The Temporary Bride

by Jennifer Klinec

  Tomorrow we will set out the terms of a contract, agree an amount of time, even a price. Tomorrow I will have a husband and I will become a temporary bride.

  Chapter Twelve

  I worry that maybe I’ve misunderstood something. What if he only wants me for sex? What if I am walking into a trap? But not once after we’ve parted have I thought of running away or leaving him. I feel bound to see this through.

  I’ll let Vahid choose which of my three scarves he would like me to wear. I have wiped the dust from my shoes with a cloth, made an effort to style my hair. I’ve never felt so far from home. He looks tired when I meet him and I can see he is nervous too, clasping a thin plastic folder with his identity and military documents inside. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it quickly. “I sacrifice myself for her,” he says, speaking as if to someone else in the room.

  I feel amazed he wants to do this with me, to sign his name on a piece of paper next to mine. Today he’ll specify a length of time he wants to spend in my company, name an amount of money he’ll pay me for sleeping in my bed. Though no actual exchange of money will take place and the time is arbitrary, we have no more than one week left together, I enjoy the thought of his specifying these details, finding such careful solicitude romantic.

  If I have to swallow blood or tie ropes around my ankles or jump from a tall building I will do it. For in a strange way this is what I have always imagined for myself. The truth is I will do it not just because I love him, but because I have always wanted to be here, to arrive at this place. To have the sort of relationship that required me to throw myself into it entirely, demanding an intensity I would be asked to match.

  As we set out we don’t speak at all. The closest we come is the occasional brushing of our elbows. At first it is an accident but then I seek it out, bending my elbow further and further out by a few inches, seeking out the collision with his. He doesn’t seem to notice anything, oblivious to whether we touch or not, and after a few minutes I find it unbearable. Part of me wants to stop and plead, “Look at me,” while the rest wants to make myself small, and stay uncomplicated, and never care about brushing against him again.

  Vahid is completely unprepared. He has no appointments, no real idea what to do. We spend the first hour of the day with a single address copied out of the telephone book, the destination of where our marriage should take place. On the way he gets lost several times, preferring to ask for directions every twenty seconds rather than consult my map. When he speaks to me his English becomes hurried and flustered, full of lazy, elementary mistakes. Though I know it is natural, we are both agitated and anxious, I grow irritated at the introduction of these small things. They feel a threat to undermine our plans, reminding us we come from worlds never meant to mix.

  He says as much himself when we pause for breakfast, eating the scraps of bread and jam I’ve packed. “It’s impossible,” he says when telling me he’d wanted to phone his parents, to explain to his father what is about to happen. Instead he shakes his head, having lost his nerve, deciding it is best to keep it to himself for now. He will tell his parents later, when he feels more confident. Today there is enough to do.

  I feel a wave of reluctance wash over me when he mentions his parents. I can’t imagine what they will say. He’d repeated to me his mother’s last words to him before he boarded the bus to Esfahan: “Be careful. I am afraid you will fall in love.”

  When we reach the marriage registration office it is completely dark. Dusty blinds are pulled halfway across the windows. All I can see is a large wooden desk covered with manila folders that might at any moment spill over onto the floor. A sheet of paper tacked to the door says “Out of office,” but there is no further information, no number to call. Vahid asks the men in the neighboring office and their mouths hang open as if stuffed full of hard-boiled eggs. I suspect by the way they lean past him to steal glances at me that I am the first foreigner to come to this place.

  I am conscious what we are asking for is seen as disreputable and cheap, something many Iranians would frown upon. For religious families a sigheh is considered fit merely for prostitutes or something asked for by boys who aren’t serious about the future. Only girls looking for fun would agree to such a thing, the kind who allow boys to take them to motels by the Caspian Sea. And I have learned through listening that there are girls for “fun” and girls for marriage. It reminds me of a cartoon I saw once, comparing young American and Iranian women during sex. The American is directing the man (“Faster, slower, more to the left”) while the Iranian is saying, “Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell anyone.”

