The first group includes Auntie Raazi with my uncle’s wife, Ati, and her daughter, donned in black chadors. Shabnam and I jump to our feet but Maman remains seated. Before kissing us, the women approach her. Ati throws a surprised look at Maman’s golden, coiffed hair, partly covered under her thin scarf. Widows should look miserable when in public. She herself stands out with her tattooed eyebrows. The women bend forward to kiss Maman on both cheeks and express their condolences. Their courteous gesture makes her stand up and greet them.
“Sit wherever you like,” she says, gesturing to the still-empty hall.
“We came a bit early to help. Is there something we can do?” Raazi gently asks.
“I have arranged everything by myself. Like I did throughout my life with Ashrafi. Your brother kept his hands off everything related to the daily work and children. I even paid for the household. He couldn’t have found such a devoted wife and servant even on the moon. You know that, don’t you?”
I tense up, hoping Raazi won’t express her opinion. Fortunately, she doesn’t. I even notice her discreetly pulling at the side of Ati’s chador to keep her silent.
They choose a table in the middle of the hall. Maman sits down with her back to them, facing the entrance. I sit half-facing the door and half-facing Raazi and Ati, exchanging smiles with them until the guests suddenly pour in and I get busy.
Grandma Aziz and Maman’s sisters and their daughters arrive later. “Where have you been?” Maman yells at them. “Did you not think we might need a hand?” I quickly glance at the tables nearby to see if she has drawn anyone’s attention. Since Raazi and Ati arrived, my mother has been getting progressively more nervous. It is good they are over in the middle of the hall, where Papa’s relatives have gathered.
“Don’t you know how hard it is to get Aziz moving?” my oldest aunt snaps.
I ask a guest sitting at a nearby table to move to another spot to accommodate Grandma Aziz, who is leaning on her walker. I pull out my own chair for my aunt, who still looks angry at my mother, so she can sit and calm down. “Thank you, sweetheart. It’s so good to have you back in Iran with us. I hope your mother’s bad temper won’t push you away to the other side of globe again. Now bring a chair and sit here with your auntie. I miss you.”
“Okay, but later,” I say, forcing a smile. “I should greet our guests at their tables before the food is served.” Afraid that this aunt, who is as controlling and quarrelsome as Maman and has a history of getting into arguments with her, is going to say something that will agitate my mother, I quickly stride toward the back of the hall.
When I reach the table at which Aunt Raazi is sitting, Ati pulls at my sleeve. “Sit here! We haven’t seen much of you.”
She taps on her daughter’s shoulder, indicating that she should get up and give her seat to me. As soon as I sit down, all of the pressure I’ve been holding in suddenly releases itself; bursting into tears, I throw myself into my aunt’s arms. Raazi embraces me and presses my head against the large breasts that fed four boys. I cry even louder. “Poor child. You were Aadel’s love.”
As it used to be in my childhood, Raazi’s embrace is so warm that I soon relax. Maman is busy squabbling with her sisters on the other side of the room and does not seem to have noticed my absence yet. “Don’t go back to Canada,” Raazi whispers in my ear. “Stay here and I’ll find you a good husband. It’s time for you to get settled in your own country.”
I nod, pulling away from my aunt.
Bringing a chair and setting it down beside her mother, Ati’s daughter joins us at the table. She, too, resembles her mother, at least before Ati got herself those fake eyebrows. “Uncle Aadel told us that you were a great host when he visited you in Canada,” she says, looking at my swollen lips.
“He also told us how much fun he had with you during your time together in France,” Ati adds.
I grin, feeling acknowledged by at least one of my parents.
As they start serving the food, I am happy to be sitting with Raazi and her family instead of with the confrontational women from my mother’s side. “In the name of God,” Ati murmurs, before she starts to eat. Her daughter and Raazi do the same, and I follow their custom.
