Together Tea

by Marjan Kamali

  Darya sipped her tea and sighed.

  “Say something, Darya Joon!” Baba gave Darya a desperate look.

  “What would you like me to say?”

  Mina hadn’t seen her mother sit up so straight in a long time.

  “Excuse me?” Baba stopped. He looked up at the ceiling and held up a finger as if telling an invisible Almighty to just be patient and wait a minute while his wife caught on to the gravity of the situation. He turned to Darya. “I honestly don’t know what is happening with you, Darya. MY LOVE, your daughter wants to take a hiatus from business school to visit Iran. Let’s take a moment to see what’s wrong with this picture . . .”

  “Not a hiatus,” Mina said carefully. “I wouldn’t miss any classes. We have our two-week winter break coming up anyway. I’ve timed it all to go then.”

  “You have, haven’t you?” Darya swiveled her perfect-postured head in Mina’s direction.

  Mina gulped and nodded.

  “Oh, well then, I suppose it all makes perfect sense! Silly me!” Baba slapped his head. He took in more deep breaths, then put on the voice he used with patients when he delivered bad news. “Mina, you have not been back in fifteen years. You have an American passport. There are risks involved with returning after all this time. Risks that we cannot predict . . .”

  “I still have my Iranian passport . . .” Mina reminded him.

  Baba dropped the doctor voice and looked up at his invisible friend in the ceiling again. “She has it all planned out!” He laughed nervously at the ceiling.

  “She does, doesn’t she?” Darya said. But, unlike Baba, she seemed to be impressed, not annoyed.

  “Tell her that this is all a fantasy!” Baba cried.

  “And what, may I ask,” Darya said, looking tired now, “is wrong with a little fantasy?”

  “I beg your pardon, Darya?” Baba almost whispered.

  “Seems to me like a truly wonderful plan.”

  Baba looked at Darya as though she were a dragon who had materialized out of thin air and appeared in his living room. “WHAT?”

  “It would be during the semester break. She wouldn’t miss any school. She would just be going back home.” Darya listed off the positives on her fingers as casually as if she were reciting vegetables for a grocery list.

  Mina stared from one parent to another. Now, like Baba, she too was in shock.

  Baba stood frozen in the middle of the room, a half-crazy smile on his face.

  “Perhaps it’s not so strange an idea,” Darya confirmed, pausing to pat her skirt. Then she looked straight at Mina. “But on one condition only. That if you go on this trip, you promise that when you come back you will simply buckle down and focus entirely on business school. Drop the whole ‘I’m torn because I want to be an artist’ routine once and for all. Agreed?”

  Mina was so much in shock that she just nodded and said, “Sure.”

  “What? We can’t set conditions, Darya. The whole idea is ludicrous!” Baba said. “Though it would be good, Mina Joon, if we could just get you to actually focus on your business studies. Without the monster of doubt tormenting you. Doubt kills achievement. It is the elixir that feeds that other monster negativity . . .”

  “Good, then! It’s all settled!” Darya interrupted. She looked out the window. “It has been such a very long time,” she said softly. “And the answer is yes, Mina Joon. The answer is yes.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t asking for permission . . . exactly,” Mina said. “I was just letting you know . . .”

  “No, I mean the answer is yes, of course I’ll come with you,” Darya said as if explaining the obvious.

  Baba sank into a chair, holding his hand to his heart, air blowing out of his cheeks.

  Mina sat there, speechless.

  “You’re welcome!” Darya smiled and held up her tea.

  Chapter Eleven

  Darya’s Dreams

  Ever since they were born, all she’d ever wanted was to do right by them. To be done, in a way. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed raising them. She had. She’d buried her face into their infant bellies, held them up and delighted in their perfection, laced her fingers through theirs while walking them to school. She had never known, nor could she have guessed beforehand, that her children would consume her so. Once each kidney bean–sized embryo formed inside her, her world was reconstructed. Once they were born, she had spent sleepless nights holding them close, rocking and singing while they cried their hearts out. Those nights had spooled into years.

