Veil of Roses

by Laura Fitzgerald

  “Come in, please,” I welcome him. He hands me one of the two bouquets of tulips he brought. “These are for you. I brought some for your sister as well.”

  “That is very kind.” I reach for my bouquet. “Let’s go to the kitchen so you can give them to her.”

  We chat pleasantly in the kitchen with Maryam for several moments. Then we take our leave and drive in his spotless black Mercedes to the west side of Tucson. We are going to a steak house in the desert that used to be a ranch, and when we arrive, the host is expecting us.

  “Mr. Mehdi, how are you this evening?”

  I am impressed. This must mean that Haroun eats out often. This is also good, for I do not want to be tied to a kitchen my whole life.

  “I am fine, thank you, Mr. Hiller. May I introduce you to Tamila Soroush?”

  Mr. Hiller and I shake hands.

  “Please, come right this way. Your table is ready.” He leads us to the patio and to a table close to the open-pit outdoor barbecue. “I have a shawl for you, Ms. Soroush.” He slips a warm black shawl over my shoulders, for which I am thankful because of the mid-March chill.

  Haroun smiles at me once we are seated. “The flame from the fire sparkles in your eyes. It makes them even more beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” How nice. His eyes, too, sparkle pleasantly.

  When the waiter comes, Haroun suggests we order margaritas along with our steak dinners. I barely hesitate before smiling and nodding my acceptance.

  “So you are not opposed to alcohol?” I ask once the waiter has taken our order.

  “Not at all,” he says. “I never overindulge, that would be wrong, but a glass of wine or beer every now and then is one of the true pleasures of life, I think.”

  “That’s what my father says,” I tell him.

  He smiles. “Mine, too. Does your father secretly brew beer in the basement as well?”

  I laugh and cover my lips with my index finger. “Shhhh. You never know who might be listening.”

  He winks at me. “I think we’re safe here.”

  When our drinks come, we clink glasses. “To our fathers,” Haroun says.

  “To our fathers.”

  As I take a sip of my first margarita, I am reminded once again that the best things about America are the little things, the little freedoms that Americans don’t think twice about. The freedom to sit outside with a man and watch the fading sunset. To wear a little makeup and smile at a man without being accused of corruption. To sip a margarita in the chilly desert air.

  I also realize that I am having fun with Haroun. He is handsome and attentive. He dresses well and there has been nothing so far to dissuade me from accepting his marriage proposal, when it officially comes.

  Time to get to work. I take a gulp of my margarita and feel the alcohol burn its way to my stomach, giving me courage. I need to be bolder now than I have ever been before in my life.

  “So, tell me what you want from a marriage,” I say. “Tell me what you want from a wife.”

  Haroun sets his drink down and puts his hands in his lap. I look into his eyes and see gentleness.

  “I want someone to go through life with,” he says. “Someone to travel with and have dinner with and care for. I want my wife to be my best friend.”

  My heart softens when I hear his response. But I persevere in my tough questioning. “Are you traditional in how you view your wife?”

  He shakes his head. “I think the traditional way has left many women in Iran very unhappy.”

  “So your wife could work outside the home?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you let your wife go on a trip with her classmates to, say, Lake Havasu City to see the London Bridge?”

  “Of course!” He smiles broadly at me. “I want my wife to be happy. To have many friends and not feel isolated like so many women in Iran do.”

  My heart is suddenly full of song.

  “So you are not one who believes a woman’s place is in the home?”

  Haroun shrugs. “I have a housekeeper who comes twice a week to clean, prepare meals, and do my laundry. I do not see that this would change. It took me a long time to find the right housekeeper, and I am very pleased with her attention to detail. I would not want something such as housework coming between us.”

  Our steaks arrive still sizzling. They have been prepared right before our eyes on the grill. Haroun’s is charred, it is so well done. I ordered mine medium rare, over his mild protests.

  “These look delicious,” Haroun tells the waiter.

