by Sara Jafari
Soraya’s image of Laleh was always blurred, never fully formed. She had seen pictures in the photo albums that were kept hidden away. Laleh at sixteen, in her school uniform, smiling at the camera. She was so naturally beautiful, her eyebrows thin and shaped and her lips a perfect Cupid’s bow. Her hair had been cut into a long bob, slightly frizzy in the way teenage hair always is.
Soraya reached under her pillow to retrieve her diary. She wrote in it when she couldn’t make sense of her emotions. Lately the majority of her entries had been about Magnus. She opened the last page and the photograph she was looking for fell out.
Her sister’s face stared back at her. She had a mole between her eyebrows that always struck Soraya as unique. She tried to imagine her sister in her thirties. Would her hair be thinner, sleeker? Would she be bigger in maturity?
Laleh wasn’t on social media. At least not under Laleh Nazari. No one in the family talked about her, and it wasn’t until Soraya was much older that she realized how strange that was. When she tried to bring up the subject of her sister the atmosphere always changed and she was abruptly shut down. After a while she learnt not to try.
Every few months Soraya would attempt to find Laleh online. She would Google-search her, check every social media platform for her sister. But there was no trace of her. It was clear she didn’t want to be found.
In some of her daydreams Soraya pictured Laleh living in Paris, or somewhere equally glamorous, in a café somewhere, drinking espresso, not thinking about the family she’d left behind. Her image of her sister was always as a teenager, like the girl in the photograph. She could not imagine what Laleh looked like now.
In Soraya’s nightmares Laleh was living in a tiny flat, struggling to make ends meet. Or worse: on the streets. Homeless because her parents had abandoned her when she was seventeen—would rather lose their daughter than accept she had a boyfriend. Surely, the whole point of families was to be there for each other? Not disown a young person for falling in love.
That was the problem with the forbidden love that Soraya relished reading about: it was easy to idealize only if you ignored the wreckage it caused.
Soraya doubted Laleh was still with that boyfriend. The statistical odds were against them. They had been a teenage couple who idealized love. She imagined that when Laleh had left home cracks had begun to form. How could they not? It was a sad thought.
She put the photograph away and tucked her diary back under her pillow.
Either Laleh was doing well and wanted nothing to do with them. Or she was doing bad and needed them, but couldn’t reach out.
The two thoughts haunted Soraya.
Staring up at her ceiling, feeling the ever-present emptiness inside her, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was one step closer to being like Laleh.
To being tarnished.
Or perhaps free.
Neda hid Baba’s bottles of wine in the cupboard, placed heavy blankets over them, and cleaned the house thoroughly. The good dishes were out, and the freshest, largest fruit had been bought. Watermelon was cut into thick slabs and placed in a clear bowl. Cherries, apples, cucumbers, plums, and peaches were artfully assembled in dishes. Maman had ruled that all the women should wear hijabs for dinner.
Say what you want about Maman, she knew how to adapt to her children’s various suitors during a khastegari.
The sofreh, a large floral sheet, was on the floor; not the one the family sat on to eat every day, this one was special, for guests only. Displayed on it were dishes of ash, adas polow, salad olivieh, and jujeh kabab. Neda’s family, minus Neda’s already married siblings, sat on one side of the sofreh, and Hossein, his mother, and three sisters sat on the opposite side. His sisters, surprisingly, did not wear head scarves. Neda had assumed they would and could tell her own sisters were resentful that they had been made to wear them.
“You have a cute house,” Hossein’s mother commented.
Neda and Rabeh cringed. The woman’s words were laced with double meaning. It made Neda conscious of her surroundings, seeing them through an outsider’s eyes. She noticed for the first time the water stains on one wall, that the cracks in the plaster weren’t normal, everything that indicated they were in some way inferior for living in a place like this. She wished she could stop this seeing, and go back to being clueless about their shabby home.
“Cute,” Maman repeated slowly. “Thank you.”
The familiar hum of the air-conditioning filled the silence.
“What is it you study, Neda dear?”
Neda puffed out her chest with pride. “Biomedicine.”
“But you finish this year, correct?” It became clear Hossein’s mother didn’t actually care what the subject was.
“Yes.”
“That’s good then, so you can look after the house following marriage.”
Neda looked over at Baba. He was leaning against the wall, legs crossed. He pursed his lips but said nothing.
“Yes, of course, Neda is a lovely cook and very clean,” Maman said, slightly too quickly. You could almost smell the desperation in the air, seasoned with reluctance from Baba, in addition to the strong stench of the kebab.
“Very good.” Her soon-to-be mother-in-law looked at Neda approvingly. “Well done. You would be surprised…girls these days are forgetting all their home skills in favor of academia. This is apparently the modern normal.” She wrinkled her nose dismissively.
Hossein had a smile plastered on his face; he was equally uncomfortable with his mother’s comments. Neda was soon distracted by thoughts of how straight and white his teeth were, and how he was soon to be hers.
He had already made it clear he would support her studying and working, so his mother’s words did not faze her, but Baba’s reactions to them did.
