by Sara Jafari
“Three sisters, no brothers. I always wanted a brother, it would have made it easier when my baba, you know…” He looked uncomfortable when he spoke about his father. He had died in a car accident two years ago.
“He’s with Allah now, be assured of that,” Neda said.
Hossein muttered a prayer before taking some tokhmeh from a bowl.
She learnt that he had played football professionally, but during a collision with another player had sustained a double compound fracture of his left shin. Following the incident he was unable to play again.
“Thank Allah, I’m able to walk, and even play friendly matches with my friends,” he had said when he first told her. “I’m very lucky.”
He walked with a slight limp, and it was more pronounced when he walked quickly.
She also discovered he studied sports science, which explained why she hadn’t seen him in the labs.
Despite their increasing closeness, she said nothing of Hossein to her parents. They were already busy with their nine other children; she didn’t want to concern them with no-news.
While peeling potatoes in the kitchen one evening, one of Neda’s younger sisters, Rabeh, whispered in her ear, “I’ve heard about you and that footballer.”
“What?” Neda hissed, looking around.
Her brothers were all in the living room, smoking and playing card games with their dad. Her eldest four siblings, two brothers and two sisters, were already married and moved out. Neda was next.
She was conflicted about what she wanted. She felt an increasing obligation to relieve the family of their financial worries. But she also wanted more time, was frightened of change while also longing for it. Her opinion on the matter changed every day.
“People talk,” Rabeh said. “Are you not going to tell Maman and Baba?”
“Nothing has happened, we’ve not really spoken seriously.” Neda was on edge. “Go put the samovar on.”
Rabeh complied and began preparing the chai.
“Listen,” Neda said. “It’s important you don’t say anything to Maman or Baba until it’s official, if it’s ever official.”
“Why do you want to lie to our parents?” When Rabeh spoke Neda noticed a bit of tokhmeh stuck in her teeth, which added to her annoyance. “I thought you were meant to be the pious one.”
Neda made a noise deep in her throat and quickly told her sister, “Oh, shut up and peel the potatoes, then.”
After dinner, when everyone was asleep on the floor in the living room, Rabeh came over to Neda and attempted to rest her head against her chest. But Neda pushed her away.
“What?” Rabeh said.
“I was serious before,” Neda said.
She could hear her sister exhale sharply. “You’re always serious, sister.”
Neda turned away from her, closing her eyes.
The only light in the room came from the streetlights filtering through the crack in the curtains. That evening a sense of dread crept its way into her belly, and she struggled to shake it off.
She felt she should cherish these moments, falling asleep among her family. They struggled, but they stuck together and everything worked out OK. Allah was watching them. It was a comforting feeling, like eating a large bowl of steaming rice after a long day. Despite their house being shabby, only one toilet to be shared between eight of them, and the cockroaches that regularly emerged from the cracks in the floors, it was home. She often daydreamed about being a child again, and envied her youngest sibling, Zahra, for having more years to enjoy being young and free.
So as she lay awake that night Neda tried to appreciate the things she ordinarily wouldn’t have. The familiar hum of the fridge, her dad’s loud snores, her younger siblings creeping over to her in the night for a cuddle, the laughs they had before lights out, all of them chatting, playing games, making fun of each other. Soon all of this would be over; her childhood would be over.
And then she felt crazy; she was twenty-one years old, her childhood already technically long gone. It was over when she had her first period, eight years ago. And perhaps, she thought, the next step in life would be even better, exciting even. That was if Rabeh kept her mouth shut.
Her dad’s snores were louder, echoing around the room.
“Eh!” someone yelled in exasperation. Neda and Rabeh sniggered under their covers.
A small kick. The snoring stopped.
“Wha—” her dad said, confusion thick in his voice. Everyone was silent, pretending to be asleep. He shook his head, scratched it, and then turned over. Everyone had a smile on their face, happy for the momentary quiet.
She felt a tap on her shoulder. Rabeh. Neda could see only the outline of her face, but thought her sister was smiling at her. She held her pinkie finger out to Neda. “Your secret is safe with me, OK?”
Through sleepy eyes Neda wrapped her pinkie around her sister’s a tad too tight. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“These English people kiss anyone,” Soraya’s mum said, raising her hands in exasperation.
The familiar drumming chorus of the EastEnders theme tune came on.
“Who wants a cup of tea then?” Her mum got up to fill the kettle as the Coronation Street music began. “Hey, pause it,” she yelled. Her dad complied.
With the TV paused, the hum of the kettle brewing was loud in the background. Their living room and kitchen had an archway between, but it was essentially one large room with two doorways accessing it from the hallway.
The family were not fans of the minimalist look; they threw nothing away. The living room was cluttered with books, papers, broken printers, and numerous Iranian vases. And a plethora of Persian carpets. The rugs overlapped each other on the floor, and three hung proudly on the walls. When Soraya was ten years old she had seen them installed there after school one day. Horrified, she had asked her mum, “Why?”
