Together Tea

by Marjan Kamali

  “Good morning, then,” he’d said. And then she’d watched him walk out onto the corridor and into the elevator.

  “So?” Bita nudged Mina.

  “What?”

  “Seems like you liked him?”

  “Liked who?” It was a throwback to their school days, only now they weren’t talking about the crown prince and John Travolta.

  “You know.” Bita playfully hit Mina with a pillow. “The guy you sat with and talked to in the kitchen for the entire party.”

  “Yes, very nice, he was quite nice really.”

  Bita giggled into her duvet cover.

  “He’s not bad looking either! He’s my friend Toofan’s old classmate. Toofan asked if he could come along tonight.” Bita snuggled under the covers. “A bit serious, though.” She paused. “How come you guys who live in the States are so serious?”

  Mina shrugged. She had no answer.

  “I’ve already invited a huge group of my friends back for a breakfast get-together on Friday morning. I can ask Toofan to make sure to bring Mr. Dashti too.”

  “What?” Mina was suddenly sitting up in the bed, her staticky hair forming temporary antennas around her head. How on earth did Bita know about Mr. Dashti? “What did you say?”

  “Mr. Dashti,” Bita repeated. “You know, Mr. All-Night-Talking-in-the-Kitchen. Mr. Dashti.”

  “Is that his last name? We never even mentioned last names.” Mina stared at her, shocked.

  “Very American of you. Well, his name is Mr. Dashti. He has an architectural degree. Lives in Connecticut, as you know. Apparently his older brother is some hotshot with Kodak or something in Atlanta.”

  Mina plopped back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling, then slid down under the covers. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

  “What is it? You okay?”

  Mina poked her head out from the duvet and nodded yes.

  “You’re all pale! I think you really like him!” Bita tucked the duvet around Mina. “Now go to sleep. You can see him again at the breakfast in two days.” As she closed her eyes, Bita murmured, “He had the nicest teeth, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Mina said as she prepared to lie awake. “The nicest teeth.”

  MINA DIDN’T SLEEP. SHE SAT upright in bed, as Bita snoozed peacefully beside her. Without her makeup, Bita’s face looked more familiar. Mina thought of Ramin. She found herself smiling involuntarily, like a crazy person, remembering when she’d made him laugh. She felt a surge of energy every time she remembered her successful, witty comments. And she cringed at the moments when she’d been awkward or flat or silly. But still. Still. There had been more good moments, and their conversation had been so easy, and he had been so sweet. The thoughts raced round and round in her head, keeping her up, keeping her alert, keeping her busy. Then she remembered that he was a Mr. Dashti. What were the chances of her coming all the way to Iran and meeting Mr. Dashti’s brother? How on earth could she not have noticed some resemblance? (The teeth! The teeth were exactly like his!) Did he even know she had met his older brother for tea at her parents’ house? The questions swirled in her head as Bita snored on. Eventually, Mina made herself lie down and shut her eyes. But her mind was still humming. On top of all the other questions, one question stood paramount. With all her experience, her networks and research collated with Excel graphs, how on earth did Darya miss this bachelor sitting right next door in Connecticut? How could her mother, who had located attractive, intelligent men all over the U.S. of A. and beyond, have missed this quiet architect, with his blue shirt and khaki slacks, sketching away at a drafting table in Connecticut? Oh, Maman, Mina thought, as she finally started to give in to sleep. If you only knew.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Breakfast by the Koi Pond

  Two days later, Bita and Mina carried the samovar out to the garden. Bita had insisted that the breakfast be held outdoors, since it was an unusually mild day for December. Mina had come early to help Bita prepare.

  “Mr. Dashti should be here soon, but Toofan said they might be a bit late,” Bita said, then launched into background information. “Toofan said Dashti grew up in America. He didn’t go there with his parents. He and his older brother stayed with their uncle in California at first. He works in Connecticut now, and his older brother . . .”

  “I’ve met his older brother.”

  “In New York?”

  “Yes, in New York.”

  “You know him?”

  “We’ve met.”