It is only later, when a server comes to clear the table, that I glance over and realize Maman is sitting alone. My heart drops. Partly turned toward the entrance, she is not engaging with her family at the adjacent table. I look around for Shabnam and find her sitting with her own family. Fortunately, everyone is so busy with themselves that nobody realizes I have abandoned my mother.
I decide to risk another five minutes with Raazi. After that, I’ll quietly move myself to the other side and sit by Maman, as if I have been there the whole time. Soon, Raazi senses my restlessness. “If you wish to depart, dear, go,” she whispers in my ear. “We’ll see each other again soon.”
I nod and kiss her before getting up. Once I am on my feet, ready to excuse myself to Ati, I notice that Maman is standing now, and watching me. As soon as our eyes meet, she rushes forward and stops me on my way to her. She grabs me by the arm and turns me to face Raazi. “This is my daughter,” she says. “Stop separating her from me!”
“Me?” Raazi’s face pales and she starts rubbing her hands together. “I swear by the bread and salt we’ve shared that I have done anything against you.”
“Do not deny it. You have been talking to her for a long time. Were you bad-mouthing me? What did you tell her to make her throw herself into your embrace and cry, hmm?”
Maman still clutches my arm. I am afraid to budge, afraid that it will only aggravate the situation. Raazi is also silent, so Ati stands up for her. “What are you talking about, Mrs. Malak?” she asks. “Raazi is an angel.” She tries to keep her voice down, but it’s loud enough to draw the attention of the whole hall.
“ ‘Angel,’ ” Maman scoffs. “She was always trying to separate my husband from me, to no avail. And now she is after my daughter.”
“You’re mistaken.” Ati grimaces, joining together her thin, painted-on eyebrows. “Our family always wanted the best for you. We saved your marriage many times.”
“Really?” My mother’s voice is incredulous. “You think I’ve forgotten Raazi and her husband plotting a second wife for Ashrafi?”
“Do you want me to tell in front of everyone that you left your husband nine months ago and moved to a place of your own? That his body lay . . . ”
“That’s enough, Ati. Please.” Raazi puts a stop to Ati’s speech.
I free my arm and start picking at my lips, but they burn so badly that I leave them alone and look around for someone who might be able to stop Maman. Fortunately, Grandma Aziz is wobbling forward with the aid of her walker to warn her daughter. “Malak, calm down. You’re dishonoring our whole family in front of our guests.”
But Maman has gone mad. She lunges at her mother, practically spitting her words. “How come you don’t think of family honor when you sit there talking behind my back with your other daughters, saying that I was a bad wife and that Ashrafi should have divorced me a long time ago? I know what you’re thinking. You think that I am wearing a sad mask but that in my heart I am having a party, because I am a rich widow who now has her children under her thumb.” She points at her sisters and yells. “Are you in my heart to know? Shame on each one of you!”
This time, it is Shabnam who comes forward to calm our mother down, her face reddened, her blinking eyes darkened. “I beg you to sit down, Maman. You’re not well.”
Shabnam is trembling so badly that I hold her with my free hand so she won’t collapse. Only then does Maman let go of my arm and sprawl on a chair. Shabnam desperately looks over at her mother and sister, who have hung their heads in shame.
Women circle around Maman as Aziz sprinkles rose water on her face. I know her well enough to know she has not passed out; this is another one of her acts.
Raazi brings a napkin and wipes Maman’s face. “Please don’t cry, Mrs. Malak. We are leaving.”
Before departing, she passes me a napkin to clean the blood from my upper lip. “Take care, dear,” she murmurs without hugging me.
Maman sits there even after Raazi and Ati are gone. The guests come to her one by one to say goodbye. When Shabnam’s family approaches, she turns her back to me, puts on a victim’s face, and clutches Shabnam’s arm. “Thank God, I’ve got you,” she says. “You are like a daughter to me.”
I walk with Grandma Aziz to the exit and apologize to her on my mother’s behalf.
“You don’t worry, dear,” she says. “I know my daughter very well.”
