Veil of Roses

by Laura Fitzgerald

  “Agata has lived a hard life,” she reminds Josef. “When you lose both your parents and your brother in such a horrid manner as she did, perhaps things like new curtains are not so very important.”

  She is right, of course. I feel ashamed for smiling at Eva’s joke.

  “My husband and I picked out those curtains together,” Agata states firmly. “God rest his soul,” she adds, as she always does.

  “Life goes on,” Josef replies matter-of-factly. “My wife died. I still buy myself new curtains once in a while.”

  “Well, bully for you,” Agata says, and turns to face the front of the classroom, using yesterday’s lesson in slang against him. Josef shrugs and faces the front, too.

  Eva, Nadia, Edgard, and I look at one another behind their backs and make what-to-do faces. We take our seats in silence and wait for Danny to get the overhead projector set up. I am very much relieved when Josef leans over and whispers something into Agata’s ear. I do not hear what he says, but Agata slaps his shoulder and smiles at him. He smiles back. Eva raises her eyebrows to me. I smile. And then I slip my camera out of my backpack and take a picture of Agata’s hair clip.

  As Danny calls the class to order, Eva leans over. “Want to do something after class?” she whispers.

  I nod.

  Coffee. We could go for coffee.

  This thought lifts my mood even more, and soon I am doing all I can to make the class lively and fun for my classmates.

  When I am paired for one-on-one conversation with Nadia, I invite her to join us.

  “My husband is picking me up.” Her tone is rueful and she does not need to say anything more. She talks like some of my married Persian friends who are in unhappy marriage situations.

  “Perhaps another time,” I tell her, knowing this is not likely. And then, to make the situation less awkward for her, I change the subject. “He must be very excited about the baby.”

  “He wishes we were having a boy.” Her eyes contain such pain that I reach for her hand and squeeze it gently.

  “Men always do, don’t they?” I shake my head like it is a lighthearted wish. Yet I know for many men, it is a very important matter, and they are very disappointed in their wives if they produce girls. “But girls are the best. Have you chosen a name for your daughter yet?”

  Nadia shakes her head, No.

  “What about naming her after your mother?”

  Nadia grimaces. “Her name is Cyzarine. I want something less harsh-sounding than that.”

  “Your grandmother’s name?”

  “Anzhelika.”

  I laugh. “Well, that doesn’t help much, does it?” I am pleased to see her smile, to know that my friendliness has made her feel better.

  We talk about her cravings for Mexican food, which she’s never even eaten before this pregnancy. We talk of what it feels like to have a living being inside you, and some of her fears of being fully and singularly responsible for a new life.

  “You don’t think your husband will help out much?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he will,” she says lightly, then immediately asks after my parents. I tell her I spoke with them just last night, and how good it was to hear their voices. Nadia prompts me to tell her about my mother, and I do. I tell her everything I love about her, including and especially knowing what she has had to sacrifice in order for her daughters to be happy.

  “Your mother sounds wonderful,” Nadia tells me.

  “She is,” I agree.

  “I miss my mother, too,” she says quietly. “She didn’t think I was making a good decision in getting married and coming here.”

  “That’s all my parents want for me, to come to America and get married.”

  “They hold you close and then push you away.” She murmurs this, almost to herself.

  “I’m sorry?”

  She rests her eyes on me. “Sometimes the best thing a mother can do for her daughter is send her away, like yours did. She sent you out into the world so life can be better, you know? And then other times, the best thing a mother can do is keep her close, to shield her from the ugliness of the world. That is what my mother tried to do, but I wouldn’t listen. I should have listened.”

  Nadia’s English is difficult to follow. It takes several long moments to process her words. And when I do, I am unsure how best to comfort her, how to help her not feel she is to blame. For, really, could she have known? How could anyone really know what it will be like to live with someone day after day, year after year? Perhaps there were signs that her mother saw but Nadia chose to ignore. But must Nadia be punished for such a mistake for the rest of her life? I do not want this to be the case, for I am, myself, in not such a different situation as her.

  “Maybe things will get better for you,” I encourage her. “Maybe after the baby, your husband will be very happy.”

  Her look tells me she has no such hope.

  “He’s never been happy,” she confides. “And as long as I’m with him, I won’t be, either.”

  I let out my breath and we sit for the remainder of our allotted conversational time with a heavy veil of silence between us. I do not know how to comfort her.

  After class, I take Eva into my confidence and tell her about Ike. About how he has brought me flowers and walked me home. About how he has asked that I stop by today.

  “I promised my sister I would not befriend any American men,” I tell her. “But this—well, this is two girlfriends only going out for a cup of coffee, yes?”

  “Why do you let your sister tell you what to do?” Eva demands as we start our walk to Starbucks. I push up the sleeves on my sweater. The sky is clear and upbeat, sunny as ever. I have yet to see a cloudy day in Tucson.

  “She is only looking out for me.”

  “Bullshit,” Eva says. “She’s trying to control you.”

  “We don’t think that way in my culture,” I explain. “She is my sister and she is thinking only of me. If I have a reputation that is tarnished, it will be very difficult for me to find a husband.”

  “Screw finding a husband!”