  “I see.” Bita’s expression implied that she’d ask a lot more questions later.

  They put the samovar on a folding table. Mina arranged the fresh lavash, barbari, and sangak breads on a tray. She cut the feta cheese into thick slices. The jams were Suri’s own—fig, quince, and sour cherry. Mina remembered the sour-cherry jam Mamani used to make, her cotton apron stretched around her thick middle, her sleeves rolled up in the summer heat, part of her hair stuck to her forehead as she stirred the contents of the copper pot on the stove. Mina would stand on her tiptoes and watch the cherries start to bubble. Darya had not met, did not even know, this younger brother. This younger brother with his kind brown eyes and perfect teeth.

  Bita’s parents’ apartment complex had a small manicured garden in its courtyard. A blue-tiled koi pond complete with lily pads and goldfish was its centerpiece. The walls surrounding the courtyard were high and made of cement. This meant the garden was safe from outside view.

  Soon, Bita’s friends arrived for the breakfast get-together. Mina recognized some of them from the party. The guys wore casual jackets and jeans this time, and the girls wore jeans and brightly colored roopoosh. Some of the girls, including Mina and Bita, even pulled off their scarves, feeling safe enough in the courtyard from the eyes of the Revolutionary Guards. Apparently, there was an unspoken agreement among the apartment complex residents to not rat on one another. But they kept their scarves around their necks, ready to pull them on if necessary. Mina felt as if they could be in the States except she would probably not be hanging out with so many good-looking, fun young people in the States. This was the in crowd.

  The folding tables were now covered with small gifts the guests had brought: baskets of fruit, a pink orchid in a pot, nougat candy. Sweet black chai steamed from small glasses. Frothy cappuccino spurted from Bita’s dad’s machine.

  When Ramin arrived, he handed Bita’s mom a bouquet of flowers, then came to greet Bita and Mina. Suddenly Bita remembered that she needed to go and do something and left Mina and Ramin alone. Ramin poured two glasses of orange juice and sat next to Mina on one of the lawn chairs. Mina told him about Professor Van Heusen and the time he called on her when she hadn’t read the case. She told him about her decision to visit Iran. Ramin sipped on his juice and listened. Time slowed down. Other guests came and went in the background, carrying food, bringing back plates, throwing away used napkins, poring over newly developed photos from the party. Mina and Ramin stayed seated and talked. Black hair, dark eyes, light skin, bright clothing—two people pulled together. And, years from now, years and years from now, could they be sitting on two lawn chairs, their hair gray, their eyes faded with cataracts, their skin wrinkled—but still together, chatting away?

  A few of the pigeons grew bolder and descended from the garden wall onto the ground near their chairs. An old couple. Old friends. Mina could see it. She downed her tea. She must be going nuts. Having all these Darya-esque thoughts, seeing into the future and imagining their hair growing light with age. It was just a breakfast. He was just an architect from Connecticut, visiting his grandmother. He was Mr. Dashti’s younger brother, for goodness’ sakes. He was not her future husband!

  “He loves chemistry,” Ramin was saying. “But business school opened a lot of doors for him, and Kodak was the perfect job. I missed him the last time he was in New York. He was there only rece
ntly, but I was away in the Midwest at a conference. I haven’t seen him in a while.” Ramin balanced his glass on the arm of the lawn chair. “So, that’s my brother! Anyway, you have two older brothers? Are they in New . . .”

  “I’ve met your brother . . .” Mina said abruptly.

  She felt as if the pigeons had stopped and stared. Mina went on and recounted the day the older Mr. Dashti came to visit.

  Ramin listened to the whole story, eyes twinkling. Mina was surprised at her own lack of self-censorship.

  “And then he said thank you and drove away, and my parents and I put away the dishes,” Mina finished. “So you see, I’ve met your older brother.”

  Ramin was quiet for a moment, his chin cupped in his hand. He grinned. Then he chuckled. He looked at Mina sideways and started to laugh. Mina bit her lip and started to snort and giggle. Soon they were both laughing.

