by Sara Jafari
Magnus’s living room was cut in half by a wooden divider; on the other side of this was a bedroom. Tonight all his housemates were out, which was why Soraya had no qualms about sitting in their communal space. She always found conversations with them painfully awkward.
The room was furnished with items most likely found in the street, along with a large television. The sofa was covered in faded blue velvet and it sagged. But despite this, in some respects the room was cozier than her and Oliver’s living room. It was more lived-in, with stacks of DVDs, and photos on the walls—of them on nights out, during rugby practice, and a picture of Magnus’s bare bottom, with a middle finger obstructing the full view.
She got up to look at the pictures in more detail. Her eyes gravitated towards a picture of a few of them, indoors somewhere but clearly drunk, and her eyes scanned the group to find Magnus. And when she did her heart stopped momentarily. His gaze followed hers.
“Anyway, I didn’t tell you about the editor I met, did I?” he said, trying to distract Soraya.
“Is that her?” she found herself saying, not aware the words were even coming out of her mouth. She wished she could put them back in, swallow them, digest them, and bring them out at a later date, or maybe never.
In the picture, Magnus held a blond girl close, his arm around her waist as she kissed his cheek. All that could really be gauged about the girl was that she was everything Soraya wasn’t. Except she wasn’t slim, she had large breasts, which seemed ridiculously perky, and her golden hair was styled into curls.
“Who?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Silence.
Soraya sat back down on the sofa, picked up a slice of the pizza they had ordered from an independent restaurant nearby. Magnus had originally suggested they go out for dinner but she’d felt too uneasy, her palms perspiring at just the thought of it. Images of her dad finding out she was still seeing Magnus, him taking it out on her mum, flashed before her eyes. She’d already told Magnus how she felt about them going out, but either he forgot or he didn’t understand the severity of her anxieties.
On the TV was a documentary about killer whales. Magnus looked like he was concentrating on it now. She wished she could be like him sometimes, worry less, see the world through different eyes.
She scrolled through Instagram, taking nothing in. Moments later, he sighed heavily and switched the television off.
“What are you annoyed about?”
“Nothing, it doesn’t matter. What were you saying about the editor anyway?”
Another deep sigh from Magnus. She felt like sighing back. Surely she had more to sigh about?
“I totally forgot about that picture. I’ll take it down.” His voice was cold. He walked over to the wall, ripped the photograph of him and the blond girl away, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it on the floor.
“You didn’t need to do that.” Her hand tightened around her phone. She wondered why he wouldn’t answer her original question. Why he wouldn’t just say who the girl was. Was it because the girl in the picture wasn’t Lucy? Was it someone else? How many had there been? They were just so different, Soraya couldn’t help but compare herself to every other girl he had been with. She bet their parents didn’t hit them when they found out they were dating him, she bet they didn’t have issues with not wanting to be seen outside with him. She knew these comparisons were futile, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Magnus returned to sit next to her, his expression glum. She ruined everything.
“Tell me about the editor then!” she said in an attempt at enthusiasm.
“I don’t want to now.”
Soraya leant into him, really looked at him. His face, usually so manly, looked childlike suddenly. And up this close she noticed the faint freckles scattered across his nose.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He leant back then grabbed her wrists with both his hands, before linking their hands together. “You’ve nothing to apologize about.”
“You’re in a bad mood because of me.”
“I just want things to be like before,” he said. “I guess that’s a stupid thing to say.” He said the last part quietly, almost to himself.
Something about these words stung. She couldn’t quite place what it was. She knew he saw it on her face, the hurt.
“I want you to realize you’ve done nothing wrong. None of what happened was your fault. You’re a good person.”
She could feel her eyes watering then. He was saying this because he understood, because he had been in her position, and had blamed himself. She knew this, objectively. But she did not feel as if she was a good person. She was always letting people down, and now she was dragging Magnus down too. She had messed everything up.
“I don’t know what to say,” she mumbled.
He sighed, rubbing her held hand with his thumb. “I just want you to be happy.”
She wanted that too, but it felt like a selfish wish. Shouldn’t she want to make him happy? Wouldn’t that mean giving him things she wasn’t sure she could give him? Was there a middle ground?
“Let’s just have a nice night,” she said.
He looked like there was more he wanted to say, his mouth half open, but he snapped it shut, sat back in the sofa.
He nodded and nothing more was said on the matter.
The next weekend Neda stayed up until Hossein came back at 4:00 a.m. She had become a deep sleeper. The way he struggled with the key must not have registered with her before. When he finally entered the studio flat he lurched around for a moment or two and then, upon seeing Neda sitting on the bed with the lamp on, stopped short.
“Why are you up?” Hossein said. His voice was slurred, and that was when she knew.
