I know I am getting close when Vahid breaks out of character, his grimace changing into a proud smile. He nods enthusiastically when I tell him I’m going nowhere without my extension, that my plane ticket is fixed and cannot be changed. I have even inherited some of his gestures, picking up some of his traits. The rapid shaking of my head when making a point, the sharp angle at which I now fold my arms across my chest. I catch myself drumming my fingers on my elbows, a characteristic habit I’ve seen his mother and father make, and which I too now use to indicate haste.
Nevertheless this visit provokes a certain anxiety. I know there is truth in what I’ve heard: though there was once a time of strict rules and etiquette in Iran, this is fast becoming a thing of the past. The former politeness that ruled daily interactions is now viewed as weakness. Formality and elegant language have been scrapped. Being brusque and abrupt equals power in the new, rising Iran.
On the day, I dress as if going to war. My scarf clings tightly around my head and neck. I wear my darkest clothes and tug the sleeves of my cotton shirt down to my wrists. I pull black socks over my feet before putting on my thin, flat shoes, the kind of awful combination only my grandmother would think to do. My bag is filled with enough water and sunflower seeds to last out the whole day. I walk alone to the top of the street where the shared taxis swerve in and out in search of passengers, and shout, “Vali Asr,” in the hope of getting one of them to stop.
The driver who picks me up doesn’t stop for anyone else. He drives me all the way alone. Out of kindness, I suspect, he lets me take up the full width of the backseat without the additional six passengers who would customarily fill every possible space, scooped up from street corners en route.
When he sees where I am going, he looks sympathetic, mumbling, “Be successful, God be with you,” when he returns my change.
The building is how I remember it from before. The same white, square ceramic tiles. The same wood-veneer panels lining the walls. I greet the security guard at the entrance, whom I recognize, by saying good morning in Persian, and he looks at me as if I had done something astonishing and impressive.
Though I recall the procedure from last time, I hesitate when he insists I hand over my cellphone. It is my one lifeline to Vahid in case I run into trouble. Now I am truly cut off and on my own.
I remember coming here just two weeks before, a lifetime ago, when the surroundings had been so unfamiliar. At that stage my independence was unquestioned; Vahid had been left behind. The fact that I was moving on alone, in a new city without him, visiting a government office unaided or assisted by him, had only confirmed that fact.
But at the thought of it my throat tightens. I had not known certain things about myself. I hadn’t known how much I liked, even longed, to be part of a family, enjoying the noise and the constant demands. I’d come to relish living in a house full of artifacts and possessions, melding into a life that wasn’t just about me. Vahid’s pursuit of me touched me, and I took pleasure in the feeling of being claimed. These things proved—with more force than the ring on my finger, with more force than our secrecy and hiding—how much had changed since then.
Yet as gratifying and exciting as it often seems, I know the whole situation is flawed from the start. Perhaps this mess with my visa is a sign to get out. In truth Vahid will never belong to me fully. He’ll always be foremost someone’s brother, nephew, uncle or son. I’m not sure I could ever adapt to such a way of living, to sharing him in such a fractious way.
It crosses my mind that now may be the perfect excuse to disentangle myself, that maybe it’s better not to fight. It would be an easy thing to hide in, the odds were unforgiving. And yet, perhaps because of this, the idea of giving up upsets me even more.
In the main room I find the same scent of dust and lack of light. The unexpected silence of one hundred people jammed into a small space. Though I have come early, today is busier than last time, the lines already disintegrating into a jumble of waiting people.
I march up to one of the teller windows and rap on the glass, startling a woman behind who is sorting through a mountain of papers. She looks annoyed but I lean in closer, placing my hands in the gap under the window to ensure she cannot slam it shut. I thrust my passport through the grate and say, “Two weeks’ extension,” then, because I cannot help it, I also say, “Please.” I’m aware of the audacity of my behavior but it seems to be working because she takes my passport and writes down a few details without looking at me. Then she calls a man over, muttering a few words in his ear.
