Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  I don't see them changing their minds either, but I want to pep her up. "Maybe they will by the time you hit the end of your senior year."

  Nasreen snorts. I don't blame her for being pessimistic. "I'm sorry for being such a downer," she says, her unshed tears clearing up. "Let's not talk about my problems. How was your trip?"

  I tell her about the greasy guy, the huge walrus-like man who sat next to me, dreamy Abe who I barely got to know -- I ramble on a few minutes about him -- and then the Madonna mixtape that's missing. "I'm such a dingy to have forgotten it. I feel depressed that I don't have my favorite music with me!"

  "I would feel lost if I didn't have my favorite songs with me."

  "Don't rub it in."

  "Hey, I know I'm not into Madonna like you, but I want to help you out. Let's make a new cassette with the blanks my father has. We just have to wait for Madonna songs to come on the radio and record them."

  I'm sure that's a great idea. "What about your father?" I ask.

  "He always hangs out with friends around this time of day," she says. "When the coast is clear, we'll use his radio. Mom doesn't mind. Dad is the one who doesn't like noise."

  That sounds like a good plan. As I learned from my previous visits, Uncle is a noise Nazi. Unless it's his TV or radio playing, he accuses everyone else of being loud. "Turn it off right this minute!" he'll order. Nasreen uses his radio when he's out and then plays her tapes on her Walkman. Other than Uncle's music, Omar generates the only other tolerated noise. He can play his video games at a high volume and Uncle says nothing about it.

  As Nasreen checks to see if the coast is clear, I unpack, placing my clothes in the two empty bottom drawers of Nasreen's dresser. My scrapbook goes under the two pillows of the top bed. I don't keep a diary, but in pictures and words the details of my life go in that book. What's great about a scrapbook is that because it's highly personal, with mainly images, only I can understand it. For example, there's a playbill from my school's performance of The Mikado, when my crush at the time, Keith, was performing. Instead of writing I'm so in love with Keith Forsythe in a diary, I have this playbill to remember him forever. My scrapbook is in a code only I understand.

  I place the presents on top of a chair. I'll reluctantly give Omar packages of Matchbox cars and Gobots later. He has enough toys as is. Uncle and Omar have plastered their playthings over the entire living room. This apartment is definitely an all-boys terrain. This tiny bedroom is Nasreen's space and Auntie has the kitchen, while everything else revolves around the guys. Even my house is more liberal, because my mom has the family room to herself and I have a spacious bedroom. This will be my longest stay in New York. I'm sure I'll be out most of the time. I hope the cramped quarters of this basement won't make me stir-crazy.

  After unpacking and placing my empty bag and case under the bunk bed, I sigh. When I turn around to see if I left anything on the floor or bed, I see the door is ajar and a lone brown eye is looking at me. I almost shriek. Pesky Omar, snooping to look at his presents. I hear the thump of his feet as he runs off. I clutch my heart and calm down. He's only a harmless, bratty little boy.

  ***

  Uncle is gone. It's Sunday, and he spends weekend afternoons with friends at the McDonalds two blocks away. He used to take Nasreen and me with him years ago in between sightseeing. He and his friends -- mainly Iranians -- occupy a booth, talking for an hour or so about politics and finances, subjects that don't interest me in the least bit. My Farsi is a bit rusty since over the years I've been talking English to my parents, but I understood Uncle and his friends when he took me to hang out with them. Now that we're older and don't need babysitting, he no longer takes us, thank goodness. I used to be bored out of my mind.

  Auntie is in the kitchen making something delicious. She pays us no mind as Nasreen and I explore the living room. Uncle sure has many electronics. He used to keep them in the family room before it was converted to Omar's room. Behind closed curtains we hear the brat playing a game. It sounds like Mario Brothers -- the jumping sound effect confirms it. I wish I could play it, since I have the games at home, but Omar is territorial, same as his father.

  Uncle has his own games since he's the gadget man. One side of the living room has shelves and an entertainment system devoted to his musical pleasures. He has bootleg cassettes from Turkey, Iran, Lebanon... every Middle Eastern country is represented. There's Vigen Derderian, Shohreh Solati, Ibrahim Tatlises, and Umm Kulthum. There are names I recognize, since some of these tapes are the same ones my family has, and others are new to me. The cassettes have white inserts with the names of the singers and bands scribbled on the side, or poorly made inserts with cheesy graphics and photos of the singers.

