Persian Girls: A Memoir

by Nahid Rachlin

  I began studying anything that had to do with mother-child issues, including the rights of a biological parent as opposed to an adoptive parent, and the fierce fights often put up by each. Most of the time a child was given away for adoption by his or her mother because of financial or psychological problems. Mohtaram didn’t have either of those problems.

  Once I was watching a TV program in the lounge about a mother who had spent several years trying to regain custody of the child she gave up for adoption. Tears collected in my eyes and streamed down my face. Janis, who lived on my floor, was doing homework on the sofa. She asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “My mother has cancer,” I said and got up. I went to my room and cried some more.

  Parviz found me a job for the summer as an assistant to a psychiatrist at the hospital in St. Louis where he did his internship. Parviz himself was leaving St. Louis for another state to do his medical residency. He’d assured Father, “Don’t worry, I’ll still check on Nahid.”

  I lived in St. Louis with a roommate, Amy, whom I hardly ever saw. One afternoon, while I was waiting for a bus, a young man came over to me and asked, “Are you a singer?” He was carrying a guitar case.

  Perhaps it was the way I was dressed, in a red T-shirt with a picture of a pair of darker red lips on it, a full white linen skirt, and large, dark sunglasses (my attempt to cultivate a style).

  “Have you ever been to Leopard’s Jazz Club?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I thought I saw you there,” he said. “I play the guitar there.” His hair, long and disheveled, hung in curls over his shoulders. He couldn’t have been more different from the clean-cut boys who came to our college to pick up their dates. He said his name was Jack Bruhel. By the time the bus came he had invited me to the jazz club that evening and offered to pick me up at my apartment.

  That evening I tried on different outfits, put my hair up in different styles, applied different lipsticks, anxious about my first date in America.

  Jack drove me to the club in his silver, somewhat banged-up convertible sports car. He took me to a table and ordered me a beer before joining a group of musicians on the stage.

  A young woman came onstage from a back room and stood behind the microphone. The proprietor introduced her as Martha. She was very tall, with wheat-colored hair and large blue eyes. After the applause died down, she began to sing in a soft, melodic voice:

  Am I blue, am I blue, ain’t there tears in my eyes telling you . . .

  At intermission Jack came over holding a beer. “What do you think of Martha?” he asked.

  “She’s very good.”

  “I may as well be honest with you. She and I have been going out—well, on and off. We’ve had a lot of ups and downs. We’re in a down period right now.” He played with his beer bottle, turning it around on the table.

  I was confused. Why was he telling me this?

  It was after midnight when we started for my apartment in his car. In the living room, Jack kissed me.

  “You have such a nice complexion and hair,” he whispered, his lips close to my ear.

  In my room, he started to undress me. My heart beat wildly with yearning.

  But again, as with Bill, in spite of my desire to open up, I became stiff. “Not tonight,” I mumbled.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “Don’t play games with me.”

  “I’m sorry. Another time.”

  He squeezed my breast hard with a surge of irritation and got up. He left, slamming the door behind him.

  I lay there, hearing all the negative remarks and warnings about sex in Iran, expressed by Maryam and her neighbors as well as the more modern people like my parents and people at school. “Sex is only for procreation,” one of Maryam’s neighbors said to her daughter. “Men are nice to you until they fulfill their lust and then they abandon you,” my high school principal lectured. It was amazing that I had tried to model myself after American women in movies and books but I was crippled by the voices of my own past. Here I am, I thought, in the land of freedom, and yet I am so unfree in my own life. In spite of my rebelliousness, the deep fear of losing my virginity was still with me. Kissing James that afternoon in Ahvaz, so daring in that repressive town, was still all I was able to allow myself. If I were an American girl, raised in America, would I have given in? Was this what Father meant when he warned me not to become like American girls? I was overwhelmed by confusion about who I was. I wanted to have new experiences, to experiment, but alas, most of the time I felt as if I were in a precarious situation and had to be cautious.

  That summer I received a letter from Maryam. She had married Rahbar and was living with him in Dubai. She didn’t provide a return address. She said they moved frequently because of his job, which took them to different cities in the Middle East. I recalled the glow on her face when she talked about him, and was happy she had him in her life.

  Twenty-three

  Back in Tehran, Pari had joined a group of women, arranged by her friend Azar. Pari attended meetings while Behjat, Taheri’s sister, babysat.

  In the meetings they talked about how to improve laws for women. Shirin, Azar’s sister, had worked as a secretary in a law office and had studied all the laws relevant to women; she believed they were unfair. There were five women in the group: Pari, Azar Mirshahi, her sister Shirin Tavalodi, Zohreh Nadjoumi, and Latifeh Ahkami. Shirin was married but thinking of getting a divorce. Latifeh, who was unmarried, lived with her mother, who suffered from bouts of depression; she believed that her late husband had poisoned her and that the poison was still in her system. Latifeh thought there was some truth to her mother’s fears; her father had been violent and abusive. Now her mother slept most of the day in a back room in the house. Latifeh herself didn’t see joy in marriage and didn’t see the point of bringing children into a miserable world. Zohreh had been married for a short time, before her husband had left the country without a trace. She lived with her aunt and worked in a travel agency, and knew a lot about world affairs. The group always met in Zohreh’s house because her old aunt kept to herself in a room on the other side of the courtyard.

