If You Could Be Mine
Page 14
Baba tells the driver to stop and pays him. The driver says a little prayer again; it’s becoming tiresome. I get out of the car and think about all the cab fare Baba has wasted to get us here. We could have saved that money for something important. There’s a little girl, no more than six or seven, selling flowers out of a small bucket. Baba walks to her and buys one flower for each of us. He also buys a bottle of water from her to wash the grave. It has probably gathered a lot of dirt.
We both begin walking onto the field of graves. All the tiles, the graves, are squeezed so close together that it’s impossible not to walk on some of them. Some graves have photographs of the dead on top of the tombstones. I remember Maman’s is near one that has a photograph of a fat mustached man wearing a hat. He looks so confused in the photograph. I can’t imagine it’s the best photograph that his family could find to commemorate him. When I finally see it, my throat tightens, and I can hear Baba doing his best not to cry, too.
We look down at Maman’s grave. Baba unscrews the bottle of water and washes away the dust on the headstone, revealing curved, engraved words in Farsi telling the world that she was a beloved wife and mother. We both just stare at the script. I wish we had had more money to make the calligraphy slightly fancier. Isn’t that a strange thing to think?
Baba crouches down and puts one hand on the grave. He looks up at me and expects me to do the same. I don’t know why. Praying isn’t going to make her rest any easier, but it’s a custom, and so I crouch down until my palm lays flat and heavy on the word mother. Baba whispers the prayer, and I stay silent. She wouldn’t like that I skipped school to do this. She would tell me that studying her grave isn’t going to get me into university and then groan at Baba’s maudlin behavior. Then she’d probably hold his hand and tell him not to worry me so much. Baba stands back up and I follow suit. We place the pink carnations on her grave.
“Salam, Hayedeh,” Baba says. “I apologize for not coming sooner. It was difficult to . . . well, I wasn’t ready.” This is just too strange. “Look at our daughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Baba, stop,” I plead with him. “She can’t hear you.” He nods and takes a deep breath. I don’t think he was buying it, either. It was a valiant try, though. He looks me square in the eyes, and I see him as he was before Maman died.
“She would be proud of you, your work at school and taking care of me. You’ve turned into a wonderful young woman. I don’t know how much credit I can take for that, but you have, and I’m so grateful to her spirit for watching over you.” Don’t cry, Sahar. Be strong for him, otherwise he is going to start bawling. “She’d also want you to be happy. She’d want both of us to be happy. And we haven’t been, have we?” I could lie. We have had happy moments. Separate from each other and not nearly as many as we used to, but we’re not so sad are we? We’re not so terribly tragic that he looks like an old man and I tried to become a man . . .
“No, Baba. No, we haven’t been.”
Baba takes in my answer and stares down at the grave. “Are you going to leave?” he asks. “With Ali?” There isn’t any emotion in his voice when he asks. I wonder if Ali told him he asked me to go to Turkey with him. It doesn’t matter. He knows now.
“It’s tempting,” I say. “Having a place to start over.” God, what’s wrong with me? I’m not denying it or sparing his feelings. I’m a bad daughter. Baba starts crying now. I’m on the verge of tears myself.
“Is it so bad here? Have I been that . . . that despondent?”
Yes, you have. But I still love you.
“You haven’t done anything wrong.” He’s still crying as he reaches for my hand. I take his in mine and we both stare at the grave, hoping she’ll come out from under there and tell us to stop being such babies.
“Please stay, Sahar. For me.”
“I’m scared of what the future holds for me. And now that Nasrin is getting married, I will be facing that future alone. That terrifies me.”
“You’ll be leaving me to face my future alone, Sahar. I know I don’t deserve it, but if you stay, I’ll be better—I promise. You won’t have to cook anymore, and we can go for walks in the park like we used to.” He hasn’t been this passionate about something in years. The calligraphy on the grave becomes blurry, as I can no longer suppress my tears. “And what about your dream of being a doctor? You’re going to give that all up because life is difficult? Life is difficult everywhere!” He’s channeling Maman now. It’s about time. He’s being a real parent, and that makes me cry even harder.
