“And when was that?” There’s a sting of sarcasm in my tone.
“Sometime around your first operation.”
“Ha! As early as nine years later!”
He is quiet for a while and I can’t read his face, then he clears his throat and says, “You were three when Rana relocated from New York to Chicago. She stopped sending letters to Vida and told her father not to tell me where she lived.”
I’m not about to let him blame Mom. “Would you have done any differently if for three years your mail was returned?” He doesn’t respond, so I continue, “What puzzles me is why you wouldn’t give my mother a divorce.” I sound harsh.
He glares at me. “Why would I? So the mother of my children could go and marry someone in America?”
“So what if she did? At least she’d do it after resolving her previous marriage.”
My indirect reference to his bigamy makes him blush, but I have just begun. “You can stick to your convenient laws, rules set by men and for their own benefit, but there’s a free world out there.” This is the lawyer talking, not the girl and certainly not the daughter. “W here were you when ‘the mother of your children’ worked double shifts? W here was your generous support when she took your daughter from doctor to doctor to doctor?” I get up and pace the short distance available to me. I bite my lip. Don’t you dare cry, Yalda!
His silence tells me he’s searching his mind for the right response. As if this is a game of chess, I give him time to make the next move. He buys time while taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and politely holds it out to me.
I shake my head.
“Good,” he says, and I think how ironic it is that almost everyone here smokes, yet they all admire non-smokers. I watch him light his cigarette and take a deep puff. The smoke lingers inside him and comes out in fragments with the next words. “I want to believe it’s not too late.”
I laugh. What’s this man’s standard for ‘too late’? I search for words that could equally hurt him, but what comes out of my mouth sounds rational, calm even. “Let’s be practical, Colonel. It’s already too late for me, but maybe not for my mother.”
He seems puzzled.
I continue as planned. “Let’s see just how serious you are about helping. It’s about time you did something substantial for Rana, don’t you think?”
A wounded look creeps into his eyes, but he sounds composed. “I’ve already asked her. Unfortunately, her response was much the same. That she doesn’t need my help.”
“Or maybe she does, but is just too proud to admit it.”
He looks at me with newfound hope. “Just tell me, please Yalda Jan. Anything!”
I weigh my words carefully. “Give her financial independence. She gave up her money just so she could be free. But she’ll need it.” I hesitate and hit him with my request just when I think he’s ready. “Buy her a place of her own.”
He raises his eyebrows and I’m not sure if that means he’s surprised or getting ready to make excuses. He squishes his cigarette in the ashtray. “And I thought you knew Rana!”
“I do. But I also know more about her financial status than anyone else does. She has worked hard and saved enough to get by, but not enough to pay a huge rent in Tehran.”
He laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “That woman is too stubborn. She’d rather die than accept a penny from me.”
“Who said it should come from you?” I respond. Prepared. Rehearsed. “Buy it in my name and let me persuade her to live in it.”
He considers my proposition for a minute. “You sure have thought this over, councilor, haven’t you?” I detect a hint of approval in his voice.
“I have.”
He finishes his coffee and lights another cigarette. “I’ll do it if that’s what you want.”
How clever. Checkmate, Yalda. I realize I may have just helped him to accomplish what he came here for. Let him clear his conscience. This is no time for settling scores. I feel relieved at the success of my plan, but deep inside a subtle sadness returns.
For an entire month, I imagined such a meeting and secretly hoped it might offer what I’ve never experienced, an emotional encounter with my father.
In the most secret compartment of my mind, little Yalda would see her father enveloping her in his strong arms and finally be held in his loving embrace. W ho knows? Had he approached me with love, I might have let my guard down. But there is this huge distance between us and I am too angry for a tender moment with the father I never had. It hurts to watch my last chance slip by. We have nothing more to say to each other. I’ll never call this man ‘Dad’ and he was never Baba to me, the way he is to Vida. Colonel Moradi and I are two parties making a deal. If for nothing else, for Mom’s sake I need to close this deal. Let him humiliate me with a favor.
“Yes. That’s what I want.” Announcing the verdict, my voice sounds unfamiliar and bears no emotion.
He doesn’t seem to notice because he puts his hand over mine and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Consider it done, my dear.”
I pull my hand away and reach for my coffee. The bitter taste goes with how I feel. The words I had rehearsed become futile. I need to leave now. I put my glass down and pick up my purse.
He grabs my sleeve. “Please. Don’t go just yet.”
I remain seated, still clutching my purse.
“It’s important that you hear what I have to say.” His voice is tired, resigned. “Life is nothing but a chain of mistakes. Some we learn from, but most others are only horrible misjudgments on their way to becoming regrets.” He closes his eyes as if to recreate a picture behind his eyelids. “You were just a baby. My baby. And nothing, not even your forgiveness, is going to help me forgive myself for turning my back on you.” Misty eyes look at me and he stops talking.
I know the story, but I’m going to let him tell it again. Let him feel the pain, even though I’m feeling it more.
