Veil of Roses

by Laura Fitzgerald

  This I do not agree with. I think he should marry anyone he wants to. But I sip my tea and say nothing. It is no use to argue with Maryam.

  “I think we should go shopping today,” Maryam announces. “Ardishir, you don’t mind, do you? I’ll show Tami what an American shopping mall is like and help her pick out some new, um, some new clothes.”

  Underwear is what she means.

  On the way to the mall, I cannot get over how relaxed the drive is. No one honks at us or makes us swerve to the side. No men jump out of their cars and argue with their fists raised. America is so very civilized when it comes to driving. I fear for my life in the traffic of Tehran, and this is true even when my mild-mannered father drives. Behind the wheel, he becomes as crazy as the rest. Every perceived infraction is an affront to his manhood.

  Once at the mall, Maryam and I link arms and walk slowly so I can gawk at everything. There is so much glitter, so much shine. So much skin! Some women even display their belly buttons for all to see! When it comes to sex, Iran and America seem to be complete opposites. Here, everything seems designed to make men think of sex. There, everything is meant to suppress it. Here, young girls don’t have to be accompanied by a mahram, no brother or uncle or father to protect them from being fooled by a smooth-talking boy. Here, boys and girls hold hands and openly kiss each other. In Iran, even married people do not do this in public.

  “Maryam,” I ask in wonder, “how do these girls expect to find husbands if they act in this way?”

  She laughs at my naïveté. “You know how every good Muslim man dreams of being greeted at the gates of heaven by a never-ending supply of virgins?”

  I nod.

  “Well,” she continues, “virginity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Maryam.” This is blasphemy where we are from.

  She shrugs. “American men like their women a little more experienced, that’s all I mean. Their version of heaven probably includes a bunch of prostitutes who can show them a thing or two in the bedroom, not some dead-fish virgin who makes them do all the work.”

  Before I can even respond, Maryam catches sight of an upcoming store. She grabs my arm and pulls me ahead. “It’s coming up! Here it is!”

  The store we stop at has nearly naked female mannequins displayed in the windows wearing skimpy lingerie and sporting sexually suggestive poses. I realize that Maryam must be right that heaven is different for American men.

  “Tami, this is Victoria’s Secret.” She says it like she is introducing me to an old friend of hers.

  I raise my eyebrows in wonder. “It doesn’t seem to me like Victoria has any secrets.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  She leads me into the store. I am hugely embarrassed to be standing where anyone can see us. She at least has a wedding ring. I cover my mouth with my hand as I look around. I am shocked.

  “Do you wear these things?” I ask her in a whisper.

  “Oh, yeah,” she says in what I can only describe as a lascivious manner. “Come on, let’s try some on.”

  When the saleslady approaches, I feel a panic attack coming on, the same sort of terror I felt in Iran when the bassidjis approached me on the street to demand that I tuck the wisps of my hair into my hejab.

  “My sister needs some new bras and panties,” Maryam says, as matter-of-factly as if she were asking for bread at the bakery. “She needs some basic everyday things, and then I’d like to try on some of your sexier items.”

  “I don’t feel so good,” I say to her in a low voice. “Can we do this another day?”

  The saleslady eyes me up and down, mostly up. “You’re what, a 34-C?”

  I bite my lip and feel the tears welling. I shrug like a child.

  “Can you believe it?” Maryam exclaims to the saleslady. “A natural 34-C!”

  “A nice chest must run in the family,” she compliments. Her name tag says Bonnie. I wonder if this is her real name. I wonder what her family thinks of her working in a store like this.

  My sister laughs. “Mine were dinky before. Barely a B-cup. I had a boob job last year.”

  “Maryam!” I glare at her. What is she doing telling this to a stranger? I am sure my parents did not send us to America to talk to strangers about our boobs.

  “She just arrived in the United States yesterday,” Maryam explains.

  Bonnie points to the rear of the store. “Come on back to the dressing room. I’ll measure you and bring you some things to try on.”

  I look pleadingly at Maryam.

