The Mismatch

by Sara Jafari

  Perhaps she was being overly cautious. Her parents didn’t even have Instagram. This level of paranoia was what her parents had reduced her to. Would she ever not worry about every single thing in her life?

  She resolved to not say anything to Magnus about the picture; they could have this one small thing at least.

  “Relax,” he said, sleepily.

  “Huh?”

  His hand curled around her tighter, his leg molding itself to hers. He snuggled into her. “You keep moving.”

  “Whoops, sorry!” She gave her signature humorless laugh, and put her phone underneath her pillow.

  But he was asleep again and didn’t notice what she had said.

  “I really hate wine,” she whispered into the quiet darkness.

  Soraya stared at a pile of clothes she had been meaning to donate to charity for years now and wondered whether she was incapable of letting go, of her childhood, of past teachings. She had always assumed that once she moved out she’d live the life she craved, would gain freedom. So why was she holding herself back? Why did she have no life goals? What did she truly believe in?

  “Jendeh!”

  Whore.

  There were loud footsteps. Quick and heavy. She closed her laptop and got out of bed.

  Her dad slammed into the room, his face a deeper shade of red than normal.

  “You jendeh!” he spat, crossing the room towards her.

  She backed away from him until her head hit the sloping ceiling. She swore under her breath and applied pressure to her scalp. Her heart felt like it was attempting to escape her chest; it pounded hard and erratically.

  Her mum came running up the stairs. “Hossein, stop, please!”

  Tyzer jumped off her bed, tail low, and ran down the stairs.

  As her father approached Soraya, she noticed his eyes were dark and wild. His raised hand slapped her hard across the face. Her cheek stung. The act caused her to hit her head again against the attic ceiling. The collision caused a bang. It sounded worse than it felt, but Soraya knew this wasn’t the end.

  She ducked down to run around him. “What are you talking about?” she yelled. She’d had enough nightmares about this happening. She usually woke up with a start around now.

  But this was real.

  “Zainab saw pictures of you on a boy’s Instagram, drinking alcohol. You fucking slag!” He stepped forward again and her heart sank.

  Zainab had found it because Magnus tagged her in the picture, and his account wasn’t private, and Soraya had been stupid enough to forget how nosy her relatives in Iran were. She felt as though she was drowning with weights tied around her ankles. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think properly. Her dad had this effect on her; only he could make her feel like she was drowning.

  She wished she could be invisible, like she often felt, and run away from this crazy man, this crazy family that constantly attempted to control her.

  A memory from her childhood came back to her. Her dad had caught her in a big group of classmates, talking to a boy. He’d dragged her to the car then, told her if she ever did anything like that again he’d kill her.

  She remembered her sister telling her that when Laleh left, their dad dragged Parvin away from Amir in the living room and simply told her, “If you ever disobey me, I will lock you in your room and never let you out.”

  “It was like a switch flicked on in him when Laleh left,” Parvin had said. “And it hasn’t turned off since.”

  Soraya now looked towards the stairs, where her mum stood, unintentionally in the way. She was cornered like a wild animal, with an even wilder predator shouting profanities at her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “You fucking liar!” Her dad scrambled on her dresser for an object, any object, and threw a photo frame in her direction. It hit her. The unexpected impact with her face was enough to make her to fall to the ground. Her head stung with a sharp, throbbing pain. Her entire body went to jelly. She wanted to stand, but when she put her hand to the floor to try to lever herself up, she found she didn’t have the strength.

  At the same time, rage bubbled inside her. Why was she at twenty-one years old still ruled by this useless man? She hated that he reduced her to this—a pathetic mess on the floor, while her mum cried. Her mum was always unhappy, always crying. Where was the justice?

  She wished he would disappear instead. Wished he’d stop controlling them, burdening them.

  She heard another crash and looked over to see he’d thrown down her TV. He picked up the watercolor set she’d been given for her birthday and smashed it against the wall. He had the ability to ruin everything; he destroyed and destroyed until everything was broken.

  “Hossein, stop!” her mum shouted.

  “This is your fault.” He turned on her then. She had a hand on his shoulder and he pushed her off him. She fell full force and the look on his face was one of surprise. As though he wasn’t aware of his own strength. Soraya and her mum both lay crumpled on the floor. Seeing him touch her mum in that way changed something in Soraya.

  “Neda,” he said softly, bending over her, hand outstretched, as though he hadn’t meant to hurt her.

  Neda ignored his hand, instead keeping her gaze on him, her jaw clenched. She managed to stand up unaided, on shaky legs.

  “Don’t you ever touch her, don’t even—” Soraya began.

  Anger returned to his face then, bringing him back to the reason he had pushed his wife, despite the brief moment of remorse he had shown.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Leave Mum alone—”

  He gave a short, harsh laugh. “You think your mum is innocent? She let you go to London, let you live with that gay boy, let you wear short skirts, and this happens. Like fucking Laleh.” He spat in Soraya’s face. Saliva ran down her cheek and into her hair. She tried to wipe it off but it was gluey and elastic. It stuck to her skin. She wiped her hand repeatedly against her pajama bottoms. “You’re lucky Amir isn’t home. He’d kill you, he’d fucking kill you!” her father ranted.

