by Sara Farizan
“Enough.”
“I’m just saying my congratulations! Such a wonderful marriage you’ve planned, right, Cyrus?” I’m angry, but Cyrus is too dim to pick up on it. He just smiles, nods, and honks at the car in front of him. “She’ll be taken care of. She’ll never have to do anything for herself or explore the world. A housewife, just like you! What a lucky darling.”
“Not everyone is as clever as you are, Sahar,” she says. “Or as troubled.” I almost want to lunge at her and scratch her face with my newly manicured nails.
“No, Nasrin is a good girl. A very, very good girl.” And yes, I meant the comment to sound perverse, even though it embarrasses me to even entertain the thought of Nasrin having sex. Mrs. Mehdi’s hand is on mine again, this time with a bone-crushing grip. We make eye contact, and we both know we’ll never speak of this moment again. We probably won’t speak about anything again.
“This is the best thing,” she whispers. “For the both of you.” I know that one day I will agree with her. There is no way Nasrin and I can ever really be together. We all know that. I deflate and lean back against the leather seat. Mrs. Mehdi eases her grip but keeps her hand on mine the rest of the way to the ceremony. Her hand trembles a little. She’s scared, too. Of me, I think.
We at last arrive at the villa Nasrin’s grandfather owns. There are so many cars, and so many people walking to the wedding. It looks more like a funeral.
“Cyrus, go inside and make sure your father isn’t drunk already,” Mrs. Mehdi says. “It’s only two in the afternoon.” Cyrus rushes out of the car. We’re alone now.
“I’m not going to say anything in there,” I mutter. “I know she has to do this. You haven’t given her much choice.” Mrs. Mehdi takes her hand off mine. I ball my own hand into a fist.
“You are so like your mother,” she says. “She lost everything to be with your baba. Her wealth, status, family—and she never looked back.” Don’t cry. Don’t let her see you cry. “I admit that my husband and I aren’t madly in love. I used to wonder what it would be like, to be in love with someone. But after the children and the memories we shared, I don’t think about that anymore. You see? It goes away.”
No. I don’t think it does go away. I know it won’t for me. I will keep busy. I will distract myself. I will eventually have days when I don’t have to remind myself to breathe. I know Nasrin will exist, maybe even be happy, and I will be okay. I’ll bury my love, but it will never really go away.
Mrs. Mehdi shakes her head and looks at a group of her in-laws, their big, bouffant hairstyles shrouded by ostentatious Versace head scarves. “Look at them. So much money, and they still don’t know what to do with it.”
“How long have you known?” I ask. I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter anymore.
“I suppose I pretended not to know for a great many years. I thought that I was imagining things. But she looks at you the way I wish someone had looked at me. Just once.” Mrs. Mehdi smiles sadly. I don’t know whether to strangle her or to give her a hug because she’s the closest connection to my maman that I have. “I had to marry her off. You understand? Because if I could see it, it would only be a matter of time before someone else did.” She begins to tremble. Fear dominates everything.
I step out of the car. I take deep breaths, hold my stomach, and silence any thoughts about screaming. And so I go forward. Shoulders back, like a good soldier, and I walk into the parlor, where chubby women dressed far too young for their ages hand their coats to a servant, their perfumes mingling in an odor I will always associate with sadness.
I take off my head scarf and coat, hanging them myself in the open closet by the door. I smooth out my dress and let myself be ushered into a living room, where the bride and groom sit next to each other. Reza looks so sure, so proud, even though he bounces his leg up and down. Nasrin puts a hand on his knee to stop him. She’s always in control.
The sofra, a large ceremonial cloth, is spread on the floor before them, laden with all the traditional wedding flourishes: a rainbow of flowers, an open Koran, colored walnuts arranged in beautiful designs, lit candles on either side of a golden-rimmed mirror that the bride and groom can see themselves in. It’s all too much to take in. I’m desperate to look at something, anything, else.