  After discussing various issues, they wound down by reading poetry. If the weather was nice they sat in the courtyard under a clump of trees next to the pool. Some read poems they wrote themselves. Writing poems was something many women did, most of the time with no intention of publishing them. At one meeting, Pari recited one of the poems Farrukhzad wrote before she left her husband:

  More and more I am thinking that

  I will suddenly spread my wings.

  And fly out of this prison, laughing at my jailor.

  In a letter, Pari revealed to me what it was in Taheri’s past that Azar had once hinted at.

  “Azar thinks it’s fair that I should tell you what I know about Taheri’s past,” Shirin said to Pari after one of their meetings.

  “Please, what is it?” Pari stared at her, waiting breathlessly.

  “Did you know he was in jail for a year? Nine, ten years ago.”

  “No, I had no idea. For what?”

  “He was riding his motor scooter recklessly and he ran over a woman. If he had sought help for the woman immediately she’d have survived. But he sped away from the site, leaving her on the ground bleeding. She went into a coma and died in a week. Taheri was sentenced to ten years in prison. His father bribed people and got him out after a year. My cousin works in the lamp shop on the street where your husband ran over the woman. He also knows the woman’s family intimately. Please, please don’t tell your husband I told you all this.”

  Pari thought about what a reckless driver Taheri was, always full of free-floating anger and the conviction that he had the right of way. When he wanted to emphasize a point he clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles became white and then he would pick up a vase or a plate and throw it against the wall. Leaving the shattered pieces on the floor, he would zoom
out of the house. True, he was regretful later for his behavior—he would get on his knees, ask for forgiveness, cry, and declare his love for her. But what good did any of that do? She had come to hate even his presents because they made him feel he had paid penance. After she and Shirin went their separate ways, Pari walked rapidly, propelled by anxiety, disgust, and fear. She almost stumbled into a joob.

  Then a thought came to her—if she found the evidence that Taheri had been in jail and for what crime, maybe the information would enable her to get a divorce without losing custody of her son and the right to her mehrieh. If there were any documents in the house, pointing to Taheri’s guilt, they would be in the black filing cabinet in the basement that was always locked. Not long before, she had gone into the cluttered basement and sorted out all the unnecessary stuff stored in boxes—old clothes, chipped dishes and utensils, broken chandeliers, dented samovars. She had hired someone to come and take them away. Another day she had looked through the folders stored in the cabinets set against the wall. They contained documents that had to do with old family affairs and she left them alone. One of the cabinets was locked. She had asked Taheri what was in it. He said it contained documents having to do with important business matters and she should leave them alone.

  As soon as she got home she went directly to the basement and tried to open the lock with a knife and scissors, but neither worked. She thought of getting a locksmith to open it but was afraid he might talk. She left the basement and called Shirin, who would get her cousin to open the lock.

  In the morning Shirin and her cousin Ebrahim came over and Pari led them to the locked cabinet. After Ebrahim opened the lock they found only two folders inside. Sitting on an old sofa Pari hadn’t discarded, they went through every piece of paper in the folders. And there it was—a yellowish document drawn up by a lawyer, asking a judge to reduce the jail sentence. Pari kept the document and put the folders back in the cabinet. Then Ebrahim fixed the lock. Taheri would never know.

  Taheri’s parents and sisters treat him like God, Pari wrote. But he’s inexplicably depressed, deeply so. It could be because he hates the weakness, the need-fulness in himself. And he might have deep guilt locked inside him. The depression turns outward at times, making him violent. He goes from a gentle, weeping man to a terrifying one and then back again.

  Pari had decided that she would go home and show Father the document. Taheri planned to go on a business trip in two weeks and that would be a good time for her to leave. With what she had discovered about Taheri, surely Father would understand why she wanted to leave him. And perhaps this time Mohtaram would be on her side.

  That evening at dinner, Pari noticed Taheri was tense and uneasy, as if he somehow sensed what she had found out about him. Was she giving out subtle cues? It was true that when looking at him, she kept thinking, he killed an innocent woman.

  Pari slept in the guest room that night, telling Taheri that she had a terrible headache and wanted to be alone in bed. Now Pari was waiting only for Taheri to go on the trip and then she would take Bijan and go home. Her biggest fear was that if indeed Taheri was vaguely aware that she knew something, he would cancel his trip and stay home to keep an eye on her.

  In the letter she included another poem by Furugh Farrukhzad.

  If one day I try to fly out of this prison,

  how will I explain it to my weeping child?

  Outside my dorm room, I heard the footsteps of the other girls, whispers, giggles. I sat in my room, all alone except for Pari’s letter.

  Pari’s next letter came from Ahvaz. Before taking Bijan and starting on her journey, she had removed her wedding ring and put it on the dining table. She left no note. When she arrived home Father and Mohtaram took turns holding Bijan, cooing to him, kissing him, murmuring, “My only grandchild,” or, “My beautiful little boy.”

  Then, Pari showed the document to Father.