  What we're after is sitting by itself adjacent to the TV: a shortwave radio with a cassette player. Uncle likes to listen to news straight from the Middle East. When Nasreen turns the radio on, we hear someone speak Arabic in a staticy voice. Nasreen turns the dial until we're hearing the BBC.

  "Cool," I say. My parents also have a shortwave radio, but they barely use it. Uncle, on the other hand, plays his several times a day. He's very much into keeping abreast of news from the homeland. There's a stack of newspapers printed in Farsi and Arabic on the coffee table.

  I look through his boxes of cassettes, gravitating to the ones that have an actual insert. I see mustachioed men and gorgeous women heavily made up. To the right of me, I'm eye to eye with Umm Kulthum. Uncle has a second collage of her in the living room next to his entertainment center; there are four pictures, two color and two black and white, of her in various stages of life, from her youth all the way to the seventies before her death. There's a third collage in the master bedroom. Uncle sure loves her. He's had these framed collages since I could remember. I pull my eyes away from her image so I can focus on my own music idol.

  "Okay, let's find a blank tape," Nasreen says. "I don't want my cousin to stay here without anything to listen to."

  I look through a different box and pull out several blank tapes. I just need one since we only have an hour or two until Uncle comes home, but I have a vision that I'll record each one of Madonna's songs, and she has many songs. The woman is a prolific goddess. Each album is an entity onto itself as her style of music and fashion changes. She's like ten women rolled into one.

  Nasreen flips the switch to FM and pulls the antennae up. We tune into a station that plays freestyle. I bop my head and shimmy my shoulders to the dance music of Exposé, but Nasreen changes to a rock station. Her body sways to rancid guitar music, which sounds like a symphony of saws to me.

  "Hurry up and find Madonna before your father comes home," I urge.

  We sit on the carpeted floor, getting comfortable, but then a sound coming from behind us chills me. It's worse than Freddy Krueger or that freaky doll in Child's Play. Those are movies, but the little monster behind me is real and can cause some serious damage since he's everyone's favorite little guy.

  "What are you two doing?" Omar asks.

  I turn around to face his wicked little grin. One side of his mouth is turned up higher than the other in a truly diabolical way. I look askance at Nasreen, and her throat goes up and down in a nervous gulp. He's small, yet he can do a lot of damage. There's no shaking him. He's like a bloodhound on a trail, snooping on me not too long ago and now in my face. In the past, I was here with family, and I didn't have too many encounters with him since he was younger and less outspoken. It dawns on me that I'm going to spend a prolonged period with this unsavory little boy.

  "We're not... not doing anything," I stammer.

  "Let's make our cousin feel at home," Nasreen says.

  Omar's face widens, blowing up. He's like a balloon, full of devious notions and the itch to snitch. "You're not supposed to be playing with Baba's radio!"

  "Lower your voice," Nasreen orders between clenched teeth, being big sisterly and menacing.

  "Relax," I say.

  "You're ruining Asma's stay here!"


  "Please, give us a moment alone," I plead.

  Omar's face shrinks, the redness leaving his cheeks. I believe our pleading has calmed him down. He opens his mouth, surely to apologize or tell us to proceed with what we're doing. After all, I am family. He is a cold little booger, but I refuse to believe he's heartless.

  "I'm telling Baba!" he yells. "You two will be in so much trouble. Oooh, I'm telling..."

  Chapter Three

  "Nasreen, taste this rice!" Auntie commands. She walks out of the kitchen with a spoon in hand, her short, curly hair rising in all directions from the humidity of the kitchen. "Blow on it," she says.

  Nasreen looks from her brother to her mother. I'm also waiting to see if Omar will say anything. His eyes stay on us, as if his mother isn't interrupting. He wears his smirk with pride.

  My cousin crosses her eyes as the wooden spoon, with a huge dollop of rice at the end of it, nears her. She blows on it and then takes a bite. Auntie pulls the spoon up so every grain ends up in Nasreen's mouth. Her eyes are fixated on her daughter, as if the fate of the world is resting on Nasreen's shoulders.