I look at Mr. Mehdi, who, after speaking with the mullah, has paid a group connected to the regime to allow the wedding to be coed. I look at Cyrus, who keeps checking his watch. I look at Dariush, standing next to Cyrus with a grin on his face that confirms to me that he and Sima have had sex. The other close friends and family push from behind me to crowd into the room. One of Nasrin’s filler friends, giddy and idiotic, grabs my hand and pulls me behind the couple. The friends and a few of Nasrin’s female cousins hold a linen cloth above the couple’s heads. I don’t dare look down to see the couple’s reflection in the mirror.
Everyone is quiet now and the mullah begins. One of Nasrin’s cousins to my left hands me the two corncob-sized blocks of sugar draped in white mesh, which I am to grind over the linen, ensuring the couple a sweet marriage. I begin to grind lightly, listening to the mullah go on about what marriage means and how pleased Allah would be at the union of these two fine people, whom the mullah has probably met only twenty minutes ago.
The mullah asks Nasrin if she accepts Reza as her husband. One friend calls, “The bride has gone to pick flowers!” Many people find this tradition cute and coy, but it sickens me now. The mullah asks Nasrin again, and one of her cousins says, “The bride has gone to put the flowers in a vase!” I grind the sugar feverishly. There will soon be no sugar left to grind, if I keep up this pace.
The mullah asks Nasrin one more time if she accepts Reza as her husband. I can’t help but look at the reflection in the mirror to see Nasrin looking back at me. She smiles, genuinely, probably for the last time today.
Say something. End this. It’s a lie. Everything about this is a lie.
I nod, and let her go. She looks at the ground, and gives her answer.
“With the permission of my parents and elders, I accept.” All the women cheer, yelping and making noises like Indians in cowboy movies. All that is left is to ask Reza. I am grinding the sugar violently, with more focus than I think anyone has ever devoted to this stupid tradition.
“Baleh! Yes!” Reza says, and the whole room erupts in cheers. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The mullah has them sign their marriage certificate. Afterward they dip their pinkies in a glass of honey and feed each other. I hope I’m not visibly cringing. My stomach feels like it’s caving in. Everything hurts. Nasrin pulls her pinky from his mouth with a smile. Mrs. Mehdi is dabbing her eyes. Tears of joy or guilt? I’m not quite certain. Mr. Mehdi slaps his son on the back. Reza’s parents approach the sofra, showing all the gifts they now bestow upon the couple. They are followed by aunts, uncles, and grandparents, who proffer pieces of jewelry, and at last by Mr. Mehdi, who presents a deed to a villa so expensive that Nasrin starts crying.
So do I.
Nasrin’s stupid cousin next to me pats my shoulder. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she asks, and I nod, wiping my eyes. The bride and groom stand and then exit, to have their photographs taken. I watch Nasrin walk away, on Reza’s arm, and she doesn’t look back. Not once. She’ll be happy. She’ll be taken care of. She’ll never have to worry about me.
We are free of each other.
“Sahar? Are you all right?” Baba asks me. I snap out of my daze. He looks at me with a worried expression. All the others have made their way to the courtyard in back.
“Yes. I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I guess I just don’t believe it. She’s married.”
Baba smiles and offers me his arm. “You girls are growing up so fast. One day it will be your wedding, Insha ’Allah,” he says. The poor man—he is always so clueless. Right now I love him for it. I take his arm and ready myself for all the dancing, the pleasantries, and the vomit-inducing kisses the happy couple will share.
“Let’s go
,” I say, and together we venture into the worst night of my life.
20
“PENCILS DOWN,” PROFESSOR AMINZADEH says. I was one question away from finishing my biology midterm. University is more difficult than I thought it would be, but I’m grateful for the challenge. It’s kept my thoughts occupied. When I saw my name in the newspaper as one of the accepted students to Tehran University a few weeks after the wedding, I didn’t laugh or yell or call Baba. I just sighed and thanked god that I had something to keep me busy. The Concours was hell, but so was watching Nasrin get married.
I pass my test to the front, to the professor’s assistant collecting them, and I look at Taraneh. She shrugs sheepishly, and I laugh as I stand up. We meet outside the classroom.
“I didn’t get to the last question,” I say.
“Last question?” Taraneh raises an eyebrow. “I think I got half of that exam wrong! I’m never going to pass.”
