by Sara Jafari
She locked her phone. Magnus was now forty minutes late.
On the bus home she kept expecting him to message or ring. But nothing.
Once in her flat she could hear Priya and Oliver chatting in the living room. She prepared herself. A strong smell of cheese and oil hit her and she instantly needed a slice of pizza, slipping back into her old ways of comfort eating. She hadn’t even realized she’d stopped doing it since she’d begun seeing Magnus.
Priya looked like she wanted to say something, but Oliver spoke before she could.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” Soraya lied. “I mean, maybe his phone ran out of battery or something.”
“Why did neither of you tell me you were still seeing him?” Priya asked in an accusatory tone, clearly not reading the room.
Oliver picked up a large slice of pizza and took his time chewing it.
“I mean, I’m still using him,” Soraya said, aware Oliver knew she was blatantly lying, her voice wavering. “Can we just not talk about it?” She sat on the sofa with them.
They watched Will & Grace reruns in silence.
“Oh, God, is this what ghosting is?” Soraya suddenly asked. “I’ve heard about it but never thought I’d actually experience it…”
Oliver passed her the last slice of pizza, which she took silently. It was lukewarm and doughy in her hands. She took a bite, chewing loudly but tasting nothing.
“That’s a yes then,” she continued. “How fucking embarrassing. You know, I was meant to be the one to end it. Not him.”
“I never get why it’s called ‘ghosting.’ Isn’t the whole point that ghosts don’t go away?” Priya said thoughtfully. Oliver and Soraya looked at her in silence. “I’m just saying.”
Perhaps it was karma for attempting to play with a player.
As was tradition, a tray of herbs and spices, a silver-plated mirror, hard-shell nuts, painted eggs, a large Quran, coins, sweets, and a needle and thread had all been laid on an expensive silk sofreh. They symbolized the joining of two forces and were considered a token of good luck, from the family and from Allah.
Neda had fought hard for this, for Hossein, for the right to be his wife, and now that their wedding was about to happen she was surprised by her physical reaction to the commitment she was making. Her stomach churned; her entire body felt jittery, adrenaline pumping. In many ways she knew such feelings were perfectly normal; what bride didn’t feel nervous before her wedding? Who didn’t have doubts in the back of their mind? Anyone who said they didn’t, Neda knew, was lying. Saving face because they assumed such thoughts were unusual. It was an endless cycle of deception. Marriage was putting yourself into someone else’s hands and accepting one future out of many different options. But it was also a great thing. It was the joining of two people, and meant gaining a companion for life. This would be the start of Neda’s adult life, really. So it was no wonder she was nervous about making such a change. That was what she told herself, repeatedly.
Facing her, in the room where she and her family slept, the room she grew up in, were Hossein, his mum, Maman, Baba, and their two respective Imams. Neda and Hossein sat on wooden chairs next to each other while everyone else stood, looming over them, not helping her anxiety.
The conditions of the marriage were reiterated. Both parties had agreed to the settlement, after much back-and-forth between the families. It was odd to Neda how little both she and Hossein cared about the specifics of the contract, all they wanted was to be married, but their families treated the whole affair as a business matter.
“Do you consent to marry Hossein Nazari, on the terms listed?” her Imam asked.
Tradition dictated that she say nothing, to keep the groom on his toes, until the Imam asked the same question for the third time. Then she said, “Yes, I do.”
Hossein’s Imam then asked him, “Do you accept Neda Haghighi as your wife?”
Hossein replied, “I do.”
And with that, Neda Haghighi became Neda Nazari.
Once the ceremony was over, she was surprised by the lightness she felt. The way one feels when one no longer has a choice or power over something. When the decision is made and there can be no more wondering whether what one is doing is right, no more worrying about the implications of such a decision forty years later. There was no going back now, and Neda was glad.
The second party, the actual wedding, weeks later at Hossein’s family home, was much larger and a more nerve-racking experience, which made little sense because the deed had already been done: she was now his.
Neda had gone to the beautician’s in the morning with her friends to get ready. The hair on her entire body was removed, a rigmarole of hair-removal powders and creams. She had never felt so smooth, so polished. Her eyes were outlined with kohl, her eyebrows arched like the wings of a bird. She felt overdone, yes, but the thrill of seeing someone else in front of the mirror, Neda Nazari, sent flashes of excitement through her.
She wore a white lace wedding dress. A veil covered her face, partly obstructing her vision. She preferred it that way, not being entirely open to the eyes of other people as well as not being able to see the expressions of those around her.
It was late October now and Tehran was cooler, but despite this, while preparations were being made—both to herself and to the house—she kept a fan by her side. The soothing whir that often lulled her to sleep was her comfort now. It calmed the flutters in her stomach, drowned out the voices calling to her from her childhood. She was both excited and terrified, longing for and repelled by this change.
And when Neda tentatively voiced her fears with friends and relatives, some married, others engaged, a handful single, she discovered they held—or had held—similar sentiments. Marrying meant gaining a new family in your virtually unknown husband.
“Shahd’s husband is a monster,” her aunties would gossip.