  A beginning of a smile plays on her lips. "How is it for softness?" Auntie asks.

  "It's fine, Mom," Nasreen says.

  Her lips turn up some more. "And for salt?"

  "It's just right."

  Auntie fully smiles, unleashing her happiness on us. She has received validation for her cooking. She walks back to the kitchen, her bubble butt causing her dress to rock like a pendulum.

  With Auntie out of the way, Omar goes back to grinning. "You know that Baba doesn't want you using his radio."

  "There are exceptions," Nasreen says. "For example, we have a guest in the house."

  "Baba has never mentioned these exceptions."

  "Come on, it's just for an hour," I say.

  "I never use his radio, because I have something called respect. Maybe you two need to learn about it. What if you break his radio? He'll be so mad. And even if you don't break it, he still won't like the idea that you're using it while he's out. I know your game, Nasreen. I see how you turn the dial and switches to the way he left them. I've been nice enough not to mention what you've been doing all year."

  "You're such a tattletale, I swear," Nasreen says.

  Auntie walks in again, spoon in hand. She has a serious look on her face. She needs more praise. Her presence relieves me, because her son acts less obnoxious around her. Auntie and Uncle think he's an angel; they would never believe how evil he really is.

  "How is this gravy?" she asks in her accented English. "Blow on it."

  Nasreen rolls her eyes, but she does as asked. Auntie crouches down so Nasreen can blow on the spoon and its thick, red contents, and then in her mouth it goes. Auntie smiles, waiting for the compliment. Her eyebrows go up and down, willing the accolades to erupt. Everyone tells Auntie she's a good cook, but she fishes for compliments so she can hear it again and again.

  "It's delicious, Mom," Nasreen says.

  "Did I make it too spicy?"

  "No."

  "I added some lemon juice. Is it too acidic?"

  "No."

  "Should I add onion?"

  "Why not?"

  "Yes, I should." Auntie leaves, but I'd like her to stay. Omar behaves, kind of, when she's around. When the sound of onions being chopped begins, Omar rubs his hands together and smirks.

  Devious demon child! He knows he can dangle this threat over Nasreen's head any time he wants. During my last vacation, I witnessed Nasreen breaking out her pocket money to pay for his silence. Nasreen had an unlit cigarette in her purse, given to her by a friend. She did admit to me that she planned on smoking it since she's never tried cigarettes, but she never got a chance to. Omar said he spilled her purse's contents by accident and found it, which is bull. He probably was snooping, which he's good at. Omar took the cigarette and then blackmailed her. He has a cigar box full of money that goes inside the locked coat closet by the front door. The little booger saves his allowance and blackmail money. But I don't want Nasreen to lose money for what she's doing now, since she's trying to help me find Madonna music. This is my fault, so I'll have to fix this problem.

  "I ran out of money, and I don't want to be the only one of my friends who can't buy anything at the candy store after we finish playing ball," he says.

  Nasreen's hand disappears inside her pants pocket, but I grab it by the wrist. "I have something for you," I say. "And it's better than candy."

  "What do you have?" Omar asks, curiosity softening the evil glee on his face.

  "Let me show you..." I get up, beckon him to Nasreen's room, and hand him his presents, which I wanted to give to him tonight -- I have to get rid of him now, though. He's the barrier between Madonna and me. Omar jumps up and down -- he seems to do that a lot -- and he even puts his arm around my waist, which is the closest thing to a hug I'll get from him. Not that I want a hug from him. I want him out of my way.

  ***

  I sit back down with Nasreen. Omar is behind his curtain. I hear the metallic click of Gobots and the crashing of toy cars. Now we can get down to business.

  Nasreen tunes the dial. The sweet sounds of FM fill the apartment. She finds a pop station, Z100. Commercials are playing, so we wait. The first one is an advertisement for a Madonna concert at Madison Square Garden. I heard about it in the news, but now that I'm in New York maybe by some miracle I can go.

  "Do you think Uncle will let us see Madonna?" I ask.