  “We have such beautiful traditions, don’t you think?” Ramin said.

  “Oh yes,” Mina said. “Amazing ones that aren’t embarrassing at all!”

  Ramin laughed. “You’ve got to hand it to your mom, though. She does her research well.”

  “Not that well,” Mina said shyly. “She somehow missed finding you all this time.”

  “Aha!” A crimson blush rose from Ramin’s neck to his ears. “Well, I’m not that easy to pin down,” he said. “My statistics are unlisted. I don’t own too many suits. I don’t drink much tea. And I’m not one for putting down roots.”

  The pigeons were at their toes now, nibbling on crumbs from their naan. A plane roared above. A piece of bark from one of the trees fell into the koi pond, and the water rippled in front of them.

  “Did he wear his beige suit?” Ramin asked.

  Mina looked at the pond and nodded. “He did.”

  “He loves that suit,” Ramin said.

  WHEN SHE REACHED AGHA JAN’S front door, Mina wasn’t sure if she had actually walked up the steps just behind her. All the songs were true. Yes, believe it or not, I am walking on air. I swear, I know, I’ve never loved this way before. Yes, you are so beautiful to me. It is a wonderful world. Every campy lyric flew into her head and made sense. No wonder. No wonder those lyricists wrote those words, no wonder that man built the Taj Mahal (“for a Persian woman, he built it!” Baba always said), no wonder kings abdicated thrones. Was this the feeling? Because the world had just changed from black and white to Technicolor, the colors were colors she could taste, touch, draw. She jumped up the steps. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

  Darya opened the door, a glass of tea in her hand. “Mina, you look flushed. How was the breakfast? Are you all right?”

  Mina kissed Darya forcefully on the cheek. She squeezed her tight. Her headscarf slid off before she was even inside the house. “It was so wonderfully wonderful, Maman Joon. You would never believe it! I had the best time with Mr. Dashti!”

  She ran to the bedroom, having only enough time to see Darya’s mouth in the shape of a perfect zero.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Scheduling Conflicts

  Darya watched Mina fidget at lunch later that day. They were hosting the meal for their relatives, and Darya noticed Mina smile far too widely at people she didn’t remember. Watched her tune out and stand mesmerized in front of Aunt Firoozeh. Darya sighed. So much of youth was attractive, agreeable, and made her long for it once it was gone. She saw Mina flip her hair and giggle at nothing for no good reason. But then again, much of the time, the young were so damn annoying. Darya poured herself another glass of tea. Mina was exhibiting all the signs of young love: the spaciness, the giggling, the la-la-land expressions. Let her live, she told herself. Let Mina have this. To taste what I myself have had. Isn’t that what Darya had told her daughter? To have a fraction of what I had in this life. And to think Mina seemed smitten with Mr. Dashti’s younger brother! How Darya had missed Ramin in her U.S. research was beyond her. Her sources had kept the younger brother all to themselves and shoved the older one on her.

  But now that Mina was finally falling for someone halfway decent and feeling so happy, Darya felt as if she didn’t want her daughter to slip away. Didn’t want to let her go. After all those spreadsheets and all those calculations, she suddenly didn’t want to lose her.

  “When can I see him?” Mina asked after the last of the lunch guests had left. “We’re always so scheduled here!”

  “My God, Mina, you just saw him this morning.”

  “I know, but the next few days are all booked up. When can I just have some free time?”

  “We are here to see family. That’s why we came. To see family in Tehran and, later, to sightsee in the other cities. We can’t just . . .”

  “I get it,” Mina said.

  Darya sighed. “Let me see what I can do. Maybe we can carve out some time and invite him over to tea . . .”

  “Can I see him alone?”

  “Alone where? Any place you meet him would be filled with relatives who either live there or come to visit you. There is no ‘alone’ here.” Darya sniffed. “Not to mention that it would be inappropriate.”

  “Can we go out alone?”

  “It’s risky here, Mina. Nikki told me the guards have started a new round of crackdowns to rein in ‘immoral’ behavior. They’re out on the streets in full force these days. They’re even stopping opposite sex couples and asking them to produce a marriage certificate! You could get fined or even arrested if you’re out together.”