She shut her eyes tight, wishing she hadn’t done this, wishing she hadn’t put herself in this situation.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He began walking slowly towards her, his steps more deliberate and controlled since he knew he was being observed. Despite this, she could smell sweat and alcohol on him. The bad smell seemed to roll in waves towards her, mocking, taunting.
“I need to piss,” he said, going into the bathroom. She could hear him urinating, and it went on for a long time. And then the shower. The hum of the old boiler and water trickling.
She bit her lip hard, not knowing how to dispel her anger.
When he finally came out, in just his boxers, his hair wet, he didn’t meet her gaze.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asked, grabbing himself a mug of water.
“Why are you walking like that?” she said.
“Like what?” He took a long sip, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand as some of the water trickled down his chin.
There was a long silence.
“Like you’re drunk,” she finally said.
She had expected him to say many things, but he surprised her. He laughed a full-bodied, wholehearted laugh.
“Oh, so what?” he said.
Her heartbeat quickened. She had rehearsed this moment, and had a range of arguments memorized, but they all involved Hossein’s denial of his wrongdoings.
“So?” she repeated, buying herself some much-needed time.
“I work hard, Neda.” He sighed, no trace of a smile left on his face. He walked closer to her. “I had a drink, it’s not the end of the world.”
“Not the end of the world? You’re meant to be a Muslim?”
“And is your baba not a Muslim? What about your uncle?”
She felt her body tighten. She focused her gaze on the mug he had drunk from. It had a small chip on the rim, which irritated her. She was sure he had done that, though he’d never have said anything.
“That’s different.”
“Why? Please explain why it’s different.”
“They’re the older generation.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I thought you were like me, that you believed in Allah, that you wanted to follow the rules—”
“It was one drink!” he exclaimed. The expression on his face was deceptive, it might have been one of mild exasperation. And if she hadn’t looked in his trouser pockets, if she hadn’t already had her suspicions, she would have let the argument go then. Added fondness for an occasional drink to his character traits.
“Why do you carry condoms with you?”
He was silent for a moment. “What are you talking about?”
“Just answer me!”
He walked over to his trousers and emptied the contents onto the kitchen table. He removed his wallet, loose change, and keys. “No condoms, see,” he said. “Are you OK?” He looked at her like she was mentally unstable.
She slammed her fist against the table, surprising even herself.
“Not today, no. Maybe you’ve used the one I saw in there.” She shook her head in disgust, recoiling from him. “But I saw one last week when I was washing your clothes.”
He closed the distance between them, looked into her eyes, searching for something. “You’re joking, right?” When she didn’t reply, he made a noise deep in his throat. “Oh, come on! I love you, Neda, I love you so much. Of course I haven’t been with anyone else. Fine, I had a couple of drinks, OK? With some men I know. And, no, I’m not gay, so don’t accuse me of that.” His attempt at humor failed miserably.
“You’re lying.”
Again, he took a step towards her, picked up her hand, grasped it in both of his like it was the most valuable object on earth.
“I swear on Allah, on my mother’s life, Neda, I have never cheated on you.”
“You still haven’t explained the condoms. Why do you need them with you?”
The tops of his cheeks were pink. “Fine, I was speaking to friends and they said a particular brand was good…better for women…and I wanted us to try them. Samples were being given out.” He walked over to their bedside table, pulled open the drawer, returning with a packet in his hand. “This was what you saw. But obviously, with our different schedules, we haven’t actually had the opportunity to…you know.” Despite being overly confident in most aspects of his life, he was suddenly shy, embarrassed even.
Now Neda was embarrassed. And speechless too.
She went to bed and he joined her.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asked.
“Let’s just sleep,” she said, turning away from him, pulling the covers tight around her body.
“You never want to talk. Sometimes you have to, even if it doesn’t feel good,” he said quietly.
She pretended she didn’t hear him, and eventually heard his soft breathing lull into sleep.
The next day, when he had gone to work, last night’s events not mentioned, Neda washed herself more slowly than normal, basking in the act. The water was a touch too cold, but she enjoyed the clearheaded feeling it gave her. She laid her prayer mat on the floor, put on her chador, and began praying. With each prostration she felt relief, as though she was exhaling all her worries. She prayed for Hossein. For all his family and her own. She thanked Allah for everything he had given her. She asked that Hossein be given the strength to do better, be better.
Prayer times were her favorite parts of the day; they were when she felt most connected to the world. And when she’d finished, she could continue her day with clarity, all her worries and fears gone.
For now, at least.
* * *
—
Weeks later, on the anniversary of Hossein’s father’s death, they went for a picnic in Sefton Park.
Laid on a blanket were sandwiches, crisps, and fruit. While Neda had anxiously set everything out, Hossein was quiet, not himself. The only reason Neda knew the significance of the date was that his mum had told hers, who then told Neda.
They’d found a spot under a tree, in the shade, slightly apart from the other groups of people, some smoking weed, some dressed in a way similar to the Beatles, all shaggy hair and round sunglasses. While Neda disapproved of drugs, she couldn’t deny how everyone who took them seemed more relaxed, less hostile.