“Like mine then!” another woman would declare with a laugh, her sad eyes not matching her shrill, only half-joking response.
“All men are monsters,” another would shout.
“Not mine,” a woman newly married into the family would say, to which everyone would think: Lucky khar or Just you wait.
“It’s normal, Neda. You’ve always been indecisive, and this is a huge decision. But it’s the right one. I see the way he makes you smile,” Shanauz had said. “And he is beautiful, so if you don’t want him, I’ll have him…” Neda had laughed then and hit her friend playfully on the arm. No one knew her as well as Shanauz did; Neda hoped she was right.
The more Neda spoke to Hossein, the more convinced she became that he was different from other men. Her dad was kind but didn’t understand her decision to be a practicing Muslim. Didn’t quite get why she disapproved of his drinking. He was too Western, she thought. In contrast, her brothers were old-fashioned in many of their views, mainly regarding the aspects of Islam that had nothing to do with them. They believed women should be at home cooking, cleaning, or breeding—definitely not working once married.
Neda had had conversations with Hossein about her working and he simply said, “Do whatever you want, azizam.” He was accommodating; wanted her to be happy, and would readily assist her to achieve such aims. “I’m just so thankful to Allah that you said yes,” he often said, the tops of his cheeks pink. He made her feel beautiful, special even.
So, yes, Neda was frightened of marriage, but she also realized that Hossein was different. That with him she could live the life she wanted; that her life didn’t need to change drastically, not if she didn’t want it to.
The men celebrated upstairs and the women downstairs—this was Hossein’s mother’s idea, common among highly religious families, and not at all what Neda’s siblings’ weddings had been like. There was also a communal room where the sexes could mix—something Maman had encouraged. The music was loud, and
while supposedly no alcohol was consumed, there was an air of drunkenness. People were high off each other’s excitement. Neda sat talking to old friends while her relatives danced in the middle of the room.
And then she was urged to dance too, hands were pulling her up, and her body was suddenly moving. She had rehearsed the moves many times before. The term “two left feet” very much applied to Neda, but from their cheers no one seemed to notice—or at least they didn’t let it show—how terribly she was dancing. But then, given Iranians’ love of whispering behind each other’s backs, they probably noted how she swung her arms a tad too wildly, curved in an unflattering way, her hair tucked behind her rather prominent ears.
When she sat back down, she looked at her surroundings properly. From within a large picture frame Hossein’s father was frowning into the camera. He wore an army uniform, his jawline strong and pronounced. Looking at it, she wondered what he would think about his only son marrying her. She shook her head, forcing herself to be present in the moment.
She couldn’t help but admire the gold and other valuables displayed in cabinets around the living room. It was clear women dominated this house; everything was in its place. And yet there was a sterility to the cleanliness.
Even louder roaring erupted from the women. One of Hossein’s sisters patted her knee.
“Hossein!” someone said, breathless with excitement, or perhaps from the dancing. Those who wore hijabs quickly put them on.
Hossein walked towards them in his wedding suit. Just looking at him Neda felt herself blushing. She hoped those around her believed it was from embarrassment and not desire. His hair was long at the front. As he made his way towards her a strand fell in front of his eyes. It reminded her of the first time they spoke, and she resisted the urge to move it from his face.
He sat next to her, accepting the congratulations of those around him. Photos were taken. By the end she felt her cheeks straining from smiling.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“OK…how about you?”
“I’m exhausted,” he said, before letting out a boyish laugh.
Neda breathed out in relief. “I’m glad you said that, I’m so tired. I just didn’t want to say it.”
He leant in closer. “I can’t wait to leave.”
“Me neither.” Neda giggled. She didn’t think she had ever done so before. Was this what married life was about? If so, it wasn’t something her aunties had mentioned. In their tirades about men they omitted the weightless feeling of happiness, the way one’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
“By the way”—Hossein tilted his head so his lips almost touched her ear—“you look beautiful.”
And she felt it. She was aware that some of the women were looking at them critically, particularly those on his side of the family, but so be it—they were married now and this was only a small public display of affection.
“I’m just going outside for some air,” Neda said.
It took her even longer than expected to leave the room since relatives had a plethora of things to share with her: complaints about the food, compliments on her dress, and anecdotes about how only yesterday she was a baby and now she was a married woman.
When she eventually made it to the courtyard she let out a deep sigh, feeling the constraints of her dress against her stomach as she did so. She leant against the wall. Music could be heard coming from upstairs as well as downstairs, the competing tunes both lulling and overwhelming her.
There were lemon trees in full bloom surrounding a small rectangular pool. Because of the number of guests in the house, they had all removed their shoes in the courtyard, rather than inside by the door, and it looked like there were hundreds of pairs cluttering the ground. Behind her she heard movement. Inwardly she groaned. All she wanted was a moment of quiet to herself.
As she turned, a big, fake smile plastered on her face, she was surprised to find Hossein standing there.
She relaxed.
“It’s so hot inside,” he said, breathing in fresh air and sighing it out.
“You look so handsome,” she heard herself say.