Taraneh is a good student. Not as good as me, but studying is all I have to do. She comes from Shiraz and lives in the female dormitory. I live at home, with Baba. We bonded in Professor Aminzadeh’s class, groaning over our lecture notes and commiserating about his illegible handwriting. She’s part of my study group. We’re a serious bunch of five girls, but sometimes we go to the movies or smoke a hookah together at a teahouse. Taraneh and I are the only ones in our group without boyfriends, but we never talk about it. I don’t mind the boys. Soheila’s boyfriend is funny and never takes his studies all that seriously. He reminds me of Ali.
I hear from Ali, but I can’t write him, because he never includes a return address on the envelopes for the letters he sends. I think he will let me know how to reach him. He says he’s doing okay in Istanbul, working as a nightclub promoter. I have a feeling that he hands out flyers and hangs around hotels to entice tourists to come with him.
He and Nastaran pretend to be brother and sister. She keeps their shoe-box apartment clean. In one photograph Ali sent, he and Nastaran are on either side of an obese Israeli drag queen named Big Sara. Nastaran sticks her tongue out at the camera, and the drag queen swoons while Ali kisses him on the cheek. I taped it onto my bedroom wall. It makes me smile every time I look at it.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Taraneh asks. Tomorrow is Thursday. After class I will cook dinner and study, and Parveen will come over and we will have tea. She will discuss her fresh crush on Jamshid from group, and I will chuckle halfheartedly. Goli khanum has noticed Parveen’s crush, so she often asks Parveen and Jamshid to prepare the tea for everyone in the kitchen. The blooming romance has also distracted the group from Maryam’s absence. She’s back on the street, selling herself for drug money.
After Parveen leaves I will study some more. Baba will come home from his workshop, and we will eat dinner together. Ali left behind so much money that Baba was able to rent a better work space and to hire an assistant. His business has been growing, and I can actually see glimpses of his life before Maman passed away. After dinner we will talk about the day. Then we will watch the newest soap opera from Brazil, dubbed in Farsi. Baba will yell at the television, hoping “Julianna” will somehow hear him and run away with Dr. Claudio.
“I’m not doing much,” I tell Taraneh as we exit onto the quad. “I have a lot of studying to do.” There are some young men playing football. Badly. Students huddle around the juice stand, sipping on melon drinks while checking their cell phones. Two young women are selling tickets to a campus concert featuring the poetry of Hafiz.
“If you want to take a break, maybe we can hang out?” Taraneh suggests.
“Oh, is the group up to something?”
“No.” Taraneh smiles shyly at me. “I just thought maybe you and I could do something. Alone.” I stop in my tracks and look at Taraneh. She has my undivided attention at last as she continues. “I was thinking of checking out Restaurant Javan. Have you heard of it?”
Oh. She’s clutching her backpack strap tight, probably in response to my gaping mouth.
“Yes, I have been there before,” I say. “Have you?” She bites her lip and nods. I close my mouth and gulp. “Well, I’m . . . I’m glad that you have been there, too. It’s a nice place. I, um . . . I just don’t think I am ready to go back there yet.”
“The food isn’t that great?” she asks, arching one perfectly tweezed eyebrow. I laugh a little. She’s funny. I never noticed.
“How did you, um . . . how did you know about me?” I ask, hoping I am not obvious.
“I wasn’t completely sure. Just hopeful. Plus, you never appreciate Dr. Claudio when he appears on television. Objectively, he’s a very attractive man.” She says it so easily—like we are talking about the most normal thing in the world.
“I don’t know that I’m necessarily ready for a new dinner companion at Restaurant Javan,” I admit.
She smiles at me. “I was heartbroken once.”
God, I’m so obvious. She touches my sneaker with hers in solidarity.
“Sahar!” I turn around to find Reza, standing by his double-parked Mercedes. He looks tired, confused, and even scared. I tremble at the sight of him.
“Who is that?” Taraneh asks. I should just say he’s nobody and continue walking with her. I’ve done my best to forget about all of it these past six months. I haven’t spoken to Nasrin since the wedding. “Do you want me to stay with you?” Taraneh offers, nervous for my safety. I’m surprised that I never noticed any special attention from her before now. I’ll have to ask another time how she got over her broken heart. I kiss both of her cheeks, say good-bye, and walk over to Reza.