  "My dad isn't one to let me go to concerts. I begged him to see U2 awhile back, and he wouldn't let me go."

  "But I'm a guest." Middle Eastern people are quite hospitable to guests. My own parents drop whatever they're doing to cater to them, whether it's serving them food or picking them up from the airport. There is an issue of money, since I'm sure tickets for Madonna are pricey. I hope I can figure something out.

  I grab one of the blank tapes I had pulled off a shelf. Nasreen takes it from me and inspects it. On both sides of the tape are slender strips of bright white stickers that are blank. I'll find a pen and label it when we're done. She pops the cassette in.

  Commercials are over and I hear the beginning of "Who's That Girl."

  "Now!" I command.

  Nasreen hits the Play and Record buttons simultaneously. She also cranks the volume all the way up so we can get a high quality recording. The sound drowns out Auntie's kitchen noises and Omar's racket.

  I place my head on Nasreen's shoulder as Madonna's voice bathes me in a warm glow. I want to dance -- next to soccer it's my other favorite activity -- but in this small living room I'm afraid to knock something down and ruin the recording. The song is about to end. With other singers I don't pay attention to the endings of their songs, and I even fast forward to the next song, but I listen to Madonna's songs to the very end.

  "Nasreen, taste this meat and tell me how it is!" Auntie orders.

  "Nooo!" I screech. My heart jumps into my throat. The recorder must have caught Auntie's voice.

  Auntie walks out of the kitchen just when the song ends. She was joyful a moment ago, but now she's frowning, as if she's performing surgery. Cooking is serious business for her, as music is for me. I'm upset, because I was so close to having a perfect recording of that song. Maybe if I play back the tape it won't sound that bad... but on top of Auntie's voice is my protestation of her interruption.

  My aunt doesn't acknowledge my anger and surprise. Madonna's voice must have drowned out my outrage. Nasreen is her focus. Her daughter is her official taste tester. Maybe my cousin can make it into those Pepsi versus Coke commercials, make a name for herself in the cola wars. I stop the cassette and lower the volume as Auntie bends down, aiming a fork into Nasreen's mouth. Madonna transitions into Duran Duran. I usually picture myself marrying John Taylor when I hear them, but I can't fantasize with Auntie in front of me. She's ruined any chances of daydreaming.

  "How is it?" Auntie wants to know, hovering over us like the ch
ef of the gods. She won't pull her eyes off her daughter, who can bless or condemn with her judgment.

  "Hmmm," Nasreen mumbles, still chewing.

  "Is it too dry?" she intones.

  "No, it's moist."

  "How is it for salt?"

  "Fine."

  Auntie breaks out into a smile, her eyes squinting shut. Meanwhile, I'm seething inside. "I'm so glad you like it."

  "Is that all?" Nasreen wonders, voicing my thought, because I'm too polite to ask.

  "I'll see... I'm off to finish this." She walks away, and I'm hoping she's not coming back.

  "I think that's it with her," Nasreen says. "Unless she wants me to taste the salad."

  "Please, no." I shake my head. My aunt has always been like this, having people test and praise her food, but today her timing is wrong.

  "Let's see how this sounds." Nasreen presses Rewind. Now that we're no longer recording and I'm not afraid of moving around, I put my arms in the air and gyrate my hips, grinding my butt into the living room carpet as Madonna croons one of my favorites. I'm still sitting down, close to the radio, because this recording seems fragile. I'm positive it's bad.

  Then I hear it. Nasreen, taste this meat and tell me how it is, followed by me protesting, Noooooo! The recorder caught everything. The last thirty seconds of the song are good for nothing. We'll have to play the radio forever, while Uncle is out, until we find this song again and other Madonna hits. I can even call radio stations with my requests to speed up the process. At least Uncle is going to work tomorrow. He writes Farsi and Arabic subtitles for a movie company, and he freelances as a translator for books. With him gone tomorrow, we'll have more time to look for songs.

  The last three seconds of the song wind down in volume, and I hear Auntie's first question regarding the sliced cut of beef. Then I hear something else.

  There's no more Madonna, Nasreen, or Auntie. This blank tape has something else after "Who's That Girl." Poetic wailing and Arabic song follows.