She had come around the table and tapped on Papa’s shoulder when he pretended a morsel was stuck in his throat and coughed. I told my father that I hated her cooking, even though the four dishes and the dessert she prepared for us were delicious. I ate very little, though, pretending I had no appetite. She suggested I was perhaps suffering from sunstroke and pulled the curtains, obstructing my view and forcing me to watch as she continued to swoon over Papa. This made me more irritated by the minute. I could see she was very lonely, and willing to do whatever it took to marry my father. She was even willing to put half of her house in his name if he won the lawsuit for her. Imagining them moving in together made me want to throw up her food. So this was why Papa was after this woman: he would have a place to live for free and he could rent out his own apartment and use the money for some future purchase.
I finally got fed up with her flirting, pushed my plate away, turned to my father, and announced: “I am not feeling good. Let’s go.”
Once in the street, to lighten my mood, Papa made a funny remark about being scared by the looks I had thrown at him during lunch. “You rolled your eyes the way a mother does when she catches her teenage son talking to the girl next door.”
He underestimated my irritation with the situation and was taken aback when instead of laughing I lashed out at him. “I forbid you to fool around with other women while still married to Maman!”
He went white in the face but tried to improve my mood with another joke, recalling the game we’d played on the two occasions he’d visited me in Vancouver, in which I would pretend to play Papa’s mother. “Am I allowed to pursue romantic relationships if I divorce my wife?” he asked. “Please permit me, Maman.”
I’d found it an amusing routine in Vancouver, but in this moment it was awful and improper. “Hell, no!” I shouted.
Realizing how furious I was, he took a step back. When a minute passed without another word from him, I once again started snapping. “Perhaps you should divorce Maman,” I told him. “If one day I hear you have taken a second wife — this woman or any other woman — I won’t talk to you for the rest of my life.”
Now it was my father’s turn to become serious. “Stop mothering me. I allowed you to do that when I was in Vancouver, but not here.”
“Shame on you. You dared to call my mother a prostitute, but it is you who is acting in that way!”
He froze.
“Do whatever you want, but leave me out of it!” I stormed off to the Gare du Nord metro entrance and descended the stairs.
Papa followed me, but kept his distance while we waited for the train. When it arrived, we both boarded and he sat beside me. I looked out the window, my back to him, as if I were absorbed by something exciting projected on the empty walls of the tunnel. However, it was only when the doors closed and the train began to move that a scene from the past came to life on the dark screen of my mind. Following my seventeenth birthday, we moved to a new house. Shortly after, my mother and father had one of their worst fights ever. It ended with Papa beating Maman next to the staircase that connected the living room to our bedrooms on the second floor. It was the first time he’d physically hurt her, and he immediately realized how wounded I was also, standing there watching. He reached down and lifted her from the floor with surprising gentleness.
Their battles didn’t end that day, and Papa never apologized for the things he did. Later, he adopted Maman’s strategy of going over to the houses of family members to complain about my mother and her behavior. He told everyone that he was the real victim and that he had filed for a divorce. It was around this time that I heard that Raazi’s husband had set up a date between my father and one of his colleagues at the bank, an old maid from a good family.
The story infuriated me so much that I planned an attack on my father. One afternoon, I waited behind the front door of our house for his arrival. As soon as he opened the door and set foot inside, I lashed out at him. I’ll never forget how my father’s eyes opened wide behind his glasses as he saw me jumping toward him and bringing my fist down in his face.
I took Papa’s arm when we got off the train. “I’m sorry for shouting at you.”
“You scare me sometimes,” he said as we proceeded to the exit.
• • •
* * *
“Are you sleeping over there? You haven’t touched half of the files yet.” Maman’s gruff voice brings me back to present as she pops her gray head into the dining room.
“I’m almost done with this one.”
“Good. I just put on the rice and the stew is simmering. I’ll continue my sorting until they are ready.”
When she disappears into the bedroom, I look down at the folder in my hand. The name on the sticker confuses me. I read it three times over before I realize it is my mother’s name. The folder contains two files, one from twenty years ago, around the time I hit Papa in the face by the front door, and one from six months ago. I open the old file first. The page on the top says that my father had dropped his divorce lawsuit against Maman. I put it back in the folder. Smoldering inside, I open the new file and read the first page. It is a court verdict, authorizing my father to dissolve their marriage anytime he wishes, without requiring my mother’s presence. It is dated right after Papa returned from Paris. I tremble, thinking that my comment — that he should divorce Maman if he intended to marry another woman — might have caused him to obtain the authorization. I feel lucky that only very shortly after, Maman made up with Papa and took him to her place.
I take both files, the one related to the old woman in Paris and the one concerning Maman, and tiptoe to the guest room. I put the files in a plastic bag and hide the bag at the bottom of my suitcase. I will shred the file related to Maman once I am in Canada and dump the other file after I call the woman to tell her to get herself another lawyer and forget about my father.
I sneak out of the room. Before going back to the table, I check on Maman, only to find she has fallen asleep among Papa’s clothing spread out on their bed.
