The Temporary Bride

by Jennifer Klinec

  Looking back at the photograph, I notice a platter of crisp heads of lettuce with two turquoise bowls resting on either side. A tall pitcher of gold-colored syrup stands beside it, dappled sunlight glinting off the crystal handle. Vahid hooks his finger through mine, pulling my hand aside to look.

  “Ah… a specialty of southern Iran. Its name in Persian is sekanjabin. It is a syrup made from cooking grape vinegar with sugar and mint. One of our neighbors even makes it with wild honey. My sister and I used to fight over it whenever my mom made it for us. I’m sure we used to make her crazy.

  “My mom says the syrup is good for giving energy. She makes my father drink it with water and special black seeds. But mostly we dip lettuce in it and eat it with our fingers. It is so delicious you can’t believe it. There is one farmer who is famous for the best lettuce in Yazd, all the women run to him when they see him. He comes to the parks with a donkey and sells from wooden buckets of ice. The lettuces are so fresh, water drips out when you cut them open. Between my father and me we can easily eat ten.”

  His voice sounds tender and he leans in as if to touch me. Then he steps away and turns to face me instead. “You see. Your place was empty,” he says, gesturing to the photograph, to a vacant patch on the blanket beside him.

  At first I think he is talking to me like a sister; for all the days we have spent under the same roof. Perhaps by needing and seeking his protection, I have gone too far and stepped into her place. One evening a few days ago when his mother, too tired to cook, suggested we go out to buy kebabs, even I got swept up in it all. The spritzes of cologne and quick checks in the hallway mirror, the clambering to grab wallets and tie shoelaces. The same sense of ceremony I’d felt with my own parents and sister when going to the movies or the gas station for ice cream. I climbed into the backseat next to Vahid without thinking. Vahid’s parents got into the front to drive. From a distance any stranger would have assumed we were a family, that his parents were my parents, that Vahid and I were siblings.

  In the silence I hear the swishing of his jeans as he steps toward me. He is so close I can smell sweat and sheep wool on his clothes. I hold myself perfectly still as he approaches, as if any movement might encourage him or scare him away. He grabs my hands and his expression becomes tense. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s safe here.”

  I feel dizzy and nervous as he stares into my face. My body stiffens against the bookcase. He doesn’t seem to realize how stern he looks, how inward and autonomous he still seems. He has needed no one in all the hours we’ve spent wandering the city, yet I realize I have been scraping at him for days. I feel excited now at having exposed some softness, yet apprehensive of bringing it to light. Carefully I squeeze his hands back as if he has put something fragile into my palm. Something I am scared of dropping. As if, if I’m not careful, I could ransack an entire life.

  “Can I kiss you?”

  I feel I’ll go crazy if he touches or kisses me, though he has barely held or shaken my hand. I have all the vocabulary to reject him. I can do it quickly, even with tenderness. Tell him he is too young, too intact, too perfect to court me in such a way.

  Vahid draws closer to me, still holding my hands. His first kiss is quick and unsure and he seems scared of disappointing me. He kisses me again, more earnestly and possessively, the pull of his arms becoming strong around my waist. His mouth tastes pleasantly warm and sweet, and the stubble on his cheeks grazes my skin. His clasp moves up to my rib cage, pressing into my body as if laying claim to me, telling me, “You are mine.”

  I can sense how vulnerable and unsure he is. His neck stiffens under my hand. I let it rest there a moment to try to reassure him and the tremor in his bottom lip suggests he is giving in to his body for the first time. Instinctively I pass my fingers through his hair and the texture startles me. It feels unpleasantly coarse, like wires. His breathing quickens, becoming hot and aggressive on my skin, and I panic and push him away.

  Vahid recoils, looking alarmed. Then tilts his head downward as if I’ve struck him in the face. “I don’t know why I was kissing you,” he says, his voice rising shakily.

  I look at his flashing brown eyes, his angry scowl, his arms crossed defensively across his chest: the strange combination of everything that is exciting about him and everything that drives me away.

