by Kimia Eslah
“He’s still here.” Bita nodded her head in the direction of the hall. Mojegan did not know how to react and kept thumbing absently-mindedly through the same two pages of one file. I am a grown woman, and if I want something I can pursue it without embarrassment, Mojegan coached herself.
She wanted Reza’s attention. This she could feel in her body. It was a uniquely desirable experience. Her distress was rooted in her inability to explain why she was attracted to him. She wanted to believe that intellect and integrity were important to her, that she was not simply enamoured by his good looks and charm. These considerations were cumbersome and she wished the answers would make themselves known. She rolled back her shoulders, stretched her neck muscles, and inhaled deeply.
“You ready, tiger?” Bita asked with a compassionate tilt to her head.
“For what?” Mojegan startled, looking about for Reza’s imminent approach.
“Your rounds?” Bita asked. “Or, I can go first.”
“Yes, please, you go first.” Mojegan relaxed.
Bita left the nurses’ station, and shortly thereafter Reza arrived to sign out.
“Are you working tomorrow?” asked Reza as he leaned forward on the counter on his elbows.
In spite of her resolution that she would stop acting coy, Mojegan pretended that she had just become aware of his presence. Then, she pretended to think about her work schedule, though she already knew that tomorrow was her day off. She had planned to sleep in and do laundry.
“Hm … uh, no.” Mojegan wondered if he could see right through her charade.
“Okay,” Reza said, nodding approvingly. “Would you like to come skiing with me? Up to Shemshak?”
Skiing? Mojegan thought flabbergasted. She had never skied and she was certain that no one in her family had ever skied. From the tourist brochures about the city and from eavesdropping on doctors’ conversations, Mojegan had gleaned that the Tehrani were enthusiastic about skiing. The city sat at the foothills of the Alborz mountain range, and ski resorts were scattered along the range, many within an hour’s drive of Tehran. Even after leafing through brochures with picturesque scenes of chalets nestled in the snowy hills with bright blue skies overhead, Mojegan had not considered strapping two planks to her feet and throwing herself down a slope. She was not interested in thrills and preferred having her feet on the ground. Mojegan’s dread must have been visible as Reza began to chuckle.
“It’s my first time, too,” Reza said with a pleading expression.
“How can that be?” asked Mojegan, surprised at this new fact.
“Bandari ast-em. I’m from Bandar Abbas. No skiing on the Persian Gulf. How about you?”
“Shirazi ast-em. I’m from Shiraz.” Mojegan’s nervousness rose through her body and warmed her to her fingers. She was giddy and felt like laughing.
“That explains your accent,” said Reza, leaning closer over the counter.
“My accent?!” Mojegan protested. “I don’t have an accent.”
“Ookay, youu doon’t haave an aaccent,” Reza repeated in an exaggerated Shirazi accent with elongated vowels and a musical undertone.
Mojegan laughed aloud and covered her mouth immediately to avoid embarrassing herself. When she heard Reza’s impersonation, she felt she was listening to her own siblings.
“Come with me, us. My friend and his girlfriend will come, too. We’ll drive up together.” Reza smiled reassuringly.
“Okay,” Mojegan agreed and bit her lip. “Ooookay.”
At this Reza laughed loudly until Mojegan placed a finger on her lips. She handed him a sheet from a notepad with her address on it.
“Bah! Great! See you at eight. Now, off to work,” said Reza as he waved farewell and left the unit.
Mojegan looked at the bowl of fruit and put a bright green grape into her mouth. The juice was sweet with a sour aftertaste.
CHAPTER 6
TWO WEEKS LATER, Mojegan waited in the foyer of the nurses’ residence for Reza. The sun had just appeared on the horizon. She knew she was early and most likely he would be late. She brought out her Introduction to Oncology textbook to review. Her first course did not commence for another two weeks, at the beginning of January, but she was excited to get started. She calculated that were she to complete one course each semester, she would graduate from the program in four years. The head nurse and personnel administrator at Bimarestan-e Sina were supportive of her specialization, and they indicated they would consider her for a position in the oncology department. Her mother was less than thrilled about Mojegan remaining in Tehran.
