53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  “Khaleh Zarrin was a sweet lady. Her life touched a lot of people.”

  “And me?” asks Maamaan. “Who will come to my funeral?”

  How different can two sisters be? Khaleh Zarrin—quick to laugh and eat and dance. Quick to forgive. And Maamaan —locking everything up in a tight closet, tucking the key in her bra, along with a stiff, white handkerchief and a $20 bill.

  “I certainly don’t want him there,” she says.

  “Baba came to pay his respects today. We can’t begrudge him that,” I reply, although it had come as a shock, seeing him after all this time. Didn’t he know we needed notice? To shine and polish our armor; to take up our positions.

  “Hossein should have been there. Why didn’t he come? Is he too busy to attend his aunt’s funeral?”

  “It’s a long drive from Montreal.” I make excuses, not because I’m trying to protect Hossein, but because I can’t stand the fits that Maamaan has, when that closet bursts open and I’m the only one standing in its path.

  When I was small, I read a story about a Dutch boy who saved his country by putting his fingers in a leaking dam. He stayed there all night, in the cold, until help arrived. And so I tend to the cracks and the holes and the rips, even though I know that Hossein will never return.

  “Here.” I pour her some tea, in one of the dainty, gold-rimmed cup-saucer sets she insisted on bringing along from Iran.

  “Ah.” The first hint of a smile all day.

  I know she is thinking of sun drenched parlors, and friends gathered in pink velvet arm chairs with high backs.

  Everyone adored Mona Kazemi. The women wanted to be on her list, invited to the lavish affairs she hosted. The men wanted her—her Sophia Loren body, a glance, a smile, a scrap of anything she threw at them.

  But she remained faithful, even though it was common knowledge that Ali Kazemi went from one mistress to another. Then came the revolution. Baba lost his businesses, his estates, the posh cars, his investments. We moved to a squalid apartment on the other side of the city. Maamaan grew resentful. She had put up with the cheating, but a change in her lifestyle was not acceptable. It was Baba’s job to provide for her and he was failing. The lower Baba fell, the more they fought. She slammed the door. He went out and got drunk. She broke the china. He had another affair.

  When Baba and Amu Reza pooled resources for a new business venture, Hossein and I thought things would get better, and for a while, they did. Hossein escaped Maamaan’s cloying grasp and I came of age. Of marriageable age.

  “She’s beautiful,” said Khaleh Zarrin. She looked so modern in her white capris and bright coral lipstick. “Send her to me. Toronto has so many good Persian families. I’ll fix her up like this.” She snapped her fingers at ‘this’.

  Maamaan’s eyes darted to Baba.

  “I don’t want to get married,” I said to Khaleh Zarrin. “I’m studying to be a writer.”

  “Shayda, we’ve never interfered with your education. You’ve had the best schools and the best teachers. But writing is such a fickle career.” Baba waved his hand dismissively. “And with all the censorship here, what’s the point?”

  “I don’t want to go to Toronto.”

  “Not even for a holiday?” asked Maamaan.

  We both knew it wouldn’t be just for a casual visit. We couldn’t afford that.

  “Shayda, you have an opportunity. For a better life. And who knows? With one of you there, the rest of the family stands a better chance of getting out,” said Khaleh Zarrin.

  At least she had the balls to be up front with me.

  They all fixed their eyes and hopes on me.

  “Are you serious?” Salomeh pulled me aside. “They’re going to marry you off to someone you barely know?”

  “It’s not like you’ll be picking your own husband either,” I replied.

  “No, but at least I’m having fun. I’ve been kissed.” She smirked. “I know boys, I go out.”

  “You mean you sneak out.”

  Salomeh lived next door. I would see her wiggling in and out of the window, sometimes way past midnight, in a button-popping blouse and pencil skirt, like Rizzo from ‘Grease’.

  “Whatever.” She shrugged and blew a pink bubble. “So you up for it or are you going to spend the rest of your single days scribbling in your journal?”

