Veil of Roses

by Laura Fitzgerald

  And of course, I cannot be expected to marry someone who is crazy. Can I? Or is this, perhaps, the price I must pay?

  “And the way he washed his hands!” Ardishir slaps his hand to his forehead. “I thought he’d be at the sink all night!”

  Maryam’s eyes are dark and determined. “There is nothing wrong with cleanliness. And perhaps he really did see a bug on the ceiling. Only last week, one climbed out of the bathroom drain. I saw it myself.”

  “He’s cuckoo, Maryam,” Ardishir insists. “You don’t want your sister marrying someone like him.”

  Tears come to Maryam’s eyes. “I want her to stay in America, that’s what I want.”

  “I know,” soothes Ardishir. “And she will. We’ll find a way.”

  “She doesn’t have all that much time,” she snaps at him. Then she turns to me. “Tami, he was not so bad. You must admit, ninety-five percent of the evening was very pleasant.”

  Ardishir bursts out laughing at her logic. “The remaining five percent was pretty freaky, though, wasn’t it?”

  Maryam shrugs, turns her palms upward. “So what if he does not like bugs? It is not the worst thing in the world, for him to dislike bugs. I do not—”

  “No, Maryam,” Ardishir interrupts. “You have it wrong. Haroun does not like imaginary bugs.”

  “She would do much worse marrying in Iran. You know what her options are there.” Maryam gives him a meaningful look. “So Haroun has issues with bugs. He is mostly okay. He makes a good living, he can provide for her.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “I am very tired. Let us save our decisions until the morning.”

  “This is not something even to consider,” Ardishir insists.

  “Yes it is!” Maryam looks as if she will scratch his eyes out with her long red fingernails.

  I am ashamed that I have caused them to fight. “Thank you both for tonight,” I tell them. “I am so very grateful to you for your hospitality.”

  Maryam waves off my thanks. “It’s not hospitality. This is your home as much as it is ours. Right, Ardishir?”

  “Of course.”

  This is where I know for sure they both are wrong. This is not my home. I will have to leave it, one way or another. Either my visa will expire and I will go back to Iran, or I will get married and move to my husband’s home.

  I bite my bottom lip to keep my tears from flowing as I go upstairs to my bedroom. Once in the privacy of my room, I stare at myself in the mirror. My face has turned greasy from all the makeup Maryam slathered on me.

  I snarl at my reflection. Perhaps Haroun is the best I can do in such a short time. Perhaps he is all that I deserve.

  I let out a big sigh and rearrange the hejab that hangs over the corner of my mirror so it covers the whole thing, so I am hidden from seeing myself. I light my Perpetual Light candle, turn on my Googoosh music, and smear cream all over my face. I rub it off viciously, cursing my fate, hating that all my choices are bad ones.

  I turn off my light and climb into bed. I burrow myself in the fluffy red comforter on my bed and turn so I can watch the flame of the candle dance in the darkness.

  My bedroom has always been my refuge. Since Maryam married Ardishir and left Iran, I have had my very own bedroom. It is the only place I did not have to wear some sort of veil, some sort of mask. On the streets, I literally veiled myself—kept a grim, eyes-down countenance. At my job, I put a barrier between myself and my girls every time I pretended to them that the future was something to which they could look forward. And with my dear parents, I was the polite, obedient, understanding daughter, the one who pretended not to see Maman’s glassy, tear-puffed eyes. With her so sluggishly sad, I countered with a dutiful cheer. Always a veil. It has only been alone at night that I get any sense of who I am, of who I might become. It is alone at night that I have found my greatest peace.

  I realize that I will lose this, too. I will lose my nighttime peace. If I marry Haroun, I will come to imagine all sorts of rodents running through the house at night. I will begin to hear the crackle of imaginary cockroaches and the buzz of imaginary wasps as I try to fall asleep. I am sure Haroun will twist restlessly in our bed, fending off imaginary insects.

  Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

  I suddenly remember this rhyme from our days in America, from the nights our father tucked Maryam and me into the double bed we shared at our apartment in Berkeley. We used to pinch each other after he’d left the room. Gotcha.

  The memory makes me smile. I will have to remind Maryam of this in the morning. We, too, used to conjure up imaginary bugs.

  But we did it only for fun, not because we were crazy.

  Maryam.

  I know she is trying to help. And I know there are to be sacrifices involved in rushing into marriage. I did not expect to find my one true love in such a short period of time. I knew I would have to settle. And I know that my life is not destined to be easy. Being a woman from Iran, I would never dare to hope for such a thing. I just never realized how tiring it is, to have to constantly drum up the energy to live only a half life.

  Everyone in my life that I love has had to make sacrifices. My mother and father settle every day, living in the wake of a revolution that has betrayed them.

  Maman Joon. With her soft skin that smells of rosewater. Who goes to the beauty salon every week to have her hair done, her eyebrows waxed, her skin deep-cleansed, and her toes manicured. Why, Maman, I used to ask when I was still a child, why do you bother when you only have to cover yourself up afterward?

  And she would look at me in kindness and explain herself to a daughter too young to possibly understand.

  Because they can make me cocoon myself from the world, but they cannot stop me from feeling beautiful.

  At this she would take my chin in her hand and bend close to me. I will live in the cocoon, Tami. And you will emerge as my beautiful butterfly.

  I begin to cry as I think of my mother. Poor Maman Joon. She should not have to live the way she does. They should return her passport. They should let her go.

  Sleep does not come to me this night. I cry all the tears that I have stored up for so long, tears of homesickness and parent-sickness and friend-sickness. Tears for the sacrifices inherent in being a woman of Iran.

  When it is very late and I am sure Maryam is asleep, I walk stealthily to the kitchen and dial my parents’ home in Iran. It must be close to noon there, and I expect my mother to be home. Sure enough, after only three rings I hear the lullaby that is her voice.

  “Allo? Allo?”

  “Salaam, Maman, Hale shoma chetor-e?” How are you?

  “What’s wrong, Tami? Is everyone okay? Are you and Maryam all right?”

  Tears gather in my eyes. How many years I heard her ask these same worried questions each time she received a phone call from Maryam. Her tone always roused my father and me from whatever we were doing, to hear Maryam’s news from America.

  “We’re fine, Maman. I just wanted to hear your voice. It is very late here, and Maryam is asleep.”

  “Tell me how you are, Tami Joon.”

  My tears stream down my face. I wipe them and sniffle and wipe the whole mess onto my pajama top. I no longer try to hide my sorrow from my mother. Instead, I explain to her my dinner with Haroun and the predicament in which I now find myself.

  “So you and Ardishir both think he is unwell in the head. And yet Maryam does not.”

  I confirm this is true.

  “Ardishir thinks you should not marry him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Maryam thinks you should.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what do you think, Tami?”

  I inhale deeply. “My head tells me this is the correct and logical decision to make. Marrying Haroun would allow me to stay here, and I do love it here. He would be a good provider and does not seem too religious.”

  “And your heart? What does your heart say?”

&
nbsp; “Does that matter?” There is bitterness in my voice.

  “Of course it does.”

  “I don’t know, Maman. It isn’t my heart so much as my stomach, my gut. I have been unable to talk myself out of this heavy feeling I have had since dinner.”

  “He really asked to inspect your mouth?”

  “He did.”

  In the moment of silence that follows, I am able to picture my mother perfectly and imagine what she is doing at this moment. She is dressed in house pants and slippers and has her hair pulled back with a barrette. She is standing at the window facing the courtyard. The curtains are open, since the window is not visible from the street. And she is watching leaves twirl through the cobblestones. And she is thinking what to say to her youngest daughter, knowing how much I depend on her wisdom. This silence brings me calm, for I know her judgment will be sound. She more than anyone knows how much is at stake for me.