It was mid-December, the start of winter, and she was returning home to celebrate Shab-e Yalda, the winter solstice. She had planned to take the overnight bus, but Reza insisted that he drive her the eleven-hour journey to Shiraz. He made plans to stay with relatives nearby and promised to pick her up a week later to drive back to Tehran.
They had been courting for two weeks, spending evenings and weekends together, and Mojegan was uncertain about this trip. She was not unfamiliar with the boldness of some people, and in other circumstances, she would have flatly refused. It was Reza’s personal attention to her needs and her comfort that caught her off guard and caused her to accept. He treated her like a member of his family, with all of the respect, generosity, and forethought that Mojegan and her family extended to each other. He treated her like he might treat his wife, and he expected her to assume the best intentions of him.
He arrived thirty minutes late but in high spirits. On the car ride south, Reza talked about himself, and Mojegan was glad to listen. On their dates, Reza usually took her to busy clubs with singers, bands, and dancing. Often, they shared a table with other couples and young men. The clubs were packed tightly with round tables covered in white tablecloths, small vases with red roses, and crystal ashtrays. The stages were brightly lit and usually too small for the number of musicians who crowded the platform. The bands played the most popular pop songs. Although Mojegan had never before heard most of the songs, many caused a sudden uproar of applause. Directly in front of the band, women and men dressed in bell bottoms, floral print shirts, miniskirts, and high heels danced and drank under a cloud of smoke and at least one sparkling disco ball.
During dinners, Reza stayed close by, often with an arm around her, but he did not speak about himself. The male friends huddled at one end of the table with heads close together, drinks in one hand and cigarettes in the other. Between sets, Mojegan could hear snippets about cars, football players, and money. The wives and girlfriends chatted in the powder room, where they took breaks from the congested air and noise of the restaurant. Usually, they talked about fashion, makeup, and diets. With the creation of family planning clinics nationwide, birth control also became a popular topic. The women knew that Mojegan was a nurse, and she grew accustomed to answering questions about condoms, birth control pills, and IUDs, using a professional tone to avoid any misconception that she was speaking from experience.
One night, the women began to debate the advantages of having sex with a boyfriend sooner than later.
“At least you find out early if he’s any good at it,” said Ghodsi with a wide grin that temporarily stopped her from reapplying her rose pink lipstick.
“You’re married?!” Hamideh objected. “Are you saying Kosrou isn’t any good?”
“No, I tried on the dress before I bought.” Ghodsi laughed at her own joke.
While she looked herself over in the mirror, Mojegan made sure to smile. She wanted to avoid looking as if she disapproved of the conversation. She preferred answering clinical questions about facts. The thought of sharing her personal sexual history caused her to perspire.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” remarked Mahnaz, standing behind Mojegan and looking at her reflection. “Red suits you.”
The cherry red chiffon cocktail dress, fitted to her small waist, was a p
resent from Reza. It was the fourth dress he had purchased for her in two weeks, all from Ferdowsi, the multi-level department store. Each time he asked her to join him for dinner, he appeared with a dress and requested that she wear it. The dresses were beautiful, and they fit well. Mojegan was partly glad to have a cocktail dress to wear, but she also felt put off by having her clothes picked for her. To give him the benefit of the doubt, she chose to believe the dresses were another example of Reza’s thoughtfulness. He wanted her to feel comfortable in the clubs where all the other women dressed similarly.
“Thank you, it’s a gift from Reza,” Mojegan responded bashfully to Mahnaz’s compliment.
“Bah, bah! How lovely! He has good taste.” Ghodsi spoke over her shoulder as she wiped the edges of her lips with a folded napkin.
Glad for the change of topic, Mojegan smiled and turned to leave, “I’ll see you out there.”