“You just don’t want to be alone,” I manage to say between sobs. “You don’t care about my happiness.” He tightens his grip on my hand. I can feel him staring at me.
“Your happiness is important to me, but yes, I’m asking you selfishly. I’m sorry if I . . . if I don’t always show it that I care. It’s difficult to know what you are thinking. Your mother was like that. I had to dig to find out what was troubling her. I’m sorry if I haven’t tried as hard with you.”
You wouldn’t want to know what is happening in my life. You would be disappointed with me. Maybe even disgusted, and I could not handle that because you will be all the family I have left.
“If I stay you won’t ever leave me again, will you, Baba? You promise you won’t act like a walking ghost anymore? Because I’m tired of it, and she would be, too.” He nods and I hug him. He wraps his wiry arms around me. He is so frail, but it feels like he’s growing stronger and surer the longer he holds me. I’m almost tempted to tell him I have missed him.
Ali and Parveen are sitting in the living room when we return. Parveen is crying and Ali just continues to watch the television. It’s a Brazilian soap opera, dubbed in Farsi, that’s showing on an illegal channel from the West.
“Did the doctor find out she was faking her pregnancy?” Baba asks, and I look at him in shock. I wasn’t aware he was a soap enthusiast.
“No. I think he’s still trying to give her the benefit of the doubt,” Ali says, stubbing out a cigarette in the Saddam Hussein ashtray. Parveen keeps crying, even while she gives my father a polite smile.
“Can I get you anything, Parveen khanum?” Baba asks. I’m pretty sure Baba doesn’t know Parveen is a transsexual, but I like to think that even if he did know he wouldn’t treat her differently.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m upset about the situation and . . .” She keeps whimpering, and Ali rolls his eyes.
“I told her she could always visit me. I’m not dying, just relocating.” He sounds exasperated. And he’s jittery, bouncing one knee up and down and immediately lighting another cigarette. “Sahar, what did you decide?” He never was one to beat around the bush. Sometimes I wish more people were like that.
“When Parveen visits you, so will I,” I say, and I can hear all the tension leave Baba in one deep breath. Ali looks annoyed but not surprised. I think he is getting used to not being able to call the shots any longer.
“Suit yourself. It’s a shame, though. I could have used a partner.” Ali says. He is a social person and doesn’t do well alone. I think it might kill him not to have someone to boss around. Parveen blows her nose into a tissue loudly, and it’s the most unlady-like thing I have ever seen her do. We’re all just waiting for Mother and Daughter to show up to pick up Ali.
“Sahar, may I speak to you in your room for a moment?” Ali asks, and I nod. He leads the way and then closes the door to my bedroom behind me. “Are you sure you want to stay? I can wait if you need more time to think about it.” We both know he can’t wait. He’s lucky he has managed to go unharmed for this long since the police incident.
“I’m an Iranian, Ali. No matter what else I am, this is home.”
He scoffs at my newfound patriotism, though he knows it isn’t quite that. It’s the situation. He knows Iran is his home, too, even if he doesn’t want it to be.
“I’ll send you photographs of Turkish women.” He grins. “You’ll change your mind in no time.”
“Naturally,” he says with a hip check. That’s his way of saying he will miss me, too. “You’re going to be able to handle the wedding without me?” No. I won’t.
“I’ll be okay. I think. Baba’s not such a terrible date. He never talks my ear off like you do.” We both laugh at that. The buzzer sounds to signal that Ali’s ride has arrived. He kisses me on my cheek.
“I’ll let you know where to write me, once I get settled.” I nod, and we go back down the hall to rejoin the others. Ali opens the front door to reveal Mother, looking especially irritated, and Daughter, who has a new bruise on her face.
“Take her with you,” I whisper into Ali’s ear. If he’s so eager to have a companion, let it be someone who really deserves a second chance. He smiles at me and begins to make his good-byes. He shakes Baba’s hand and Baba actually hugs him. Parveen cries and kisses both of his cheeks. She then holds a Koran in the air for Ali to walk under three times, to assure him safe passage. It’s comical because Ali has to duck down and waddle underneath. When he straightens up, he hugs Parveen. Ali is crying now, and I have to stare at the floor because his crying makes me so uncomfortable. Ali doesn’t cry.