  “For what? I’ve not done anything!” she shouted. “You’re a bully, all you ever do is bully all of us, and I’m so sick of it!”

  His eyes were wild, hungry for confrontation, and she’d stupidly fed him. He reached out and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her towards him. She was about to groan with the pain of it when he smacked her across the face again.

  He hit her harder this time and her face felt like it had been branded by a hot iron. Her vision blurred. A contact lens had come out. She cried, couldn’t help it, tears gushing down her face, and sobbed loudly. As if she had been reduced to an animal, her cries were feral, unrestrained.

  “I told you before. Everything we do is for you,” her father shouted. “We came to England for you, your mum works like a donkey for you.” His voice rose after each word, until he was bellowing.

  Soraya looked over at her mum. Her head was bent low in resignation. Her lips were turned down and in that moment she noticed how much her mum had aged. Her wrinkles looked deeper, her body smaller. In particular, her hands looked tiny, childlike. How had she ended up with such a monster? And why wouldn’t she leave him?

  “I’m ashamed of you,” he spat.

  Soraya shut her eyes for a moment, willing this to be a nightmare. Wanting to wake up and have a normal dad. A calm, boring family. Not this.

  She hated him so much then. It was a familiar feeling but it was in this moment that she felt it charge her veins until she had to resist the urge to scream.

  “What’s going on…?” Parvin stood at the top of the stairs, looking in at the chaos.

  There were shards of glass on the floor, the television upside down, paint on the walls. Her mum held her face in her hands and Soraya stood facing their dad, her cheeks wet with tears, bl
ood dribbling from her nose. The silence in the room was almost audible.

  Parvin’s presence seemed to calm her dad’s fury. He backed away from Soraya and turned towards her sister, forcing a shaky smile onto his face. “Nothing, darling.”

  Soraya didn’t know what she wanted him to say, but it wasn’t that.

  “Nothing?” she let out. “You call attacking us nothing?” Her voice echoed around the room.

  “Don’t exaggerate.” He scratched his bald head. “You’re always talking back, always going against what I tell you, having a fucking boyfriend, drinking alcohol. And now you’re saying I hit you…”

  Parvin looked again at the spectacle in front of her.

  “Why do you never bother her?” Soraya said, pointing to her sister, not sure where her boldness was coming from. Was it Parvin’s presence? Or had she simply had enough?

  Her dad ignored her, turning to make his way down the stairs.

  “I asked you a question!” Soraya called after him. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, tears mixed with blood.

  He turned, his eyes dark again. “Do you want to know why? Because she listens to me, she doesn’t back chat like you, like Laleh.” He said the name as if it was a dirty word. “I see her in you. You act just like her. And I don’t want to be embarrassed again. Do you fucking hear? No more of this. If I hear you’re still with this boy, any boy, you can fuck off out of this family. No more shame. Do you hear? No more!”

  He went down the stairs, pushing Parvin out of the way. And he was right about one thing: Parvin was more obedient. She let herself be shoved aside without protest, something Soraya would never allow. Something in her always wanted to have the last word with her dad, wanted somehow to bring justice home. But instead more chaos ensued, and her mum was caught in the crossfire.

  “I hate him,” Soraya whispered. Her voice was strangled. She barely recognized it as her own.

  “What happened?” Parvin asked, rushing to her mum’s side.

  “Zainab saw a picture of Soraya on a boy’s Instagram. There was alcohol too.” Her mum turned to Soraya. “What is all of this?”

  “It’s not what you think—”

  “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, just stop it. Your cousins in Iran are nosy and they gossip. Don’t give them anything to gossip about. You don’t want to end up like your sister.” Her mum rarely said Laleh’s name. It shocked Soraya that her dad had named her.

  “Why won’t you just leave him?” Soraya wailed.

  “And where would he go? He’s a druggie, Soraya. He could never survive on his own. And at the end of the day, he’s your dad.” Her mum shook her head and breathed in deeply. “You know you shouldn’t be hanging around with boys, you’re Muslim.”

  As well as her mum’s, Soraya could also feel Parvin’s eyes on her. It was as though her sister was judging her, not for what she did, but for how careless she had been.

  She had been too reckless, pretending to be a normal girl with a normal boyfriend. That wasn’t her, so why had she tried to live like that? Why had she let Magnus post a picture of her online? Why didn’t she just tell him to delete it when she saw it?

  “Soraya, listen to me. No more messing around with this boy, do you hear me? I know you live in London now, but remember Allah. Remember you’re a good Muslim. No more of this, please.”

  Looking into her mum’s tearstained face, Soraya nodded once. Her actions had consequences. They inadvertently harmed those she loved. No good would come from being with Magnus.