“I saw someone do it on TV, and theirs aren’t even real Persian carpets,” her mum had replied.
“What’s your plan now, then, Soraya?” Amir asked. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa their dad lay on.
“Um, get a job?”
“Have you been applying?” their dad asked. As he spoke a piece of pistachio he had been chewing flew out of his mouth.
She hadn’t told the rest of her family about her failed interview.
“I only just graduated,” Soraya said.
“You’ve had all summer to apply for jobs,” Amir chimed in, and then he smugly added, “I got my first job two weeks after my last exam.”
“A job you hate,” she replied.
“A job that means I’ve saved enough for a deposit on a house,” he retorted. Amir worked as an accountant, not because he was particularly talented in mathematics but because it was what their parents wanted.
“Soraya did a creative subject though, it’s different,” Parvin said.
“We told her to study medicine, or even law, but she didn’t listen,” her dad said.
Soraya clenched her fist, letting her fingernails dig into her palm. She pressed harder until it hurt. They thought she was like them: intelligent. Like her mum, who taught biomedicine at the University of Sussex. Like Amir, who got a First in accounting. Like Parvin, who despite working only part-time for a travel company, earned 70,000 pounds a year, tax-free, in Bahrain, which allowed her to alternate her time between there and England. Soraya struggled with education, always had, and wanted so bad to find a subject she was naturally talented in.
Failure hung over her. She had applied to eighteen jobs in total, received twelve rejection emails, and the others hadn’t responded to her yet.
“Do you need help?” Soraya asked her mum, walking into the kitchen.
Her mother was pouring hot water into a teapot; the sweet aroma of spices, predominantly cardamo
m, filled the air. Not allowing it to brew properly, her mum poured the tea into mismatched mugs.
Soraya had been to Tehran a handful of times with the family when she was younger. Her memories of Iran were hazy, but prominent among them was how perfectly her khale Rabeh made tea. It was always brewed at just the right temperature. She remembered her khale criticizing her mum for her rushed tea making, and her mum playfully swatting her sister with a dishcloth.
Now her parents went to Iran every year without their children. It was easier to explain the absence in the family if none of the children were there. Soraya never felt comfortable in Tehran anyway. She was always regarded as a foreigner, despite looking like the people there. In England she had the reverse problem. In England she was Iranian, and in Iran she was English. Always a foreigner, never belonging.
“Thank you, darling.” Her mum handed Soraya two cups. “This one is your dad’s”—she pointed to the faded mug holding tea which was black with no sugar—“and this one is Amir’s,” the milky tea with a lot of sugar.
Soraya carried them through to the living room and put them down in front of her dad and brother; they were received without thanks. She went back to her mum to retrieve hers and held the steaming mug close to her.
“Ignore them,” her mum said, without looking up. She poured the remaining tea, and then looked for some biscuits to put on a plate. “They don’t know how hard you’ve been trying.”
This understanding made Soraya teary-eyed but also produced impostor-like feelings. Had she been trying hard? She had applied for so many jobs, read up on how to write the best cover letters, and taken her time filling out the applications. But was her heart in it? Did she even know what she wanted to do?
“I always tell students it takes time, so don’t be disheartened. It’s difficult to get your first job, but you’ll get there.” Her mum patted Soraya on her forearm.
“Your dad made such a mess of the house today,” she continued in hushed tones.
Soraya didn’t reply.
“I work all day and come back to biscuit crumbs on the floor and jam smeared on the remote control.”
“Tell him to clean it up then.” Soraya sighed, repeating the same conversation they always had.
“Like he would listen.”
They returned to the living room with the chocolate biscuits, which were devoured within two minutes.
Then her dad pressed play and Coronation Street began with one character almost being caught having an affair.
“Again!” her mum cried, shaking her head. “Her partner is so kind as well.”
“They all drink too much and this is what happens,” her dad said, as though he was an expert in such matters.
“Wait, I thought that other guy was her husband?” Soraya said.
“No, they divorced and now she’s going out with his friend,” her mum explained, dunking her biscuit into her tea.
“When did that happen?”
“Months ago.”
“So why is she with him again?”
“They got drunk at a party and kissed,” her dad said.
“They always go to the pub and drink. English people must spend so much money on alcohol,” her mum mused.
“You do know this isn’t representative of English people’s lives?” Soraya said to her parents.
They often had this conversation too.
“No, this is what they’re like. This is why we don’t drink alcohol, it makes people do bad things.”
“It’s exaggerated for TV, though, they’ve got to make it interesting.”
“Mum and Dad think our English neighbors all meet in the pub every day and cheat on each other,” Amir said, laughing.
“Oh, shhh,” her mum said, turning the volume up.
Watching the soaps was an important pastime for her mum; she seldom watched TV with the exception of the soaps. They were the only moments in which she had time to herself, and the only real time she bonded with her husband over a shared interest.
