Veil of Roses

by Laura Fitzgerald

  So this Starbucks man, this Ike, is doing taarof. He must know, then, that I am from Iran. I am disappointed to look so obviously Iranian, and I wonder what aspect of my appearance or behavior has given me away.

  I again try to hand him the money. “Please,” I say. “You must let me pay for it.”

  “It’s free,” he says, a little louder. “Enjoy.”

  “No, really, I must insist on giving you some money.” My smile says that I acknowledge his kindness, but the truth is I have always found the ridiculous politeness of taarof tiresome.

  “It’s a sample,” he says earnestly. “A free sample.”

  That’s three refusals. But he forgot to put his hand over his heart and he is looking more insistent than humble. He does not know how to taarof very well.

  “You’re very kind,” I say. “Here, please. I must give you something.”

  “It’s FREE.”

  Tears come to my eyes; I cannot help it. I am stuck. He won’t take my money, but I have to go. I do not have much more time to do taarof with him.

  “Here,” I choke out, trying to swallow my panic. “Take it.” I should not have come into this store. I should not have insisted on walking to class. I should have let Maryam call a taxicab for me.

  He shakes his head and keeps the same goofy smile on his face. I see there is a clear acrylic box on the counter with some money stuffed in it, some coins and dollar bills. I push my five dollars into it, collect my drink, and rush out without saying another word. I want to leave this place quickly, but my feet are in desperate need of a rest. I take a seat on the patio at the only table available, which is right outside the door.

  Blech. This is not tea. It is cold and tastes of fruit so sweet, it is as if there are a hundred sugar cubes in it. This must be what Americans drink, though, or the man behind the counter would not have had it ready for his customers. I keep sipping it, hoping it will perhaps come to taste better over time. I rest my feet and watch Ike behind the counter as I take my sips. He takes everyone else’s money the first time they hold it out. And every time he has a free moment, he looks outside and smiles at me.

  I narrow my eyes at him the next time he looks over and he raises his eyebrows in response. I look at my watch. I have still more than one kilometer to walk, and I must hurry if I am to arrive on time. But as I push back my chair to stand, I see that a police car has lurched to a stop in front of the coffee shop. Two bulky policemen get out. They have guns in their belts.

  My insides collapse. I freeze even though my body wants so badly to shake in terror. They walk right by me, so close they could reach out and grab my neck and haul me to their vehicle and make me disappear, and Maryam would know only that I did not return from class, but she would not know where to find me, how to help me. The bigger policeman yanks open the door to the coffee shop and they go right up to Ike. He called them! That spiteful man. I did nothing to him. I tried to pay, I really did.

  My breath comes out in big heaves. This is horrible. I think how I can explain that it is my money in that box and I tried to give it to him even though he kept telling me no, and that it was him, not me, who did not know how to do taarof properly. And please, they cannot send me back to Iran for a simple misunderstanding. Please.

  I push my lips together and blink heavily to keep from crying. I reach into my backpack and fumble for the index card Maryam made for me. I will ask them to call her and she can explain what happened. I will beg them not to take me to jail, but please to call my sister. Ardishir has money if we need to give them some so they leave me alone. It can be arranged, I am sure.

  The policemen come back outside, toward me, carrying large cups. The smaller one nudges the larger one as they approach. I cannot move from the fear.

  “Ma’am.” He nods. “Is everything all right?”

  I swallow over the lump in my throat and my breath comes out like I am having trouble breathing, which I am, only I don’t want the policemen to know it.

  “Ma’am?” he says again.

  I make my eyes look up at him and my breath comes harder. I nod and stretch my eyes out so the tears do not collect in the corner of my eyes and run down my face.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod again. I even manage a small smile.

  “Okay, then,” he says. “Have a good day.”

  I do not trust myself to reply. I would probably be so nervous that I could only talk in Farsi and they would think I am crazy and lock me up. I give them another small smile and try to show that I am okay. For I have realized they are talking to me not to arrest me but because they think I need help. I smile and nod, smile and nod, even after they have their backs to me.

  Once they have driven off, I can breathe again. I drop my arms onto the table and sink my head into my hands. You can take the girl out of Iran, but you cannot take Iran out of the girl. I know fears that Americans will never know, Inshallah.

  “Are you okay?” I hear a voice at my table. I raise my head.

  It is that Ike. I let out my breath.

  “I thought—” I stop. It is too many words to explain, and he will not understand, anyway.

  “You thought what?” He looks like he really wants to know.

  “I tried to pay, but you wouldn’t take my money. I thought—I thought maybe I did something wrong.”

  He looks at me with curiosity. “Where are you from?”

  “Persia,” I say, which is the old name for our country. Americans do not think so highly of Iran, I know.

  “Persia,” he repeats back, amused. “You mean Iran?” He pronounces it right. Eee-Rahn.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re new to this country?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I have been here for only one week.”

  “And you thought I called the cops to have you arrested for not paying for your drink?”

  I nod.

  “You poor girl,” he says with a big smile. He must be very rich, to have such nice teeth. But then again, if he were so rich he would not work behind a counter in a coffee shop. “It was a sample. You know what free means, don’t you?”

