by Kimia Eslah
“Nassrin’s class is going to Wonderland. The day pass for the park is expensive,” Taraneh started boldly.
“So I wanted to figure out how much I would need to make, and …” Nassrin’s voice faded.
“And?” Mojegan’s tone had softened as she realized the harmless nature of their dilemma.
“… and how much money I would need to …” Again, Nassrin’s voice faded out.
“She needs money from you and Baba,” Taraneh spit it out.
“Fine,” Mojegan said sharply, grimacing. “Stop being so melodramatic.”
The girls shrank in response to Mojegan’s dismissive tone. Nassrin looked accusingly at Taraneh, who recoiled with a wounded expression.
“I thought it’d be better to figure how much she could earn before she asked you for the rest. We were trying to sort it out on our own,” Taraneh pleaded cautiously.
Mojegan addressed Nassrin matter-of-factly, “It’s important to know what to ask for but it’s more important how you ask for it.”
“Hm?” Nassrin and Taraneh asked in unison.
“You’re going to ask your father, and you’ll need to butter him up,” Mojegan said impartially.
“Can’t I tell you the amount, and you decide?” Nassrin tried.
“No, this is an important lesson. You’re going to ask your father and I will teach you how.” Mojegan stood up. “First, I am going to make dinner.”
Mojegan headed to her bedroom to change out of her work clothes. When the phone rang, she instructed one of the girls to answer it. A few minutes later, Nassrin appeared in Mojegan’s room with a message from Reza. Nassrin looked up at the ceiling as she recalled the entire message.
“Baba said that Aga Talebi’s family and Aga Hashim’s family are coming to dinner. At eight o’clock. Oh, and Baba will be home in thirty minutes. At six o’clock.”
Pleased with herself for remembering the details, Nassrin skipped back to her own room. She did not see her mother’s furious expression. Mojegan shook her head as she calculated how to prepare dinner for thirteen people in two hours. Over the previous few years, Reza had made a habit of setting up last-minute parties on Friday and Saturday evenings. The Talebi and Hashim families were regular guests, as were the Modiri and Golzar families. All of them were Iranian immigrants who’d arrived in Toronto since the revolution.
Hossein Talebi and his wife Homa had been dentists in Tabriz. They were a jovial couple, a few years older than Mojegan and Reza, and they laughed easily and complimented others generously. Hossein sipped his drinks and spent evenings listening to others debate. Mojegan sensed that Hossein kept to everyday topics, such as the price of oil and the cost of living, as a courtesy to Reza, who had many opinions based on not many facts.
From Homa, Mojegan learned that she and Hossein were academics who shared a passion for non-fiction. In addition to their dental practice, Hossein served as editor-in-chief of the Journal of Dentistry at the university, and Homa chaired the university’s Women in Dentistry working group to promote dentistry as a profession among young women. They lived modestly, only a few minutes’ drive north of Flemingdon Park in another immigrant enclave near Sheppard Avenue. Hossein worked as a taxi driver, while Homa reacquired her credentials as a dentist. They planned to open a dental practice with Homa as the sole practitioner until Hossein regained his licence. Even this information Homa shared quietly with Mojegan when they stood about in the kitchen one evening. Mojegan understood Homa’s intention to avoid sounding like arrogant social climbers.
Reza was preoccupied with acquiring the material possessions he had enjoyed in Tehran, and he was glad to achieve his wealth as a semi-truck driver. To Mojegan, Reza had admitted that he was repulsed by immigrants who tried to become more than they are. “They’re done for and they don’t realize it,” Reza said as he rolled over in bed. “White people don’t want Iranian doctors, or Pakistani ones and definitely not a Jamaican one. They want a white doctor.”
Mojegan had not responded. She didn’t know what she believed. Homa had encouraged her to obtain her nursing degree in order to earn more than minimum wage and help pay for the children’s education. Though Mojegan appreciated her encouragement, she and Homa knew implicitly that Mojegan did not enjoy the support that Homa received from her husband. Reza would not inhibit Mojegan from pursuing her career. Nevertheless, his excitable and narcissistic nature would hinder her progress. For the time being, Mojegan planned to contain the fallout from Reza’s exploits as she established the children on their individual paths to success. Their children’s future had become the main topic of conversation between the two mothers.