  “Go on.” She nods toward the dressing room. “I’ll find some things I think you might like. She’s very shy,” she tells Bonnie.

  My mother wore a pink bikini. My mother wore a pink bikini. I chant this to myself to boost my courage as Bonnie takes my measurements.

  “What’s your favorite color?” she asks.

  “Blue.”

  Bonnie frowns.

  “Nope. You need hot colors. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  Sec. Sec. I puzzle over that word while I stare at my hair in the mirror. Maryam has used a hot iron to make waves that hang over my shoulders. I tuck it behind my ears and smooth it down against me. Then I shake it loose. I love how free it feels as it falls halfway down my back.

  Bonnie returns with twelve bras on a tray, like she is serving tea to me. “Orange is the bestseller this season. It’ll look great on you, with your dark skin.”

  She leaves me in privacy, and once I get accustomed to the strangeness of the situation, I feel like a child who has been left alone in a candy store. They are delicious, all of them. I run my fingers through the silky yellows, the lacy limes, the daisies, and the polka dots. I try them all on, and Bonnie is right. I am made to wear hot colors.

  I preen in front of the mirror like a model in the forbidden magazines my girlfriends and I used to pore over, and I wish Minu and Leila were here with me so we could giggle together and so they could try some on, too. I am not shy, like my sister tells people. I am just not used to things and I am without my girlfriends. I was always the bravest of my friends, always the one who wore the brightest-colored headscarves and let the most hair show on the street.

  “Make sure to try on the add-a-cup,” Maryam calls from the other side of the door. “Maybe then you won’t need a boob job.”

  I cringe at her lack of modesty.

  “You don’t really want her running around in a D-cup, do you?” I hear Bonnie say quietly to my sister. “With those eyes and that creamy skin, the men are going to be all over her as it is. With an even larger chest you’re just looking for trouble.”

  “True,” Maryam replies and calls out to me, “Never mind about the add-a-cup, Tami!”

  “We only want attention from certain men,” I hear her tell Bonnie. “Not the typical American man.”

  At the checkout counter, Bonnie rings up our purchase: seven bras all of different colors and coordinating thongs and hip-huggers and Brazilian something-or-others. While Maryam is busy spraying some perfume on her wrist, I slip a lacy black add-a-cup bra onto the pile.

  Bonnie smiles at me and winks.

  I wink back.

  I’ll be fine,” I assure Maryam for the hundredth time. “We’ve driven the route twice. I have your cell phone number, and it’s only four kilometers from here.”

  Maryam is leaving for work. Soon after, I will leave for my first English conversation class. She wants me to take a taxicab. I am determined to walk. It is January and a beautiful seventy degrees. I have been in America for a little over a week now, and this will be my first outing without Maryam as my chaperone. And while I admire the ease with which she moves through her world, I am eager to explore it on my own.

  She hands me an index card that has her address and cell phone number at the top. Underneath are these phrases written in both English and Farsi:

  1. I am lost. Could you call my sister, please?

  2. I do not understand what you are saying. Could you call my sist
er, please?

  3. Leave me alone or I will call the police. Could you call my sister, please?

  “Just point to whatever the situation calls for,” she instructs. “And don’t talk to any strange men.”

  “How will I know if they’re strange if I’m not allowed to talk to them?” I ask this mischievously. This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation. Besides, I can’t fathom a situation where the opportunity would come up.

  “Don’t talk to any men.”

  “What about my classmates?”

  “Tami.”

  I laugh, take her elbow, and lead her to the door. I kiss her on both cheeks.

  “Go,” I say, gently pushing her outside. “I’ll be fine.”

  I watch and wave until she has backed out of the garage and driven off. And then I sigh happily. It is such a rare occurrence for me to be alone in a house. In Iran, my mother seldom ventures outside. And this is Maryam’s first day back at work since I arrived. I’d forgotten how much of a busybody she is. Ardishir is her exact opposite. He is quiet and mild and smiles sympathetically at me when Maryam issues all her rules. He doesn’t impose any of his own.