  Every toothache, every cough, every ear infection they had, had been hers too. She did not know she could stand so much love.

  In those early days, she’d tripped over their scattered toys on the living room floor, not realizing that she’d soon be tripping over their unannounced friends, their political choices, their careers and mates.

  When Hooman sank a basketball into the net, her own body extended. When Kayvon threw up at the new restaurant on Queens Boulevard, her own insides flip-flopped. And with every step Mina took, every head she turned, every drawing she drew, Darya held her breath, enchanted.

  It was for them that Darya had come to America. It was for them that she had stayed. But not one day had gone by when she hadn’t thought about the place she’d left.

  But these children were no longer just hers. They were grown now. Hard as it was to believe. She needed to let them live their own lives.

  It was her and Parviz now, more or less.

  And ever since Parviz had shown up in his wool hat and scarf and had sat in that chair at the coffee shop with her and Sam, and ever since that quiet ride home, it was as if something tiny had broken between her and Parviz. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Parviz, she knew, knew that.

  That moment in that coffee shop, sitting there between Sam and Parviz, the air had been so charged. She couldn’t place it. In the next spreadsheet class after the coffee shop incident, she’d still sat next to Sam. They’d still stood outside together during the breaks. Talking was allowed, wasn’t it?

  Darya’s confusion was what made going back to Iran all the more enticing. To get away and to go back. Even though it had been so hard to come over here in the first place.

  Those first few weeks in America, Darya had kept turning around, expecting to see the extended family she loved right behind her. But no one was there. Every time she saw a woman her own age with someone who seemed to be her mother, Darya felt empty. Those grown women with their mothers by their sides—how jealous she was of them. She had been one of those women once. She’d had a mother. She’d had just about everything.

  What is done cannot be undone.

  In those early years, Darya waited in their house in Queens for relatives who never came. She even made tea. Brewed the leaves and placed a cozy on the pot. Tea glasses clean and ready. But no one came.

  She’d give anything to throw the dinner parties she used to complain about. Her young, naïve self had dared to say, “We never have any time to ourselves as a family.” What a fool she’d been. They’d floated as a family of five, alone, for so many years. And now here they were, down to two. Just she and Parviz.

  Americans went about their business as if life were short and all their energy and efforts had to be spent today. Rushing around with gargantuan shopping carts and rushing off to appointments and errands and whatever was next on their schedules. They saw shrinks and doctors constantly, bought do-it-yourself home-repair kits, and believed self-esteem could solve problems. They acted as if every action they took were just for the sake of taking action. They acted as if everything were a race. As though the faster you moved, the more it mattered. As though by simply repeating something, you could make it true. And how was it that Parviz, her husband, a doctor, for God’s sake, had bought right into it? Hook, line, and sinker. Parviz repeated mantras and took bloody action all the time.

&nb
sp; But that’s not how it worked. That’s not how it added up. Not for one minute.

  This much Darya knew: Life was cruel. Beauty passed. Children grew. Countries transformed overnight. Fundamentalists tortured the young. Mothers died from bombs. Why act as if a single bit of it were okay?

  That’s why she loved Kavita and Yung-Ja. Because they didn’t buy into the hype. That’s why there was something so intriguing about Sam. Because, though American, he seemed to have looked behind the façade and figured it out. He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t rush around in useless activity but was willing to sit quietly and listen. He seemed calm and at peace.

  Part of Darya had always felt ashamed of her homesickness for Iran. How could she be homesick for a place filled with cruel laws and bottomless sadness? Because it was filled with so much more than that. Because her father was still there. Because her sister was too. Because the lemon trees and pomegranates were still there. Because the poetry was still there. Because her ancestors had cultivated a life and a legacy there. Because that place was home. Her home. Maybe not Mina’s. Maybe not even Parviz’s anymore. But hers.

  So as Mina sat there and insisted she needed to go back to visit, Darya had to bite her tongue at first. Because how could she tell her daughter that she too had wanted nothing more than to go back all these years. How could she break Parviz’s heart, Parviz, who so loved where he was, and let him know that she could not wait to go back? And how on earth could she let Mina go alone?