  “I think you wanted to kiss me because you like me,” I say quietly.

  “No, I don’t like you!” he shouts, backing away. “I don’t like you. I feel pain in my chest and I want to be free of this!”

  Vahid lowers himself against the wall opposite, resting the weight of his body on his crossed ankles. The tea he has made has grown cold now. The unused cups are still stacked.

  “Maybe I should leave you alone for a while.”

  “No, come and sit beside me,” he says softly. “Don’t leave.”

  I cross the room and crouch next to him. He takes my hand and holds it to his chest.

  “I can’t breathe and my heart is pounding,” he says in a low, quiet voice. “What is happening to me?”

  I feel almost chivalrous to see him like this. I want to touch his face and put a hand to his cheek. In spite of the dormant calm I’ve acquired toward men, piled up instincts of hesitation and reluctance, I want to do something, to somehow reach out.

  “It’s okay,” I say, leaning across to stroke his hair.

  “No! It’s not okay!” he lashes out. “You are mediocre. You aren’t ugly, but you aren’t beautiful. Other than your hair you have no nice features. I don’t like you!”

  I stand up slowly, my cheeks flushing crimson. I want nothing more than to get out of this room.

  “You need to be left alone.” My voice comes out more dismissively than I intend and I begin moving around the room to gather my things.

  “Don’t leave me. Please come back. Come back and sit with me.”

  “No,” I say firmly, leaning against the wall opposite. “You come. You come to me.”

  He stands up and looks at me puzzled. “Jenny, I’m sorry. Please come and be close to me.”

  I watch as he walks slowly toward me. He takes my hand and raises it to his mouth.

  I can feel his hand is trembling slightly as he begins to pull me toward him.

  Turning off the lights shouldn’t have made it so dark. It is late April and the middle of the day. It is clear he has partially prepared for this, to approach me in this way. He leads me to the bedroom, his expression both calm and reckless. He pushes me down onto the bed. He climbs on top of me roughly, as if wanting to get it over with, never once looking at my face.

  His hands on me feel rough and aggressive; he grasps at my breasts and scratches at buttons and clasps. For a moment I think he might try to force himself on me, but I manage to push him away.

  “I want to see your body,” he says. “You are leaving soon and I don’t want to miss you. I don’t want to miss you. You are perfect for me. I want you to be mine.”

  His face is full of anguish and his hands move again around my waist. I am tempted to lie still when he reaches to unzip my jeans a second time. But to sleep with him would be only about his virginity, and I couldn’t take such a memory or leave behind such a powerful imprint.

  I push him off a second time and he slides onto his back, beside me. His eyes are closed, his expression limp and defeated. I want to do something for him, make some sort of gesture. I care for him and it shouldn’t end like this.

  Everything feels slow as if I am moving through wet fog. I reach inside the folds of his trousers and his breath quickens as he turns toward me. I press my cheek to his and feel his warm forehead against my face. “Joonam,” he whispers as I close my fingers around him. As his breathing quickens and his body tenses, he twists the ends of my shirt into a knot in his fist.

  “Are you okay?” he asks again and again, his eyes wide and full of concern. He reaches for a cloth to wipe the stickiness from my fingers, more worried for my propriety than for himself, lying in damp
clothing with his zipper still undone.

  Rather than feeling embarrassed or shy, he offers me a place on his chest to lay my head. Quietly he whispers, “Joonam, azizam,” stroking his fingers through my hair. He seems grateful for the kindness I have shown him, as if I might just as easily have humiliated him instead.

  Later at dinner Vahid takes the place next to me on the floor, a family of four sitting around the tablecloth. As usual the news is on the TV as we eat, our heads bowed, reaching for bowls and plates. I’ve grown accustomed to the relative quiet at mealtimes when it is just the four of us, Vahid’s parents wasting little time on ceremony. Without a household of uncles and cousins, conversation is kept to a minimum and meals are not long, drawn-out affairs. Compared to the many hours of braising and frying, and the elaborate decoration, that go into preparing our meals, the act of sitting and eating is brief and perfunctory.