  And so two days before I left, I snuck into Salomeh’s house. Her parents were at a card party. The living room was smoky and dull. A girl and boy were dancing to American music, loud enough to hear, but not so it would draw outside attention. Three or four guys were messing around with hookahs. The rest of the girls sat on the couch, eating popcorn and staring at the wall like they were watching a movie.

  “Where’s Salomeh?” I asked.

  They pointed me to the kitchen.

  I walked in and saw her kissing a tall, lanky guy whose hands were way up her skirt. I joined the other girls on the couch. They giggled. Apparently everyone knew what was going on.

  “You want to dance?” One of the guys came over and asked me.

  All the girls looked at me.

  “Sure,” I answered.

  It’s what I was there for, right? To have fun. My first and last hoorah.

  We danced, not touching, but every once in a while, his legs bumped against mine. I could feel the other girls watching.

  “You want a drink?” he asked when the song ended.

  “Yes, thanks,” I replied, but I didn’t follow him into the kitchen.

  He came out, holding two glasses. “Want to sit on the stairs?”

  I let him steer me away from the group.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Shayda.” I took a sip, a little hesitantly.

  “It’s only pop,” he replied, like he expected me to be disappointed. “They didn’t have anything else.”

  We sat there for a while, before he gathered the courage to lean in.

  “You’re pretty.” He brushed his lips against mine.

  He tasted like hookah and Coca Cola. Hookah Cola, the flavor of my first kiss. I think it might have been his first too. It was nothing like the romance books I’d been hiding under my bed, the ones I had passed on to Salomeh so Maamaan wouldn’t find them when I was gone.

  Our mouths shook hands politely.

  Hello.

  Hello.

  We stayed glued for a few seconds, before I pulled back, which made his mouth look like he was slurping spaghetti.

  And so it was done, the first kiss, that rite of passage. I don’t remember his face, except that his nose was crooked, like he’d been in a fight, and that he looked surprised when I got up and left.

  “Are you listening?” asks Maamaan.

  “What?” I tune back in.

  “Sugar.” She holds her cup out. “I need more sugar.”

  Yes, more sugar to make the loss of Khaleh Zarrin more palatable. More sugar so Maamaan can sweeten the memories of those glorious days when she was queen.

  “You’re a good girl, Shayda.” She smiles before losing herself in her gold-rimmed past.

  Yes, Maamaan. A good girl.

  23. The Ghost Of Nowruz Past

  March 21st, 1996

  “You look happy.” Troy shuts the door behind me. His arms encircle my waist, pulling me close.

  “I am. Nowruz Mubarak.” For the first time in years, the shadow of another Nowruz has lifted.

  “Now-what?”

  “It means Happy New Year in Persian. Nowruz Mubarak.”

  He repeats it after me. I laugh. It’s totally off. He tries again. I shake my head. Not even close.

  “You know what?” His finger runs down the V of my dress, following the hint of cleavage. “You have me at a distinct disadvantage.” He takes in my black lace dress, the sheer sleeves, the deep neck-line. “Since when do you dress like this?”

  Since you. Since I started feeling sexy and confident and attractive and hot.

  “You don’t like it?” I step away,
pulling my pumps off.

  “I love it.” He comes after me, pulsing with that intense, exciting energy that surrounds him. “But then I’d love it even if you wore a sack.” He corners me. “Know what else?”

  “What?” I know he’s about to pounce. My eyes dart behind him, looking for a way to prolong this delicious teasing.

  “I love it more when I have you in the sack!”

  He leaps; I dive on the bed, almost making it to the other side before he grabs my ankles and drags me back.

  “This is for ignoring your very hungry, very ravenous lover for weeks.” He sweeps my hair aside and bites the slope of my shoulder.

  “Ow!” With my face buried in the sheets and his body pressing down on me, I know I won’t be able to squirm away from him. But I have fun trying.

  My movements ignite a low growl. He lets me wiggle against him, until I feel his erection pressing against me.

