The Temporary Bride

by Jennifer Klinec

  Chapter Eight

  The days after our encounter with the police are filled with anticipation. On the surface little seems to have changed. He waits for me with the same grimace and slackened posture and we walk through the courtyard without touching. He labors through the rituals of politeness with neighbors, nodding and kissing the hands of their children, shaking his head at the price of bread and milk. Finally we are released to make our way toward the staircase where our footsteps grind fresh desert sand into the concrete. It is there, in the pools of sunlight lying scattered on the floor, that he stops mid-step, one of his calves extended as if in a game of freeze. He listens for noise and, hearing none, he reaches for me and pulls me to him.

  Each morning his kisses are hurried and shy, as if he is fearful my feelings for him may have cooled overnight. He kisses my hand first and the insides of my wrist, drawing back my sleeve to expose my veins. I sense it would feel inappropriate for him to kiss me on the lips without these first gestures of affection, he had among the shoes of neighbors and the smells of their cooking. He is careful to avoid exposing my head, passing his hand carefully under my scarf to touch my hair underneath. He allows himself to graze the top of my neck with his fingers, knowing it will draw me closer. When he leans toward me, there is just enough light to make out his face before we lose ourselves in a fleeting forgetfulness. For a second we are just a boy kissing a girl, nothing wrong or dishonest, nothing treacherous, nothing to be ashamed of.

  From that instant we become outsiders, even thieves, the familiar territory of his apartment block turning hostile. What we seek isn’t jewels or money but the elusive possibility of having space and time. The narrow gap between our hands as we pour each other tea, the tiny void between our knees as we sit side by side: I can spend whole minutes, even hours staring at them and willing them away. I smell opportunity in the creaking of doors and the closing of windows, the clacking of the beaded curtain that on warm afternoons sways gently with the gust from the fans. All in the hope of a few moments of privacy, to be alone.

  Our ritual, though only days old, forces me to trust him. Though I make no comment and betray no reaction to him, I know he is alert to the same opportunities and in search of the shortest path to me. I learn to cherish the few times in the day we’ll speak or address each other directly, conscious of the barriers that keep us apart, the persistent presence of a chaperone. Some mornings we hardly talk at all, like two polite strangers, but I am sensitive to every time he passes near. I detect every subtle glance or motion in my direction, every hurried seeking and reluctant retreat. Sometimes we subsist a whole day on that first kiss, a rich morsel to chew slowly and draw out.

  It makes me feel shy, remembering how I’d been at the beginning, embarrassed at how little I’d understood. I’d sat always on the most comfortable chair, failing to rise when elders came into the room, accepting shamefully expensive sweets purchased for my benefit and set out on silver trays. I’d basked in the false glow of foreign celebrity, wearing my scarf as if it were a game. But the longer I stay and the more I begin to comprehend, the more strange the idea becomes of leaving Yazd, the more unnatural the idea of going back to my empty home that is too big for me, to the spartan rooms and closets filled with denim miniskirts, and pink and green T-shirts, and rubber flip-flops, to life resuming its normal routine of tying aprons around my waist, of all the tasks of carrying and hauling and organizing and planning. To a time where I’ll glance again at the calendar hanging next to my desk in the hallway, safely counting down the days to the next trip, when I might close the windows and bleach out the fridge and abandon my home once more, occasionally looking back to recall something as rare and perfect as standing in a dark stairwell, with a boy’s hand quickly passing through my hair.

  How could I leave Yazd now when it is my job to peel the thick skin from the broad beans, a task his mother’s hands, ravaged by chemotherapy, can no longer do? When it is only my arms that can reach the battered copper pot needed for boiling wild marigolds with sugar to make the syrup that will soothe sore throats this winter? When only yesterday I learned where the toolbox is kept, and which screwdriver to pass to his father when the plastic cover needs changing on the grumbling fan that hangs over the bathroom?