  I turn up Siavesh on the stereo and put my sister out of my mind almost immediately. I am so excited for this day and only a little afraid. I am wearing a watch that Maryam gave to me as a present when I arrived. It is a Mickey Mouse watch she bought for me at Disneyland. I am also wearing Ardishir’s gift to me, a University of Arizona sweatshirt, which is good because I will be walking through the campus today to get to my English class. I am also wearing jeans and new black boots with two-inch heels.

  But more important is what I don’t have on: No hejab. No manteau. I’m wearing dangly gold earrings and just a hint of makeup—only mascara, eyeliner, and tinted lip gloss. I let my hair hang long. I take one last look in the mirror and practice my laugh yet again. Americans laugh openmouthed and loud. I still can’t bring myself to be loud about it, but I now show off my teeth like Julia Roberts does in the movies.

  I leave the house at exactly ten o’clock. This is one hour before Maryam thinks I need to leave, but I am allowing myself some time to take a break and maybe buy for myself a cup of tea.

  I can hardly describe how I feel on this, my first outing alone. I can barely keep from crying in excitement. This is me, finally. My route to school. My air to breathe. My life, to make of it what I will.

  Maryam’s house is east of the university, in a neighborhood called El Encanto Estates. There is very little traffic, no sidewalks, and lots of cactus and desert landscape. Her house is at the end of Calle Splendida, a dead-end street with a roundabout right in front. I hardly ever see anyone outside, and so today I am eager to walk through the university campus on my way to the downtown library, where my English class meets.

  I lock the door behind me, lock Maryam’s wrought-iron gate behind me, and then set out. I inspect each house and yard as I pass it, deciding which ones I would like to live in someday. Maryam’s house is truly the most beautiful, although any of these houses would be fine with me.

  I turn out of the neighborhood on Country Club Road, cross Sixth Street, and continue walking to Third Street, which is a bicycle route. I am now in what’s called Sam Hughes neighborhood. I pass an elementary school and stop for a moment to watch the boys chase the girls and the girls chase the boys. Chase. It seems to be the most popular game. The squeals and shrieks and laughter tickle my soul and cause me great happiness.

  I have been walking for twenty-five minutes now.

  I cross Campbell Avenue, a busy boulevard, and am now officially on the campus of the University of Arizona. It is so open compared to universities in Iran. I marvel at the women, with their tanned skin and white teeth and blond hair and sleeveless tank tops, walking along, talking on their cell phones, and eyeing the men just as much as the men eye them.

  I didn’t count on my solid two-inch boots hurting so much. They are Naturalizers, and Maryam said they were comfortable. But they are new, and I find that to avoid limping I must stop often to let my feet rest. My enthusiasm for this adventure is fading to dread. I have a long way to go. I finished my twenty-ounce bottle of water ten minutes ago, and I am thirsty again.

  I will not call on Maryam to rescue me. I must never even mention it to her or she will not let me walk to class again. Okay. Okeydokey, as Ardishir says whenever Maryam asks him to do something around the house. America is all about live and let live. No one has minded that I’ve been taking photographs of houses that I like with the camera Ardishir has lent me. I took a picture of a teenage boy with three earrings hanging from his nose. I took a picture of a barefoot black man with no shirt and long braided hair riding a unicycle and playing a flute. No one has approached me to yank my camera from me. No one has yelled at me to hurry along or demanded to know what I was doing. I have been left alone on the streets, unmolested, for what feels like the first time in my life.

  If I were braver, I would bend down and unzip my boots. I would pull them off and walk barefoot. I can just imagine the relief! I would wiggle my poor toes. I would pull off my socks as well, because if they get dirty then Maryam would know what I have done.

  Maryam.

  She would disapprove. She would say it is low-class, beneath our family.

  I leave my boots on. I owe her that much, and so much more.

  Yet as for my thirst, I know I can solve this problem. Once I leave campus and cross Park Avenue, I find myself at Main Gate Square on University Boulevard. I see the Starbucks ahead. Maryam has pointed this out to me, as perhaps a place I would like to enjoy a drink on my way to class.

