ROSEHEART
{a novel}
Catherine Dehdashti
Causy Taylor Literary Publishing
St. Paul, Minnesota
Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright ©2015 Catherine Dehdashti
Acknowledgement to Forough Farrokhzad for excerpted stanzas from Rebirth (1964, Iran), and to translator Dr. Maryam Dilmaghani (2006, Montreal).
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief excerpts featured in reviews and articles.
Dehdashti, Catherine, 1969-
Roseheart / Catherine Dehdashti.—First American edition.
ISBN 978-0-9863686-7-7 (paperback)
ASIN B00UPVHRKU (Kindle edition ebook)
ISBN 978-0-9863686-8-4 (other ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number 2015901342
www.catherinedehdashti.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/CatherineDehdashtiAuthor
Twitter: @cdehdashti
Causy Taylor Literary Publishing
[email protected]
St. Paul, Minnesota
For my family, and for all men who sew
In my little,
lonely room,
my heart is invaded—
by the silent crowd of love.
I am keeping track of my life:
the beautiful decay of a rose, in this antique vase;
the growing plant that you brought;
and those birds in their timber cage.
They are singing every hour,
up to the full depth—
of the view.
—From Rebirth (Tavallodi Digar), by Forough Farrokhzad
Translated from Persian by Dr. Maryam Dilmaghani
Part I
Table Thirteen
The curse of the Midwestern work ethic has me driving a compact car through a March storm to get to my waitressing job. The café I’m risking my life to get to this frozen Saturday in 1994 is in the University of Minnesota neighborhood called Dinkytown, so it’s called the Dinky Kebab.
You can cringe at the name, but business isn’t bad.
My little black Honda with summer tires slides everywhere. From the air, I must look like a hockey puck being knocked around on a pond. I never know when I press on the brakes if I’m going to stop, slide, or spin doughnuts.
SUVs speed by, but even at a crawl, I lose and regain control over and over, rejoicing every time I narrowly escape hitting a punk-rock pedestrian as I skate my way through Uptown. The brief trip down Highway 94 toward the university is better because the highway is gritty with salt and sand. Once I hit University Avenue to make my way into Dinkytown, the salt and sand disappear.
A blue Honda CRX is in front of me, clipping along even though it’s as light and flimsy as my car, so I speed up a little too, thinking that if another little Honda is doing it the road must be better than it looks. I’m already thirty-three minutes late for work, so I’m hoping to make up time.
With three blocks to go before I reach the restaurant, the CRX—in a split second—goes from twenty-five miles an hour to a dead stop in front of me. I react by stomping hard on my brake, but only the front of my car stops and the rear of it spins out in front. Before I know what’s happened, I’ve pivoted until I’m facing backward and my car’s bumper end swings into the CRX.
After this brief thrill ride, I’m motionless. I blink my eyes, look to my right, and see a gray cat finish its sprint across the street.
It doesn’t look like any other cars are coming to join the party, so I just sit there for a moment, savoring the odd moment of peace that comes from how we Minnesotans think when this happens. I don’t even know yet if my car is damaged or not, but I know I’m alive and unharmed, so I close my eyes and thank God. When I open my eyes a second later, the sleet has stopped falling and the sun peeks out. I realize I’ve turned my car off and that means no heat.
When the driver comes to my window, I recognize him—it’s one of the regular customers at the Dinky Kebab, an Iranian guy with a mustache. I try to get out, but he tells me to stay put. “Are you hurt?” he asks with a slight Persian accent. “You shouldn’t move if you are hurt.”
“I’m fine,” I say and then I open my door and stand up, but I’m shaky and the road is bumpy from layers of ice.
He holds me by the elbow of my short wool coat and walks me to the side of the road, then goes back and drives both of our cars off to the side where I’m waiting. We inspect the cars. Mine is unblemished because my big rubber bumper was what slammed into his car. His car has a pretty good dent, but it’s drivable.
The gray cat skulks along the sidewalk, watching us. “My car can’t stop that fast on the ice,” I say, as much to the shivering cat as to the guy.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That cat ran out in front of me so fast—it was just an automatic reflex. I shouldn’t have stopped.” Then he looks at me closer. “You work at the Dinky Kebab.”
I’m wearing a big fur-lined hat that covers both ears and I don’t know how anybody could recognize me, but I look down and realize my burgundy apron is sticking out of the bottom of my short coat.
“I hope I haven’t made you late for work,” he says. “And that you don’t have whiplash. Maybe you shouldn’t go to work—do you want me to drive you back home?”
“I’m fine,” I say again. This little spin-out couldn’t have been as bad for my back as waitressing, I think, and I can’t make it all this way and not go in for my shift.
The guy gives me his business card that states his title as Professional Engineer at Nielssen Parking Consultants. His name is Naveed Shushtari. And the phonetic pronunciation of his last name is printed right on his card, (Shoosh-Tar-EE). I stick the card in my coat pocket.
I offer him my insurance information, but he says he will get in touch if he needs it. I tell him he knows where he can find me, and then I get back in my car and drive three more blocks to the Dinky Kebab.