Hossein had let his mustache grow. He blended in well with the others; it was only Neda with her hijab who stood out.
A few days previously a group of teenagers had shouted “Go back home, you fucking Paki!” at her. If she had not been with Hossein she might have burst into tears, but his strength, and the fact that he outright told them where to go, prevented her. She had been so concerned about stopping a potential fight that she forgot about the insult.
Neda handed him a cheese sandwich and began biting into her own.
After a period of silence he said, “It’s been three years since my baba died.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, Hossein.”
Another long silence.
Hossein gazed into the distance, she assumed reminiscing about the past. Was he thinking about the last time he spoke to his father? The last words they shared? Or was he picturing the good times they’d had together—or, alternatively, the bad ones, and realizing how on reflection he would rather have had them than this?
“At least Allah’s looking after him now,” Neda said, and then uttered a small prayer. Hossein repeated the same words under his breath. She noticed prayer beads in his hand, which he rolled between his fingers. When he saw her looking at them he stopped praying momentarily.
“These are my baba’s,” he explained. “Were my baba’s. He would sit in the living room, sliding the beads around and around for hours.”
Neda gave him a small smile. “What was he like?”
“Strong, quiet.” Hossein shrugged. “This will be the first year I haven’t visited his grave.”
Neda felt guilty then, despite it not being her fault. She put her hand over Hossein’s, caressed his palm. He gave a faint smile.
“I wish he could have met you,” he said.
“I wish we could have met too. I wonder if he would have liked me.”
“He would have loved you, Neda. I know that for sure. He was always the religious one in our house, always encouraged me to find a good Muslim wife.” Hossein smiled at the memory. “And I found one. I found a woman who is decent and good…” He touched her face lightly with his fingertips. “A beautiful, sexy woman.”
Neda was speechless. He had that effect on her.
“I’m sorry if I’m sometimes distant. I’m trying to get used to this new place. It’s amazing, but so different…I hope you understand.”
“I do, Hossein.”
They continued eating for a while, the silence comfortable. Until he suddenly said, “Do you ever think about death?”
Her chewing slowed. “Of course,” she said. “Why?”
“It scares me. When I think about it too much, I start not being able to breathe. I’m physically incapable, and then I think I’m having a heart attack.” He shook his head as though just remembering would inflict the same pain on him. “That’s why I sometimes drink.” The tops of his ears were pink as he confessed. “Since moving here, I think about it more and more, and I want to forget. Being away from home makes you aware of how insignificant you are, in the grand scheme of things.”
Neda clasped her hands together. She looked up at the leafy branches and the way the sunlight filtered through them, the sky beyond so blue.
“As long as you believe in Allah, it’s OK, there’s nothing to fear. Have faith and you will have no worries, azizam.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue, then snapped it shut. “Of course, but it’s the great unknown, isn’t it?”
“It’s not the unknown, not if you believe in Islam.” She tried to make her words gentle, instead of a lecture. She wanted him to agr
ee with her, reassure her that he did believe in Islam and Allah.
Hossein lay back on the grass, his hands behind his head.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“I’m not happy here,” Hossein said one evening, sitting on the end of the bed, twisting his hands together.
Neda had been putting night cream on her face.
“What?”
“I’m not happy.”
“In this flat?” she asked. She knew what he meant but was hoping her pretense of ignorance would make what he’d said go away.
He sighed deeply before responding.
“It was only meant to be for a year. A brief adventure, not our whole life.”
She walked around the bed and stood in front of him. “We agreed that after my PhD—”
“Oh, come on, Neda, let’s be real. You don’t want to go back.”
So much had happened since they’d left Iran.
How does one country endure such change in five years? The Shah had been overthrown suddenly three years before. When they heard the news, Hossein and Neda held a party, just the two of them, in their flat. They bought a variety of nuts and the largest, freshest fruit, excited for the future.
They imagined an Iran in which the gap between rich and poor was no longer so stark, in which Neda’s family would struggle a little less. An Iran in which the possibilities were endless, rather than restricted to a select few. It was an unknown future, but one that promised to be better. Iranian people were finally being listened to; their demonstrations had made an impact.
However, the day after their celebration, questions were raised. Who would rule the country now? With the Shah exiled from Iran, what happened next? News from their country wasn’t documented in great detail on British television; Neda, Hossein, and Mena were perpetually on edge, though their English life continued in the same way as before. It was an odd feeling, being away from home when everything there was changing. They heard that Ayatollah Khomeini had been invited back into the country and how eventually he became its leader, declaring Iran to be an Islamic republic. How there were now hijab police; that every morning the people of Iran stood outside and chanted “Allahu Akbar, Khomeini Rahbar” in harmony; that some of those who supported the Shah were taken away while others fled the country.