cold now. We need to disconnect or she will be the death of me. I sit on my hands so I won’t be tempted to touch her again.
“What is the matter with you, Sahar? Why are you being like this?” We reach a checkpoint and stop.
“Getting off or staying on?” an attendant in blue overalls asks.
“Off!” I shout, and I get out of the box as fast as I can. Cool air hits my face as I walk out to the overlook. There aren’t too many people milling about, just some children with their parents. It’s dusk and the lights of Tehran glow in the distance. I haven’t seen the city like this since I was a child. Everything seemed so magical then. Now the lights just seem dinky. I feel Nasrin’s breath on the back of my covered neck.
“I love you,” Nasrin whispers. “I will never love him the way I love you. Can’t you understand that?” There is a desperate pleading in her voice, but I’ve heard it before. It sounds like when she was eight and begged for an overpriced dollhouse for her birthday. She had forgotten all about the dollhouse a week later.
“I understand that you want nice things,” I say. “You finally want to make your parents proud of you. I know you want children to love, no matter how smart or beautiful or wretched they are. And because I know you, because I love you, I know that all of those things can’t have anything to do with me. No matter how badly I want them to.”
Nasrin starts to cry. I turn around to face her and begin crying as hard as she is. She leans in and hugs me. We cling to each other because there’s nothing else left to do. We never would have reached the top of the mountain anyway.
18
ALI AND BABA STAND in the living room, their hands cupped and raised to their faces. I’m shocked to see Ali praying. That he even remembers how to do so is a miracle in itself. That my father is praying next to him in our living room makes my jaw drop. Baba hasn’t prayed since Maman died. The prayers quietly leave their lips and reach the ether before the two of them drop to their knees and press their foreheads to the ground. I wait for them to finish before I clear my throat to let them know I’m awake this morning and present.
Ali turns around first and grins. “I’m a bit rusty.” He chuckles and Baba pats his shoulder.
I’ve never been terribly religious. I believe in Allah in the same way I believe Nasrin loves me. Her love is steadfast but not always available.
“So am I,” Baba says as Ali walks toward the kitchen. There’s bread and cheese on the table, and tea is brewing in its pot. I’ve arrived in a parallel universe. Baba and I follow Ali.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Ali is leaving,” Baba says. “Tonight.” I stare at Ali’s profile when he pours tea into three glasses. I sit down at the table; Baba sits across from me. My appetite is nonexistent. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. If I go with Ali, it’s a new start. It will be difficult, but I’ll never have to be unbearably close to Nasrin again. I’ll never have to see her fawn over Reza or have to face temptation any time she’s feeling nostalgic and would like to take me out for a joyride, like a Honda motorcycle long neglected in Dariush’s mechanic shop.
Ali puts glasses in front of Baba and me and sits down at the table. Baba takes a sip, and Ali chomps down on some bread. I inspect them both. Baba looks a little better these days. He hasn’t been catatonic, and he engages in conversation with Ali every so often. Mostly it’s about when Ali is planning on leaving, but even so, it’s better than just watching life go by. Ali has been on his cell phone less and less this past week. I suppose his affairs have all been handled, the best they can be, anyway. They’re both relaxed, leaving me the only one on edge. That’s not fair.
“Why tonight?” I ask. It’s so soon, and he didn’t give me enough warning. I didn’t agree to go, but I didn’t disagree, either. Maybe the offer is rescinded.
“I’ve settled my finances, and I don’t want to wait for Friday,” Ali says in between bites. But traffic is terrible on Thursday nights. People want to get out of the city for a little break, only to spend hours in smog and dust. I’m beginning to think nothing makes sense in this country. I suppose he can’t stand being in Tehran another day. Maybe I should get out. “Have any plans this evening?” Ali asks. So his offer still stands. He’s leaving, never coming back, a
nd he wants me with him. It’s ludicrous, it’s dangerous, and it sounds like the best offer I’m going to get.
“I don’t know yet,” I say. I really don’t. Ali chortles and pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He never smoked before he got in trouble with the law. Now he smokes four cigarettes a day. It reminds me of Maman and I hate that.
“I should go to school,” I say as I stand up.
Baba grabs my arm gently before I can get much farther. “I called the school and told them you were sick,” he murmurs. “You and I have something to do today.” Now I know I am definitely dreaming. Baba is not only pulling me out of school, he’s actually spending time with me. He lets go of my arm and drinks from his glass again. “Eat something. We have a long day ahead of us.”
I look at Ali, who shrugs. Even he doesn’t know what Baba is up to. I spread some feta cheese crumbles on my bread and take a bite only because Baba is watching me. One bite is all I can stomach.
In the cab I figure out where we are going, after we drive past Angry Grandpa’s tomb. It’s a huge mosque that’s bigger than the Shah’s mansion, which is now a museum. The parking lot for the tomb is mostly empty, except for a cheaply made tour bus with words in Pashto written on the side. The people in the bus don’t look Iranian. They’re probably from Pakistan. I hate to think that this is their version of Disneyland, but everyone has a dream vacation, I guess. The cab driver takes his hands off the wheel to pray for a moment as we pass the tomb, and I hope Allah is with him so we don’t crash. The driver puts his hands on the wheel again when we near the exit.
“Why are you taking me here?” I ask Baba. We haven’t been here since Maman’s funeral. I didn’t think we’d ever come back.
“We could use some guidance,” Baba says as we enter Behesht Zahra Cemetery. Large, colorful poster art of the martyrs of the Iraq war greet us. The martyrs have a huge portion of the cemetery for themselves. The place is huge because this is where all of Tehran’s dead go. It’s as large as several football stadiums and just as well kept. Baba tells the driver what numbered section Maman’s grave is in, and the driver follows the signs. The dusty roads are lined with trees as far as the eye can see. I remember thinking that on the day of the funeral, too.