He begins flipping through my passport, fingering every page, examining every visa. He arrives at the one that was stamped by this office only a few weeks ago, and lingers, studying it.
I remember what Vahid had told me about the officials working here, that I should take note of their rank. The person I was looking for would have at least three stars sewn onto his shoulders. This man has only two.
“No extension!” he growls at me. But he doesn’t know who he is dealing with. I begin my memorized script of demands and refusals to leave, knowing how absurd I must sound. The Afghani women gaze at me wide-eyed in astonishment and flash their gold teeth. The men stare at each other and scratch their heads. But shame is something I left at the door and I tell myself they must at least partly be cheering me on.
It turns out the young soldier with two stars is easily exhausted. He hands me my passport and directs me to another line. I feel nervous and excited at my progress. I might be out of here by lunchtime. I’m already imagining what Vahid and I might eat to celebrate. There is a man with a stall near the park who roasts beets in their skins, directly on coals. If you ask nicely he will peel them, cut them into quarters and squeeze a half a lemon on top. In my mind I am digging a wooden spoon into my second when I realize I’ve been taken for a fool. After twenty minutes the teller’s window where I’m standing is still vacant and dark. The soldier has sent me to the line to nowhere.
I suspect this is a tactic they use to wear down troublemakers, or at least to separate the wheat from the chaff. I’ve never thought of myself as a nuisance before. Now is the time to start.
I reach for the paper I have folded into a square in my pocket. It’s scribbled with vocabulary I might need today. I consult it a few times, though I know it by heart, and formulate my next plan of attack.
A dirty light is filtering through the windows. More people are wandering in, sitting and standing in disorganized circles. Everyone seems doomed to wait. To the left is a room that looks unused, its doorway hung with a shabby curtain of black velvet. I step closer and peer in, carefully sliding the curtain to the side. The room is empty except for an abandoned desk. My heart sinks. I am lost for ideas. And then I see it: the battered meat refrigerator. The same one I’d noticed two weeks before.
It had likely broken down a few weeks or months earlier and been shoved here out of the way. A layer of fine dust suggests it has already been waiting some time for repairs or its inevitable disposal.
A diversion. That’s what’s needed. I hear chairs scraping and then deep, male voices from above. I turn the meat cabinet gently. It creaks and the glass panels wobble. I pull it as far back as possible for a good trajectory, then slide it back and forth a few times to test the wheels. If I’m lucky it will clear at least half the room. With a deep breath I push it as hard as I can and then slip through the curtain to watch from the side.
The meat fridge sails past window tellers nine, eight, seven and six, its glass rattling violently while its plug drags along the floor behind. With a bang, it crashes in between windows four and five before rebounding with equally impressive speed.
It is almost beautiful to watch, the bodies dashing out of the way, darting aside to clear a path. The divisions between people become just a single loud mess of black cloth and plastic sacks.
Men in tan, starred uniforms appear from everywhere, attempting to bring the fridge under control. The crowd are quick to laugh as they begin to tie
it with ropes, like an animal needing to be restrained. The yelling and chaos make me tipsy with exhilaration. I’ve succeeded in creating an ordeal, but not so much as to make me forget my purpose. One by one, I scan the shoulders of the soldiers, looking for a man who will be able finally to help me.
I begin to worry seriously that what I want is impossible, that I have no chance of success. And then I see him in the corner, looking tired and somewhat annoyed by this recent disruption. I take a deep breath and walk over to his desk.
It takes a few moments before he looks up from his papers. He doesn’t recognize me and at first he can’t see all the fuss. Then he flips through my passport to the place where he signed his name: Mr. Hemmatipour.
He shakes his head and begins to open his mouth. He wants to tell me he can do nothing for me. But this time I am ready for him.
“Of course you can give me more time! I know you can!” I protest.
“What do you expect me to do?”