This time, I don’t let memories disturb me, and I finish the job in an hour. I put all the current lawsuits in one file and take the old ones to the kitchen and toss them in the garbage bin.
The good smell of rice and ghormeh sabzi stew has changed the stale air in the kitchen. I am extremely hungry. Nobody can make this stew like my mother. And nobody can make gheymeh stew like Aunt Raazi. I cannot wait to visit her one day soon and taste her food.
I set the table and go to wake up Maman, who has snuggled up with the thin, lace bedcover. Thinking that old troubles are finally behind us, I feel relieved of the stress of reviewing Papa’s files. Tonight, I am going to sleep in Maman’s room. She must not suffer from loneliness while she has her daughter in Iran.
* * *
I wake up fresh the next morning from a deep sleep. My mother is not by my side. I pull open the curtains to bask in the sunlight, something I could not do at this time of year in rainy Vancouver.
When I bound into the living room, singing loudly to myself, I see Shabnam lounging on the sofa, dressed in a neat black embroidered shirt and skirt. Today, her long chestnut hair is down. “What a good surprise!” I say.
“I asked Milaad to drop me here before going to work. I thought you and Maman might need a hand making the halva for the memorial.”
“You are so thoughtful! Better to do the cooking today than to leave it to the very last day. Actually, my plan is to dye Maman’s hair tomorrow.” In appreciation, I give my sister-in-law a peck on the cheek; her long eyelashes caress my face. At the same time, my mother appears in the room. “Before cooking, you need a good breakfast. Come to the table.”
We move to the dining room. Maman has bought fresh lavash and made a scrumptious Persian breakfast for us. The table, from which she has removed the lawsuits folder, is set colorfully with butter, feta cheese, sour-cherry jam, scrambled eggs, t
ea, and freshly squeezed orange juice. “Thank you, Maman,” Shabnam and I say together as we sit down.
I present the idea of coloring Maman’s hair at the table. At first she objects, but later, when Shabnam says that social norms have changed and it is no longer inappropriate for the family of the deceased to freshen up their look, she agrees.
After breakfast, we go to the kitchen and start making halva. I feel joyful being around my family. The day passes pleasantly as we put the halva and dates on trays, decorating the halva with pistachio and almond slivers and sprinkling shredded coconut on the dates.
“May Ashrafi’s soul rest in peace,” Maman says once we are finished. “Let’s recite a Fatiha for him.”
As we go into the living room, I notice that Maman has set flowers from the memorial in the mosque in every corner. We sit around the coffee table and together recite by heart the first chapter of the Koran. I glance at the flowers and wonder how much longer they are going to last. The air is full of their sweet aroma, even though their petals are about to fall apart.
After the prayer, Shabnam leaves. “I leave you two now to rest. Enjoy your time together tomorrow and make yourselves beautiful.” She winks at Maman. “Milaad and I will pick you up around four the day after tomorrow.”
“She is right,” I tell my mother after she’s gone. “We have forgotten all about ourselves. Look at us. We are both such a mess.”
“We have all day tomorrow to look after ourselves. I am tired now,” Maman says before retiring herself to her bedroom.
The next day I sleep until noon, only to find Maman as grungy as the day before. “You didn’t even take shower?” I ask her.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to dye my hair? Normal people shower after.”
“Oh, sorry. I am still groggy.” I head to the bathroom. After washing my face, I invite Maman to bring over her hair color.
“What about breakfast?” she shouts from the living room.
“I’ll have it later while you are taking your shower.”
When Maman comes out of the bathroom, she is wearing a white cotton dress. I draw a sigh of relief. “I don’t like to see you in black.”
“I must wear black in public until the day after the forty-day mourning period is over.”
“I know.”
“We’ll go to my place after the restaurant tomorrow. There, I can wear whatever color you’d like me to.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, aware of the excitement in my own voice. “Now, let me blow-dry your hair.”
I bring a chair from the dining room and set it in front of the dressing table in the master bedroom for Maman to sit on while I dry and style her hair.
When I’m done, I look at her image in the mirror. “Now you are as beautiful as ever.”
She flashes one of those smiles she used to give when she and Papa were at peace.
We take it easy for the rest of the day and watch TV. Around nine, Maman says she is tired. I put the TV on mute and accompany her to her bedroom. I reach forward and pull away the blanket covering her bed. “Slide in, Your Majesty.”
She lies down and grins again as I tuck her in.
“Don’t go back to Canada,” she pleads as I climb into the bed and lie where my father used to sleep. “Stay here and live with me.”
“I’ll look into it, Maman.” I kiss her cheek. Unlike the other day, when she squeezed me into herself by the elevators, her breath is pleasant.
* * *
The next day, I pack some of my clothes and other accessories in a suitcase my father had with him in Paris. I plan to take them with me when Maman and I go to her place.
I bring the suitcase to the living room and show it to Maman. “My suitcase is too big and will take up the whole trunk. I’m leaving it here. We’ll come back here again, won’t we?” I ask.