  “I guess maybe I don’t.”

  I know by how he narrows his eyes that he has caught the double meaning of my answer. “It’s a new drink,” he explains, slowing his words for me. “We want our customers to try it so that if they like it, they will buy a bigger cup next time. You don’t really think we’d charge money for such a small glass of tea, do you?”

  I shrug one shoulder. “In my country, we have some drinks that are very strong and come in small cups.”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “Espresso, I suppose. Well, don’t worry. You didn’t do anything wrong. And you don’t have to be afraid of the police here. They’re mostly decent.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “It is very nice of you to explain this to me.”

  “My pleasure,” he says, bowing his head at me like a gentleman. “Did you like the free sample?”

  “It’s very sweet,” I say. “I am not used to drinks so sweet. And I am not used to tea being cold. I have only had it hot before.”

  “Well,” he says, shrugging a little, “I should get back inside. If you wait here, I’ll go get your five bucks back for you. I thought that was quite the generous tip!”

  I like his laugh. It makes me laugh, too. I give him my best Julia Roberts smile, the one I practiced in the mirror before leaving home. He looks at me with a feeling I do not recognize. It feels close to affection, but that is not quite right. I realize suddenly that it is a look of attraction. He is attracted to me.

  Oops.

  “Oh, no,” I say, waving him off. “Please, keep it. Your English lesson was very helpful.”

  He gives me another dazzling smile. “You’re sure?”

  I nod. “Yes, very sure.”

  “Okay, then.” He raises his hand in a small wave and backs away, still smiling. “I get off at three o’clock. If you’re still here, I’d be happy to help you practice your Englis
h.”

  I remember Maryam’s admonition: Don’t talk to any men.

  “Oh, thank you. But I couldn’t.”

  “It’d be my pleasure.”

  “I have an English class I must get to.” I glance at my watch to show him I must hurry. “But thank you just the same.”

  “Anytime,” he says. “On the days that I work, I always get off at three, and I usually sit outside and have a cup of coffee before leaving. We could practice then sometime. If you want.”

  “That’s very generous of you to make such an offer.”

  “I mean it. It’d be fun.”

  He gives one last little wave to me and goes back inside behind the counter. He busies himself by cleaning a coffee grinder and I slip away while his back is to me.

  I smile the whole way to English class and my feet do not hurt one bit. I feel almost as if I am walking on air.

  My English class meets in the basement of the main public library in downtown Tucson. Someday I will arrive very early and linger in this library. I want to learn what is written about Iran. I want to see for myself that American writers are allowed to criticize their own government without fear of imprisonment. But today I arrive only five minutes early and find a man with a stringy-haired ponytail waiting for me outside the classroom.

  “Are you Tamila?” I can tell by how his eyes crinkle when he smiles that he is very kind.

  I nod and smile back, grateful to find that my heart experiences none of the flutters it did when I spoke to Ike.

  “I’m Danny.” He bows his head slightly but does not offer his hand. I appreciate this. Shaking hands with men is still so strange for me. “I’m your instructor. I could tell from your name that you’re Persian, aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  “I lived in Turkey for two years, back in the late ’80s.” He looks proud of this fact, so I smile at him. “You’re the only new student we have this session. Why don’t you come on in and take a seat wherever you feel comfortable?”

  I walk ahead of him into the classroom. There is a long table with chairs around it, and four other students are already seated and chat easily with one another. I select a chair next to an old woman who looks like she is from a Baltic state, somewhere very cold. She is tiny in her height but large in her bones. She leans over and pats my hand. “Good girl, good girl” is how she greets me.

  “Thank you.” I smile at her, grateful for her friendliness.

  “Prosze bardzo. You are a-velcome.” She smiles back. I like that she has a gold cap over her front tooth. It shows her character.

  “You know good girl she is?” questions an old man sitting in front of the old woman. “Maybe she no good girl.” He is missing a tooth on one side of his mouth. He sucks air in through the space and then laughs at his own joke. Old men must be the same everywhere, I think. They laugh harder than anyone else in the room at their own jokes.

  “I take this good girl on a trip to Lake Havasu City with me,” Josef announces with a wink to me. “Only this good girl.”

  I draw back, unsure how to respond.

  The old lady scolds him in a language I can’t determine. He argues back in yet another language, also Slavic but different from hers. I feel like I have somehow caused this rift but can’t possibly imagine what I could have done to prevent it.

  “Don’t mind them,” says a man about ten years my senior who sits across from me. “This is how they tease each other.”

  “What did he mean about taking me to another city?” I ask. I cannot go on a trip with this man!

  “He was just trying to get a rise out of Agata. They’re smitten,” the man explains, extending his hand to me. “I am Edgard, and I am from Peru. We have all been together for two classes by now. At the end of each session, Josef takes the class on a trip. Last time, it was to Disneyland. The time before, the Grand Canyon. Next time, it will be Lake Havasu City. He’s renting a houseboat for us to stay on.”

  “He’s very rich?” I whisper.