  “You’re in trouble now.” He flips me over, his arms pinning mine to the bed.

  He watches me closely, testing me, as his weight shifts over me, a little at a time. He lowers his face, slowly, so I’m staring into those hypnotic blues, waiting for his lips. But it’s not a kiss. He gives me a long lick, from the base of my neck to my chin. I shiver as he follows the trail with his hot breath.

  There is an urgency to him, coiled and controlled. He pulls my panties off and buries his face between my legs. I gasp at the raw contact, no teasing, no nudging, just an all-out assault on my senses. A very hungry, very ravenous lover.

  “Troy.” I try to lift his face, but he pushes my fingers away with his mouth. His tongue carries me to a rising crest of passion.

  “Troy.” This time I bury my fingers in his hair.

  He looks at me, his eyes like twin lakes set ablaze, as my hips lift off the bed. He starts kneading my throbbing centre with his fingers and the heel of his palm, sending ripples of rolling pleasure through me. He watches my face, gauging my reactions. More pressure here, less here, honing in, zoning in, until his movements reflect the exact sensations I feel when I’m reaching for release.

  “How...?” I gasp.

  “I paid attention. When you showed me.” He continues handling me, with maddening detachment.

  I close my eyes as my senses circle around the exquisite vortex he’s creating.

  He pushes his knee between my legs and rubs it against me, hard against soft, rough against smooth. I can’t control the rush of slick wetness that escapes me.

  “That’s it.” He closes his eyes and leans his forehead on mine. His breath scorches my skin.

  Did I start the kissing? Did he? He continues his erotic rhythm, even as his tongue plunders my mouth, forcing me to give up all of its secrets, the taste, the texture, the moist darkness. A flash of heat ignites around my pulsating core, radiating up into my belly and down to my thighs. I stiffen, afraid it will fizzle out, but he keeps going, fanning the flames with long, sure strokes, pressing up, letting go. A whiplash of pleasure bursts through me, ripples of searing, convulsing heat. I give myself up to it, hot, breathless, clinging madly to him.

  “Take me in your mouth,” he demands.

  I open my eyes and gasp at the raw urgency of his gaze.

  “Now, Shayda.” It’s a low throaty growl.

  He watches as my lips close over him. And then he lets out a sound. Like a hot iron being doused.

  I want to swallow him whole, all of him, his heat, his magnificent skin, his belly, his lips, his eyelashes. All of him.

  After wards, we lay quietly. My face on his thigh, my hand still wrapped around him, my hair sprawled across his belly as he runs his fingers through it. The slow, sated touch of bliss.

  “Beetroot.”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “That was...” He trails off, looking for the right word. “Come here,” he says instead.

  I settle into the crook of his arm. He takes my hand and kisses it. We let our palms slide against each other, touching, playing, stroking.

  “Here we are,” he says.

  “Here we are.”

  “You know what this means, right?”

  “What?”

  “You just made the leap from relying on yourself, to learning how to take pleasure from a partner.”

  I turn scarlet.

  “Sometimes I get the weird feeling that being intimate is completely new to you,” he says. “I know it’s ridiculous, but still. Your reactions...I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  This is the part where I tell him the truth. This is the part where I tell him about the Ghost of Nowruz Past. But I keep my mouth shut.

  “You’re an incredibly responsive woman. Incredibly beautiful—every curve, every fold, every inch of you. You hear me?”

  I blink. I nod. I swallow through the tightness in my throat.

  “And Shayda?”

  I look at him through wet, spiky eyelashes.

  “Nowruz Mubarak,” he says it perfectly, with all the right inflections.

  I laugh. He’s back to being fully functional.

  “So do you do anything special for your new year?” he asks.

  “We used to set a ceremonial table to welcome spring and new beginnings, but we haven’t done that for a while.”

  “Well, I hope you’re ready for new beginnings, because this is just the tip of the iceberg.” His voice hangs somewhere between a threat and a sweet promise.

  24. Pretending

  May 16th, 1996

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Marjaneh sits down and clasps her hands in her lap.