With little opportunity to talk intimately at the clubs, Mojegan was glad that she accepted the quiet ride to Shiraz and had a chance to get to know Reza better. Relaxed in the front passenger seat of his white Paykan sedan, Mojegan enjoyed the scenery and the stories. There were moments when she thought she had never laughed harder, and at times she was too stunned to speak. She learned that he had completed his military service immediately following high school and become the star athlete of his squadron’s football team, as he had been in school. His dreams came true when he was recruited by the national football team, Team Melli. Soon after, he was in a car accident that caused several fractures and torn ligaments in his right knee. The team’s doctors told him that he could not continue to play professionally. He decided to move to Tehran to work at an office, a job arranged by his uncle.
“What kind of office is it?” Mojegan asked without pause, for fear of seeming disinterested.
The knowledge that Reza had lost his chance to fulfil his dream shocked her, and she was at a loss for words. He seemed perpetually upbeat and rarely expressed disappointment or regret. To know that just a year earlier he had been in a car accident that ruined his career aspirations changed her initial perception of him as a man who had never experienced heartache or agony. Once again, she felt like a child who had been sheltered from the injustice of happenstance. Somehow, her own childhood and youth seemed uncomplicated. She dreamt of being a nurse, she studied and passed exams, and then she was hired as a nurse. It was true that she did not have a father and her family lived an austere life. Yet, she did not feel robbed of opportunities. Her heart ached for Reza and his lost chance. She did not express her condolences because she knew that he did not like to be the object of pity or consolation.
“The General Registration Office of Residential, Commercial, and Industrial Property,” Reza said matter-of-factly, in one breath and then glanced briefly at Mojegan.
“Sounds important.” Mojegan felt the need to stroke his ego. “Do you like it?”
“It’s alright. The pay is good, the hours are set, and it’s a good bunch of guys,” Reza said without feeling, looking out at the two-lane highway.
“Is there something else you want to do, instead?” Mojegan asked, trying to sound neutral, to avoid any insinuation that his work was unimportant.
“Yes,” he said grinning at the road ahead, “play football.” From his pocket, he removed a cigarette pack and pulled one out with his lips. He lit the cigarette and rolled down his window a crack before he added, “Now that that’s done with, anything else will do. It’s just a job.”
Mojegan didn’t know what to say. She was passionate about being a nurse, and she could not imagine having another profession. Her goal was to be the head nurse of the oncology department, and she was willing to spend the rest of her career pursuing that goal. She chastised herself, I am privileged. No one told me that I am physically incapable of being a nurse.
“Time for food.” Reza interrupted her inner turmoil. He threw the remainder of the cigarette out the window and pulled over onto the shoulder of the road.
After driving for five hours, they were on the outskirts of Isfahan and it was 11 a.m. The sun was warm, though the air was still cool. Reza stepped out of the car and headed to the roadside stall where two people stood expectantly. A young boy sat on a stool inside the shack, adjusting the antenna on a radio that would not tune, and an old man tended to a grill filled with coal embers, above which sizzled skewers of jujeh kabob, chicken kebab. Mojegan stepped out as well, to stretch her legs and neck. She leaned against the car door and let Reza sort out the refreshments. His friendly, jovial voice could be heard from twenty metres away, even if Mojegan could not distinguish the words. She watched his mannerisms from afar. There was the way he held both hands behind him in a disarming stance, the way he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder to befriend him, and the kind smile he wore to express his attentiveness.
Ten minutes later, he returned to the car carrying two steaming hot packages of chicken kabob wrapped in flatbread and two glass bottles of cola, already opened. The pair sat on the trunk of the Paykan and ate their early lunch.
“Khoub-e? Is it good?” yelled the old man from his post at the grill. He wore an expectant look and a smile that revealed several missing teeth.
“Baba, beheshte ast! It is paradise!” Reza turned around and yelled back with a flourish of his hand to express that the kabob must have been sent from heaven. With Reza’s endearing approval, the old man smiled down at his grill and continued turning the skewers.
“Do you know him?” Mojegan asked between mouthfuls. During her lifetime, she had never travelled between cities by car, and as common as such roadside food stalls were, this experience was new to her.