  Edgard shrugs. He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “I think he hoarded money all his life. Then when his wife died a few years back, he realized he should have used his money to have fun with her when he could have. So, he just does things like this now. He doesn’t have family left, so he says he has adopted us.”

  “That’s very sweet. Your English, it is very good,” I tell him.

  “Thank you.” He bows his head. “We were required to speak English in medical school.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “There, I was. Here, for now, I wash dishes in a restaurant.” He smiles like this is not so bad.

  “How long have you been in United States?”

  “In the United States,” he corrects me. We don’t use definite articles like the in Iran and it is something I often forget. “Six months. I married an American nurse who was in the Peace Corps in my country.”

  “What is this, Peace Corps?”

  Edgard shrugs. “Mostly, it’s a bunch of do-gooders who help poor communities around the world. A bunch of hippies with long hair.”

  Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of a guitar softly strumming. It is Danny, at the front of the table and sitting on its edge.

  “He was in the Peace Corps, too,” Edgard whispers to me with a wink before leaning back and sitting upright.

  “Let’s begin, friends. It looks like everyone’s here.”

  “Except Eva,” call out the others. They share a laugh.

  “Except Eva,” Danny agrees, setting his guitar at his side. “We have a new student joining us today. Let’s all say hello to Tamila.”

  “Hello, Tamila,” they say in chorus. I feel very glad to be with such a friendly group. Maybe these people will be my friends. Maybe I will make jokes with them soon.

  “Hello, it is very nice to meet you,” I respond. “Please, call me Tami.”

  They introduce themselves. The old woman is Agata from Poland. There is Edgard from Peru; Josef from Czechoslovakia; and Nadia from Russia, who is pregnant-large and speaks very softly. She looks sad or shy, I cannot tell which.

  “And here is Eva,” announces Agata with a flourish, just as the introductions conclude and a light-featured woman enters wearing the shortest skirt I have ever seen. She carries a tray of some type of dessert that smells delicious. Agata turns to me. “Eva is from Germany, and she is not good girl.”

  The class laughs, even Danny and Nadia. Eva grins at me. The grin reminds me of the woman from the airplane, the one who was twice divorced and liked the tongues of Persian men. I will need to be careful around Eva.

  “But I make good stollen, no?” She passes the tray to Edgard, who takes a helping and passes it along to Josef. I enjoy hearing their appreciative murmurs as they taste her stollen.

  As the passing of the treat continues, Danny turns his attention back to me. “When we get a new student, we have that person tell us a little bit about themselves and then we take turns asking questions. Only if you’re comfortable. Do you feel up for that?”

  Up for that. My nerves shake inside my body as I push back my chair and stand. I take a deep breath. I tell them I am twenty-seven years old and I am from Iran and I am visiting my sister and her husband in America. I say I am very pleased to meet you all. I pronounce my words carefully. My nerves relax as I talk because I realize from their encouraging expressions that each of them has had to speak like this in front of the class at some point or other.

  “Thank you, Tamila.” Danny compliments my diction and gestures for me to sit. “Now, who would like to ask the first question?”

  Eva raises her hand very quickly. The whole class laughs. “Not you, Eva,” chuckles Danny.

  “Darn.” Eva snaps her fingers as she says this. Darn. I need to find out about that word, too. I write it down in my notebook.

  “Nadia, why don’t you start?”

  Nadia offers me an apologetic smile. My return smile lets her know it is okay, I do not mind. “Do you have husband?
” she asks.

  “I do not have husband,” I reply.

  “A husband,” Edgard corrects. “I do not have a husband.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Danny lifts his eyebrows at Edgard. “Today, we’re helping Tamila speak publicly. That is all. We’ll not correct mistakes.”

  “Oh, please do,” I say. “I very much want to learn good English.”

  Danny says there is time for that. It is now Edgard’s turn to question me.

  “Do you miss your family back home?”

  I nod as it hits me, a terrible wave of missing Maman Joon and Baba Joon. I feel their presence right here with me in the room, waiting to hear my response.

  “Very much, I miss my family.” I stop to clear my throat from a lump of sadness. I receive smiles of sympathy from everyone. I want to say more, but the smiles tell me I don’t have to.

  “What job does your father do?” This from Agata. He builds roads, I tell them. He is an engineer educated in America. He builds roads and studies maps, but he himself is not allowed to venture outside his homeland.

  “What is I-Ran like? Is it as bad as the news says it is?” This is Josef talking. He pronounces my country I-Ran, as in I Ran to the Corner to Buy Some Milk. It sounds harsh and ugly to hear it this way. Eee-Rahn, that is how Persians say it. But I do not correct his mistake.

  “It is…” I do not know how to describe it for them so they will understand. It is crazy drivers. It is open-air markets all over the city selling spices and onions and fish with their heads still on. It is linking arms with your girlfriends and whispering about the good-looking boy you have passed. It is saffron and tea and naps in the heat of the afternoon. It is escaping sometimes to the mountains or the Caspian Sea, where the air is moist and not so repressive.

  It is, I want to say, all that I know.