  Go back, go back, go back.

  Home.

  It made sense. It added up.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hovering over Azadi Square

  Mina constantly checked that her scarves were safely tucked into her carry-on. She’d brought several in case one got lost or misplaced. Darya pushed up against her as they stood at the departure gate: bags crammed with gifts, headscarves, and raincoats. Darya held in her hand the same leather cosmetic case that she’d held when they left Iran. They had picked out their soghati souvenir gifts carefully. “I love NY” T-shirts and wallets for the nieces and nephews. Snow globes and gloves with different-colored fingers. Statue of Liberty figurines and American face creams. They made their way through security, waving to Baba and Hooman and Kayvon. Kayvon cheerfully blew them a kiss, but Hooman looked worried sick. Baba puffed out his chest and bravely made a thumbs-up sign. He was going to let the universe unfold as it should, he’d finally said. But even from a distance Mina could see he was sweating.

  IN AMSTERDAM, THEY HURRIED ACROSS the airport to catch their connecting flight. Groups of women in headscarves and raincoats ate hot dogs and drank beer by the boarding gate for the Tehran flight.

  “Getting in their pork and alcohol while they still can,” said a plump old woman sitting by the gate. She smiled at Mina. “You may want to get out your headscarf. Once you board that plane, you’re considered to be on Iranian soil.”

  Mina took out her raincoat and put it on. It was the closest thing she had to an official Islamic roopoosh. She got out her headscarf and tied it tight, wondering how many other first-timers would be on the plane. Exiles like her who hadn’t gone back since the early days of the war.

  After Darya put on her own headscarf and raincoat, they stood in line to board. Inside the plane, muffled voices mingled with classical music wafting from speakers. Female flight attendants in headscarves smiled politely.

  “Well, look who I get to sit next to!” The old woman from the boarding gate waddled up to Mina and Darya’s row. “Let the young one”—she pointed to Mina—“sit by the window. You”—she patted Darya—“sit in the middle. I must sit on the aisle. Swollen feet. Oh, but my bag is heavy. I am Badri Khanom, by the way.” Mina helped put her Mary Poppins–looking carpetbag in the overhead compartment.

  “Look at you all, so young and pretty!” Badri Khanom whooped out as a flight attendant passed by. “Remember when it was a job requirement for them all to be so young and pretty, even on the foreign airlines?” she bellowed as if taking a poll from the rest of the passengers.

  “I remember, Khanom!” an older man’s voice called out.

  A few people laughed.

  One of the young and pretty flight attendants flashed a smile. “Sweet?” She held out a basket filled with candy. Mina leaned over and chose a bonbon with a picture of a tiny lemon on its wrapper.

  A squat male flight attendant in a crisp uniform strode down the aisle, standing on his toes to bang the overhead bins shut. Golden tassels dangled from his shoulders.

  Badri Khanom covered her ears with each bang. “He thinks he’s a general!” she said, looking straight at him. “Look at him. Thinks he’s a general!”

  “If he’s a general, he’s Napoleon!” a man shouted from somewhere behind.

  “Yes, my uncle Napoleon!” someone else called out.

  Mina caught Darya smiling.

  “What?” she’d asked.

  Darya shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s just . . . I missed this.”

  “You missed complete strangers lobbing insults at one another?” Mina asked.

  “I missed this . . .” Darya paused. “Banter. No, that’s not the word. It’s the communal conversation. That’s what I missed.” Darya pulled out a magazine from the seat pocket in front of her and flipped through it. In a few minutes, she was giggling.

  “What’s so funny?” Mina asked.

  Darya showed her the cartoon she was reading and pointed to the thought bubble. “See? The politician’s the donkey! Get it?” She chuckled into her hand.

  Mina studied the cartoon in the Iranian magazine. She didn’t get it.

  Badri Khanom took the magazine from Darya and looked at the cartoon. She let out a big guffaw.