“Thank you,” he said. He smiled, moved his head down and then back up, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He checked that no one was nearby before cupping her face. His hands were warm and soft.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said slowly, looking into her eyes for a beat. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I first saw you, Neda.”
“Do it then,” she muttered.
He leant in, brushed his lips across hers, and put one hand behind her head, keeping her there. The kiss deepened, and while Neda’s hands were still firmly by her sides, her lips moved with his. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, but went along with Hossein, following his lead as though it were the most natural thing in the world. After all, he was just as inexperienced as she was, and that gave her a sense of comfort. They were having their first kiss together, and it was so special.
They were interrupted by a sound of disgust. Neda recoiled from her husband to find her portly, red-faced amu Ahmad before them. He jabbed his finger in Hossein’s face.
“You aren’t good enough for her!” Neda’s uncle yelled, pushing Hossein, who stumbled backwards, tripping over the pile of shoes and falling to the ground. Neda’s eyes widened in horror.
“Amu, what are you doing?” she shouted, pulling him away from Hossein.
Up close she could see his bloodshot eyes, and the smell that radiated from him made her recoil. “Alcohol? You’re drinking at my wedding?”
“I told your baba, this man isn’t good!”
“Get off him!” Neda helped her husband up. His expression was unreadable, apart from the tightness of his jaw.
“You’re drunk. Sober up, old man,” Hossein said, his voice steady.
“Why did you marry him, Neda? Why did your baba allow it?” Her uncle picked up a shoe from the ground and threw it against the wall just as Baba entered the courtyard, a look of rage on his face.
He walked over in what felt like double time until he was face-to-face with Hossein, shoving Neda out of the way.
“You won’t see your little girlfriend anymore, no more! You hear me? You want to laugh at my family? Disrespect my family?” He spat on Hossein’s feet. “No! Do you hear me?” His shouts echoed around the courtyard’s walls, and it was only then that Neda noticed the music had been turned down. In true Iranian fashion everyone was eavesdropping.
Her entire body was in knots. She couldn’t quite process what was being said, so she missed some words.
“You’re mistaken, Baba,” Hossein said. Neda could detect the sarcasm in his voice. She clutched her chest and shut her eyes for a couple of seconds. And when she opened them, all she saw was Baba’s raised arm, which swung towards Hossein’s face. Luckily for him, Hossein ducked just in time. Unfortunately for Baba, that meant he stumbled and Hossein caught him.
“Get off me!” Baba exclaimed, pushing away from him.
Baba looked at Neda as though remembering for the first time that she was in fact there, watching everything fall apart. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair before proceeding to yank on it.
“Baba!” Neda said. “What’s going on?” She looked over to Hossein, whose gaze was cast down, and then to her uncle, who had somehow sobered up and simply stared at his brother. All roads led to her father. “Baba?”
There was a long silence.
“You coward,” he muttered to Hossein. “We found out your husband has had a girlfriend for the past few years, and it overlapped with the khastegari,” he explained to his daughter.
“That’s not true—” Hossein began. Neda raised her hand and gave him a deathly stare.
“Let Baba finish.”
“A girl came to me just now to tell m
e she ‘loves’ Hossein, that he promised to marry her and then left her.”
All Neda could think in that moment was how much she wished she hadn’t heard those words. How she wished she could go on being ignorant, feeling special, feeling like she’d made the right choice. It was all ruined. Everything.
“I was once with someone, it’s true. But we had a sigheh, Neda.” Hossein’s voice was pleading as he watched her back away from him. Sigheh. A temporary marriage. “We realized we weren’t suited, and that’s when we separated. And then I met you, Neda. I swear on Allah, Neda, please believe me.”
She looked over to her dad, registered his expression of defeat. It was too late.
They all knew there was little to be done now.
“Wakey, wakey!”
Days after being ghosted by Magnus, Soraya woke from a deep sleep to find her bedroom door open and her mum’s silhouette in the doorway. Somehow it felt better to be in Brighton, rather than London, when she felt so burnt. In Brighton she could pretend she hadn’t been ruthlessly rejected, because no one knew she had been seeing anyone to begin with.
“It’s twelve o’clock. Why are you still asleep?” her mum said, walking into the room. She pulled the blinds open, one by one, bringing too much light into the darkness. Soraya pulled the covers over her head. “Ey, why is your laptop on your bed while you sleep? I always tell you about the radiation!”
Soraya had fallen asleep working on an illustration of Nunhead Cemetery; it was the first time she’d attempted a landscape drawing. It looked more macabre than she had originally intended, but she appreciated the effect so far.
“I’ll get up in a minute,” she groaned, and then on reflection groaned a second time. She was twenty-one years old, recently graduated, an adult, but in many ways it was as though nothing had changed since she was fifteen. Hadn’t she slept until noon then, and hadn’t her mum always said “Wakey, wakey” then too?
How much longer would she be in this no-man’s-land of unemployment? Every entry-level job advert she saw—even unpaid work experience—listed a requirement for the candidate to have prior experience. You needed work experience for work experience. An outlandish cycle Soraya wasn’t sure how to bypass.