***
Samira returned to the mansion after fifty days in Kandovan, making sure to spend the fortieth day with her baba for the services. She went back to her daily routine not long thereafter and to Davoud’s fast-paced social schedule not long after that. But she did not paint again. Instead, she spent evenings sitting on the floor of her studio and gazing out to the pond she loved: where the gardener spoiled the ducks every afternoon; where only she could hear the sounds of her seclusion. Samira held her knees to her chest and talked to the trees. In the fall, she said goodbye to the last burgundy leaf that followed all the rest. It floated in the air, swinging from side to side, for an eternity before falling to the ground. Eventually, they all fell to the ground.
On the one-year anniversary of her mother’s death, Samira walked into the old room she had been assigned when the two women had first come to the mansion. The closets were still full of clothing Davoud had selected for Maman, none of which Maman had worn. Samira took it all out. First thing tomorrow, she would take it all to the donation center on Majid Street. She then went to her room and drew herself a bath of scalding hot water. It did not burn her. Instead, it was comforting. She wished it would stay—the heat. But it did not. She felt dazed and unsure about the time.
“Child!”
Samira looked up.
“Mrs. Darkan?” Samira whispered. “You never come in here.”
“Laleh came for my help,” Mrs. Darkan said tenderly. “She said you’re refusing to leave the bath. You must be freezing!”
Samira looked down at her body to find it shivering. “It used to be warm . . .”
“Come on, child.” Mrs. Darkan took a large towel off the rack and wrapped it around Samira’s shoulders while grabbing her arms and urging them upwards. “Come on. Get your legs under you. I’m too old to lift you up. That’s right. Good girl. Now let’s dry you off, and to bed you go.”
“What time is it?”
“Late.”
The next evening, Samira walked into Davoud’s room after dinner.
“I’d like to order a frame for the painting of my maman.”
Davoud looked up from his newspaper, surprised as Samira had never before entered his room without him asking her. “Yes, of course. We will order something spectacular—”
“No. I’d like something very simple. Just plain oak, stained black.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And I’d like it shipped to my baba after it’s framed.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“And from now on, I will visit home at least once every other month.”
“Now, Samira jan, I know it’s your maman’s one year and you’re upset—”
“I’m not upset.” And she was surprised she spoke the truth. “Upset is what people feel if they’ve torn their favorite dress or sprained their ankle. I am in mourning.”
“Yes, of course, I only meant that—”
“I will visit home at least once every other month.”
Davoud paused for a long time and then nodded. Samira nodded back and began to walk out.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to my room.”
“I’d like you to come over here.” He patted the bed with his hand.
She walked over to the small bar in the corner of his room, downed half a glass of scotch, then went to his bed as he asked.
9
Summer arrived and brought with it new hope and Shabnam’s wedding after a long engagement. With only a week left before the ceremony, Gita announced that her brother was coming in from Tehran for the occasion and would like to stay in the house.
“He’s never stayed at the house before, Davoud!” Gita complained at breakfast. Davoud rolled his eyes. Even if there was no historical family tension, he hated houseguests, particularly male houseguests. Gita did not give up. “This is Shabnam’s wedding!” she said. “And this will give you and him a chance to really get to know one another. It’d offer some male supervision and give Hamid a companion while you’re busy with wedding plans. And he is, after all, your children’s dayee.”
“Well, I suppose I am very busy with this wedding,” Davoud said, bringing his fingers to his temple.
“Baba joon, I can help if you need a break,” Shabnam offered with pleading eyes.
“No, no, I’ve got it covered.”
“But maybe with the garden preparations? You know I consider myself a botany enthusiast!”
“Shabnam dear, I’m sure you’d do a fine job. But don’t you want it to be perfect? I’ll make sure it’s all perfect for you—just like I did for my own wedding.” Samira was immediately embarrassed and lowered her head. Davoud continued, oblivious. “Anyway, yes, I suppose that’s fine. Someone to keep the kids busy while I deal with last-minute disasters.”
“Terrific!” Gita said. “It’s settled! He can stay in the room next to mine!”
***
Samira had not left her studio at all the day that Gita’s brother arrived. She saw no need to expose herself to Gita’s sneers and had no interest in meeting and getting to know Gita’s family members, who would likely be just as awful as she was. And in any event, she was busy with a new piece into which she poured a great deal of energy. She had decided to paint a portrait of Shabnam for her wedding present. She had kept it a surprise, partly to avoid Gita’s irritation. She painted Shabnam not as the woman and wife to be, but as the child that she was when they had first met: a young face with a pretty smile; a girl wearing the most stylish of European dresses without understanding the luxury of it; a barely noticeable pimple on the left cheek; a bright green ribbon in her hair; her lips slightly parted as they used to be before the speech therapists took away her stutter. A child being a child. Beautiful.
She heard a sudden creak. Startled, she nearly dropped her palette on the floor. The large easel blocked her view of the door. Who could it be? No one entered her studio without permission. Even Davoud knocked before entering. Perhaps it was a new maid, or the messenger boy back from the post office, or some such other lost soul.