I make reference to his power, a man in his position. “Think of your reputation!” I exclaim.
I imagine it is some of the rudest, broken Persian he has ever heard coming from a foreigner. Hemmatipour looks as if he isn’t sure whether to get angry or laugh. I see what I hope is the twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth.
He takes his calendar and begins counting. Then he examines his own signature once more. Just when I think I have broken him and will finally be victorious, he shakes his head and hands me my passport.
I’ve learned a new trick, which I’m forced to employ. I refuse to take back my passport. It dangles from his hand between us. I take a step backward, shake my head and again begin my imploring accusations.
By this stage I have a minor audience, both of Afghanis and of the other officials. I accompany my statements with sweeping arm gestures, for dramatic effect. I don’t know much about how these things are done so I try to tread the careful line between victim and righteous. The crowd appear to back me up. I hear generous tuts and murmurs of sympathy.
Hemmatipour seems baffled by me. I can tell he has no clue what to do. With a mob on my side he can no longer shove me away or call someone to have me forcibly removed. An awkward minute passes while he rubs his chin thoughtfully. Then he reaches for his phone and turns away. I hear the words for “difficult” and “making problems.” After he hangs up he points upstairs and tells me that an official on the floor above will speak with me.
Go upstairs. Is it code for “You are causing trouble”? What is the significance of this stage? Hemmatipour presses my passport into my hand and the expression on his face reads, “Let’s see how our head honcho deals with you.”
I am led upstairs where I don’t meet a soul. Everything feels out of bounds. The desks are empty, the offices enormous. No sign of the endless bureaucratic mess that rules downstairs. Whatever happens here is swift in nature—a fact that makes me worry I’ve gone too far.
I take a seat in the hallway and listen for a clue of what will come next. It is so quiet I could hear a pin drop. Most of the doors are closed. I wonder whether these are the kinds of places people go to, never to be heard from again.
Eventually a door opens and a man steps out. His feet make a scuffling noise on the polished marble floor. He looks startled to see me and then, maybe embarrassed at being caught off guard, he waves his hand hurriedly for me to follow him.
He leads me to an office where two men are sitting, one of them behind a large, tidy desk. Both are much younger than I expect them to be. They can’t be more than thirty-five at most. The man behind the desk motions for me to sit, extending his hand and gesturing to the seat opposite. I find their male chivalry consoling. They don’t smile but they don’t scowl at me either; instead they pass their eyes over me, taking in my scarf, my clothes, my shoes. Their attention makes me slightly uncomfortable, but perhaps it is only appreciation. I suspect I am the first one of my kind to be here in a long while.
The man behind the desk leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. “Would you like me to conduct your interview in English or Persian?”
“English,” I respond, feeling mildly relieved.
“But you can speak Persian? We have heard all about it,” he says. I realize now that everything that transpires here is logged and understood.
He asks about my job, my nationality and age. He jots down my replies. He asks why I have come to Iran, and for the names of the places I have been so far.
I have the sense the visa extension form in my hands is worthless. Everything depends on whether they like what they hear.
During the course of our conversation, two or three officials enter without knocking. Each time they see me they stop in their tracks. I can see how high in the ranks I have climbed in the last thirty minutes. These men could ask Hemmatipour to fetch them a cup of tea.
The man behind the desk looks up from his notebook and pauses to study me. “And how do you meet these women who you say have been teaching you to cook? We cannot be responsible for you if anything happens to you. If you go home, as you say, with strangers you meet in the street.”
I nod to indicate I’ve understood and he seems satisfied. He asks me a few more questions about my background and I sense that maybe we are nearly done. He turns and translates “Parents are from Croatia and Hungary” for the other man who until now hasn’t spoken, and probably has understood little of what has been said.
He leans back in his chair and slides my passport across the desk toward him. He opens it to my photograph and scans the details, taking note of my date of birth. He checks it quickly against the things he’s written down, verifying that I have told him the truth. There is an awkward silence as he studies my photo. He looks at me with what feels like a touch of suspicion.