  As his parents eat with their eyes glued to the screen, Vahid behaves with a new attentiveness that causes me to blush. He tugs out the best pieces of chicken for me. When my plate becomes empty he refills it with rice. In return I top up his glass of lemon juice, and pass him handfuls of chives and mint. We tend to each other with the affection of an old married couple, anticipating each other’s needs. I look up at the faces of his parents, convinced they must guess or be aware of something, but they simply eat and watch television, staring in self-absorbed silence.

  After dinner Vahid calls me to the window, holding open the blinds for me to see out between two slats. I press my nose to the dark-tinted glass to find that a dust storm has fallen upon Yazd, cloaking the city in a chalky mist.

  “I will tell my parents that I am going to take you back now,” he says, “but I want to walk awhile together. I need to be alone with you.”

  We step outside and as we walk swirling plumes of fine sand dance around us. I feel the fluffy particles collect on my hair, as pleasant as warm snowflakes on my nose and cheeks. We pass through the shadows of a line of cypress trees and Vahid stops.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispers. I close them and feel his warm breath blow the dust from my eyelashes. I reopen them to see him smiling at me.

  We resume our late-evening ritual of walking through the backstreets of the city which often takes place during the evening azoon. From the position of his parents’ house we are closest to the minaret where it always begins, the first solitary call to prayer ringing out. At first I found it sinister and intimidating, but now I crave it. I like the formal recognition of the day changing into night, the voices adding their strength one by one to create a dense, overlapping sound. We listen as we pass down a narrow alley, the path clear despite the dust and fog. The sun has all but vanished and a few blurry stars are emerging in the sky.

  “Jenny?” Vahid asks, looking down.

  “Yes?” I murmur, still listening as the last notes of the azoon fade away.

  “What do you think of me?”

  The sensible thing would be to brush off his question. This doesn’t feel like a conversation for now. Part of me is frustrated that he can’t see this, but his face is so serious I want to tell him the truth.

  In a shy, muddled way I have grown fond of him, and the strange way we have been thrown together. He is the last person I think of when I go to sleep. The first person I am curious about when I wake up each morning.

  I feel pride that such a difficult person could single me out and treat me with affection. I have come to appreciate the way he glances over at me, keeping me constantly at his side. In return I feel protective toward him: how tired he seems, the default grimace he wears each day.

  Beyond that, I can’t understand what he might see in me, other than the draw one might expect from a lifetime without girls and sex. If we met in London we would have little cause to know one another. I can’t imagine he would like how I live. My concrete walls and ceilings he would find cold and sterile. He would hate the oversized wooden table and taking meals from separate plates while sitting several feet apart. He would get restless and bored without the constant stream of friends and relatives ringing the doorbell. Probably he would frown at the absence of mementos and knickknacks, at the single, bare lightbulbs illuminating each room.

  Perhaps now because we are equally alone, we seek each other out as we wouldn’t elsewhere. But I know in a few days I’ll leave Yazd and we won’t see one another again.

  We come to the end of the quiet laneway and I feel the impatient tug of his hand on my sleeve. I know he wants an answer to his question, to hear a profession, to kiss me again.

  We step out into the bright lights of a wide avenue and by instinct we move apart and lower our voices. In the distance I see a car approaching, the full glare from its beams blinding in our faces. As it passes I have the feeling I should look down, yet I’m unable to turn my head away. I can just make out the silhouettes of four men through the darkened windows.

  The car lurches violently and there is a squealing of brakes as it stops in the middle of the near-empty street. My heart goes cold as I watch it make a sharp U-turn and pull up onto the sidewalk beside us.

  The front doors are thrown open and two men climb out, their heavy leather boots stomping the pavement. Revolvers and clubs hang from their wide, leather belts. Tidy rows of gold stars decorate the shoulders of their dark green uniforms.

  One of the men looks at me closely and begins to shout at Vahid, a torrent of accusations and pointed jabs in the air.