She was reminded of one of their conversations after Hossein gave her the life-changing note.
“You’re the only man who asked me first and not Baba,” Neda had said.
“I wanted this to be your decision.” Hossein looked down at his hands as he spoke. “I didn’t know if your dad was strict, and the last thing I would want is for this to be an engagement you didn’t want.” He stared deep into her eyes then, earnest as ever. Looking at him in that moment, Neda wondered how someone so beautiful, with eyelashes so long and eyes so welcoming, could also be perfect within.
She was brought back to the present.
“He’s my only son, you know how it is,” Hossein’s mum continued, taking a tentative bite of her kebab. “When his father died it was very hard on us…and having three girls and only one boy! Ay, it has been difficult, but this boy has been a real man of the house. He’s very special to us; I just want to make sure he has a good wife, you know. A good girl like Neda, I mean. I can tell she is a good girl.” She said the last part quickly, realizing all of Neda’s family were looking at her, their smiles turning into grimaces. “The food is lovely, by the way.”
“What about Hossein?” Baba said, breaking his almost steely silence.
“What about him?” she said.
“He’s at the same university as our Neda,” her father said. “But what exactly is it that he’s studying?”
His mum didn’t answer immediately and looked down as she spoke. “Science as well.”
Neda frowned unconsciously and her dad picked up on it.
“Really?” he said. “I thought it was something different.”
“It’s sports science, sir,” Hossein said, his voice steady. “I played football too, professionally, but I had an injury.”
“He’s very good, he could even be professional again one day,” his mum added. “Inshallah his leg will heal fully.”
Ignoring this, Baba continued speaking. “And how are you going to provide for Neda?”
“I’ve been working at my uncle’s factory part-time,” Hosse
in said. “I’ve got savings and inheritance money. And once I graduate, I will find a full-time job, hopefully relating to my degree. I’d love to coach football at the very least.”
Maman smiled.
The topic of conversation moved on to Neda’s virginity.
“She’s a good Muslim girl,” Maman said. “Obviously.” And yet her hands were clasped together tight. It was like seeing a policeman in the street. Even though you’re doing nothing wrong, there’s still that small ball of anxiety in your stomach, as though somehow you might be. That’s how Neda imagined Maman felt during this conversation—it was how Neda was feeling, anyway.
“Yes, I don’t doubt that. I would obviously like to see the sheet afterwards, though.”
Maman almost flinched before saying, “Of course!”
Neda caught Hossein’s eye. He looked like he wanted to laugh while she wanted to cry. He winked at her and she felt the tension in her shoulders release. She almost smiled back, but quickly brought her gaze down. Better not attract attention. But she peeked at him one more time, and though he was now looking at his mother, he still had the glimmer of a smirk on his face.
At the end of the evening it took at least forty-five minutes for Neda’s family to say goodbye to Hossein’s. There were after all thirteen of them, and Iranians are very particular about their goodbyes. A proper leave-taking consisted of three kisses on each person’s cheeks, an invitation to a future dinner, thank-yous, a compliment, another goodbye, another offer to meet up over dinner, additional thank-yous, and then a formal goodbye before Neda’s family walked Hossein’s to their car.
While their families were preoccupied, Hossein managed to stand next to Neda. They smiled at each other, giddy that it seemed to have gone smoothly and their wedding was actually going to happen. Neda’s heart beat fast every time she looked at Hossein. He both terrified and excited her. Even standing next to each other, they kept at least a ten-centimeter gap between them; there would be no real touching until their wedding night. And yet despite this, Hossein’s hand found Neda’s—for a few seconds—and brushed against it. It was everything she had imagined it would be; his hand was warm and strong. It sent a funny feeling through her body. She looked at him sharply, denying how her body felt, focusing on what she should feel.
He laughed, running his hand through his hair. He seemed totally at ease, making Neda feel like a fool for being so uptight. He accidentally touched her and she was making a show of herself.
Neda opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Baba. He leant in to say goodbye to Hossein, shook his hand before kissing his cheeks.
“Get home safe,” he said.
Baba was a small man with a kind face. She wished she could have taken a photograph of Baba and Hossein together—her old life with her new life. Instead, she imprinted the image of them in her mind permanently.
As Hossein climbed into the car, he gave Neda a small bow.
“Goodbye, future wife.”
There was something intrinsically special about standing in a well-stocked bookshop. Excitement and longing, for all the books there was not enough time to read, hung in the air.
Magnus and Soraya had begun their date by walking along the South Bank, and it was there that they stumbled upon Foyles Bookshop. It had been a month since graduation, since they first spoke, which felt like so long ago now.
They were looking at the new releases section when Soraya blurted out, “When are you going to tell me what your book is about?”
He looked taken aback.
“It’s about families, I guess,” he said, walking over to the paperbacks on one of the center tables. She thought he would continue speaking but he did not.
“Care to elaborate?” she asked, following him.
He laughed and grabbed her face between both hands, locking her in place.