  Even the sound of my name on their lips, spoken in the present tense and the possessive case—Jennifere, Jennifero, Jenniferemun—resonates through their third-floor apartment in a way that confirms my place here. So much so it seems almost natural when Vahid turns to me to say, “Jenny, it’s time.”

  Separated by the polite distance of a green table, we easily could be strangers, counting our change and settling down for a treat. The bazaar is loud, even from the refuge of this archway, with the shouting of prices and the hammering of copper.

  “I know it’s a big risk but I want to take it,” he says. “I have been observing you. I have seen you with my family and my friends. I watched how you behave. I want you to be my first love.”

  Our rice-flour dumplings catch in my throat, the deep crimson syrup suddenly too dense to swallow.

  For days I have wanted this, studied him too, dreamed of his hands on my body, knowing me in such a way. I’ve imagined myself the subject of the precise, painstaking attention he imparts to the routines that punctuate his day, the judicious lathering of his hands at the kitchen sink, the careful whispering of salaat before pressing his forehead to the ground.

  In this inhospitable place where everything is overseen and decided, something delicate now seeks light and water to grow. But as I look out at the clamoring crowds drifting past, the vague swirls of black- and brown-draped limbs clutching shopping bags and children, my heart sinks at what I have known all along.

  It isn’t that what he is suggesting is dangerous or illegal, or that we would both be arrested if caught. I would be putting him in a position he would struggle to accept, shattering the truths of how he was raised. Vahid had always assumed he would be the first for a woman; no other possibility could have entered his mind. He had been taught to expect her to be as innocent as he was, that he would “open” her for himself, a single discovery, a claim.

  Whether I accept his notions or think them old-fashioned, anything we might do would be new for him alone. He would be navigating in the shadows of things that had already happened, of touches and caresses that had come in the past. I’m afraid it would be cruel to mark him in such a way, and I am fearful of being marked in such a way by him too.

  The silence between us is tender and strange. I feel the sleeve of my coat soaking into a pool of melted ice on the table. But I don’t move it. I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say.

  “You don’t have to talk,” he says. His calmness unnerves me. How had I washed up into this new life where everything I did was marked and noticed, where everyone seemed to be reaching in and pulling something out of me?

  For a moment I feel an overwhelming sense of missing him, missing even myself as I was at a younger age. I think back to how I’d felt slighted by the Irish boy who first slept with me, how my first relationship had troubled me in many ways. It had been his past that had hurt me the most, the knowledge that he had lost his virginity in a way I’d found crass. He’d been drunk and locked out of the house with a girl at a party, he’d told me, laughing. They’d had sex in a toolshed after he’d urinated among some rosebushes. Later, when I’d become more clearheaded, I’d quietly condemned the whole episode, always wishing I’d held on for something better, regarding it as something of a mistake.

  I watch Vahid kick at the wide drain in the center of the floor with the toe of his shoe. Though serious, he seems unburdened by any such concerns. Perhaps the fleeting nature of our romance has wiped these questions from his mind. Maybe it is better that way.

  “I am leaving in two days,” is all I can bring myself to say. The words carry a finality that claws at my stomach. “To do this now would only make things more complicated.”

  “But I want this com
plexity,” he says. “I want to take its risk.”

  I turn briefly to look at him and shake my head. The folding metal chair Vahid is sitting on scrapes the floor as he leans in toward me.

  “I had strong beliefs, Jenny,” he says, reaching for my hand. “I wanted to have sex only with my wife. But you are something different for me. I am feeling the taste of love for the first time in my life and I don’t want it to stop. I know you are leaving and I won’t see you again. But I don’t want to lose you. I want to have its memory.”

  I take another spoonful of faloodeh and hold the icy mixture against the roof of my mouth. The cold creates a sharp pain that slides down my throat as I swallow. Even without looking across the table, I know my refusal must be hurting him.

  The stall owner stirs the contents of a copper tub. He mutters orders to his helper, a young boy, to fetch his rose-patterned dishes from where they have been left by other customers in the neighboring corridors. His back is to us, partly shielding us from view as he arranges his small display of plastic tubs of sugar syrup and blocks of sweetened sesame paste.