I also want to apologize to my older aunt but she has disappeared.
We leave the restaurant once everybody is gone.
* * *
I sit with Maman in the rear of the car but, imitating her, turn my back to her and look out the window. Milaad is driving us toward the north of Tehran, to Maman’s home. We go through the neighborhood where I grew up and pass by the street where we lived. My childhood home, to which all of my good memories are attached, has been replaced by an apartment building. Maman and Papa fought once in a while in that house, but their rows were never as caustic as the ones they had in the other houses we moved to over the years.
I close my eyes as we exit the neighborhood and open them only when the car stops. Maman lives in a four-storey white building at the end of a dead-end street. “I am on the first floor,” she says.
I turn to her, and when she is about to open the car door, I put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait. I need to tell you something.”
“Tell what? You’re not coming?” I can read the panic in her voice. Her swollen red eyes, lit by the faint light coming off the street, beg me to deny it.
“I’d rather stay with Milaad — if he doesn’t mind, of course.” I turn to look at my brother, who is facing us from the front seat. “Do you mind?”
He cringes, his eyes also pleading with me to go with Maman. I turn to his wife. “Do you mind, Shabnam, dear? Only for a few days before I leave. Also, if you don’t mind, I’d like to pick up my suitcase from Atisaz before we go home. I don’t wish to return to my father’s home again.”
“It’s not a problem for us, but Maman . . . ”
I turn to my mother before she can say a word. “I’ll come and visit you with Milaad and Shabnam, but . . . you need to get used to living by yourself. It’s better for all of us if I don’t stay with you.”
“I knew it. You are so much like your father! I’m not going to beg for your love.” Crying, Maman storms out of the car. Shabnam and Milaad rush after her, but I sit back and look away so as not to witness her departure. Even though the window is closed and the engine is running, I can still hear her talking loudly. It seems from the commotion that she cannot find her keys and is rummaging for them in her bag. I know she always keeps her keys in her coat pocket, and I am inclined to get out and tell her where they are, but instead I slide along the seat to the other side of the car, to where she was sitting. Most probably she, too, knows where her keys are, and this is just her way of delaying a lonely entry to her home.
Two or three long minutes pass before the door to Maman’s building is finally opened. I remember the promise I made to myself on the day I arrived: that I would be with my mother and support her during the forty-day mourning period. Clenching my teeth, I muster all my courage to resist getting out and following her into her home. I hold my gaze steady on the wall of the next house until the engine sputters and dies and absolute silence fills the car.
Family Reunion in the Mirror
Who has drunk the poison of separation, knows
For those who hope against all hope, the same goes.
— From a ghazel by Saadi Shirazi
Both legs of her flight were delayed, so Homa left the airplane more tired than usual. Nevertheless, her exhaustion dissipated as soon as she saw her daughter, Roya, along with her own mother running to greet her in the arrival hall. Her ex-husband, Abol-Fazl, had given his permission for Roya to stay with her at her Grandma Soraya’s house. It was a wonderful surprise, though she wished it was for more than one night. Homa placed her luggage on the front seat of her mother’s car and climbed into the back with her daughter to talk to her about her immigration plans. But as soon as Soraya began driving, Homa fell asleep, holding hands with Roya. By the time they got back to her mother’s apartment, it was late in the evening.
After dinner, when Soraya went to do the dishes, Roya sat herself in front of the TV and began flipping channels. Homa approached her. “Let’s go to the other room to talk.”
“About what?” Roya asked, with her eyes still on the screen.
“About the meeting with your father this weekend.”
“Meeting with Papa? Oh . . . okay.” Roya reluctantly turned off the TV and followed Homa. In the guest room, Homa’s luggage lay on a stand beside a tall mirror in a silver scrollwork frame, a gift from her wedding. The mirror sat on the floor and was tilted up against the wall, standing taller than any of the three women. Homa had put the mirror up for sale before leaving the country in 1998. A buyer had come to pick it up, but Soraya had plucked it from his hands as she wanted it for herself.