“Who’s there?” she asked from behind the easel. She expected the intruder, whoever it was, to realize her error and leave immediately.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said a man’s voice as it approached ever closer. “I’m just exploring a bit. I’ve never been to this house before.”
Oh the nerve of him! Ready to volley her annoyance at him she stepped around the canvas, and stopped.
All she could think was, I want to sketch him.
He was tall and strangely lanky. Unparalleled emerald eyes. They seemed, familiar somehow. Young. Thirty or thirty one.
He had not yet looked at her, distracted by the various works of art that were thrown about in the studio, sort of admiring but mostly examining them.
“This place is like . . . well, like magic, isn’t it?” He turned his head toward her.
She put down her brush and palette and brought her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. Yes, she did want to paint him. His face. It had a kind of depth to it. Seemed, honorable somehow.
“Salam,” he said. “Are you some sort of resident artist or something?”
She felt trapped as he approached. She found herself taking a step back, and then immediately resented having to do that. This was her space, and he was the one who should have asked before entering. She opened her mouth to tell him to leave, but his gaze kept her still.
“I’m Armin,” he said.
The artist in her noticed the way the tender afternoon sun cast a razor-edged shadow on his face, displaying his angular jawline and highlighting the arch of his eyebrows. “I’m Gita’s brother. I’m here—”
“You’re here for the wedding.” Finishing his sentence gave her a sense of control that relieved some of her tension.
He smiled. “Yes!”
He took another step forward. She exhaled. It was really a mild sigh, but she felt that it might have sounded a bit like a horse’s neigh
just before a good gallop. Embarrassed, she wanted to look away. But then again, she really did not want that at all.
“I’m Samira. I’m Davoud’s second wife.” Davoud’s second wife. Oh that sounded awful. What should she have said? Shabnam's stepmother? Well, not quite. Your sister’s rival? “Davoud’s second wife” did just fine, though it had the unfortunate impact of making Armin wrinkle his face into something rather not composed.
“You’re—”
“Second wife.”
“So you would be—”
“Samira.”
Samira. She should have just introduced herself as Samira. Her thoughts were slow today. It must be too much work in the studio. She promised herself to take a short walk immediately after the intruder left. He did not, however, seem inclined to leave.
“Wow. You’re nothing like my sister’s description.”
“That’s shocking.”
“And she never said you painted. Not just painted, I mean, that you were such an amazing artist.”
“Well, I do. I paint.”
“She never mentioned that.”
“Another surprise.” Why was she upset? She should not care what Gita told her brother. She turned away from him to examine her painting, wondering whether he was looking over her shoulder.
“Well, your work’s very impressive.”
“Yes, well, thank you.”
Time for him to leave.
“I particularly like the—”
“Since she never mentioned those things, then she likely never mentioned that my studio is my private space.”
“Oh.”
“No one comes in without my permission.”
“Uh huh.” He was not leaving. Was not even looking at her. He walked toward the canvas currently in production.
“I need my privacy to paint, you see . . . what are you doing?” He leaned in close, tilting his head to the side and examining the painting as an art instructor would. “That—don’t do that!” She stepped after him. “Please step away. That painting isn’t ready yet.”
“This is Shabnam!”
“Yes, I—”
“Well, Shabnam when she was younger!”
“She’s—”
“How old is she here? Fourteen? Fifteen?”
Rude! So very rude! Had she not just asked him to leave?
“Yes, that’s right. Please—”
“How beautiful! I love that green. It also matches your hair, by the way.”
What? Oh! She brought her fingertips to her hair and felt the paint. Damn him. Making her self-conscious in her own studio. Who did he think he was?
“I’d like you to leave. This is my private space.”
“Of course, Samira. If you wish for me to go away, I certainly will.” He pronounced her name strangely, sort of melodically. “It was, indeed, a pleasure to meet you.” His smiled. With a nod, he turned to the door.
“Wait!” Wait for what? She had nothing to say to him, no reason to want him to stay.
“Yes?” He turned to face her.
“Um, well, it was . . . Please, don’t tell anyone about the painting.”
“You can trust me.” And, as he closed the door behind him, her heart hammered painfully. She returned to her painting, but her trembling hands could not manage to hold her brush steady for several moments.
***
The next morning, Samira ran through the pageant of flowers, champagne, candles and torches set up for Shabnam’s wedding. So much of it was familiar. Even clichéd. Like the tens of weddings she had attended on Davoud’s arm. She tried to remember her own wedding. Found she could not. Not really. Only fragments.
Later, when the guests arrived, it was Gita who greeted them with Davoud. It was her daughter. Samira watched. Caviar, fireworks, Armani, and Bvlgari. Birds of paradise. Everywhere there were birds of paradise. That’s unique, Samira thought. The flowers were so dear to Shabnam. They must have been shipped in from God knew where. And the young bride seemed so happy. No one had to tell her to smile. No one had to tell her to laugh. No one had to fake her joy. The ceremony was lovely. The bride’s mother rubbed the sugar cubes. There were so many young people Shabnam’s age in attendance. They were her friends. They held the lace above the bride and groom’s heads. Shabnam was surrounded by people she knew and loved. Samira did not know what that felt like anymore. Shabnam glowed. She was asked three times whether she would consent to the marriage before saying, “Baleh.” “Lililililili,” the crowd roared.