  I study the stickers on the door to make sure I am obeying all the rules. No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. I am glad for leaving on my boots.

  Make This Your Neighborhood Starbucks. Okay, I think. It is good to have neighborhood places. In Iran, we had so many bazaaris, shopkeepers who would look out for us, remember how many people are in our family and how much meat to give us, share with us the news of the day, that sort of thing.

  I pull open the door and step inside. I clasp the straps of my backpack with each hand and look around. There is an unlit fireplace. Two men play chess, speaking not at all. A table by the window separates two easy chairs. One is occupied by a woman about my age, who curls her legs under her on the chair. She highlights the passages of a text and chews on the highlighter when it is not in use. In the other chair sits a woman of perhaps Korean heritage, chatting quietly into a cell phone. All four of these people have drinks beside them and backpacks at their feet. All must be students. Not one of them looks at me.

  I close my eyes and inhale the coffee smell, surrendering to the memories. I am back in Iran, a little girl at my grandmother’s house in Esfahan. I am skipping through the citrus trees, hopping from brick to brick in the courtyard. Inside, the angry talk of my aunts and uncles and older cousins is how the revolution is not so good, how maybe it was not so smart to have traded one corrupt leader they knew well for another they did not know so well. They talk of lessons learned: Beware the charismatic man who speaks the words our hearts long to hear, who rails against misdeeds and excess and promises to create a just society without ever explaining he will silence his critics by executing them, at a rate of four or five per day. They talk of who is in jail and who has been tortured and who has disappeared into the mountains, attempting escape. They talk of how much more expensive things are in the marketplace now and how there are no new cars or refrigerators because of all the boycotts against our country. Maryam sits with them, but this talk is not for me. I am young, six maybe. Young enough that wearing hejab is not yet required of me, and their words I have heard many times already. It is all anyone talks about anymore.

  So I am outside, running in the crisp autumn air, collecting pecans that have fallen from the trees, when my grandmother calls me inside. As I step into her warm kitchen, the smell of coffee overpowers me just like it does now, here at this Starbucks on the other
side of the world. Not many people serve coffee in Iran; I know only of my grandmother. And granted, in Iran there is only instant coffee, no percolation machines. But the smell is the same.

  When I open my eyes, I am no longer in my grandmother’s warm kitchen. I am back in my very own America. The man behind the counter smiles at me like he knows just what I have been thinking. This startles me. I am not used to a man looking so closely at me, seeming to understand me even without words.

  I look past him to the colorful menu board written in chalk. But I want only one cup of water and so I must go closer to talk to him. My chest feels tight, scared. This is the first time I have handled a transaction, the first time I am without Maryam, who usually speaks for both of us. The man smiles and watches me the whole time I approach.

  I clear my throat. I swallow hard. “Excuse me, please. Could I have some water?” I say it as fast as I can so maybe I don’t seem so much like a foreigner.

  He holds out a small plastic cup of something that is not water. “Here, try this. It’s our new drink. Mango kiwi tea.”

  I had not planned on buying some tea right now. I thought perhaps after my English class, on my way home, I might buy a cup of tea and write in my journal. I glance at my Mickey Mouse watch. There is time. Mango and kiwi, these are not fruits we have in Iran. I will try it, I decide. I take the cup, then place it on the counter and reach into my backpack for some money. I pull out five dollars and hand it across the counter, trying not to look at this man in the green apron too closely. Instead of at his face, I look at his name tag. Ike. This is a short name. Not one I have heard before. Ike.

  He waves my money away. “No, it’s a sample.”

  I am confused. This is taarof, and Maryam told me that Americans do not do taarof. In Iran, this is how you pay for something in a store: You try to pay the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper waves the money away and says, “No, no. Really, I couldn’t take your money.” You insist; he refuses again. You insist again; he refuses yet again and puts his hand over his heart to show you how sincere he is. Only after refusing three times will he accept your money, and when he does, he thanks you over and over again for your generosity. It is a roundabout way to buy some simple groceries, but it makes everyone feel proud of what they are able to give the other person.