“I was too young, and the young don’t know any better. You’ll never understand my situation. There’s a lot to be said about family pressure. We were all hoping for a boy, someone to carry my father’s name. But then came a third girl. Not only did I have to banish my dream of an heir, but there was also another problem.” He pauses and seems to realize how ridiculous he sounds. He locks his hands together and brings them to his chest. “People make mistakes all the time, Yalda jan, especially when they’re young. Just remember that as you judge your father.” He waits a little and we both listen to the sound of talk and laughter coming from the café below. His voice is tired when he finally says, “I’m a God fearing man. Divine justice has brought me my share of losses. I’ve paid the price—if you will. So all I’m asking now is your absolution.”
“Ha! Paid the price? Why don’t you ask Rana what the price was? She paid for a crime she never committed. To lose Marjan may have been your punishment, but what was Rana paying for?” I don’t want to mention Parisa, but this is the time to let it all out. “You had that woman, someone to hear you cry, to offer you comfort. But what about Rana, whose only companion was a crippled child? And what did Parisa pay for having wrecked a home?”
I know I have gone too far and expect him to react, but instead he covers his face with both hands. For a few minutes neither of us speaks, then he says in a voice that is muffled under his hands, “Parisa and I lost our baby boy. Stillbirth.” And he looks up through blood-shot eyes without bothering to wipe his tears. “The right price.”
The room has turned too cold. What he has told me is so shocking that all I want to do is leave. I am unable and unwilling to offer sympathy, but his pain is so palpable that I have lost my grip on what I came here to do. So it wasn’t a miscarriage. A boy? I want to hold his hand, pat his gray hair and offer this broken man some solace. But instead try to remember that he still was not alone. He had Parisa. Not alone, not like Mom. I am filled with images of the lonely Rana, how she worked week after week, month after month. I see her dressed in black, mou
rning the loss of her father somewhere far away with no family around to ease her grief. I see her carrying bags of grocery up the stairs, looking forward to Fridays, the highlight of a life in exile. No. He and his Parisa will have none of my sympathy.
This time when I get up he lets go of my hand. Still sitting down, he seems so much smaller. The wrinkles on his pale face appear deeper, unsightly even. Mom must have heard about the baby being a boy. I can just imagine what that did to her. Dead or alive, it had been a boy. This self-absorbed man isn’t capable of grasping the depth of Rana’s pain. Or mine.
“I’m sorry about your son.” I lean on the last word, aiming at his heart. For a few seconds, my courtroom performance is back and I pause to make sure he feels pain. “And I assure you, I have not suffered the lack of a father. I’ll never know how my mother did it, but she made sure I had a happy childhood. As for misjudgments, my training leaves little room for that.” I hesitate, pin him down with a stare and add, “My mother has taught me to always have a good reason behind my actions. That way, I never have to say that I’m sorry.”
The look on his face says, “Touché!”
I start to leave, then stop. “There’s just one thing I’d like to know.”
He looks up.
“What have you learned from breaking a good woman’s heart?”
He stands up to see me off and when a few seconds pass, it’s clear he is not about to offer a response.
Adjusting my scarf, I tighten the knot under my chin, turn, and leave without a proper good-bye. Unheld. Unkissed. Unloved.
As I look for a taxi through the fog in my eyes, I can still see the man back in that isolated room. He must be smoking another one of his cigarettes, and I hope he’s feeling as crushed as I do. Like a child who has just opened an empty package, my anticipation has vanished and I feel utterly cheated. He and I may never feel more for one another than we do at this moment, and yet I am certain that no two people on earth could be more torn apart.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
LEAVING IRAN, I have double the amount of luggage I came with. My aunts have bought me all the handcrafts I’ve admired and Mom not only gave me a small rug to take back, she has stuffed my suitcase with bags of pistachios and tons of dried herbs. When I objected to the smell, she said, “You’re going to need even more if you ever make your favorite Osh.”
My flight is not leaving for another couple of hours. It’s now two in the morning and we are all gathered at the airport’s VIP lounge, which is a large room resembling a hotel lobby. You don’t really have to be anyone important to be here. I’m told it costs about the same as a night at a hotel, but is well worth it as there’s no hassle involved at check in.
A server has just brought us tea and pastries. So hard to believe I’ve been away for nearly two months. I came here thinking this would be my only chance to see the country, but with Mom now staying back, I wonder. I still can’t believe she is not going back with me. Vida is sitting next to me, chatting and giggling as always. I’m going to miss her bubbly presence.
The whole family has given up sleep to be here. Mom has been awfully quiet, shedding silent tears now and then. I promise myself I won’t cry. This trip has had its share of drama and I’m not about to add more. Iranians seem to have no gray zone. They are either crying or laughing their heads off at silly jokes. I’d rather remember the laughter.
My father isn’t here, but I have a feeling he will show up. He has not tried to contact me since our talk at the café. My last communication with him was through Mr. Eskandary, who brought me some papers to sign, making him my official representative to sign the deed to a house.
Regardless of how little I have seen my father, thoughts of him have been a constant part of my last few days. I hate him for making it hard to hate him and I hope he can see that when he finally shows up.
I look for Mom and find her sitting in a wing chair, deep into a small book. I walk over and realize it is the prayer book Dayeh gave me. I put my arm around her. “Good book, Mom?” I say jokingly.