“No,” answered Reza. He licked the grease from his lips and wiped the corners of his mouth. Then, he handed her a few serviettes that he had tucked into his pocket.
“The two of you seemed so friendly. I thought you might know each other,” Mojegan said after she finished her last bite and wiped her mouth and hands.
“He’s a man earning an honest living. No need for me to treat him shabbily or act superior to him,” said Reza, still looking out at the horizon.
The semi-desert terrain was stark and beautiful — rocky hills and sandy plateaus covered with scruffy shrubs and waist-high grasses. From their perch on a hilltop, they could see far across the valley. Every few minutes, they heard the chuck chuck of partridges, and twice they spotted one scurrying from one shrub to another.
“I think you are a good man,” said Mojegan, also looking at the horizon.
“Khoub, good. I think you should marry me.” Reza jumped off the trunk and turned to face Mojegan.
Mojegan’s expression became serious and her body tensed. In an attempt to force Reza to explain himself, she frowned deeply at him. He looked back amused and grinned. “Well, will you marry me?” he asked, not severing eye contact.
“Reza, we just met.” Mojegan managed this much, and she was not sure if she could produce any other objections at that moment.
“Yes, but you like me and I like you. What’s the need to wait?” He smiled, shrugged, and turned up his palms.
At this gesture, Mojegan laughed nervously. He acts like we’re choosing a film. There is more to choosing a spouse. Still, she lacked the grounding life experience to ardently assert her intuition. Mojegan had observed her mother, with help from her two sons-in-law, arrange the marriages of her older brothers, Akbar and Omar. Under her own watchful gaze, Mojegan’s brothers had found suitable mates, but she remained perplexed and intimidated by the sorts of questions, answers, and behaviours that produced such a result. Completing advanced pathology course work was less complicated. Impressing uptight doctors and senior nurses at a job interview was less intimidating. When Mojegan probed her mother about the ambiguities of suitability, her mother had made passing obscure references to perseverance and willpower before curtailing the conversation. Frustrated, Mojegan tu
rned to her older sisters, who had married nearly twenty years earlier. Compassionately, Akram and Azadeh soothed her concerns: they assured Mojegan that when the time arrived they would help her find a suitable match; they did not offer her any tangible insights; and they did not teach her how to discern her own preferences. At twenty-one years of age, Mojegan felt wholly uncertain about how to choose a husband.
Lightly stroking her cheek, Reza gazed tenderly at her. “I want a family, you want a family. Right?” Reza asked.
“Yes,” Mojegan answered hesitantly.
Emboldened, Reza stepped closer and placed his hands on the trunk, one on each side of her. “You want to be happy, and I want to make you happy.”
Mojegan knew this to be true.
“What else is there?” Reza asked confidently.
I don’t know, Mojegan thought. I really don’t.
In response to her silence, Reza leaned in and kissed her lips softly. Mojegan felt elated. Eyes closed, she wondered whether this effervescent feeling signalled that theirs was a suitable match.
***
Two months later, in early 1968, Mojegan and Reza married in Shiraz among a vast number of her relatives and a couple of his second-cousins. Mojegan stayed with her mother for two weeks during the course of the engagement and wedding ceremonies. Reza took residence nearby at the home of a distant relative but he visited Mojegan daily at her mother’s home. Batoul was impressed by the sincerity of her new son-in-law, and she reminded Mojegan of Reza’s merits repeatedly. Indeed, Mojegan felt a heavenly rush each time her mother nodded discretely and approvingly at her before she returned to beaming admiringly at her new son-in-law. Following a vexing childhood, during which Mojegan laboured continuously to please her mother, only to thwart her own attempts with her modern preferences and her predilection for intellectual achievements, she revelled in the bitter-sweet satisfaction of having chosen a husband whom her mother adored. Mojegan questioned this supposed accomplishment. Certainly, she received considerable praise from her mother for her choice but her mother’s adoration centred exclusively on Reza.