Mojegan admired the proper manners of Homa’s two children, especially their twelve-year-old daughter Pegah, who dressed prettily, smiled habitually, and spoke sweetly in all conversations. Their son Parviz was a quiet boy, a year older than Taraneh, who answered questions with a clear voice and plenty of eye contact. Homa boasted about Parviz’s good grades and future prospects as a dentist. Mojegan wished her own children were as well-mannered as Pegah and Parviz. In comparison to Ali and Majid, our children will appear well-behaved, Mojegan consoled herself.
The Hashims’ two young boys, eight and ten years old, were not inclined to sit quietly or keep their hands to themselves. Mojegan blamed their parents for the boys’ behaviour. Reza met Teymour Hashim at a pizza parlour on Danforth Ave in Toronto’s East End. Teymour and his wife Mitra worked alternating shifts in the kitchen, and they lived in the second-floor apartment. Husband and wife drank heavily and talked loudly. Within an hour of their visits, Mojegan found herself parenting the two boys single-handedly. Mitra, a stunning woman in her late twenties, spent the evenings lounging with a drink, smoking slender cigarettes, and adding details to Teymour’s endless tales of working on the oil rigs off the Persian Gulf.
Mojegan promised herself that she would stop playing governess to the boys but she knew that if she did not intervene they would hurt themselves or someone else with their raucous misadventures. One evening, the boys had placed a chair on Omid’s bed, and they were trying to tie a belt to a ceiling light in order to swing about the room. Once Omid realized the boys were serious about carrying out their plan, he ran to Mojegan in the living room to inform her. To avoid embarrassment, Mojegan whispered it in Mitra’s ear. Mitra nearly fell off the couch and spilled her drink from laughing heartily. When Mojegan realized Mitra was not going to the boys, she put an end to their plans herself. She returned to the living room to hear Reza, Teymour, and Mitra joking about tying their belts to the ceiling light and having a swing. Mojegan exhaled and changed the topic by offering everyone a platter of noon spread with roasted eggplant.
After a few visits, Mojegan had discouraged Reza from inviting the Hashims again. Reza had agreed that the boys were troublesome but he continued to invite the family. Mojegan understood Reza’s draw to Teymour and Mitra, who were often the heart of a party. They were a fun-loving couple who sang nostalgic ballads, rallied others into rhythmic bandari circle dances, and had a penchant for lewd jokes. Mojegan did not know much else about them, and they did not seem interested in talking about themselves, other than to relay comical stories about events and relations in Iran. Some people are content just to be alive, Mojegan thought, while the rest of us work around them.
Mojegan put on a shirt and slacks to begin cooking dinner. She’d grown accustomed to marinating chicken thighs and whole white fish on Thursdays, knowing that Reza was likely set up a last-minute party for the weekend. The children were also habituated to the impromptu parties. Mojegan enlisted the younger ones to tidy the apartment, while Taraneh was tasked with preparing the two spreads, one in the living room and one on the dining table. They all ran about in a hurried tangle of orders and reassurances.
In the kitchen, Mojegan began a large pot of long grain basmati rice. Taraneh completed her tasks and returned to work alongside her mother in
the kitchen.
“Maman, why don’t you say no to the parties?” Taraneh asked as Mojegan laid out twenty-five chicken thighs, seasoned with turmeric, saffron, and lemon juice, in the roasting pan.
“Chi? What?” Mojegan did not look away from her work. In individual foil packages, she wrapped whole white fish that was marinated with tangy tamarind sauce.
“The parties, every weekend. It seems unfair that we do all this work and Baba shows up for the party.” Taraneh kept her eyes on the cold and yellowed pieces of meat.
“He’s working, Taraneh.” Mojegan finished sealing the foil packages and turned her full attention to her daughter. “Besides, I don’t hear you complaining when you’re enjoying the party.”
“I’d be happy without them, too,” Taraneh said in a small voice.
“Baase, enough, Taraneh! Go get dressed,” Mojegan dismissed her with a hint of disgust and a wave of her hand.
Taraneh turned away from her mother. She washed her hands though the yellow turmeric stains remained, and then she left the kitchen. Mojegan laid out the remaining thighs and redid Taraneh’s work.