She elbows me gently as if asking not to disturb her and starts mouthing the words she is reading. A minute goes by before she closes the book and explains, “Just read the travel prayer for you.”
“Since when have you become so religious?” I ask and am genuinely interested.
“I’m not. I read that for you on Dayeh’s behalf.”
The thought of old Dayeh clutches at my heart. She’s back in her village and it’s clear that I’ll never see her again.
“Good,” I say and give her a pat in the back. “I don’t need a fanatic Mom.” And I laugh.
She frowns. “There’s nothing wrong with being a good Muslim.”
She’s so serious that it’s hard to believe she is the same Mom who back in the States had no religion. She now wears her scarf willingly and often prays. I have a feeling she actually draws comfort from that. Has her faith always been there? Did her religion stay dormant all these years and all it needed to come out was the right climate? Like quicksand, my mother’s old culture is pulling her in and there’s nothing I can do to stop that. Will it push a new wedge between us?
Aunt Mandy walks over. “Want to go shopping?”
I know she means to look at the duty-free shops, but considering how we have lately shopped and shopped, the suggestion makes everyone laugh. Nothing is going on, so a walk would be nice. “Maybe just a look?”
As soon as we are out of the room, she holds my arm. “Try not to look so morbid,” she whispers. “This is what your mom will remember for a long time. A little smile won’t hurt.”
“I thought I was doing a good job of it.”
We walk a few steps and she motions to a long hallway with bright lights and fancy display windows. “Sometimes they keep the best things at the airport. Let’s take a look.”
Indeed these shops seem to carry merchandise of a higher caliber. I shake my head. “I’m not really in the mood.”
Most overseas flights leave at late hours and yet there’s quite a crowd around us. For a while we don’t talk, then I ask her, “Do you think Mom is making the right decision?”
She thinks for a moment. “We will see.”
“So you’re not sure, either.”
“I’ve never been sure about anything Rana does.” She sighs. “I guess only time can tell. She wasn’t so wrong about taking you away, was she?”
It’s good of my aunt to give Mom all the credit and I’m not about to argue how that wasn’t entirely her decision. What would Grandpa Ameli say about this? Would he want Mom to live on her own in this city? I’m conscious of the fact that this may well be my last chance to put an end to my unanswered questions. “Do you think she still has feelings for him?”
Aunt Mandy laughs out loud. “Think? Honey everyone can see that!”
I stop walking. “Everyone?”
She dismisses my concern with a wave of her hand. “Of course. Even you knew. Why else would you ask such a question?”
“Then why would she divorce him?”
She shrugs. “Maybe pride?”
“And his new wife?”
My aunt links arms with me and says, “It’s different here. We Persians have all sorts of love. For most of us, true love is spiritual, a feeling beyond worldly needs and it certainly has little to do with sex. I’m sure it bothers her that he loves another, but in her world, Farhad is the source of light. She can’t reach him, but his existence is needed. He is the sun, regardless of how far they are.”
I don’t know that kind of love and suddenly what I feel for Paul seems mundane.
My aunt continues, “People may be in love with someone from their past, or someone new, even an image.” She notices I’m not convinced and adds, “Call it Platonic, if you like. But true love comes from here.” She taps her chest with a fist. “Especially when you’re older.”
“Do you love Uncle Jamshid that way?”
She laughs. “a re you joking? I
love my husband dearly, and am most loyal to him, but that kind of love happens once in a lifetime. I’m way past it.”
I don’t want to ask any more personal questions, but somehow begin to understand.
We walk and enjoy the beautiful displays for a while. People are rushing about, pulling their suitcases. Announcements are made periodically and we pass a man lying on a bench with his backpack under his head.
“What does she think she may gain by staying here? She could go back home and love him all she wants from far away.”
My aunt considers that. “I’m not sure her staying here has anything to do with him. She really wants to be close to Vida.” She shrugs. “W ho knows? There may be more than one reason. I’ve talked to Rana multiple times. Life here isn’t comfortable, but it has a lot to offer.”
While she explains how Rana will never be alone here, I picture my mother back home. I see her sprinkling salt on her front steps in winter, storing a small shovel and another bag of salt in the trunk of her car. I see her tucked away in her apartment watching soap operas as she waits for the next load of laundry to be done. Every Sunday she sets and re-sets her booth in the antique mall. The phone in her apartment rarely rings and hardly any visitors stop by unannounced. It’s clear that despite all the shortcomings, she’ll have more here. She doesn’t have all the machines, but can hire a maid to help. She will be minutes away from Vida and will forever have her clan around her. I smile at the image of my lovely cactus having plenty of sunshine to keep her happy.
The long road ahead of me doesn’t look so bad. I will adjust. My home is across the ocean. I’m not Rana. None of her reasons could keep me here another day. I have a life back in the States and it has taken me a trip to Iran to appreciate it. All my life I wanted to be my mom, but now it’s clear how different we are. This is her habitat and I’m going back to mine.
Aunt Mandy and I circle the transit area and by the time we return, it’s close to departure time. I don’t see my father and realize he’s not coming. What prompted me to expect otherwise?
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