  “He’s the donkey! Vay, my God!” She laughed even harder when Darya showed her the caption under it and pretty soon she was dabbing at her eyes with the ends of her headscarf. Mina saw her mother touch Badri Khanom’s hand. Badri Khanom was about Mamani’s age. Or rather, the age she would’ve been now, Mina thought.

  As Darya and Badri Khanom flipped through the pages, Mina caught glimpses of the ads. For detergent. Popcorn. Chewing gum. One for toothpaste featured kids in knit sweaters, smiling with superwhite teeth.

  “So many ads!” Mina said quietly.

  “What did you think? That we wouldn’t have ads in our magazines? We are a capitalistic country despite it all, don’t you know!” Badri Khanom responded.

  “No, I just meant . . .”

  Darya quickly changed the subject and began to name all of the places she wanted to visit on their trip. Each location elicited sharp, judgmental responses from Badri Khanom.

  Mina looked out the window. What would it be like to be back there without Mamani? The government couldn’t have changed everything. The smell of morning had to be the same. They couldn’t remove all the roses and jasmine. Could they?

  BADRI KHANOM SNORED LOUDLY FOR the last two hours of the flight. When the plane was about to land, Mina peered back out the window. In the midst of the brightly lit city below, she saw the curved winglike ivory pillars of the Shahyad, now known as the Azadi, monument. Suddenly, the memories washed over her: dancing with Bita around her room as they listened to music. The feel of the red vinyl seats and metal frames of Mamani’s kitchen chairs, the clang of the pots and pans as Mamani worked her way from stove to sink, the smell of sautéed onions simmering in turmeric and salt and pepper. The beat of music from the stereo in the living room, the guests pouring into the house on the night of her tenth birthday party. The greengrocer’s wife had a chador that was white with a pattern of small green and yellow flowers; their gardening water can was a shiny copper color; and the sky after the nightly good-night kiss from Darya melted from pomegranate red to a deep charcoal. Against the backdrop of those white pillars they had had their childhood. Thousands had then bled and died on the
street, and the colors of their clothes had been struck to black and gray in one swift move.

  The plane zoomed down and seemed to hover for a moment above Azadi Square. Mina’s stomach did a somersault.

  “In this place we once lived,” Darya whispered as she leaned over Mina’s shoulder and they both looked at the glimmering city below.

  PART II

  1978

  Chapter Thirteen

  Drawings and Demonstrations

  His hair curls the other way, silly,” Bita said. She leaned close to Mina. “Wow. That is really good.”

  Mina moved her pencil across the page. Recess was always more fun when she sketched in her notebook.

  “Afarin! Bravo!” Bita’s smile was huge. “Hey, bacheha!” she called out. “Look how she can draw!”

  A few kids jogged over to where Mina sat and hovered around her. Farokh, a boy with thick eyebrows and broad shoulders, slapped her on the back. Mina lurched forward.

  “I told you!” Bita said proudly.

  “What’s going on here?” Mrs. Shoghi strode over to them.

  Bita held up Mina’s drawing.

  Mrs. Shoghi’s eyes narrowed. “Hmmm. Bah bah! Che ghashang! How beautiful! You’ve drawn our own crown prince. Mina, I didn’t know you had it in you. Such a good drawing for someone who’s not even eight yet!”

  Bita put her arm around Mina. “She’s an artist!”

  Mrs. Shoghi clapped, lacquered nails shining in the sunlight. “Get in line, children, get in line. Recess is over!” As she gathered the children together, her hand touched Mina’s shoulder and stayed there for a minute.

  “Ba honar hasti, my girl. You are ‘With-Art.’ ”

  Inside their second grade classroom, the Shah’s picture hung on the wall and looked down at them as they worked in their notebooks, passed secret notes, and struggled to memorize sums, ancient Persian poems, and the importance of their country’s greatest natural resource: oil. The Shah was crisp and stern in his white military uniform with rows of colorful ribbons on his shoulders. The tiny ribbons reminded Mina of Chiclet gum. She wanted to reach up and grab one and taste it. But they were inaccessible, shining under the glass, teasing her.