The Nazari family were fans of late dinners, which meant eating at 9:00 p.m. Soraya and Parvin were only just setting the table. While Soraya dished up the pasta, Parvin added side salads to the plates and their mum took the garlic bread out of the oven. The men were watching football in the other room and occasionally Soraya could hear yelps, though she wasn’t quite sure whether they were cries of joy or of anger.
“Food is ready!” Parvin called.
Their dad went straight to the fridge. He took out a large bottle of Diet Coke that no one else was allowed to drink and poured himself a glass. He filled the glass only halfway; by this point his obsession with having Diet Coke was not out of pleasure but compulsion. He had to have Diet Coke with every single meal. Soraya often wondered whether he even liked the taste anymore, or whether he gave himself as little as possible because he didn’t actually want it. His habit at this point was so regimented, and his willpower so weak.
He refused to eat at the dinner table, preferring to watch television rather than talk to his family.
So once more only four of them ate together.
“This tastes lovely,” her mum said.
“You cook well,” Amir said between bites. “It’s a good skill for a woman to have. Especially when she marries.”
Soraya rolled her eyes.
“You should learn how to cook too,” her mum said to him, smiling devilishly. It was strange, but also delightful, how the only fully practicing Muslim in the family was also the most feminist in some ways. “So that when you and your wife come home from work, you can take turns cooking for each other. Unlike me and your dad…” Soraya thought she heard her mutter then, “Who doesn’t even work.”
“Mum’s right, stop being such a misogynist.” Only Parvin could say this to Amir without him flipping. “It should be equal.”
“Sorry, Paris.” He gave her a look.
Parvin pressed her lips together and pretended she hadn’t heard him.
Amir had heard her friend call her Paris once, and had played it against her ever since.
“Like Paris Hilton, isn’t she famous because of a sex tape, like that Kardashian?” Amir continued.
Soraya wanted to interject that actually Kim Kardashian was an intelligent businesswoman, but Parvin spoke before she could.
“English people don’t know how to pronounce my name, it’s easier to call myself Paris,” she said. “You don’t have to mention it all the time.”
“You should be proud to be Iranian. Why do you want to be named after a European city? A racist European city at that.”
“It just makes my life easier, it’s really not that deep,” Parvin said. Soraya noticed she had stopped eating her food and was now using her fork to push it around her plate.
Despite the obscene amount her job paid, it was clear she didn’t enjoy her time spent abroad, having to behave and be a certain way around her friends there. Appearance was crucial, and she often lamented not having meaningful conversations with anyone or making any deep friendships.
“We shouldn’t be changing ourselves to make their lives easier,” Amir said. “And on the topic of transgressions, you two need to dress more modestly, I was embarrassed at Soraya’s graduation.”
A collective internal eye roll from both Parvin and Soraya.
“It’s no wonder that boy cheered for you in the crowd, Soraya, you proper had your legs out. Even if you say he was gay, I bet Mum was embarrassed.” Why couldn’t he just say he was embarrassed? To which Parvin and Soraya could, in some alternate universe, say they were embarrassed by him when he voiced his sexist views.
Soraya was about to defend herself when her dad shouted, “What boy?” from the other room.
Soraya put her fork down.
“No boy, Amir was joking!” her mum replied quickly. Soraya wasn’t su
re if it actually happened but she could have sworn her mum kicked Amir under the table. His body jolted slightly. “Just eat your food.” She gave Soraya a look then that said: You’d better be careful and not be talking to any boys.
Soraya felt a flicker of guilt. Normally their speculations were groundless. But not anymore.
They met at the V&A Museum. It was Magnus’s idea. At first when Soraya asked him what his plans were for the weekend he said he was going there alone, and invited her along seemingly as an afterthought, but she got the distinct impression that this was his way of asking her on a date, without actually asking her on a date.
Walking through each room, Soraya struggled to concentrate. She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing or why she was seeing him again.
“Do you go to galleries a lot then?” she asked.
He smiled to himself and looked down, as if what she’d said was funny.
“Sometimes.” He paused before grinning at her and admitting, “Not really. I thought this was something you liked, that’s why I suggested it.”
She didn’t know what to say to that; all she knew was that this comment would be something she would dissect later, no doubt turning his sentence over in her mind repeatedly until it meant nothing, but also everything.
“Is this something you like doing?” he asked.
Soraya shrugged. “I don’t make a point of coming but I probably should do more of it.”
They stopped in front of a painting. The colors were dark, a moody mess of gray and black paint. They stood there for quite some time, quietly observing.
“Do you believe in God?” Magnus asked.
The question took her by surprise, and she laughed although she didn’t find it funny.
“Random much? Yes,” she said. “Do you?”
“I’m not sure, probably not.”
He continued to look at the painting.
“Why did you ask?”
“I was just thinking about this painting. The artist said it’s meant to represent death, the nothingness of it.”
“So you seriously don’t believe there’s a reason we’re here?”