I look back at Nastaran and give her a small smile. She waves at me. Ali picks up his backpack and grabs the handle of his roller suitcase. It’s all he needs to carry. He leaves the apartment abruptly, before anyone can convince him to stay. Mother rolls her eyes and grabs Nastaran by the arm, dragging her out of the apartment. When I shut the door Parveen drops down on the couch, crying into her hands. Baba doesn’t know what to do but brew some tea. I’m proud that he actually does it himself. I lean against the door, trying to process what Ali’s departure signifies.
“He’s going to be fine, isn’t he?” Parveen asks in between sobs. I nod. He always is. My cell phone beeps and I have an SMS message. It’s probably an advertisement to remind us to pray for an imam who died hundreds of years ago. I welcome any kind of distraction as I open my phone to read it: Keep dreaming, kiddo. Check under your bed.
Of course Ali has to be cryptic until the last minute. I hope he hasn’t left me any gay-man pornography or opium. I go into my room and lie on my belly to reach under my bed. It’s a medium-sized Adidas sports bag, and I’m almost afraid to open it. Oh, please don’t be something illegal. My whole body shakes as I unzip the bag. It’s full of money, and that devil gets me crying again.
19
THE HAIR SALON SMELLS of hairspray, nail polish remover, and sugar. This combination is the smell I will always associate with disappointment. Mrs. Mehdi continues to hover over Nasrin’s chair as the stressed makeup artist tries to accommodate both Nasrin and her mother, which is almost impossible. Nasrin insists she needs more eyeliner, and Mrs. Mehdi tells her that more will make her look like a whore. I look at my reflection while my hairstylist loudly disapproves of how dry my hair is. I would like to punch her, but I just don’t have the energy. I’ve taken one of Baba’s new antidepressants to stop the sick feeling in my stomach. I hope he doesn’t notice, but I’m willing to risk it today. Reza should be here any minute to pick up his bride in the Mercedes he’s rented for the occasion, and Nasrin is getting more and more agitated.
“Hold still, Nasrin!” Mrs. Mehdi snaps. Nasrin huffs on the brink of a tantrum. They’ve been at each other’s throats for two hours. The other women in the salon try to make polite conversation over the blow dryers, but the tension is thick. Two of Nasrin’s friends from school are here. I’ve seen them at birthday parties and on excursions to the mall, but I think Nasrin views them as filler friends, the kind to waste time with. Mrs. Mehdi’s sister-in-law and a cousin are also on hand as the other special, overly made-up hussies of the day. They both always look at me like I’m a poor, helpless orphan. I hate them.
“If you add any more eye shadow, then I will look like a prostitute,” Nasrin barks. “Is that what you want? He’s already spending enough money on me. I think people will get the message without all this gold on my eyelids.” I know this is hard on her. Mrs. Mehdi pinches her daughter’s waist, and Nasrin lifts a little out of her chair. I think Mrs. Mehdi would have slapped her if doing so wouldn’t have ruined Nasrin’s makeup.
“I think I’d better change into my dress,” I mutter to get my hairstylist off my case about which conditioner I should be using.
“That’s a great idea, Sahar!” Nasrin says as she jumps out of her seat. “I’ll join you.”
Mrs. Mehdi is fuming. “Why don’t you wait for Sahar to change first?”
Nasrin gives her mother a look that could freeze the desert. “I need help with my dress,” she hisses, and drags me into the back room where all the ladies’ dresses are hanging. She locks the door behind us and rubs her temples, groaning. “At least after today she can’t boss me around anymore.” I touch her face softly and she leans into my hand.
“I’m not smudging your makeup, am I?” I ask, genuinely worried that Mrs. Mehdi might have a conniption.
“I don’t care,” she whispers, and kisses my palm. “Let’s get this over with.” I imagine she will say the same thing to Reza tonight when he wants to be intimate. What a fruitful marriage. She begins to undress and I soak in every curve, every part of her that she sees as a flaw and I see as a revelation.