Over her shoulder, she yelled angrily, “And, wear something pretty. You and Nassrin!”
At seven-thirty, Reza made a boisterous entrance, his arms filled with fresh flowers, more fruit and pastries, and a cardboard box filled with liquor bottles. The children greeted him at the door. He kissed each one affectionately as he handed the flowers to Nassrin, the fruit to Omid, and the pastries to Taraneh. After he removed his shoes, he took the box to the living room and lined up the bottles on the buffet. At his bedroom door, he knocked and playfully approached Mojegan, who sat at the vanity and applied the final touches of her makeup.
“Khoshkel-am, my beautiful.” Reza placed his chin on her shoulder and looked at her reflection.
“Nakon! Don’t!” Mojegan brushed him away sharply and continued to apply her maroon lipstick.
“Chi shode? What happened?” Reza stepped back with a hurt expression.
“Baase, Reza! Enough!” Mojegan glared at him.
“Mojegan, you need to learn how to relax.” Reza waved his hand to express his disregard for her contempt.
Before Mojegan could list her grievances, Reza was already turning on the shower. Save your breath, Mojegan soothed herself. Your words are lost on him. In the mirror, she regarded her thirty-five-year-old self. Looking from one angle and then another, she assessed her allure. Pulling at her taunt skin, thrusting out her small breasts, and sucking in her stomach, she deemed herself reasonably attractive. A mixture of insecurity and vanity induced her to groom routinely, attending to her eyebrows, upper lip, nails, and skin. It is natural for a woman to want to look good, Mojegan reasoned. Besides, people will not pay you attention if you do not pay yourself attention.
With that in mind, she headed to the girls’ bedroom to see their wardrobe choices. Mojegan felt put off when she noticed their bedroom door was closed again. She assumed they were still getting dressed though their guests were expected shortly.
“Girls, have you dressed?” Mojegan knocked rapidly. She told herself not to frown because it caused premature wrinkles. Momentarily, she stopped grimacing.
Nassrin opened the door dressed in a green and pink floral dress with short puffy sleeves and a large lilac bow on the hip. Her hair was held in a ponytail on her right side with a matching lilac scrunchie. Mojegan smiled at her and bent forward to kiss her left cheek.
“Did you find your white pantyhose? Put them on now.” Mojegan guided Nassrin back into her room.
“And you, Taraneh?” Mojegan opened the door completely. “Chekar mekone? What’re you doing?”
On her bed, Taraneh sat with Teen magazine in her lap, open to an interview with nineteen-year-old Kathy Ireland. The young model wore a pair of stonewashed pleated jeans and a cream coloured long-sleeve button-up shirt. Her curly hair was tied into a braid. Earlier, Taraneh had studied the photo as she dressed in her own pleated jeans and button-up shirt. Her braid was not as tidy but she felt proud of her stylish outfit.
“You said I could borrow magazines from the library,” Taraneh moaned and raised her hands in disbelief.
“This is how you dress for a party?! Pants? I told you to wear something pretty,” Mojegan shrieked.
Taraneh furrowed her brows and bit her lower lip to hold back tears. Mojegan did not notice the hurt expression on her daughter’s face. Her head was in the girls’ closet as she rummaged through their party dresses, muttering her frustration about her daughter’s stupidity. Onto Taraneh’s mattress, she threw a pale pink dress with a lacy collar and hem.
“Put this on and wear pantyhose,” Mojegan ordered her.
She stormed out the room past Reza who was standing at the doorway. He wore a serious expression and his eye flitted back and forth between his two daughters. Nassrin was pressed against the wall, chewing on the end of her ponytail and avoiding eye contact. Taraneh sat on the bed with her knees drawn up to her chin.
“Do what your mother says,” Reza said sternly before he slammed their door closed.
A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was the Talebis calling from the foyer. Taraneh, Nassrin, and Omid lined up by the front door to greet their guests. Reza opened the door to Hossein and Homa, whose hands were filled with a bouquet of lilies and a box of sweets. Behind them stood Pegah and Parviz, who bore charming greetings and pleasant smiles. After everyone exchanged pleasantries, Mojegan accompanied the Talebis to the living room and sent Omid off to place coats in the master bedroom.