  I laugh. Eva wears a short skirt and thigh-high boots and clops along with a sexual confidence I know I can never match. Nor would I want to. Nor do I want to swear like her, but I love it when she does. It sounds so bold. Eva has no need for taking this English class. She speaks English as well as she ever will. Like a sailor. She knows all the swear words and slang and uses them often. I think she only takes the class for something to do, until her green card arrives or until her husband gets back.

  “If I don’t find a husband, I have to go back to Iran. You must know that.”

  She looks sideways at me. “You’re like Nadia.” She does not say this like it is a good thing. “She was a mail-order bride, you know.”

  “A what?”

  “A mail-order bride. You know, some lonely American dickhead loser can’t get it on with American women and so he orders a wife on the Internet. I don’t know why Russia is where they always seem to order them from, but it is.”

  “Her husband does not sound very nice.”

  “Last semester, she came in with three broken fingers one day. Another time, she had choke marks on her neck. He’s an asshole.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I have no patience for women who put up with that shit. She needs to dump the dumbfuck before he kills her.”

  “She needs to survive,” I defend Nadia. “She has come here from far away and has no one.”

  “She has us,” Eva retorts.

  “Maybe she doesn’t think some of her classmates are so open to helping her.”

  Eva bumps into my shoulder and turns to me. “You mean me, don’t you?”

  “Well…” I did not mean to speak so frankly. But just because Eva has been lucky in life, it does not excuse her from being sympathetic to women less fortunate. “We should do something for her. Have a party for her before the baby comes, perhaps. She’s having a girl, did you know?”

  “Yippee,” says Eva wit
hout enthusiasm.

  I laugh. “What, you don’t like girls?”

  “I don’t like kids, period. They tie you down. I only want men tying me down. Literally, if you know what I mean.”

  She winks at me lasciviously. I shrug my shoulders in apology. I just don’t get most of her sexual innuendos.

  “Bondage,” she articulates. “Have you heard of bondage?”

  She stops on the street—right in the middle of the sidewalk!—and mimics having her hands tied above her head. She squirms, thrusts her pelvis out, and moans, “Oh, baby, do whatever you want. I’m your prisoner. Oh, baby.”

  “You’re the goofiest girl I’ve ever met,” I tell her, laughing despite my horror.

  She throws her arm around my shoulder. “Come on,” she says. “Let me tell you some dirty jokes as we walk to see your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  When a big white pickup truck approaches from behind a few moments later and slows, matching our pace, all my muscles tense. I am back in Tehran walking home from school with Minu and Leila. The bassidji. The morals police.

  Eva senses my panic. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t look back,” I tell her. “Just keep walking.” With my free hand, I reach to tuck my bangs into my hejab, to pull it forward on my head. No hejab. Panic courses through my blood.

  “They’re only college boys, Tami.” Eva waves at them. “Hi, boys!”

  I clutch her arm. “Don’t.”

  They pull up to the curb near us. “Hey, ladies. We’re going to Bob Dob’s. Want to join us?”

  “Want to?” Eva asks me.

  “No!” What is she thinking?

  “You’re sure? It might be fun, having a few brewskis with the boys. They’re both pretty cute.”

  “Eva.” I glare at her.

  She turns to them and smiles apologetically. “Sorry, guys. We’re off to see Tami’s boyfriend.”

  I pinch her arm. The boys in the pickup say “Too bad” and drive away. Eva pulls firmly away from me. “What was that all about?”

  Relief floods over me. I feel loose, like my body has no joints and I might flop to the ground. Like I might start giggling or crying and never stop.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that if this were Iran, we might have been arrested just now.” There is no might about it, with Eva in her short skirt and thigh-high boots, and neither of us with headscarves, we would have been taken to jail.

  “For what, walking down the street?” Eva’s look is scornful, tough, like she could take on anyone. In Iran, she’d have her defiance beaten right out of her.

  “Never mind.” I finally let go of her arm and stand on my own. She will never understand how things are back home. And this is perhaps a good thing. “Would you really go somewhere with men you don’t know?”

  “Sure.” She smiles at me. “This is how we meet people.”

  “Well, I already told you, I’m not supposed to spend time with American men.”

  “Ike doesn’t count?”

  I return her smile. “Ike doesn’t count.”

  “But he’s American, right?”

  “He’s American.”

  “And he’s a man, right?”

  “Right.” I grin. She has caught me.

  “What-ever.”

  I laugh and bump my shoulder into hers as we walk down the street.

  “Don’t be mad, Eva. I don’t mean to ruin your fun. You can go along with those men if you really want to.”

  “No,” she says in a way that tells me they’re already out of her thoughts. “I want to see what this Ike is all about. I want to see what’s so great about him that you’re willing to break your sister’s rules.”

  “I’m not!” I insist. “I’m only going for coffee with my girlfriend!”

  “You are so full of shit,” she says to me with a grin. That phrase is all her own. I know what the word shit means, and it was not in yesterday’s lesson.

  Oh, my God,” Eva whispers to me as we arrive at Starbucks to find Ike sitting at a table on the patio. “Is that him?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” I say back quietly. He is perhaps five meters away. If she raises her voice, he will hear what she says.