  But not all Iranians see it this way; for some this arrangement is a creative way to skirt around the rules. “You can just get a temporary marriage,” they tell their friends, seeing it as little more than a trite formality. It suits couples with no interest in tradition, preferring rock concerts and saving for trips abroad to a down payment on an apartment and having children. Even university students use it in the bigger cities where rents are high, making it possible to share apartments with the opposite sex. One girl I’d read about was sharing with two male flatmates and had signed a separate agreement with each.

  Still I expect to be treated with a great deal of suspicion, to receive the least possible help or assistance along our way. For that reason I’m startled when a man from the office follows after us, chasing us down three flights of stairs. He nods and grins in my direction, then presses a crumpled note into Vahid’s hand. Before turning back, he pauses to linger, and pats Vahid on the shoulder in a paternal way. This gesture gives me confidence that even to strangers he comes across as innocent and brave. It reminds me why I am willing to go to all this trouble, of the qualities in him that first drew me and that now keep me here. Even though men tease Vahid when we are separated on buses. Even though they make fun of him when he travels alone. They laugh at his strange clothes and traveler’s appearance, at his pockets spilling over with pens and scraps of paper. They call out to one another as he struggles down the aisle carrying his tent, “Zaef ro bebin!” They point and stare. “See what an effort this village guy goes to? He came all the way to Esfahan with a tent as he is desperate for girls!” Though I know it makes Vahid angry to find himself singled out and mocked, to hear himself described this way, for reasons I can’t explain each time it happens, I fall in love with him a little bit more.

  For our choosing one another is out of a total absence of customary thinking. We are nothing like the East–West romances I’ve seen. The liaisons conceived in Egypt, in Tunisia, the Islamic beachside towns where divorced German and French women in bikinis bare themselves to local men. Liaisons hatched out while bargaining for kilims and battered copper trinkets soon giving way to rides on the backs of mopeds, first to darkened establishments on the fringes of town to hear Bedouin music, then to the desert with camel-hair blankets and packets of condoms.

  Sometimes the boundary isn’t clear enough and the women mistake the crafted, planned-out encounters for love, for something lasting and profound. Their promises to return intensify instead of tapering off within days. There is talk of emigration or buying an apartment. Maybe we could open a hotel together? Run a café for tourists? Occasionally women come back, with two or three suitcases, spilling off the bus since there had been no one to meet them at the airport. Among the parcels of rye bread and tubes of mustard they expect to subsist on, they have packed their dreams of a new and enchanted life. They imagine an exotic love nest with batiks and salt lamps, a ceiling fan whirring overhead. They bump their suitcases ahead of them through the dusty streets, trying to remember which one he’d said he lived in, calling out for Mohammad or Fouad or Fakhir. But only a plump wife in a headscarf answers the door, her face flushed from the chores of cooking and laundry. Three or four children will cling to her legs and waist, peering out from behind her long skirts. For a moment the women’s eyes will meet and comprehension will set in, though they will likely not exchange a single word.
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  I suspect, like me, Vahid feels a sense of pride, a conviction that our situation is unique. The oddly appealing belief that we are slowly undoing ourselves by crossing a line that was never meant to be crossed.

  I suspect, like me, Vahid feels that the mere suggestion of our marriage carries a freakish note of scandal. But though it is exciting and reckless and perhaps not to be taken seriously, it appeals to Iranians who crave drama. Stall keepers, ladies on shopping trips and high-ranking military officials reach into their purses and pull out their cellphones, eager for the chance to be an accomplice. They call their husbands, sisters, neighbors—everyone they know—to try to assist us. I watch them peer over Vahid’s shoulder as he writes down the name or address they give him, or the phone number of the person they promise can help. Their faces glow with happiness to see their contribution to our growing pages of scribbles, crossed out one by one as they lead to dead ends.