“Sahar, I am sorry to bother you. I know you’re busy with school but I—it’s Nasrin,”
“Is she hurt? Is she okay?” I’m panicking now. She’s too selfish to harm herself. Isn’t she?
“She’s not hurt. But she . . . She’s been crying a lot, and I don’t know what’s bothering her. She won’t tell me. We were doing fine until a week ago. I don’t know how to get her to open up.” Maybe what she’s done is at last catching up with her. “Will you please come see her?”
No. It’s over. He’s supposed to take care of her now. He’s her better half. I’m nothing to her anymore. It isn’t a good idea.
“Please,” he says. “You’re her best friend.” Everything comes flooding back. All of our birthdays; all of our New Year’s celebrations; Maman’s hospital room; watching Nasrin dance, tutoring her in math, her hugging me when the world felt overwhelming. She has been there for all of it.
“Let’s go,” I say, and Reza rushes to the front passenger seat door, opening it for me. He quickly gets into the driver’s seat and peels out onto the street, almost colliding with two taxis. This type of driving is typical in Tehran, but I’ve never before seen it from Reza.
“Stupid traffic!” He pounds on his horn as soon as he merges onto the highway. His radio plays classical Iranian music.
“Nasrin hates classical music,” I tell him. He looks over at me in confusion.
“She told me she loves it.” Of course she did.
“She lied to you.” I’d like to tell him about all the other things she has lied about. He’s gripping the steering wheel tighter now and scrutinizes me as we sit in traffic. I stare back at him, waiting for him to ask. He can’t hurt me anymore.
“Why were you at the clinic?” he asks, like he doesn’t know. Does he want confirmation of all the thoughts he’s been trying to keep at bay? Do I want to give him that satisfaction?
The traffic is finally moving. A watermelon truck is now in the breakdown lane, and green globes of various sizes are strewn across the exit ramp. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep in all the things I want to say like, “I know you’re nice but I can’t stand you,” or “Your wife is totally hot for me, you dumb donkey.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” You won, Reza. I lost. Game over. He accelerates and merges onto the next exit, the one that leads to all the fancy villas with large, ornate iron gates.
“I love Nasrin,” he says. “I’m committed to her, even when her behavior is sometimes . . . irrational. I know she had a life before me, and I’d rather not know what that entailed.” He gulps. His uncertainty gives me no satisfaction.
We approach the villa gate and he opens it with a remote. The high life—their villa looks like a prison. A gorgeous, large, glamorous prison with a princess trapped inside. He puts the car in park. Then he just sits there, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. The gallant prince has yet to get off his steed to save the day. “I hate that I can’t comfort her or make her happy all the time.” I really hope he doesn’t start bawling, or this is going to be exceedingly uncomfortable.
“Nothing’s ever perfect,” I murmur. “Especially with Nasrin.” He chortles at that, and I guess he’s figured out how spoiled Nasrin can be. Especially when she wants something she can’t have anymore.
“She misses her best friend. You know her better than anyone else. Maybe you know her even better than she knows herself. And so I hope that when I invite you into our home, you will act accordingly.” The prince isn’t here to save the princess. He’s gone and recruited the court jester to do the job. I nod as he unbuckles his seat belt and opens his door. I don’t wait for him to open mine, even though he’s rushing around the car to do so.
I look up at the ornate house. It’s not as nice as the Mehdis’, but it’s pretty close. I’m ready to climb the castle walls. Reza leads me inside. The marble floors probably cost more than fifteen years’ rent at Baba’s workshop.
“She’s in our bedroom,” Reza says. We both walk up the marble stairs. It’s a little much, even for Nasrin. We reach a rich mahogany door, and Reza knocks on it quietly. “Azizam, it’s me. Can you let me in?” No answer. Reza leans his head against the door and sighs. I imagine he has been doing this for a very long time. I put my hand on his shoulder and gently try to pull him away. He backs away from the door and walks down the hallway, out of sight.