Classical Persian music during dinner. After dinner, the wildly popular starlet and singer whose audience knew no bounds in age nor class and who was known by her fans only as Googoosh, moved the guests to dance. Shabnam’s friends screamed with delight. Like groupies at a European rock concert, Samira thought. Music permeated the air as the grounds filled with governors, diplomats, politicians and businessmen. And their wives. A couple with their mistresses. They walked about the gardens in gowns of satin and silk with jewels to match, gossiping amongst themselves or hanging on the arms of the powerful men they accompanied. It was as though someone had rounded up the most beautiful women in the world and placed them in one candlelit garden. Samira felt no desire to paint any of the hollow creatures. She wanted only to not feel alone. To feel the love that surrounded Shabnam. Maybe, she allowed herself to think, someday, Davoud will allow a child. A child for her to love. To love her back. To know her. Know who she really was.
But he remained insistent. She tried to breathe through it.
She sat out the dances, except the waltz, which could not be helped because Mr. Bahmani insisted she join him on the floor for at least that one dance. It was the rare occasion when Samira had to publicly acknowledge that she was one of two wives at all; the one asked to melt into the setting. But it was not Davoud’s linked arm with Gita’s that made Samira anxious that evening. It was the company of the other man Gita kept all night. The sight of the angular young man standing next to his sister, meeting her acquaintances, laughing at her jokes, and sharing her joy sent spikes into Samira’s wasted heart. Alas, just as it was Gita’s place to be by Davoud’s side that evening, it was Armin’s place to be by Gita.
At midnight, as Davoud’s much anticipated fireworks illuminated the sky, Samira noticed with the utmost satisfaction that Armin’s eyes searched for her again, as he had several times throughout the night. She had caught him looking at her as she ate her dinner, as she made small talk with the guests, and as she glided across the dance floor with Mr. Bahmani. She wondered what he saw.
Over the years, she had molded the most treasured aspects of her soul to please her husband and turned the wheels of her mind to his pace. Yet Armin had seen her when she was at her least constructed, most authentic self. Unexpected, he had stepped into the dressing room of the woman who was always on stage, raw without her costume, infusing himself into the unfinished painting that was her. She wondered if he appreciated the truth of the glimpse he had caught. If he had even an inkling.
After a few more dances, the newlyweds set off to begin their honeymoon. One by one, the guests departed, and eventually Gita also retired for the evening. Armin kissed his sister goodnight then went to the bar for a drink. He downed it within a minute, shook the bartender’s hand, and walked toward Samira who was standing by herself. She felt pressure on her chest and tried to take a deep breath. She looked around for Davoud and found him chatting up Mr. Fardust on the dance floor, oblivious to her.
“Goodnight, Mr. Afsseus,” Samira said when Armin made his way to her.
Maybe he’ll linger a little longer.
“Goodnight.” He gave her a cordial nod.
Or shake my hand. What would it be like to touch him?
“I’m told you’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, so I suppose I should say goodbye rather than goodnight.”
Did I say that right? My tone . . . was it distant? I hope it was not too eager.
“Yes, I’ll be leaving early.” Then he whispered
, “But I’ll write to you.”
“Write to me?”
“Yes. A letter. You’ve heard of those, haven’t you? Pen? Paper? Letter?”
“Well yes, of course, I’ve heard . . . but I . . . Well, I’m sure that wouldn’t really be appropriate.”
Some acquaintances approached to bid farewell for the evening. Armin quickly left. Samira only allowed her eyes to linger after him for half a second before composing herself and returning to the proper demeanour for the occasion.
She then reunited with Davoud for conversation with the few guests who remained in the candlelit garden. These were some of Davoud’s closest friends and most powerful allies. They had sent their wives home ahead of them to have serious discussions in the confidence of their cohort. The moon was a waxing crescent in the sky. They sat in a circle of wicker chairs on the west garden patio. Over cigars and brandy the discussion turned from the festivities to the future, from happy marriage beds to discontented citizens. They even ventured into the territory of the suzerainty of the Pahlavi family.
“Mr. Fardust,” said Mr. Bahmani, “knowing your position at SAVAK, we’d all appreciate whatever information you can give that may help us and our businesses.”
“Oh, my dear man, haven’t you heard?” Davoud said, “Hussein’s been appointed head of the Imperial Inspectorate.”
Samira cringed. It was one thing to be deputy director of SAVAK, but quite another to head Iran’s special intelligence bureau. The Imperial Inspectorate was tasked to watch over high-level government officials and protect SAVAK directors who had developed a nasty habit of assassinating one another for political gain. Samira was glad she had not been the first to make the mistake of Mr. Fardust’s current post. She sensed fear in the silence around her.
“Well, Mr. Bahmani, can you tell us about the business world’s impression of the Shah’s new welfare policies?” she asked, even though she knew his business was mostly run by his son-in-law. Pretending to credit him with knowledge of the general state of the markets was the kind of flattery that alleviated uneasiness.
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