  I cut into my steak, and with the first bite I am in ecstasy. It practically melts in my mouth.

  “Mmmmmmm,” I say. “I have never tasted such wonderful meat.”

  “I am glad,” Haroun says. “I only hope you don’t catch mad cow disease.”

  Mad cow disease? I put down my fork. “What is this mad cow disease?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “Then why did you mention it?”

  He shrugs and goes on cutting his steak into bite-size chunks that he carefully places on the right side of his plate. Piece after piece, very methodically. I find him annoying all of a sudden. “I am surprised you have not read about this,” he tells me. “It’s all over the news. It’s a European and American disease you catch by eating meat that is prepared too rare. The brain wastes away and you go crazy and eventually die.”

  My stomach threatens to throw up what I have just eaten. “Why did you not tell me about this before I ordered? Why did you not tell me to order mine well done like you did?”

  “How would that make me look?” he says. “I do not want to control you. You should be able to decide things for yourself.”

  “But if I’d only known about this disease, I surely would not have ordered mine rare!” I sputter through my sudden anger. “I do not want to catch a brain disease that has no cure! You should have told me of this.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “In the future, I will make sure to inform you of such things. Should we send your plate back and ask them to cook it properly? Or would you like something else?”

  My appetite is ruined from the very idea of crazy cows. I push my plate away. “I’m not hungry. Why would a restaurant even serve food that can make people sick?”

  “America is all about freedom of choice.”

  “There is such a thing as taking freedom too far, I think.”

  “I agree.” Haroun raises his arm and the waiter quickly approaches. “Please take her plate away. It is covered with brain-disease germs.”

  “Yessir, of course.” He immediately clears my plate. Behind him, I watch the cook accept a ten-dollar bill from another waiter and tuck it into his front shirt pocket. They laugh openly at the waiter bringing back my plate.

  Hmmm. It seems there has been some sort of wager regarding this dinner date.

  “Haroun, the host who seated you seemed to know you quite well. Do you come here often?” I say this like it is small talk. And I down another large gulp of my drink.

  “Oh, yes. It is my favorite restaurant for steak in town. I like that I can watch the cook prepare my food. Plus, I have inspected the kitchen and it is very clean. Top-notch.”

  Grrrrrrr. Of course a restaurant wouldn’t serve food it believed would be harmful to its customers. This is just more of Haroun’s craziness.

  “Haroun,” I say, “I have something very important to tell you.”

  I have his full attention.

  “There is nothing wrong with my smile.”

  He looks at me, puzzled. “Of course there is not.”

  “I mean, I will not agree to have corrective surgery on my mouth, because there’s nothing wrong with it.”

  He looks incredulous. “Of course there’s not! Why ever would you be concerned with such a thing? Your smile is full of hope and joy,” he says. “I have never seen one more beautiful.”

  I sit back, stunned. “But the night we met, you told me it needed repair.”

&n
bsp; “No I didn’t.” He laughs very loud. “I only said there is no repair that could be made on such a beautiful mouth as yours.”

  “Oh. I must have misunderstood.”

  I didn’t! I didn’t!

  I take another two gulps of my margarita.

  “And another thing,” I say, leaning forward. “I have some concerns about…”

  I stop and swallow hard. It is hard for me to say things so directly. It is not how I am used to behaving. But this is my life, my future, I’m deciding on. Haroun will just have to forgive me for my words.

  Or not.

  “You have concerns about what?” he asks, as if he has no cares in the world.

  I look at him with kindness to show I do not mean him any offense. “You seem perhaps overly concerned about cleanliness.”

  He nods in agreement. “Cleanliness is very important to me.”

  “I mean, I wonder if it’s an unhealthy way of being.” I brief him on my observations—the quite earnest hand-washing, the mad cow disease concern, the paranoia about a potential bug in the corner of our dining room, the illusionary spider bite.

  Haroun places his fork down on the corner of his plate and reaches for my hand. My heart rate spikes at his touch.