Now I’m forty-seven minutes late, and I punch the clock, my knuckles white and my hands still shaking. When I tell my story to one of the owners, Kaveh, he says I could have called in because we won’t have many customers in this weather.
But we do have customers, because Minnesotans can’t keep off the ice, and Naveed Shushtari is one of them. He sits down with a friend who happens to be here alone, sitting at table thirteen. He’s bad luck, I tell myself.
He looks at me with concern as I try to seat the people who come through the doors in twos and threes. Another waitress arrives before I start taking orders, and I let her take half the tables, including Naveed’s. But when Naveed and his friend’s kebab platters come up, I bring them out. His friend gets up to go to the bathroom as I head toward the table.
“I really am sorry,” he says. “I wouldn’t have even been out on the icy roads, but I had to drop off a package for my mother at the post office before it closed at noon. Then I thought I might as well come in and eat lunch.”
“Sure, blame your mom,” I say. “She couldn’t wait for a package to arrive a day later?”
He looks confused, so I smile to show I’m just kidding.
“Let me take you out for dinner tonight to make up for the accident,” Naveed says.
“Sorry, but I don’t date customers,” I say. “Plus, I have a boyfriend.” My boyfriend’s name is Quentin and he’s a stockbroker in Wayzata, with his office overlooking Lake Minnetonka. Lingering, I make small talk with the engineer. He’s not flirty, just nice, and I realize he’s cute under that mustache.
At the end of my shift I bundle up to go out to my frozen car.
But before I leave, I fish my set of keys out of my coat pocket, pull out the customer’s business card along with it, and smile. I don’t think I need to talk with him because my car is fine, and I’m fine, and he will get in touch with my insurance if he has to. But he had warm, dark eyes, and I remember the tickle I felt when he grasped the elbow of my wool coat.
I throw the card in the oversized kitchen garbage and make my way out through the loading dock, warm up my car, and drive home.
Tomorrow night Quentin is taking me to a play at the Guthrie Theater. He has season tickets with main-floor seats, and this will be my third show with him. When the cordless phone rings at my apartment, I think it might be him because he calls me every day and hasn’t called at all for two days now, which is very curious. But it’s just Kurt wanting to know if I want to go drive around Minneapolis with him. He says, “Come on, I’ll smoke you up.”
I’d meant to do my tax short-form tonight, but what would you do? Cruising around town in my old college boyfriend’s Nissan 300ZX Turbo will do fine. Not that we hang out for long—after we’re good and baked, Kurt has to get back home to his girlfriend.
Personal Phone Call
The next day, Sunday, I’m leaning against the stainless steel counter at the Dinky Kebab. It’s between lunch and dinner, and I’m drinking tea from a tall glass with two cardamom candies melted in. I’m just waiting for the dinner shift waitresses to arrive so I can go home and get ready for the play.
The Mexican kitchen workers are still washing the silverware from lunch, which I have to wrap for the dinner shift before I can go. Everything else is ready. The sugar cubes are piled high in bowls on every table. If Kaveh’s cousin, Niloofar, can balance even one more cube on top of one of my sugar mountains for each of the thirteen tables, I will fail her inspection. Jars of tart, red sumac powder are full, ready for shaking over kebabs. (This is not the North American sumac, as I learned on my first day working here.) Ketchup bottles are filled and ready for all the Iranian-American kids who want french fries instead of basmati rice with their kebabs.
The mini market looks neat and enticing. Pistachios and other nuts, with saffron-tinted shells—a big tin scoop in each barrel—are lined up next to the case of olives, dates, and feta cheese. I’ve dusted the shelves that hold tea, bottles of rosewater, quince jam, and other groceries. About half of these items are unique to such a market. The other half are things that could be purchased at Byerly’s or any other grocery store, but the customers like to buy them here, in little cans and jars that have traveled from Iran, or at least from the Iranian factories in California. Persian language newspapers and magazines are stacked on the counter. These are published in Los Angeles, not Iran; these are not the voices of the regime. These magazines feature photos of self-exiled Persian celebrities—debonair men, and women with perfect make-up and no headscarves. Other features are modern Persian poetry, presented in Persian and English, and anti-regime commentary.
When the phone rings, I go to answer it, expecting a to-go order. But it’s Quentin. I like his voice, and after not hearing from him for two and a half days, I’m happy to hear it. It’s deep and strong, like a documentary film narrator you trust to tell you the truth. Who wouldn’t invest their fortunes with him? I look around to see if the owners are looking—they do not approve of personal phone calls.
“Hi sweetie,” I whisper. “I can only talk for a second. What time are you picking me up tonight?”
I hear him take in a breath instead of just giving me a time. “Has the plan changed?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to wait to tell you,” he starts, “so I’m sorry to do this while you’re at work. I went out with somebody else last night. I’m sorry. I really like you.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m slow. I’m not sure if he’s breaking up with me or not. Is he confessing a mistake? Is it up to me now to decide if I want to see him again or not? I’m waiting for him to say, It was only dinner.
“Are you there?” he asks.
“Oh,” I say again. “Did you meet somebody new? Are you going to see her again?”