She nods. “This apartment is also ours.”
I busy myself with wiping the dust from my luggage. It is not a proper time to speak of my enthusiasm for buying out her and Milaad and making Papa’s place my new home.
My brother is going to pick us up in an hour. Maman is ready to go. She is wearing the black coat and skirt and the crêpe georgette headscarf I suggested she put on. Her dyed golden hair shining from under the veil gives her the appearance of a queen. Unlike the last few days, when she was so depressed and hunched over, she is sitting upright. As I am about to go back to the guest room to get ready, she taps on the seat beside her and orders me to sit down. “I want to tell you something.” Perhaps she really believes she is a queen and I am a lowly subject.
I sit down obediently and turn my face toward her, my heart pounding hard with premonition. She moves closer so that our knees touch. Then she holds onto my shoulder. Her gaze is inescapable. “I want to ask you something, Maana. Something that will prove you are loyal to me. If Raazi invites you to her place, turn her down. She has always wanted to steal you from me. Your aunt should submit to God’s will for not giving her a daughter. The Almighty knows what’s best for each of his creatures.”
Even though my mother is pressing my shoulder in her hand, it feels as if she is tightly gripping my heart, trying to rip it out of my breast. I want to tell her she has no right to ban me from seeing my relatives and that my relationship with Aunt Raazi has nothing to do with being disloyal to her, but I am afraid to open my mouth. If I do, I might start crying instead.
I nod so that she lets go of me.
“Good,” she says and releases my shoulder. “Now go and get ready. We must arrive before our guests do.”
As I dash down the foyer leading to the bedrooms, I feel the first tingling of fever blisters on my lip—my body’s typical response to stress and upset. My hopeful heart has once again misled me into thinking the past is behind us. I see it now: Maman will try to control all my socializing. I am not sure if I can stay in Iran.
I burst into my room, sit on my luggage in the corner, and sob for a short while. I try to calm myself when I hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. Tomorrow we will be at Maman’s place, I tell myself. I can talk to her then. Now I need to get ready before Milaad buzzes from downstairs. I don’t want to worry him and his wife, showing up like a total mess.
Entering the living room, I see Maman pulling Papa’s suitcase filled with my belongings after her toward the door. She balances a dish of halva in her other hand. “Please bring the other dishes and lock the door. The keys are there on the table.”
* * *
“Oh my God, what happened to your lips?” Shabnam says as she sees me approaching the car, her lashes flapping like the wings of a lost and scared butterfly.
“It’s nothing,” I say, wetting the fever blisters with my tongue. “This sometimes happens to me when my environment changes.”
My brother makes no comment. He knows me well enough to know that something has happened between Maman and me. He throws concerned glances my way in the rearview mirror throughout the drive to the restaurant. What bothers me the most is not the insistent question in his eyes but my own reflection. Like everyone said when they saw me at the mosque, I look so much like my mother. No wonder she sees me as an extension of herself!
When we get there, Milaad asks his wife to help Maman take four trays of halva and dates into the women’s section. “You stay, sister. I need a hand to take the rest to the men’s section.”
I know he wants to talk with me in private. He takes his time removing the dishes from the trunk and placing them on the roof of the car. Once our mother is out of sight, my brother turns to face me, his pitiful stare getting on my nerves. “Are you okay, sister? Did you have a fight with Maman?”
“There has been no fight. She asked me to ignore Raazi. She doesn’t get that I’m an adult.” I start rubbing my hands against each other in the same way as my aunt does when she is under stress.
“I know,” Milaad says in a hus
hed voice. “But we need to do all we can at this moment to fulfil her wishes, at least for a short while. She’s gone through a lot.”
“So have we.”
“True, but she is old. We are still young and can bear extra pain.”
“I don’t know. I’m tired of being afraid of her, and of taking care of her unreasonable wishes. What if I cut off relations with our aunt and she suddenly dies? Don’t you now regret that you listened to Maman and abandoned Papa in the last while before his death?”
Milaad drops his head.
“I don’t mean to shame you, brother, but we both need to grow up if we want to be independent.”
When Milaad raises his eyes again, his lashes flutter like Papa’s when we said goodbye at Charles de Gaulle. “All I’m asking is that you grant her wish for tonight. Do it for me. Shabnam’s mother and sister will be in the women’s section. They don’t know anything about what’s going in our family. They have no idea Maman and Papa were separated. You’re not married and don’t know what it takes—”
Maman’s voice cuts Milaan’s words short. “You said you wanted your sister to help you carry the dishes! What are you talking about, standing here in the cold?”
“About how much we love you,” Milaad answers hastily. He’s an expert when it comes to pleasing our mother.
I leave Milaad to deal with the trays and go inside with Maman. The large hall holds several round tables covered by white tablecloths with black napkins. The head waitress has transferred the halva and dates we’ve brought to small dishes and is distributing them to each table. I sit with my mother and Shabnam at a table close to the entrance, waiting for our guests to arrive.
Divided Loyalties Page 19