Roya sat down on the single bed and tucked one leg underneath herself, dangling the other off the side. Homa sat on a poshti, cushioning her sore bottom and supporting her tired back, and watched her daughter, who had grown into a beautiful seventeen-year-old during her absence. This was Homa’s third visit in ten years. But this trip was like no other; she was here specifically to speak with Abol-Fazl and his wife, Effat, about Roya’s wish to emigrate to Canada.
Roya was silent. She wore a white shirt that framed her slender body. She resembled Homa when Homa had been her age, and fallen in love with Abol-Fazl. The same large brown eyes, the same frown, the same black curls shadowing her brow. She was also as withdrawn as Homa had been before starting university. Her quietness at this moment bothered Homa more than all of the times she had asked questions about Roya’s life on the phone. Why cut herself off now, Homa wondered. The whole emigration plan was Roya’s idea. It was she who had asked Homa to come and negotiate with her father on her behalf.
“As you asked, I have come to Iran for you.” Homa began. “I’ve traveled thousands of miles to help you fulfil your wish. Now, tell me more about your plan.”
Roya clasped her hands on her lap. “I want to come to Canada to attend university there. That’s it. There is no more to what you call ‘my plan.’”
Roya’s straightforward answer was more hurtful than Homa could have imagined; she’d almost have preferred it if her daughter had slapped her across the face. “So, this has nothing to do with reuniting with me?” It was an unsettling thought, but Homa did her best to keep her composure as she continued. “This will not be enough for your father. You are a good student; you can easily pass the entrance exam and attend a university in Iran.”
“My parents want me to study medicine. I want to study cognitive science, and they don’t have that program at the bachelor’s level here.”
“But our only option is to apply under the family — ”
Roya cut her short. “And what if I cannot pass the exam? There are thousands of students who fail every year . . .” She let her words trail off, and began to swing her leg back and forth nervously.
“I hear you.” Homa said. She knew her disappointment could be heard in her voice. “But part of me was hoping you wanted to come to Canada to join me as well.”
“I don’t know,” Roya said. “I’m sorry. I’m so confused.”
Homa nodded. “You need to understand that for the Canadian government the only acceptable reason for you to apply for
immigration is family unification.”
“I know. I want to go to the University of British Columbia, and live with you in Vancouver.”
“Okay, but we also need to make a solid argument to your father. We will need his consent in order for you to live with me.” Homa raised her voice slightly, which made Roya look away. Homa could feel her daughter’s anxiety. She berated herself for not expressing these uncertainties earlier.
Perhaps this is my fault, Homa thought. I shouldn’t have assumed that she has the same feelings for me that I have for my mother. No longer able to suppress her disappointment, she snapped at her daughter. “Please stop bobbing your leg like that! It was also your father’s habit, and it makes me very uncomfortable.”
Roya uncrossed her legs and snapped back. “I already told Papa that you have come to talk to them! You cannot pull out now.”
“I am not pulling out, Roya,” Homa said quietly. “I am here for you. My only problem is you wanting me to pretend it was my idea.”
“You don’t want me to live with you?”
At first, Homa did not understand her daughter’s question, but once she did, anger started boiling in her. How could the girl think like this? Homa turned from Roya and focused her gaze on the green color of the carpet to calm down.
Roya was quiet. She stared down at her hands on her lap, fingers knitted together. Perhaps she did understand how Homa felt inside.
Homa drew a deep breath, raised her head, and looked toward the mirror. When she began to speak, she addressed her daughter’s image. “You know how much I want us to be together. But to make it possible, you need to be as involved in the process as I am. The first step is to tell your parents that you are one hundred percent sure you want to come to Canada and live with me, and you need to do this when I’m there at their home to talk to them. You should say, in front of them, what you told me on the phone. Do you hear me?”
Divided Loyalties Page 20