Her eyes widened at this, and he responded with a smirk and the slight raise of one eyebrow.
He moved closer to her, so that his nose was almost touching hers. Her breath caught suddenly; she’d come to realize he had that effect on her. She didn’t like it.
“You’re nosy, you know that?” he breathed.
Just when she almost leant in, she became conscious of the people around them and moved backwards. He must have had the same thought because he let her go at the same time.
“I guess it’s inspired by my relationship with my dad,” he said finally.
The resignation in his voice, and Soraya’s memory of his dad at graduation, made her feel bad for asking.
To prod further was to enter uncertain territory; this whole thing was only meant to be about one kiss. Poking into sticky family situations would only complicate things further.
“Oh, yeah?” she replied, throwing the ball firmly back into his court.
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t think it’ll go anywhere. I just write for fun.”
She noticed the way his whole demeanor changed when he spoke about writing. He was usually so confident, knew exactly what he was doing, but here, in the realm of writing, he did not.
They moved to another section of the bookshop. Soraya noticed a shelf marked “Feminism and Feminist Theory.” She power walked towards it, knowing he would follow her like she had followed him.
“What are your thoughts on feminism?” she asked, her heart beating oddly quickly. She knew exactly what she was doing though; she was hoping he would say the wrong thing, that her initial assumptions about him would be confirmed as correct all along: that he was just a typical lad. Confirmation of this would make not seeing him again a lot easier.
She was conscious of the fact that she was no longer using him, that the lines were blurring, and what they were doing had now become something real. They would never work as a couple, though, she knew this, for a number of reasons, including
He was renowned for dating girls on rotation.
He had previously said he didn’t believe in monogamy.
He didn’t believe in God.
When she wasn’t with him, Soraya questioned what they were doing, and why she had let it go on for so long. And yet…she liked being with him now. Somewhere deep inside, she knew she looked forward to their meetings. So, she needed him to say something wrong now—to cause an argument, to give her a reason to call it off.
But a small part of her was rooting for Magnus. She pushed down on that part.
She didn’t look at him but picked up the nearest book and pretended to read the blurb, though her eyes were skimming over words her brain did not take in.
She could feel his presence behind her. “It’s good?” he said.
She put the book down, turned around to face him, a challenging look in her eyes. “Good?”
“I mean,” he said, “what do you want me to say? It’s bad?” He was smiling.
“So you have no opinions on the matter, then?” she asked quickly. “It sounds like you could take it or leave it, like it’s not something you’ve considered before.”
He frowned. “I obviously care about equality between men and women. I’m not a complete dickhead. I just don’t really get why you’re asking me, to be honest. It’s like you want me to say I don’t agree with it or something?”
She was clearly not being as subtle as she thought.
“Of course I support women’s rights, obviously,” he continued. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”
Soraya sat on one of the wooden benches nearby, and Magnus sat down next to her. She looked at her hands as she spoke, something close to shame creeping in. “You hang around with boys from uni who are known for treating girls badly,” she said, in as steady a voice as she could manage, though the fire in her belly had died down now. What she didn’t say was: the way you’re known to treat girls is pretty bad too.
“I’m not them, though.”
“But you’re friends with them.”
“Not all of them. My actual friends are pretty sound.” He paused. “I don’t like that you still see me that way.”
Her heart began to beat quickly again.
“We’ve hung out quite a few times now,” he continued. “Surely you see that I’m not like that by now?”
She swallowed her own saliva with difficulty; her throat felt too tight. She felt thoroughly put on the spot. It wasn’t like she didn’t deserve it though.
“It’s just you hear so many things…”
“But you know me,” he interjected. “Right? From what you’ve seen of me, do you really think I’m like that?”
His eyes were imploring her, and she felt another wave of shame. She hadn’t really thought about what she was saying, about how it might make him feel. She hadn’t thought about his feelings at all since she had known him, come to think of it.
“No, I don’t,” she said, surprising herself by how true the words felt when they came out of her mouth.
He visibly relaxed, like her opinion of him really mattered.
And all Soraya could think in that moment was Oh, shit.
After twenty more minutes spent browsing—and then purchasing—books, they continued their walk along the river, passing teenagers at the skate park, the various chain restaurants and amusements.
Their conversation had moved in a much lighter, much safer, direction; Soraya had learnt her lesson.
“How are you finding post-uni life now?” Magnus asked.
They stopped to lean against one of the railings overlooking the usually murky Thames. But today the clear blue sky was reflected in the water and brightened it, giving the illusion of a perfectly blue river.
“It’s weird,” Soraya confessed. “It’s not what I thought it would be.”
“How so?” Magnus was looking out into the distance as they spoke, which allowed her to gaze openly at his face. She decided she appreciated his broken nose. It was the only thing about him that wasn’t conventionally attractive, and that made it more special. He had mentioned in passing how he’d broken it on two separate occasions, during rugby games, and had given up on having surgery to correct it. He’d laughed it off at the time, but she could tell it was actually something he was bothered about, beneath it all.