Hossein sat at the end of the couch, diagonal to Reza, who occupied the armchair. Parviz joined his father and leaned forward to appear interested in the men’s conversation. Pegah sat primly next to her mother on the other end of the couch. Her ruffled blue dress and white pantyhose matched the outfits worn by Nassrin and Taraneh, who sat side by side on a loveseat. On a dining room chair across from Homa and Pegah, Mojegan perched and leaned in to chat. She noticed that Omid did not return to the living room and thought better of dragging him back.
“Pegah, you look lovely,” Mojegan began earnestly, “that colour really suits you.”
“Merci, Khanome Pourani.” Pegah smiled modestly.
“Lotfan, please, call me Mojegan Khanome.” Mojegan felt at peace looking upon Pegah. She resented her daughters for not being as composed and charming.
Reza poured tumblers of liquor for the adults, and Taraneh served Pepsi to the children. After a respectable amount of time answering questions about their academic successes and aspirations, Pegah accompanied the sisters to their bedroom and Parviz excused himself to visit with Omid. Soon after, the Hashims made a noisy entrance. Teymour and Mitra quickly sent Ali and Majid to join the other boys in Omid’s room, and then they fell back onto the loveseat and awaited drinks.
***
From the girls’ room, Taraneh could hear the Iranian pop music blaring and the adults talking excitedly over each other. Pegah sat on Nassrin’s bed with her legs crossed at the ankles and stared back at the two sisters sitting cross-legged on the bed across from her. She no longer smiled. Instead, she frowned as if she smelled a foul odour.
Pegah sucked her teeth and asked, “Well, how do you plan to entertain me?”
Nassrin turned to Taraneh for guidance, and Taraneh screwed up her eyes in a funny expression. Taken off guard, Nassrin exploded in a burst of loud laughter.
“That’s not very polite,” Pegah pursed her lips and furrowed her brows at the sisters.
“Come on, Pegah,” Taraneh sighed and pushed herself back to lean against the wall. “You don’t have to be like that when it’s just us.”
Pegah sat taller, rolled back her shoulders, and smoothed out her dress, “Being polite is how I am.”
“Alright, do you want to play cards?” Taraneh suggested optimistically.
“Card games
are for common people,” Pegah scolded.
Feeling emboldened by the tension, Nassrin tried, “Well, what do you do at home?”
“I memorize Saadi poems and present them for my parents,” Pegah said proudly.
Nassrin turned to look at Taraneh’s expression but her sister had picked up Teen magazine and was paying no attention to Pegah. Nassrin turned back to see Pegah fawning over a collection of glass beads on their vanity.
“I bought those myself,” Nassrin spoke enthusiastically, looking over Pegah’s shoulder. “Most of them aren’t expensive, except the Turkish ones. Those are the ones that look like eyes, like evil eyes.”
“I know about Turkish glass beads,” Pegah snapped. “I did an independent project on Turkey.”
Despite her abrasive tone, Pegah was mesmerized by the compartmentalized plastic box filled with shiny glass beads of every colour and pattern. Nassrin appreciated Pegah’s fascination with the beads. She loved to look at the assortment of beads, hold each one to the light, and roll them between two fingers. The beads were intended for jewellery-making but it seemed a shame to remove any from the collection. Altogether, the beads created a beautiful array to admire. To remove one or a few to create a necklace seemed as senseless as cutting out a section from a favourite painting. Nassrin and Pegah spent the next hour sitting on her bed discussing the properties of the various beads and perusing Nassrin’s illustrated bead catalogue. Taraneh continued to read her magazine.
When the children heard the call for dinner, they trickled past their parents in the living room and headed to the feast spread out on the dining table. Her father motioned Taraneh to him. She could see from his slow movements and relaxed expression that he was inebriated. She leaned forward to hear him over the booming music. The acrid smell of liquor on his breath caused her to retreat slightly. He reached for her upper arm. It was a motion that he intended to perform gently but which turned into a severe clasp. Taraneh did not bother to mention her discomfort. She intuited from his languid manner that he might not register her grievance, or worse still he might be audibly offended by her discomfort.