  “It is true I am concerned about my health,” he says. “I value my life and all life. I want to live it to the fullest and enjoy a future with a lovely person for a wife and, God willing, children someday. Is that so wrong?”

  He gently strokes my hand with his thumb. He makes it all sound so reasonable.

  “No, of course not.”

  Haroun’s eyes darken and sadness falls across his face. His hand becomes limp in mine.

  “I will tell you something that I usually never talk about. My only sister died from an infection when she was eight. She suffered greatly and it was a needless death due to carelessness at the hospital.”

  I squeeze his hand and feel tears come to my eyes. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. Your poor parents.”

  I receive a small smile. Haroun’s eyes have turned watery.

  “It was a very bad time for my family,” he says. “I loved her very much. This is why I am careful. I know how quickly life can be lost.”

  I pat his hand. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “You remind me of her,” he says, looking into my eyes with great kindness. “Your hopefulness. Your zest for life. These are qualities to cherish. To protect.”

  I blush. I am pleased he has recognized these traits in me. It is good, for a husband to want these qualities to remain in his wife.

  “Tami,” he says quietly, intertwining his fingers with mine. “You would make me a very happy man by agreeing to be my wife. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

  Ike.

  I take a deep breath. My heart pounds. My mouth is so dry I have to lick my lips before responding. But when I speak, it is with a strong voice. “Yes, Haroun, I will marry you. It would give me great pleasure to be your wife.”

  His smile is huge. I smile back and am relieved to find that I do not feel sadness. I certainly do not feel the joy one would hope for, but joy is not required, only willingness.

  And I am willing to marry Haroun. I shall marry him and stay in America.

  Haroun pats my hand one last time and then raises his margarita glass for a toast. I raise mine as well.

  “To us,” he says. “To my new bride.”

  “To us,” I agree, and smile at the man who is soon to be my official husband.

  And then I gulp the rest of my margarita while he devours his well-done steak.

  I had hoped that when I arrived home from dinner with Haroun, I would be able to slink off to my bedroom and collapse into my bed. To think this situation through in silence, in darkness.

  But Maryam is still awake, and so my hope is dashed. She and Ardishir are together on the couch in the living room watching the Persian news on the satellite from Los Angeles. Ardishir barely turns his attention from the program. But Maryam, who has been lying with her head in Ardishir’s lap, jumps up and rushes to kiss me hello. Her eyes beg with curiosity as she waits for me to offer information.

  “How was dinner with the macadamia nut?” Ardishir calls over before I have a chance to say anything. Then he gives me a wink and a smile.

  “Don’t you listen to him.” Maryam takes my hand and pulls me toward the love seat by the fireplace. We sit down together and she keeps my hand in hers. “Well, little sister, how did things go? Was dinner everything you hoped it would be?”

  “Please,” I ask, “what is this illness called mad cow disease and how does one contract it?”

  From the couch, Ardishir hoots a loud laugh. Maryam shushes him.

  “Haroun doesn’t think he has it, does he?” She asks this as if she is afraid to hear my response, for it would confirm his craziness if my answer is yes.

  “No, but he thinks I may get it from eating my steak medium rare.”

  There is another loud laugh from Ardishir. “Mad cow!”

  “Hello, no one is listening to you, Ardishir.” Maryam’s anger is palpable, but Ardishir doesn’t even see her glare, he is so bent over with laughter. She turns back to me. “Ignore him.”

  “Well, what is this disease?” I persist.

  “It is something strange and rare, that is all I know. And cows go crazy from it. But I don’t think people in the United States have gotten it. I have only heard of some cases in England many years ago. You surely would not get it from eating a steak tonight.”

  I should have known. I missed out on a perfectly delicious steak because of his craziness. The sacrifices have begun already. I withhold a sigh.

  “Haroun asked me to marry him and I agreed. He will come to speak with Ardishir soon.”