  “Two words come to mind,” she tells me. “Eminently fuckable.”

  I elbow her, hard. But it is too late, he has heard her. I can tell by the surprise I see sparkling in his eyes.

  “He is fucking hot,” she continues in a low voice. “Check out those biceps.”

  “Eva,” I scold. “Shhhhh. You are being very rude.”

  Ike stands, and Eva gives me a little nudge forward. I introduce them.

  “Tami needs a chaperone,” Eva says as they shake hands.

  He smiles broadly at Eva. “Something tells me you’re one hell of an unusual chaperone.”

  He turns from her to me and my breath quickens as we lock eyes. “I’m glad you could make it.” His smile grows wider. I can tell mine does, too. It is Julia Roberts huge, only by now, it is all mine and it is for real.

  And it does not need to be surgically corrected.

  He urges us to join him at the table. We make small talk for a few minutes as Ike inquires how class was and Eva tells him the Agata-and-Josef story. We laugh over how goofy Agata looked, and try to figure out if she was wearing such gaudy lipstick and the hairpiece to make fun of Josef, or if she was really pleased with the fact of the gift despite how dreadful it was. Ike tells us some funny stories from his day at work, and soon enough, we are all laughing together and chatting away as if we were longtime friends.

  But it feels false to me, this lightness. I feel as if I am outside of myself, looking at these three laughing people and wishing I could be one of them. This is all I ever wanted in Iran, the freedom to laugh in public. To choose my own friends, no matter if they’re men. To sit in the open air at a café and talk without fear of the bassidjis. I would gladly wear that stupid hejab forever if I could just look at men in the eye and make a connection of friendship and share a table at a coffee shop without fear of my world coming to an end.

  “Earth to Tami,” says Eva, and snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. “You’re a million miles away, and all you’ve left us is a dopey smile on your face.”

  I come back to them. “I was just thinking what a great day it would be in Iran if we were suddenly allowed to go to coffee shops and mix men and women together. To openly be friends with each other, I mean. I think a whole revolution could be prevented.”

  “Really?” says Ike. “You think lives will be lost before coffee shops are integrated?”

  “Not coffee shops, but coffee tables. And absolutely. Of this I am sure. Many Iranians think things will change gradually in a bloodless revolution. But I don’t.”

  “But going for coffee. That’s such a simple thing,” he exclaims.

  I laugh. “But it’s not, of course. Men aren’t even supposed to look at women. To look at them is considered fornication of the eye.”

  “Fornication of the eye!” Eva loves it. She slaps her hand on the table and repeats the phrase. “Fornication of the eye! Ooh, baby, fornicate my eye!”

  I am glad she finds it funny. I, however, cannot laugh. I am reminded of sixteen-year-old Atefeh Rajabi of Neka who was very recently found guilty of the similarly absurd crime of “acts incompatible with chastity.” Poor Atefeh was hung from a crane and left dangling in public view for forty-five minutes, while the man involved received one hundred lashes and was released. The story making the rounds in Tehran is that she so incensed the judge by pulling off her headscarf and speaking in a sharp tongue that he, personally, slipped the noose around her neck and gave the order for the crane to rise. He, personally, ordered her lifeless body to hang there for forty-five minutes as a message to other girls: This can happen to you.

  I fix a smile on my face and stop myself from sharing the story of Atefeh. There is no need to infect my friends with the vision of such atrocities, no need to dampen the pleasure of
this afternoon. Yet, what if the world could really see? Would it matter, would it make things different for us, if they saw Atefeh dangling from the crane?

  Ike notices my silence, my discomfort with Eva’s jokes.

  “You think there’s going to be another revolution?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “It is not so long since our war with Iraq. So many sons and fathers died, hundreds of thousands. It is too fresh, I think. We already have to make too many visits to the cemetery. You should see how large it is now. It has a playground and restaurant and takes up kilometers of land. None of my generation wants our parents to have to suffer through another revolution. The mullahs are old. They cannot live forever. Perhaps we can wait them out and things will get better. Or perhaps someone of prominence will convince them to stop forcing faith on people; it is a contradiction in terms and an insult to the religion. God does not want a government, he only wants people to treat one another with decency and dignity. This is what we think. Many of us, I should say.”

  “I know!” says Eva. “Maybe there could be some sort of compromise. Women and men can go to coffee shops together, but women have to wear chadors, those ones with only slots for the eyes. Can you just picture it, trying to have any type of conversation in one of those awful things? Or drink coffee! How do you drink coffee when you’re wearing a chador?”

  She laughs loudly. I start laughing, too. Chadors are made for isolating, not for socializing. Ike just shakes his head at us and tries not to join in.

  “Or,” Eva continues, “men could start wearing chadors, too, as a sign of protest! Mix everything all up.”

  “We don’t wear chadors!” I insist through my laughter. “Only hejab. It is only the very religious women who wear chadors.”

  “Okay,” Eva says. “Then men should start wearing hejab, too. Make a mockery of the whole thing. Ridicule as a form of protest. Yes, that’s it! And now that I’ve single-handedly solved the problems of your country, I’m going to buy us some coffee.”