  I’m aware that half the information we’re given will be false. That Iranians would rather give incorrect directions than appear inhospitable and say, “I don’t know.” Streets and alleyways we should pass fail to materialize, the right turn we can’t miss never appears. Half the numbers we dial are incorrect; some don’t exist at all. Sometimes people call us over and I sense they just want to get a good look at us: the Yazdi boy with old-school manners and the foreign teflaki he is dragging around. I have practically nothing to add to these conversations; all I can do is smile and tap my heart in gratitude, a gesture I have learned from watching Vahid when he thanks the people who have fed us, walked a few meters alongside us to show us the way, told us not to worry, given us reassuring nods. I say long Persian thank-yous of “Don’t be tired” and wish for their hands not to ache. I sip their sugary cups of tea, worrying that we are losing yet more time.

  At last Vahid manages to get through to someone who sounds official. A step closer to the document needed to make us legitimate. A woman on the telephone asks if we have identity documents, if we can come for an appointment that afternoon. Vahid speaks clearly, spelling out our names, and when he gets to mine there is a long pause. He repeats the word “Canadian” two or three times. I can see by his face she is using the same words we’ve heard several times today; she is explaining the reasons why “it’s impossible.”

  She tells him she can do nothing for us but gives him the phone number of someone else she says can help. Vahid’s face clouds over when he repeats the words “special mullah” and begins to write the number down.

  We agree with the mullah to meet at an address on the outskirts of the city, which we must take a taxi to reach. The buildings here are charmless, ugly high-rises. Water gushes through open canals running down the length of the streets. Vahid consults the address he has taken down on the phone, squinting to read his own hasty handwriting. It leads us down an alley where the balconies are strung with laundry lines, where sheets and towels flap overhead.

  I follow Vahid down a dusty passage to a small square, where a scrawny dog with no tail lies curled in a pool of sunlight. The dog tenses, ready to flee, equating the approach of humans with being pelted with stones.

  Vahid telephones the mullah to tell him we’re here and soon after he comes out of one of the buildings. He is heavy and walks with a lumbering gait; his long beard is slightly scraggly and unkempt. His dark, somber robes nearly reach the floor and a twisted black turban sits atop his head. The sunlight glints off a ring on his right hand, a large silver band with a square black stone. As he approaches I can’t work out whether he looks paternal or sinister. I glance at Vahid for a clue, expecting him to share something of my trepidation, but he has gained special powers; there is an unmistakable confidence in the way he stands. This keeps me rooted to the spot and I inhale deeply, holding my breath, preparing myself for the anticipated glare of speculation and disdain.

  From his jacket Vahid pulls out a small handful of flowers and hands them to me, white blossoms that have remained surprisingly fresh despite hours pressed up against the inside of his clothes. It is a gesture to make this moment special, to compensate for the dust, the flies, the sewer water draining past our feet. But he needn’t worry; this is perfect for me, this hurried, practical manner of doing things I have known all my life—here in a place where both of us know almost no one, where not a single family member is present to watch.

  I gaze at the bold look of pride on his face and everything feels so bright and sharp. I want to tell him, “I love you,” something he’s never heard me say. But I know now is not the time for such things. There is something unsentimental and formal about what we are about to do. Only a few, spare words are required of us now. All of our public intimacy has been expressed like this. Are you hungry? Do you need to sit? Can I carry that for you? These inquiries are the proof we are looking after each other, that we are not on our own, not deprived. Indirect shows of affection have come to make sense: love faintly disguised as concern. I suspect even if we were anywhere else—in Rome or Paris, where couples kiss openly in parks or on benches—we would keep up this careful, matter-of-fact way of speaking. Anything more would have been seen as tactless and I have learned not to be that way.

  “It shouldn’t take long,” the mullah assures us, “just a few minutes.” He asks for our names and shakes Vahid’s hand. He tells Vahid we look nice together. “A nice couple. A very nice couple indeed.” We stand in a kind of huddle with me facing him and Vahid leaning in on the other side. The mullah is so close I can see the pores on his face, his oily nose glistening in the bright light.