  Maryam cups my face in her hands and kisses me on both cheeks and my forehead before responding. “Oh, little sister! This is such good news! Ardishir, did you hear the good news? Tami will be able to stay in America, right here in Tucson!”

  Ardishir has stopped his laughter. He looks over at me with a severe look upon his face. “He is crazy, yes? You have not changed your mind on that, and yet still you agreed to marry him?”

  I know Ardishir told me he would play the role of the doubter and forbidder up until the last moment, but his tone is so serious that my voice falters.

  “I, um, no, I do not think he is crazy. Only a little overly cautious about his health. His sister died from an infection when he was young. This is why he behaves this way.”

  “Oh, poor Haroun, to have lost a sister.” Maryam’s eyes well with tears, and she looks to Ardishir, I think, to see if she is convincing him to pity Haroun.

  This is, I think, a good strategy. “He says I remind him of his sister.”

  “Now, that’s disgusting. Why would he want to marry his sister?”

  “Ardishir, enough from you!” Maryam boils over with rage. Her voice softens when she asks me, “Shall we call our parents and share the good news?”

  “There is no need to bother them, because I forbid the union. I will not give my permission.” Ardishir is so stern that again I am taken aback.

  “It’s not up to you,” Maryam spews at him. “Asking you is only a formality, and we can skip it if you’re going to act this way. Why aren’t you happy for my sister?”

  “It will be important for Haroun to receive permission from Ardishir,” I say. “It is practically all he talked about from the moment I agreed to marry him.”

  That, and my need to be examined by his doctor.

  “Ardishir will give his permission. It is what my parents want, and his role is to represent their wishes here.”

  “It’s my job to act in the best interest of Tami. Marrying someone who should be locked away in a mental institution is not in her best interest, and I won’t be convinced otherwise.” He shakes his finger at Maryam as he says this.

  I am dumbfounded. He talks so seriously.

  I stand up from the love seat. “I
’m going to bed. You two can work this out between yourselves. I only know that Haroun intends to visit soon to speak with Ardishir.”

  “Good night, Tami.” Maryam pulls me close for a hug. “Don’t worry about my husband. He will be reasonable when the time comes.”

  With Maryam hugging me, she cannot see Ardishir’s face. I am hopeful to receive another wink and smile behind her back. But it is not to be. He narrows his eyes and says good night sternly, like a disapproving father. Perhaps if he grows tired of his job as an orthopedic surgeon, he can become an actor, because he plays the part of new-sheriff-in-town so very well.

  Later that night, hours after Maryam and Ardishir have gone to bed, I tiptoe to the kitchen and dial Iran. I am desperate to hear Minu’s voice, to have her reassure me that I am making the correct choice in marrying Haroun.

  “Oy!” she squeals when I greet her. “Is it really you, my American friend? You must tell me how you are! Your girls ask after their favorite teacher all the time, they want to know all about your adventures in America, but I must tell them to use their imaginations, for she is far too busy to call me with the details.”

  Minu is a teacher also. Her classroom was next to mine. She is short and slight and wears her hair in a pixie cut. She talks with grand gestures of her hands and great theatrical expressions. I can see her now, exactly, as if I were standing in the room with her. She is performing for me.

  “Please forgive me,” I beg. It is not a joke, to abandon my best friend. My voice drops to a choked whisper. “I miss you so much, Minu…it’s so hard to think of you there and not with me. You’re on my mind all the time, I think of you constantly, but in my thoughts you are here with me, and we are finding our way in America together.”

  I have these photographs in my head, these daydreams, of Minu and me seeing R-rated movies that are uncensored. We play Frisbee at Himmel Park. Laugh at the world. Check out the fine dudes. We are laughing, laughing, always laughing. We are riding our bicycles through the university campus. Buying our own red scooters and zipping around town, letting our hair blow free in the wind.

  “I’m getting married, Tami, did you hear?” Her voice sounds bright.