  We continue eating without speaking. Our spoons clink against our bowls. As much as I appreciate Vahid and feel drawn to him, we aren’t equals in any way. He is a twenty-five-year-old Muslim living in a country where you can be arrested for holding hands. I can’t let myself consider him, or hope for something that is unchangeable.

  He looks at my troubled expression, sees the difficulty I have in speaking. His brown eyes search my face and he releases my hand.

  “Jenny,” he says softly. “Do you know what you are to me, Jenny? You are ba namak.”

  “What is ba namak?”

  “It is a Persian word. It is a kind of saltiness. When food is ba namak, it means it is seasoned perfectly to our taste. To the next person it may be too salty. To another it may need more salt. But to this person, the food is seasoned exactly to be the most delicious just for them. You are ba namak for me, Jenny. Everything about your character—your confidence, your nice temper and all your experiences. They make you the perfect girl for me. Just for me.”

  I turn to look at him, his eyes glowing with hope, his words so simple and uncomplicated. It gives me a start to remember how cold I’d felt when I first saw him, while feeling such affection toward him now. Ten days ago he’d written down his name and address for me, this gruff boy I’d been convinced I would never call or see again. He is now seeking more from me, asking for a permanent memory, a piece of me to keep.

  I feel tears welling up and I brush them away quickly. He reaches again for my hand. This time his grip is strong and reassuring, anchoring me and pulling me in.

  I gaze past him to see our reflections in a mirror on the wall, suspended over a basin in the corner. Vahid’s head is tilted slightly in my direction, our faces framed by the stark white tiles. In this first, formal presentation of how we appear to the world, we are opposites in every way. His hair is black, my eyes are green; his tanned arms contrast with my pale hands and face. Yet I’m startled to find we look handsome together, even striking, rather than boldly out of place. The age difference between us appears diminished, the disparities have dwindled away. If anything, I seem like the one who is innocent, and Vahid the one who is taking the lead.

  Vahid knows a pharmacy on the way home. He parks opposite and leaves me in the car. Even at nine in the evening it is packed with customers and a long line trails out the door. From where I am sitting I can see people rolling up their sleeves to analyze each other’s skin ailments and rashes, discussing the nature and reason for their coughs. Vahid has disappeared into the swarm of figures crowding the counter where girls are dispensing everything from expensive bottles of L’Oréal shampoo to penicillin powder in paper envelopes. When he returns to the car he looks red-faced and embarrassed, and he sighs loudly in relief.

  He removes an orange box from his bag. I lift it up to read the gold lettering printed on the front: Rocket Love Rubbers. Made in Malaysia. There is a drawing of a large penis-shaped balloon with jet flames underneath. I can’t help but laugh, which makes Vahid laugh too. The image is such a stark contrast to our chaste, sexless surroundings. Vahid blushes slightly, placing his hand on my shoulder, the garish-colored box a bizarre symbol of what we are planning to do.

  He drives me home and we pass through the darkened streets in silence. The radio is switched off and the car hums loudly as the gear shift is moved from one position to the next. Vahid drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives, returning his hands to it each time he slots the lever into place.

  “I had expected you to be skinnier, and your breasts to be larger,” he says suddenly. “I couldn’t stand to look at you the other day in my room. When I felt with my hand how hairy you were between your legs, I was shocked at how dirty you were.”

  He says these things without ceremony, as if talking about the weather or football. For the first time a cheapness has crept into his voice. I stare at him, numb, and I feel myself stiffen. Without saying it to me directly, he is letting me know: I am something less to him and we are not equal in his mind either.

  I am grateful to him for reminding me what this will and won’t be. For putting this distance between us and maintaining this wall. He has done it for me, made my decision, enabled me to take something crucial from him. Our final night together will be a mutually beneficial swap: he’ll feel like a man and I’ll get a dangerous thrill. Perhaps he may look back and remember me fondly, in the only future he is destined for. Ten years from now with a soft-spoken wife beside him and two or three children, our one single night will flicker back into his mind. Even the short time I’ve spent in this country has taught me a few things.