  “Sorry about the mess. We’re getting some new equipment installed,” I say.

  “That’s okay,” she replies. “You said to come see you if I wanted to do something different. I’m not sure if you’re still hiring any office staff, but I thought I’d check.”

  “We’re not hiring any office staff.”

  “Oh.” Her face falls.

  “But...” I push my chair away from the desk and pick up a framed document. “I thought you might like to consider this.”

  “Your realtor’s license?” She looks confused as she hands it back.

  “Yes. This one’s mine.” I sit back down. “But what do you think about getting your own?”

  “Me?” Her eyes widen. “You think I could do it?”

  “Why not?” I reply. “There’s nothing to stop you from taking the courses, and I can help you study for the exams. In the meantime, you can still hold on to your job. You might need to make a few shift changes, but I don’t see any reason why you can’t go for it.”

  “And if I make it?” She allows herself a moment of possibility.

  “I’ll talk to Bob. He’s always looking for responsible, reliable people.”

  Marjaneh’s eyes fall on my license. I know she is imagining her name there, in gold calligraphy.

  I smile. It’s a start.

  “Are you...are you doing this because you feel bad about your brother?” she asks.

  I know we’re both thinking of Hossein’s hastily scribbled note, the one he left on the kitchen table.

  I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.

  I can still recall Marjaneh’s face.

  “He doesn’t know,” she cried.

  She had been six weeks pregnant. For days, we searched for Hossein. He had quit his job, his friends were tight-lipped and his car sat in the garage, sullen and clueless. Maamaan went crazy, convinced she would have to support Marjaneh and the baby.

  One evening, Marjaneh came home with dead eyes.

  “Where were you?” asks Maamaan. “I have enough to worry about.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.” Her voice was flat. She walked past us slowly and mechanically.

  “Are you all right?” I followed her into the bedroom.

  She didn’t answer. She pulled out a tattered suitcase from under the bed and started packing.

  “Where are you going? You can’t leave like this.”

  “L
ike what?” She gave me a cold smile. “I’m not pregnant anymore. I took care of it. It’s no-one’s problem now.”

  Looking at her now I feel ashamed of myself, of my brother, of my family. But that’s not the only reason I’m happy to see her. I need to make it right—Amu Reza, the pebbles, my part in the whole thing.

  “Here.” I pull out a small box from my drawer and hand it to her. “I was hoping you’d come by.”

  She opens it and finds a smooth, white river stone, with the word ‘BELIEVE’ carved on it. “Thank you,” she says.

  “Shayda?” Bob knocks on the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “It’s all right, Bob. I’d like you to meet Marjaneh. She’s thinking of getting her realtor’s license.”

  “Excellent.” He gives her a firm handshake. “Good luck, my dear. Come see us when you’re ready.” Then he turns to me. “We need to get in here to install the new computer. And Troy’s hooking us up to the internet too.”

  “Troy?”

  “Ah, here he is. All done with my office?” asks Bob, as Troy’s tall, lithe frame sends my heart into crazy somersaults.

  I should be used to this by now. Seeing him in the flesh. But I can’t control the lurch of excitement. The last few times have been intense—greedy, needy pleasure fests. Him, unrelenting, holding me up, holding me down, holding me to sweet staccato spasms, again and again. It’s like all the mad, sexual energy that fuels his core has honed in on me and he just can’t get enough.

  “Hello, Shayda.”

  Another somersault.

  “Hi, Troy.”

  The pretending is tough. Civility, when all I can think about is the way he cries out my name when he buries his face in my hair.

  “And this is...” Bob trails off.

  “Marjaneh.” I say.

  “Troy.” He introduces himself to her.

  She stares, a little dumbfounded, before snapping out of it.

  “Hello,” she replies. Then she turns to me. “I...uh...I’ll see myself out.”

  There are two types of women in the world. Those who run far and fast from Troy Heathgate, and those who throw themselves at him. Indifference is not an option.