  Calmly, Vahid reaches into his pocket, handing over papers to the officer who has been shouting—his identity card and release papers from the military. The officer scans through the documents impatiently, scratching at the laminated plastic coatings with his thumbnail.

  The officer turns and looks me up and down. But my coat is long enough, my scarf intact. I keep my gaze on the ground this time, fearing if I look up he’ll read my mind and understand how inane this all seems. He passes the papers back to Vahid and I can see from their interaction it’s a scene that has played out many times before, requiring certain lines; the script always the same.

  The officer barks orders to the two policemen still seated in the car to get out. Then he turns, gestures violently at us to take their places. I turn and look to Vahid for guidance and see a shadow of agitation clouding his face.

  “Call your parents and tell them to come and meet you at the police station,” the officer sneers. “They can explain to us what you are doing alone with this foreign girl.”

  “I am not calling anyone,” Vahid replies firmly, stepping forward to put his hand on the officer’s shoulder. “My phone is out of batteries. And my parents will be very upset to hear that you have frightened my cousin from London who is our guest.”

  The policemen look around as if hoping for a crowd to witness our humiliation, but the streets are empty, there is no one around. The only observers are in passing cars, slowing down and craning their necks out the windows. I can’t tell whose side they are rooting for, or whether they are just grateful for the spectacle, for fresh gossip to share.

  We stand on the pavement, their shadows looming over us, the effect emphasizing that we are at the mercy of their mood. Vahid turns to me calmly. “Jenny, do you have your passport with you?”

  I reach into my bag and open my passport to the page where my visa had been stamped. He passes it to the officer who thumbs through it with excessive interest. He seems to be around forty, sporting the mandatory stubble. He leans toward me, glancing up from my photograph to my face, but instead of saying a word he just pauses and waits.

  I continue to gaze down at my shoes. I have no idea whether he can read a word of English, or has the vaguest idea what any of the stamps mean. His expression softens slightly as he examines each page, squinting under the dim street lighting.

  “Ask her how the police would behave in her country,” he asks Vahid sharply, motioning to me.

  “My cousin is free in her country,” he replies, looking directly into the officer�
�s face.

  The officer smirks and hands my passport back to Vahid. “Bashe,” he says. “Let it be.” They shake hands before the policemen climb into the car and drive away, vanishing just as quickly as they’d arrived.

  Vahid turns to me and smiles. “You really are my lucky coin. That was the first time I have avoided going to the police station.” He checks me over for signs of amusement, perplexed by my expression of deep concentration. He places his arm on my shoulder, gently repeating, “Don’t worry. It’s all okay.” But it is my first taste of such mindless, random authority and I am lost as to what it must be like to live in such a way. I am half flattered the police should find me of any interest, annoyed they would bother with me at all. The facts of the moment, both comic and terrifying, haunt and reassure me at the same time.

  Vahid leaves me to go into a cave-like store where oranges and lemons spill out of boxes, and bananas are piled on wide silver trays. He points to something and reaches for his wallet, but the vendor shakes his head as if we are toxic from our encounter with the police, raising his out-turned palm to his chest. Vahid points outside at me, calmly insistent, finally returning with two chunks of watermelon.

  “I chose for you the part we love best in Iran,” he says. “It is the center that is the sweetest and has the fewest seeds. We call it the flower of the watermelon. I thought it would make you happy again.”

  As we continue to walk a new silence falls over us. Awkwardness has gone and solidarity has risen up in its place.

  “How porru we are!” Vahid laughs, a Persian word that literally means “full of face.”

  We eat our watermelon with savage vigor, falling into step, the juice beginning to drip through our fingers. Vahid pauses to spit the seeds delicately into a cupped fist, then holds out his hand for me to do the same. The combination makes me feel sentimental, almost more so than the early physical moment we shared.

  It is well after midnight when we enter the labyrinth of the old city, the walls so narrow we must walk in single file. Behind me I can hear Vahid’s breathing and the sound of his clothes scraping lightly along the packed mud and clay. I listen for other traces of noise, craving his touch, his hand rising to the back of my hair.