  “You are perhaps not ready to get married, even if it was to someone perfect in every way,” Maman finally says.

  This thought occurs to me frequently as I fall asleep at night, listening to my sad Googooshi music. I have so enjoyed my freedom here, and so chafed under Maryam’s manageable admonitions. A husband’s admonitions might not be so mild, and cannot be so easily dismissed.

  “Would you marry Haroun in Iran? If not, then you should not marry him at all. Go as far as you can see, and when you get there you’ll see farther. You must trust this will happen. You must trust that Allah has other plans for you than to become Haroun’s wife. If He wanted you to marry Haroun, He would have made Haroun more stable.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Maman. It is just hard to walk away when I don’t know what the future holds.”

  “I know, my love. Believe me, I know.”

  “If I do decide to marry him, will you support my decision?”

  There is hesitation.

  “You will do what must be done, Tami. I know this about you. Your father and I will support you and trust you, no matter what your decision.”

  “Even if that means I may have to come back home?”

  There is more hesitation.

  “Your friend Minu is engaged, did you know? She is marrying Seyed, the grocer’s son.”

  This may sound like a change of subject, but it is not. Unemployment is very high in Iran. Seyed is okay, and he is employed, but poor Minu will have to live in the house of her mother-in-law. And her mother-in-law is known for her dourness and meanness to others. When you marry in Iran, you marry the whole family. All the brothers, parents, cousins, and uncles. And it seems there is always one who finds ways to be cruel.

  “Poor Minu,” I say. “I am sad for her, but she must have felt it was her best choice.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  This is my mother’s way of telling me that my choices would be even more limited in Iran.

  “Let me talk to her,” I hear my father’s voice insist in the background.

  “Tami Joon, how is America?”

  “Baba!”

  “How is my little black fish?”

  A moan of homesickness escapes from my throat. “Baba Joon, I miss you. I wish you and Maman could be here with me. Our family should not be separated like this.”

  “Shhhh,” he quiets me. “You must not say such a thing. You are our little black fish, and you will keep going and keep going and don’t let the pelicans swallow you up. We are fine here. You must not think sad thoughts of missing us.”

  “I know, Baba,” I whisper. I hide from him my sniffles. He wants to see only the brave side of me.

  After we say Khoda hafez and hang up, I cry there in the blackness of the kitchen until deep exhaustion overtakes me. I stumble back to my bed, stopping only to turn on my Googooshi music once more.

  At first, I cuddle under my covers in the middle of the bed in a fetal position, like a baby in her mother’s womb. This is how I usually fall asleep. But then I realize this will have to change once I am married so I better get used to it. I scoot over to one side of the bed and lie on my back and straighten my legs. I pull the covers up to my chest and cross my hands over my stomach. I imagine myself sharing a bed with Haroun. In this imagined future, I foresee many nights like this, nights in which I feel so alone I must sneak out of bed and cry to my mother over the telephone wires. I see myself lying awake in my half of the bed and staring at the contours of the ceiling while my husband slumbers beside me.

  Tami, time to wake up.”

  I hear Maryam’s voice from the doorway. With my eyes still closed, I can feel light breaking through the cracks in the window shades. I decide to feign sleep and hopefully she will leave me in peace.

  It is not to be. I hear her soft footsteps approach, and the bed sags slightly as she sits on its edge.

  “Tami, you must wake up or you’ll be late to class.” She gently shakes my shoulder.

  I moan. It is all I can do. My eyelids refuse to open. I suspect the salt from last night’s tears has made my lids stick together.

  Maryam shakes my shoulder a little more insistently. I manage to open one eye and catch sight of my alarm clock. She is right. If I do not get up immediately, I shall be late to class. But I simply do not have the energy. My depression smothers me like a winter quilt. I shift my one open eye to Maryam’s face.

  “I do not feel very well today,” I tell her. “I think I will stay home, if that is all right.”