Duh, I tell myself. It’s obviously somebody new. I know it wouldn’t be his psycho ex-girlfriend, Dori, because he’s told me all about her drama. If he just went out to dinner with somebody else, maybe I could handle that. After all, I hang out with Kurt sometimes—just as friends, but still.
“I went out with Dori,” he says. “We’re going to try to make it work again.”
I’m silent, in shock. “Dori? But you said she’s psycho.”
“I wasn’t being fair to her,” he explains. “We have a lot of history.”
The history I know about with Quentin and Dori is that she had been calling him since they broke up, crying and making him feel sorry for her. He finally had to buy something called “Caller ID” so he wouldn’t have to answer her calls anymore. She had been driving by his house at night, which is no coincidence because he lives on a peninsula on Lake Minnetonka. It’s not like she just passes by on the way to pick up milk. But I thought she had recently stopped all that—I thought she had finally moved on.
“So you answered her call and you met her last night? Why?” I ask, thinking maybe I didn’t understand the “make it work” part right and maybe he just needed closure.
“I called her,” he says. My grip on the receiver weakens and I drop it to my shoulder.
Kaveh comes in from the loading dock and sees me limply holding the phone, obviously not writing down a to-go order. Normally he would try to shoo me away from the personal phone chat, but instead he gives me a nervous smile and goes to put the wet wood chips on the kebab grill—that’s how he gets the good flavor with the gas grill.
“You called her?” I say, puzzled. A customer comes in the door and waits by the podium where we keep the menus. “I have to go.”
“Are you okay?”
I’m so stupid that I almost ask him if we’re still going to the Guthrie tonight. Just to be sure. But the customer is waiting to be seated and Kaveh goes to hand him a menu, which he doesn’t need because he always orders the soltani kebab.
I hang up, and Kaveh asks if everything is okay. I nod, suck up the tears, and go take the regular customer’s obvious order. The kitchen guys bring me the silverware, and as soon as I’ve wrapped napkins around a few sets, a customer comes in, and then a couple, then a four-top before one of the dinner-shift waitresses arrives.
It’s good, I guess, getting hit with a lot of customers right now. By the time I have a few minutes to think about Quentin, I’m able to remind myself that I wasn’t so deeply in love with him anyway. He’s a millionaire with a Mercedes worth eighty thousand dollars and a condo in West Palm Beach. I tell myself I was more into those than I was into Quentin himself, and those are just things.
So why do I want to cry?
Maybe I liked him more than I’d realized. He was funny. We laughed together. No, it wasn’t just that. I don’t know when it happened, but I’d become attached. I’m surprised by the bruised feeling in my heart, and the shame of being dumped, and I can’t stop a few tears from falling.
There’s no way Quentin would have called Dori unless I had failed to keep his attention with all of my whorish efforts, including being a “cool girlfriend” who acts like she never expected a commitment in the first place. It hurts to have to wonder if I’m even more pathetic than crazy Dori, who hooked him with her simple game. Once she stopped calling and driving by, he called her.
Why did you stop stalking me?, I imagine him pleading with her to tell him.
As soon as the four-top’s order is clipped to the cook’s row of green tickets, a swarm hits. Niloofar has left, and the second waitress hasn’t arrived. It’s still early—we don’t usually get so many customers before five on the weekend. So Kaveh helps seat people, smiling and laughing with them, while I help the only dinner waitress take orders, retrieve beverages, and wrap more silverware bundles until the tardy waitress rushes in. Finally, I can leave to go ho
me and do nothing.
This is how it is in restaurant work. Long periods of busy work are interspersed with customers that blend into each other so quickly that it seems I will never serve them all, never be able to remember who ordered an extra kebab and who just needed a straw.
Melinda
It was the sunny living room overlooking the pool that first attracted me and Melinda to Joppa Lane Apartments in St. Louis Park. It’s on the border of Minneapolis, walking distance to Lake Calhoun, which Melinda walks around almost every day.
We’re the land of ten thousand lakes (more, really) in Minnesota, as you know if you’ve read our license plates. Lots of them have Indian names, and more than a hundred and fifty of them are called Long Lake. Some even have French names after the voyageurs from long ago. But Lake Calhoun is named after an 1800s pro-slavery politician from the South Carolina. Melinda has been part of some movement to have the name changed.
The pool won’t be open for a couple of months, but the setting sun is beaming through the window this evening, and Melinda is bounding around the apartment whipping it into shape and getting ready to go out at the same time.
It’s a Jewish part of town, and several of our neighbors have mezuzahs marking their doors. Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Finklestein, who does not have a mezuzah, looks like a rich old lady because of how well she takes care of herself, but I know she gets Meals on Wheels. Sometimes I get caught up in long conversations with Mrs. Finklestein in the hallway. She does most of the talking—she’s always looking for someone who will listen to her. But Melinda is swift and strategic about avoiding the neighbors.
It’s our fourth apartment together, if you count our dorm room at the university. Neither of us can afford our own place. And since Quentin has, I think, broken up with me, it looks like Melinda and I will be here together for a while. Melinda is involved with Roger, who is from New Mexico, but they aren’t ready to live together. And living together is getting old—again. For Melinda too.
Roseheart Page 1