  His words continue to ring in my ears as he drives me home, steadying and putting me on edge at the same time. I shy away from him when it comes time to say goodnight, mildly irritated when he pauses and listens for a chance to lean in. As he retreats to the car I catch myself wandering along suspicious, self-preserving fault lines, thinking maybe he has done all this before. Wondering whether he is an expert at seeking out opportune moments to kiss girls, or if his talent is just a side effect of living in Iran.

  I wait until he is out of sight and slip out once more into the darkness, heading through the empty bazaar. My mind has filled with unanswered questions, things I want to understand. I find the Internet café I usually go to. At this late hour there are only a handful of boys wearing headsets, playing video games, shouting loudly and shooting with large, wired-in toy guns. It makes it easy to choose a desk in the corner, one that isn’t overlooked.

  I don’t know what I am hoping to find or even if it has anything to do with me. But I wonder what the consequences might be. I have no idea whether what we are planning is common or whether it has ever happened before, or if we would be in trouble if we were caught. The notion of punishment for unmarried sex is unimaginable to me but I know it has happened sometime, somewhere. In this nation of honor and obedience, surveillance and rules, the danger-versus-freedom debate is an unsolvable mystery. Maybe because in my case the foreigner is the female, Vahid would simply be patted on the back and chided for a slipup in taste.

  On my previous visit a student had leaned over and shown me a secret address that allowed me to bypass Iran’s restrictions and access the New York Times and the BBC. I pull my chair close to the monitor and begin typing, unsure whether I will find what I am looking for. But there are videos upon videos and countless images, terrible things I’d only read about. I see men, women, boys as young as twelve or thirteen, all sentenced to death for breaking Iranian law. Their wrists are tied together behind their backs, nooses arranged and fitted in place. Crowds of people gather in circles around them, even children, some holding ice creams, many filming on mobile phones. Cranes pull them slowly up and away from the ground while the mob jeers and cries out that God is great.

  Most go quietly, their faces numb, lifeless already when they are made to stand in the dirt. Some
young men wave rebelliously and smile when the cloth sack is pulled from their heads, shouting curses and encouraging their relatives to chant. One woman is wearing a long, dusty chador, her only discernible feature the running shoes on her feet. She closes her eyes while five men fuss around her, calling out, “Tamaam e,” to indicate she is ready. Even as the crane has begun to lift, they step forward, tightening and adjusting the noose around her neck. When her feet leave the earth they begin to run and flap, those shoes desperately reaching out for solid terrain.

  My hands tremble and I slide them under my knees, lowering my head in shame at what I’ve seen. I wonder if Vahid has ever watched such a thing, ever gone to witness such an awful scene. I try to imagine him pushing his way to the front of the crowd or jostling to get a good view. But I know he would find such a thing as wretched as I do, a fact that comforts me as I wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  I turn back, ready to switch off my screen, and spot something I’d only vaguely noticed before. A group of policemen standing stiffly in a ring, while feet dangle limply over their heads. They are wearing the same dark green uniforms I’d learned to dread, the same brusque confidence on their faces. I shudder to remember the men who’d stopped and harassed us a few evenings ago, whose anger and smirking had made us feel so small.

  Three more times the police have stopped us since, once even appearing out of the shrubs in a park. Each time Vahid and I were pulled up, separated, made to stand at a distance, while they went through their routine. We waited, frustrated and gawked at, itching to move on, for twenty minutes or longer, while they phoned in the details of Vahid’s ID card and address, but rather than putting more fear into us, it lost a fraction of its meaning each time. By now I’d come to regard them as a nuisance. The last time I’d felt a surge of courage and refused to leave Vahid’s side. We’d turned our backs on them as they mumbled their warnings, chastising us for the offense we’d caused.