“Stop staring, Sahar. You’re making me blush, and that might throw off my stupid color scheme.” She chuckles, but I don’t feel like laughing. She steps into the dress that she has carelessly taken from the garment rack, pulls it up, and asks me to zip her in.
I inch closer to her and reach down to pull up the zipper. My hands caress her exposed shoulders. I can feel her goose bumps pebble under my fingertips. “Are you nervous?”
“I’ll just be glad when the day is through. All I want are excellent photographs and to dance near you.” She turns around to face me. She’s the bride I always wanted. “Put on your dress,” she whispers, and I comply. Parveen helped me pick the sleek black sheath. That was my only criteria for my garb, that it be black. Nasrin looks me over and takes my hands. “Let’s pretend. Like we used to.”
When we were little, we would pretend to marry each other. Usually one of Nasrin’s stuffed animals would fill the role of the mullah, and the Barbie dolls would be our witnesses. “You look so beautiful,” Nasrin tells me.
“So do you,” I murmur. “You’re the wife of my dreams.” I kiss her cheek, and then I clear my throat, because we have to go. “We’re not six anymore, Nasrin. There’s no more time for pretend.” Being a grown-up is stupid, though. It’s stupid but necessary, and if this is what she really wants for us, I can’t do anything to stop it.
Nasrin fans her eyes so she doesn’t start crying and ruin her mascara. “I’m sorry that . . . Well, you know, about all of this. I just don’t see how . . .”
“Fine. It’s fine.” It isn’t, but I don’t see an alternative. “He’s a lucky man and . . . Be happy. That’s what I want for you.” I open the door after that because I feel suffocated and can’t stand to look at her without wanting to kiss her—or smash her face. Keep calm. The day hasn’t even really started yet.
All the women in the salon cheer for Nasrin in her dress.
“Nasrin, hurry!” Mrs. Mehdi shouts. “Reza’s car is outside!” Nasrin rolls her eyes but smiles at all the attention she is getting. Her two friends from high school wrap a bridal shawl around her head and torso so she can walk in public. Then she leaves. The other women and I look out from the door, all of us smooshed together so we can see Reza’s rental car, with orange flower garlands all over. Reza greets Nasrin and helps her into the car, checking and rechecking to make sure that all of her dress is fitting in the front seat. His face is pale and shiny from sweat. I back away from the crowd by the door and find my coat and head scarf. The other cars to take the rest of us to the ceremony will be here shortly, and I can’t look at the happy couple much
longer, anyway.
Mrs. Mehdi reenters the salon with her head scarf so loosely draped she might as well not be wearing one. “Ladies! Get ready—our rides are here.” The women scramble to find their coats, scarves and bags; to touch up whatever makeup they can; and to make final assessments of themselves in mirrors. Mrs. Mehdi walks to me and takes my hand. “You’ll ride with me,” she says. It’s not an invitation.
We rush outside, and Cyrus opens the door of the Mehdis’ Benz for me. I enter the car, sliding across the backseat to make room for the queen. As soon as she enters, the car fills with perfume, a designer scent that reeks of wealth. The dutiful son closes the door behind her, and then takes command of the steering wheel. Mrs. Mehdi and I both sit there in the backseat, neither of us speaking to the other. Cyrus begins to drive, his mother complaining that he is going too fast or too slow until the poor guy looks almost as bad as Reza did. Mrs. Mehdi puts her hand over mine in the middle of the seat.
“It’s over now. You understand?” I look at her and she doesn’t make eye contact; she keeps her eyes on the road to make sure Cyrus doesn’t crash into anything. I could pretend I don’t know what she is talking about. But after today it doesn’t really matter anymore.
“I understand. Perfectly,” I say, and she lets go of my hand. I look out the window at the traffic on the autobahn. I try to focus on details. We pass a vendor selling corn on the side of the road, two motorcyclists without helmets, and rows of Iranian flags aligned straight on exit ramps. “You must be very happy today,” I tell her, still looking out the window. “Reza is a handsome groom.”