  “The woman would have lived if Taheri hadn’t driven away from her,” she said to him. “Wouldn’t the court grant me the divorce and let me keep Bijan, and my mehrieh, too, if you show them this document?”

  Father read the document carefully and said, “This doesn’t say anything about his running away from the scene, and he was let out of jail after a short time. Pari, you have this wonderful son now, you shouldn’t be contemplating leaving your husband.”

  “My friend’s cousin was on the scene and saw everything. Maybe he knows others who were there, too.”

  “I’ve been in law for years,” Father said. “Witnesses aren’t given much weight, particularly years after the incident.”

  “Father, please, please try. I can’t bear living with this man. I’m afraid of him.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said, turning to leave.

  In the morning, Father looked at Pari. His face was clouded by concern.

  “Imagine how we will all be stigmatized if you get a divorce.”

  “Aren’t I entitled to some individual happiness?” Pari said.

  “Pari, you’re under the influence of those American movies. Their idea of individual happiness is selfish and it has hurt their sense of family life. That’s why so many Americans are miserable, lonely, killing themselves with drugs and alcohol. What we have is superior; each person should think of the happiness of the whole.”

  “Look at this wonderful child,” Mohtaram said, holding Bijan in her lap. “You may never see him again if you get a divorce. The court will let Taheri keep him because he’s two years old and doesn’t need your milk. That’s the law. The most you’ll get is visitation rights. Taheri lives far away from here, and anyway, he’ll make sure to keep Bijan from you.” They fell silent.

  “You want to be in the same situation as those poor, lonely women who aren’t able to find husbands?” Mohtaram asked after a moment.

  “But I’ve been married already.”

  “You’ll be unmarried again if you pursue this kind of attitude.”

  Taheri’s sisters informed him that Pari had taken Bijan and most likely gone home, so he cut his trip short and came directly to Ahvaz. When Taheri arrived, Pari was in the courtyard with Bijan. He picked up Bijan. “Pack and let’s get going, or else I’m taking my son without you.”

  Father walked into the courtyard from the street and tried to pry Bijan out of Taheri’s arms.

  “He’s my son and he’s going with me,” Taheri shouted. “You’ve spoiled your daughter! She isn’t suitable to be a wife or a mother. You need to work on her.” Taheri walked out of the courtyard with a crying Bijan in his arms.

  Father didn’t run after him, he didn’t see the point. He told Pari she should go back to her husband and child. Pari stayed, even though our parents weren’t welcoming and she missed Bijan terribly. Both Father and Mohtaram criticized her for leaving her husband in the first place. Father would concede only that Taheri was “below our family in intellect and culture.”

  Majid was married and living in Isfahan, where he was teaching and working as an assistant director in a film studio. His mother had selected his bride, Pari had heard from her friend Golnaz. Golnaz also told her that Majid found his wife to be “too common,” not someone he could talk to or share ideas with. Majid’s expectation for a wife was different from most men’s, Golnaz said. Pari hoped that Majid would hear about her being in Ahvaz and come to look for her, put a letter in her hand, send her flowers as he used to. She still had the dried flower petals in her bureau drawers. But in her darker moods she tortured herself with images of Majid and his wife sharing the same space, exchanging intimate words, touches.

  She could not stop thinking of those stolen meetings she had with Majid—their breathing stilled and then revived by the tempo of desire. She had hoped to induce those kinds of feelings in her marriage but of course it didn’t work.

  Manijeh came home frequently, without her husband, and stayed for a few days at a time. Manijeh hadn’t been on my mind for a long time and just seeing her name in Pari’s letter brought b
ack all the unresolved tension between us. There was a change in her, Pari said. Perhaps Pari herself had changed, too, and could see Manijeh in a more sympathetic light. Now Manijeh confided in Pari, telling her that she was convinced her husband was in love with someone else. She longed for closeness with him, wanted to have children, but Javad wasn’t open to her. Most evenings he came home late and left early in the morning. When she questioned him he claimed he was swamped with work at the refinery hospital. On the few occasions when they went out with other couples, Manijeh noticed continuous glances between Javad and Shahla, a nurse at the same hospital. Manijeh had seen them holding hands surreptitiously under the table. Javad, who spoke disdainfully about most women, was always complimentary of Shahla. Strange, Manijeh thought, since other people criticized Shahla, saying that she had bad manners, that her family wasn’t reputable, that her father had once been arrested for smuggling drugs into the country from Dubai. Manijeh had come to believe that Javad really wanted to marry Shahla but married her instead for the sake of appearances and because of pressure from his mother. He never told Manijeh that he loved her.

  Mohtaram couldn’t believe that Javad, or any man, would ignore Manijeh, her angel. She thought perhaps it was Manijeh who was keeping herself aloof from him. She advised, “Show him how much you care for him.” “Wait and see, he’ll be dazzled by you once he starts really looking at you.”

  Mohtaram said Javad’s mother was self-satisfied and arrogant, or she would try to discuss the matter with her. When Mrs. Golestani had come to ask for Manijeh’s hand for her son, she had spoken very little, as if she didn’t want to waste any words with her, Mohtaram said.