  In a voice less stern than I expect it to be, he speaks as if on autopilot but in a kindly way. He talks to me as a consoling doctor might, one who’d already seen dozens of patients that day. He asks me to repeat phrases in Arabic, words that are incomprehensible to me. No explanation is given. Vahid translates nothing. He simply stands close and smiles in encouragement, watching the contortions of my lips.

  At first I think this is our exchange of vows, but then Vahid keeps trying to cut in and speak. There is a burst of noise from the apartments up above, the sliding open of dozens of windows echoing down into the streets.

  “Haji Agha,” Vahid interrupts finally, asking how much the ceremony will cost. It is then I understand the sentences had been about acknowledging God and Mohammad as his prophet: a quick, hurried conversion to Islam. I feel a bit startled and humiliated for not having grasped what was taking place. I make my quiet peace with the idea, knowing it can be cast off afterward, having refused religion all my life.

  “How much do you want… for helping us?” Vahid repeats again, using the politest formal grammar. The mullah and Vahid stand aside, counting on fingers and taking turns raising hands in the air for emphasis. Again Vahid is clapped on the back, again he is jostled as a father does a child. But this time it doesn’t feel good to me. Instead I realize how vulnerable and desperate we are.

  I stand in the street, resigned to the weight and the oddness of it. Children are beginning to gather, to point at us and laugh. I haven’t had much chance to look around me until now; my attention has been taken up with the respectful positioning of my scarf. I’d hate to be sent away on a technicality after having traveled all this way. I notice for the first time there is a butcher’s shop on the corner. I can smell the raw meat, see the buckets full of chipped pieces of bone. A few carcasses dangle, circled by flies, swaying back and forth in the hot wind.

  “Women are like the mulberries,” a man once told me, “they attract all the flies and the wasps. You must find yourself a bee,” he said, leaning across the table and staring right through me, “to chase the flies and the wasps away.”

  “It shouldn’t take long, just a few minutes.”

  There are two goats tethered to a post outside the butcher’s. They look back at me with their striped, rectangular eyes. These will be the only witnesses to my strange, thrown-together marriage, a fact they confirm by shitting warm, half-digested grass. I want to untie their ropes or at
least scratch under their chins, to show them a little kindness on this bewildering day.

  The voices grow louder. I hear the mullah laughing. He tells Vahid that if he is from Yazd he must be rich. He insists on five hundred dollars, the equivalent of a typical month’s salary, to give us the document that will set us free. He talks at length of the risk to his reputation and after a while I stop listening.

  “If she commits any crimes I’ll be held responsible,” he gestures, turning to me. “It will be my name on your certificate. I can’t do it for less than three hundred dollars, that’s two hundred less than I normally charge: a special price for you because you are such a nice couple and both so young.”

  The fact Vahid is arguing isn’t for me, or only a small part of it is. His pride dictates that he must deal with this himself, to ensure his time with me cannot be taken away.

  How many other people have stood here, I wonder, shooing away the same flies in this same hot wind? Young couples sneaking down from Tehran, widows turned occasional prostitutes, lonely businessmen from the ports in the south needing a fix? How many of them have surrendered envelopes with five thousand toman in crisp notes to this man in exchange for his special discounts and his “very nice couple indeed”?

  Both of us want only one thing: for him to stop insisting and throwing wrenches into our plans. I keep hoping for his face to soften, for him to throw his arms in the air and say, “Oh, all right, thirty dollars it is.” For though I have the money, it’s not for me to do, to pay for our marriage myself. Such a thing would be worse for Vahid than our not marrying at all.

  Nothing more is said, the negotiating ends. We round a corner and are back in the busy street. I can see Vahid is upset and his dignity wounded. My mouth is dry from not speaking. My eyes are becoming red from the sun and the dust.

  How out of place and weary we must appear. Not at all like a couple hoping to be married. Walking rather than being ferried or driven. Hot and dusty instead of groomed and composed. I feel foolish, like a naive teenager, blinded by silly notions and gestures of love. The traffic, the sore feet, the hair I’d fixed in a special way, the dizzying, humiliating knocking and calling, only to be told again, “It’s impossible.”