  “Of course it’s all right. Can I bring you anything?” Maryam places her palm on my forehead to feel for fever. Her touch feels so cool and pleasant that I whimper. This is what my mother did when we were sick as children. This is what I need today, someone to take care of me. Comfort me. Make me feel better.

  “Do you remember when we were children in America and Baba Joon tucked us in our bed at night and told us to sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite?”

  Maryam smiles. “Of course I remember. I’m surprised you do. You were so little.”

  “I only remembered last night as I was lying in bed. I wondered if Haroun is attacked by bedbugs each night.”

  Maryam slaps her hand to her forehead. “Oh, no! I bet he is, poor man.”

  We giggle.

  “I called Maman last night,” I tell Maryam when the joke has lost its luster.

  “You did? Why didn’t you tell me so I could talk, too?”

  “It was very late. You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Did you talk to her about Haroun?”

  “She says I should not rush into anything.”

  “She’s a fine one to talk.” Her voice has an ugly edge to it.

  “What are you so mad at her for? Have you been mad all these years? Is this why you never visit?”

  She ignores my questions and asks one of her own. “Did you remind her you have to rush?”

  “She knows, Maryam.”

  Maryam sighs. “I know he’s not perfect, Tami. But you must listen to me. I am right here with you, and I will not let you make a decision that will ruin your life. We really do not know for sure there wasn’t a bug on the ceiling or that a bug did not bite his leg.”

  Not this again.

  “Come on, Maryam. It was all in his head.”

  “How do you know?”

  “For one, he was looking directly at me and talking to me, when he snapped his head full around to the corner of the ceiling. There was no way he could have seen a bug in that corner from how his head was positioned. There’s no way. It was an involuntary gesture and completely paranoid.”

  “You should not be so judgmental, Tami.”

  “I’m not judgmental, Maryam. I’m only trying to be honest with myself.” I push my covers off and sit up. My head suffers from dull throbbing.

  “What are you doing?” She separates my sheet from my blanket and covers me with the sheet once more. “You should stay in bed if you’re sick.”

  If I stay in bed, I am sure Maryam will call in sick as well and stay ri
ght next to me and talk to me all day of the benefits of marrying Haroun. That will do nothing for my mood.

  “I’m only tired,” I say. “I don’t want to miss class.”

  “At least let me drive you today.”

  I thank her and stumble my way through my shower, dressing, and breakfast. Maryam has perhaps realized that it is she who has driven me out of the house, for she does not say another word about Haroun. We kiss as she drops me off, and I assure her I am well enough to walk home, and that perhaps the walk will do me good.

  I feel my spirits lift as I approach my classroom. There is such a crazy energy in the room, most especially from Agata and Josef and their silly behaviors. It is increasingly clear to me that he is in love with her. If she realizes it, too, then she is doing an admirable job of pretending she does not.

  Today, I notice immediately that along with her brown linen dress, which she has worn every day to class, she is wearing an orange-pink-white flower pin decoration in her hair. And she is wearing bright orange lipstick to match. She looks like a clown.

  “Agata!” I exclaim. “Is today a special day?”

  Edgard winks at me. Agata sniggers, to let me know she is in on the joke as well.

  “Josef gave me a present yesterday of this hairpin and this lipstick.”

  “Oh,” I say admiringly, smiling at Josef. “That was a very thoughtful thing to do, Josef.”

  He smiles proudly. “She never buys anything for herself. Even her clothes, they are handed down from people in her church. She should have nice things that have belonged to no one before her.”

  “She should,” I agree.

  “You should see her apartment,” he continues. “Nothing’s new. The curtains were out-of-date by the end of the 1970s. And her bathroom towels have fringes hanging from them.”

  Eva has walked in and heard Josef’s comment. “What were you doing in her apartment, hmmmm?”

  Edgard laughs. I smile. Of course Eva’s interpretation of the situation has something to do with sex. But Nadia speaks up, as she always does when someone is in need of defense.