  “We can’t just walk in a park?”

  “No, it’s risky right now. Not to mention that we are booked solid.”

  It was true, they were snatched up for breakfast, lunch, and dinner by relatives who wanted to host them, feed them, see them again. The relatives spoiled them with fried eggplant and tomato khoresh, rice with fresh sabzi and fish, lasagna with béchamel sauce, fancy salads, and the very best kabobs. For dessert there was saffron rice pudding, rosewater ice cream, all sorts of cakes and pastries, and homemade apple pies. The relatives had spent their toman on the biggest and best fruit for them, kneaded dough and fried meat cutlets, dusted living rooms and beat Persian rugs for their arrival. Darya knew how much they were going out of their way for them and appreciated it. From the looks of it, Mina certainly appreciated it too, or at least the food. Every time Darya looked at her, Mina was eating. Rice dripping with butter, rice holding lima beans tight within it, rice with rich, fragrant hot khoresh.

  “We’re fattening up,” Darya said. “All this food!”

  “Can we just have one unscheduled morning?”

  Darya sighed. “Fine. Monday morning after breakfast and before lunch at Aunt Nikki’s.”

  Mina ran to the phone.

  “There’s no guarantee he’ll be available!” Darya called out. “He’s here to see his grandmother, remember?”

  Mina came back a few minutes later, her cheeks flushed red. “He said yes. He can slip out on Monday at ten thirty, after an early breakfast with his grandmother and a few of her friends and before lunch at his father’s oldest brother’s house. He said to meet at the People’s Park, by a big tree near the main gate.”

  “Okay, then.” Darya felt her stomach sink. The crackdowns were getting worse each day. She didn’t want Mina to risk it. But Mina looked so happy. Didn’t her daughter deserve to experience a little old-fashioned courtship in this land? Why did the authorities have to make that so difficult? Why did they have to sap the joy out of everything? “I know the spot well,” Darya said. She had spent her youth at that park. It was one of her favorite places in the whole city. “I can tell you how to get there, but you must be careful. You’ll have to pretend you’re a brother and sister going for a walk. No contact, absolutely no touching.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just the way it is. These are the rules and we have to abide by them. I don’t want you rai
sing suspicion. Remember, what is done cannot be undone.”

  ON THE MORNING THAT MINA was to meet Ramin at the People’s Park, Darya watched her daughter try on several different outfits, even though whatever she wore would be covered by her roopoosh. She watched Mina style her hair carefully, the same hair that would soon be covered by a headdress. Mina insisted on wearing a green headscarf, she wanted some color around her face. There was a different energy about her; she seemed excited but strangely composed. Darya felt again the bittersweet knowledge that her daughter was beginning a new stage and that each new stage brought a greater distance from her. She closed her eyes and prayed to any God that Mina would remain safe. She’d wanted something like this for Mina, hadn’t she? She was happy for her, of course she was happy.

  Have fun, she said. Be careful, she said. Say hello to Ramin from us. Watch out for the Revolutionary Guards.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Under the Sycamore Tree

  Mina left at ten o’clock. As she walked, she thought of Ramin standing in the doorway of Bita’s apartment the night of the party, his arms crossed, looking as if he could both save the world and not give a damn about it.

  She had seen her college classmates’ architectural drafts on long sheets of paper. Ramin must make dozens of those designs. He probably used only blue or black ink, and Mina had spent her childhood dreaming of painting the world in color. But she was impressed by an architect’s skills with a pen and paper. She wanted to ask Ramin more about his drawings. Even though she was on her way to a job on Wall Street, something about meeting him made her feel as if she could touch colors again. Touch them and taste them and maybe even create them.

  As Mina approached the park, she remembered how he had risked his career, his whole future, to come to Iran and visit his sick old grandmother. He had faced the authorities at the airport and stood his ground. He might have been drafted, detained, arrested. He could have lost everything he had worked for in America.