He asks me to tell him the Iranian recipes I’ve learned to cook, maybe partly out of interest and partly as a test. Caught off guard, I think first about tahdig and ghormeh sabzi—but they are recipes that you would find from a cursory glance in any Iranian cookbook. Realizing I need to dig deep, I recall something special I’d made with Vahid’s mother on our last evening together—halim e gandom. It was a stiff puree of boiled wheat, crushed and whipped, fed with a steady trickle of lamb-scented broth. I remember balancing the deep, wide bowl on my forearm while she splashed in half a ladleful of warm yellow broth at a time, while I beat it continually with a fat wooden spoon. The result was a creamy, stringy mass speckled with pieces of onion and lamb, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. There was a kind of reverence when we sat to eat it, spooned onto torn pieces of the sangak that Vahid fetched especially from the stone bakery, instead of the usual barbari. Even Vahid’s father paused momentarily to admire it.
He contemplates what I’ve said and his face appears to lighten. “You ate this with sangak and not barbari?”
I nod, assuming it is a trivial question, but he appears to have taken an interest now.
“Yes, it is right. This is the correct way. The sesame on barbari would cover the taste.” He says something to his colleague and they nod in agreement. “It is very good that you have learned to make this recipe yourself. Most women are too lazy to cook this at home anymore. If you had time I would invite you to my mother’s home to taste her halim—her halim is famous among all my family.
“You’re not planning to get married, are you?” he says suddenly. Again this question. But this time there is nothing accusatory in the way he asks it. Instead there is almost a tone of respect that I choose to be alone. Perhaps he too feels he lives in a place where things not easily understood are quickly dismissed. Perhaps he sees this in me and recognizes it for what it is.
Once more he says it, but this time it feels just for show. “Just so you know, we cannot be responsible if you are taken into a stranger’s kitchen and something bad happens to you.”
But we both know a pale girl with talk of butter and rice isn’t in any danger. He reaches for the phone.
Chapter Fourteen
Darkness is falling as we return to Kashan. I still feel lost though this is the third evening we have come this way. I can remember the route up to the third turn of the baked-clay walls, past the single shop that stays open late. In its windows are everything one needs for living: packets of still-warm bread, pomegranate jam, the pungent, salty cheese we both prefer. Green bottles of Sehat shampoo, which makes my hair feel like straw and creates suds that never seem to fully rinse.
It has taken us only one full day to shake off our old habit. To stop looking over our shoulders or glancing nervously around. The gentle quiet and absence of nagging questions have given us a fresh start.
I am disoriented by the path to our guest house. The walls, scratched where mopeds have dragged along them, confound me. The white-painted doors held shut with padlocks yield no directional clue. Here and there a pipe or abandoned chair breaks up the symmetry, but otherwise there are no landmarks to guide us.
But Vahid, a child of Yazd’s labyrinthine layout, has inbuilt sonar. Though Kashan is new to him too he can navigate it with ease. Eventually we round a corner that I do recognize. Vahid reaches in his pocket for the long, metal key, turning it in the door with some force. The high walls of the courtyard reveal the sky overhead and the faint, distant voices of children mingle with the warm, moist air. Slipping off our shoes and closing the doors to our room behind us, we can shut out what little noise remains. After a relentless tempo of important promises and big things to say, now everything can be spoken in whispers, relaxed and stretched out across several days.
It is here in Kashan I have come to know him. It is here he washes my socks in the basin each evening together with his, draping them over our shoes to dry side by side. I learn that grooming and dressing are collaborative tasks. He leans out of the shower, expecting me to lather soap on his back. He reaches for a comb to pull through my hair. He thinks nothing of asking me to show him my teeth after eating, to flick away a piece of parsley lodged there. He seeks my opinion about which shirt I’d like him to wear that day—though he has only two and both are white.
The Temporary Bride Page 17