  They weren’t like English families, who could go months without talking to each other; the Nazari family were close-knit, just like most Iranian families. It was part of their culture. To cut her dad out of her life would mean cutting her mum out too. And that was unthinkable. Her dad was wrong about one thing, though. Soraya wasn’t exactly like Laleh; that wasn’t something she could do. Perhaps she was too weak, but she loved her family, and she would never leave them.

  Soraya’s heart ached with the knowledge that they were stuck with this drain of a man until death intervened—theirs or his. And she was so tired of it.

  So, so tired.

  In the time Neda had been married to Hossein she’d noted three things about him:

  He was always worried about something. Since moving to England his once perfectly manicured nails had been reduced to stubs. It looked painful, and yet when they watched television she noticed him biting them, again and again.

  He would go weeks without calling his mother or sisters, whereas Neda called her family every other day. It made her wonder about his character, especially when his mother would then ring Neda’s mother to find out how they were.

  He was not a practicing Muslim. He slowly stopped praying while they were in Liverpool and when questioned would say, “My relationship with Allah is between me and Allah.”

  She knew his dad had been religious, and slowly began to realize Hossein chose her, one of four hijabis at the university, because doing so would have made his father happy. That wasn’t the only reason, but she was sure it was one.

  Still, she had questions. But she couldn’t broach them, because to do so would incite conflict, and Neda knew it was best to avoid such situations. Especially now they were in a foreign country away from family.

  * * *

  —

  Neda enjoyed the breeze, the way the cool air brushed against her face. It was the beginning of autumn, the days still fairly warm, the leaves beginning to fall. All around was excitement at the changing season.

  They had arrived with one suitcase each, a rolled Persian carpet, and an abundance of pistachios. They had rented out their flat in Tehran to a newly married couple.

  Hossein had used a substantial amount of his savings and inheritance to pay for their plane tickets and a deposit on a flat in England.

  “It’s an investment in our future,” he had said simply, as though nothing worried him. She wondered if this was truly his personality or a front he put on for her benefit. Either way, it put her at ease. In this way they were well matched; she was anxious enough for both of them, always planning ahead, whereas he shrugged off any hiccup in their new life.

  The city was not quite what they had both expected. Of course, they had seen England in the movies, but Liverpool looked different, more industrial and in some areas run-down and dangerous. Neither of them said this to the other, fearful that voicing such opinions would shatter the shininess of this new chapter in their lives. Besides, Hossein’s excitement that John Lennon had once resided in Liverpool, and had drunk at the infamous Ye Cracke pub, managed to overshadow their doubts.

  Neda had been so nervous about her first day in class: that she wouldn’t understand anyone, that she would be picked on by lecturers, that people would stare at her.

  Her fears were unfounded for the most part. Despite her English being basic, the handouts helped and no one chose her to answer questions. The teaching techniques in England, it seemed, were kinder.

  She was right, however, about the staring. But it wasn’t just at her. She was among a handful of foreign students who had gotten in on scholarships, and they too were stared at. She wondered what made her stand out: was it her hijab, her skin color, or both? And were they curious or resentful stares?

  At the end of her last lecture of the day, she expelled a deep, low sigh. While her energy was almost depleted, she still went to the library to go over what she had been taught. There was a reason she had won a scholarship; Neda had to be top of her class, even if that class was in a foreign language.

  While in the lecture halls surrounded by foreign people she felt out of place, in the library Neda felt at home. She belonged. The musty, familiar smell of old books, the hushed tones, and the studious quiet, this was what Neda loved. She found an empty table and spread the contents of her bag ont
o the surface, marking her territory, before going off in search of textbooks. Really, she needed to buy them, but they were too expensive. The bursary she was given by the university would be best used towards rent, until Hossein found a job. The only copies the library had left were for reference only.

  She had been there for an hour when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Neda assumed she had done something wrong and prepared to apologize. But when she turned she saw a petite woman with a crooked nose and glistening white teeth, smiling brightly at her.

  “Sister,” the woman said, “I just wanted to say hello.”

  One look at her and Neda’s posture softened; she smiled back. “Salam,” she said.

  The woman sat down next to Neda, her large hazel eyes bright with interest. “It’s so rare to see a hijabi, I had to say hello.” Despite having an Iranian accent, she spoke perfect English, each word crisp and deliberate.

  “Have you been here long?” Neda asked in Farsi. “Sorry. My name is Neda.”

  “I moved here a month ago,” the woman said, her smile fading momentarily. “I miss home, but I can’t complain.” She shrugged. “I’m Mena.”

  “Did you come here with your husband?”

  Mena laughed, covering her mouth just as she was given dark looks by people trying to study a few tables away. “Hell, no! I left Iran to get away from men,” she stage-whispered, reminding Neda of her friend Shanauz.

  Neda chuckled softly. “Men are everywhere, you can’t escape them.”

  “Unfortunately…” She looked down at Neda’s ring finger. “So, you have one then?”

  “I came here with my husband, yes.” She clasped her hands together.