“We’ll try the clothes on.” She took Darius into their room and pulled out the clothes from the box one by one—for her, a yellow cotton blouse with dark blue rectangles painted on it, an off-white skirt, a pink nightgown, and a navy blue dress; for Darius, two pairs of jeans and two T-shirts. She helped him try them on. They fit perfectly. She tried on the skirt and blouse and then the dress. They were slightly big, half a size or so, but they looked good enough. Something about the blouse was making her sad. It was that day…. She and Karim were walking past some shops in Columbus. Karim pointed to a yellow dress with dark blue floral designs that was displayed in a shop window. “Perfect for you, with your coloring,” he had said, and they had gone in for her to try it on. She had worn that dress for several years. How could this have happened to us? Many of their friends who had problems in their marriages sought out affairs, but she never thought that would be something she would do. She thought of the wife of one of the men in her company who left him for their young baby-sitter. It had been a scandal. “She left him for another woman?” people asked. Then they had started speculating, “Would you mind it more if your spouse left you for someone the same sex or the opposite sex?” She wondered now if Karim would mind it more or less if she slept with someone from his own country. An odd comparison. She was struck again by the impossibility of their situation. He was unhappy in the United States and she would be unhappy living in Iran. At the beginning when she married Karim she had been delighted to immerse herself in his culture, but now in Iran it was as if she were impersonating someone else, just being here, conforming to the rules. And Karim had never become a true American, or his sense of identity could not be so easily threatened in a crisis. She felt for the first time, what before she had only understood in a cerebral way, what Karim had been through in a culture alien to him in so many ways. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She sat at the edge of the bed and breathed deeply a few times, trying to calm herself.
Chapter 26
“Why don’t we have dinner at a restaurant,” Bijan suggested. “I’ll be careful, so no one will see us.”
It was after dusk when they got into his car and he drove away from the city. Even in the dark, Jennifer was keenly aware of every face she saw on the streets, in other cars.
In a short while they were at the outskirts of the city. They passed a caved-in structure that must have been a part of the foundation of a building, huge machines lying on the road, abandoned.
“They were starting to build high-rises here, under the shah,” Bijan explained. “The shah had the grandiose ambition of making Iran the Switzerland of the East. Now we’re back to being a Third-World country again. Our economy is shattered, the machinery he acquired is all abandoned and rusting. But in most ways things are better now for the masses of our people. Each neighborhood has a mullah to give the people advice on their problems in accord with Islam—what to do with a wayward daughter, how to put up with financial difficulties, domestic disputes. Also they raise money for the poor, a servant who loses his job, a man who can’t work because of some disability.”
“What about the oppression of women, of people of different religions, and the censorship, the anti-intellectualism?”
“Yes, you’re right, a lot of bad things. More repressiveness in certain areas, but there was something degrading about being an Iranian under the shah. Now at least we don’t have to pretend we’re more Western than Westerners themselves.” He turned the car into a small alley and parked in front of a restaurant.
They sat outdoors in a dark corner of the restaurant garden. In a moment the waiter brought over scallions, radishes, cheese, and a flat bread and put them on the table, then he took their orders. The menu had the usual selections, kebabs, chicken or lamb, koresh, khuku, yogurt and cucumber salad, and doogh to drink. Jennifer ordered chicken kebabs for her and Darius and Bijan had the ground lamb kebab. Bijan told the waiter to bring salads and doogh for everyone. The waiter asked if they wanted raw eggs with their rice. They all said no. When he brought their food he also had ground sumac for the meat and lumps of butter for the rice. Darius, after eating a little, went to the pool to watch the colorful water, green, yellow, and blue, flowing into it from a fountain.
“See how easily we pass as a family,” Bijan said.
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I shouldn’t have ordered anything, I’m not hungry.”
“What’s the matter, do you have an upset stomach?”
She couldn’t help herself, she said, “I’m dying to go back home”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, there’s so much that you haven’t seen yet that I can introduce you to. You could stay with me in my house, I want you there. No one will find out if we’re careful.”
“You don’t really think it would work, do you?”
“We could make it work.”
“Some of the best things have to end,” she said after a moment. “Because they’re impractical.”
“You sound so American.”
Darius came back and climbed onto her lap. In a few moments he fell asleep. He slept through the performance of a group of musicians who came onto the platform next to the pool and began to play drums, cymbals, and violins.
Jennifer could hear Bijan’s and her own voices, sounding sad and romantic as they filtered through the music.
Darius was sweating as he slept in her arms, though a breeze had begun to blow. “Shall we go back?” she asked.
Darius slept the whole time on the car ride back. At home she sat on her bed and cried again, overwhelmed by confusion, helplessness. After a while she managed to pull herself together and she went into the living room, where Bijan was sipping a glass of wine.
He poured her a glass too and they sat together, kissing. In a few moments he took her hand and led her into his bedroom. In bed he helped her undress and then he took his own clothes off. They talked and touched, talked and touched. She was aware of a quickening in her heart, a thrill at the newness of his body. Their bodies became plastered together with sweat and semen. Finally they lay back.
“You know Jennifer, I’m falling in love with you,” he said.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you well, you’ve always been with me.”
His intensity both drew and upset her. It was like drinking a sweet but poisonous substance. Nothing felt quite real.
“I won’t let you go back. It will work out. I have money, connections.” Then he said, dreamily, “I’ll get anything you want and bring it home, we’ll hire a tutor for Darius and we’ll leave the house only at night, we’ll take long trips.”
She laughed. “It sounds like a fairy tale.”
“You could make it real.”
“I have to get back to my life.”
“I won’t let you!”
After a while she fell asleep, and when she opened her eyes again she could see through the slats in the blinds that the sky was getting light. Bijan was still asleep, one of his hands resting on her thigh, his face serene. She removed his hand gently and got out of the bed. She wrapped her blouse around her and, picking up the rest of her clothes, tiptoed out and went to her room.
“Mommy, climb up here with me,” Darius said.
“What did you say?” Darius did not answer. Obviously he had been talking in his sleep.
In the morning Bijan had left early again before she had awakened. She wondered if she should go to Aziz’s house to see if anyone was back, and then decided not to. She couldn’t face anyone now, after having slept with Bijan. All she wanted to do was to leave the country and deal with the consequences later.
Darius wandered through the rooms, went out into the garden and back, lost and aimless. Jennifer told him the names of some of the flowers—morning glory, violet. Then Hassan gave him seeds to feed to the pigeons, but he seemed tired and soon went to his room and lay down.
She looked through the bookshelves on the living room walls, trying to find something to r
ead, but they were filled with medical books and journals. She took out a journal and began to read some of the articles—malaria was a big problem in Iranian villages, stomach cancer was common among Iranian women. She shut the journal, it was only making her anxious.
She turned on the television and began to watch it mindlessly. A devout young virgin, sixteen years old, was about to martyr herself by becoming a “Bride of Blood.” She was going to Lebanon to drive a car full of dynamite into an American military unit. Her reward, she was told, was that she would go to heaven and, once there, a husband, more devout than could be found on this earth, and very handsome and gentle, would be selected for her. She wore a kerchief and a long-sleeved dress with a skirt that came down to her ankles. In spite of her suicidal mission her face was radiant, her eyes were filled with excitement. It was terrible, horrifying to watch the destructiveness of such devotion. The program was coming to a close. The woman, now wearing a frilly white wedding gown, glittering jewelry, and a wreath of flowers on her head, was holding hands with a handsome young man in a dark suit. They were slowly floating upward through fluffy clouds in the sky.
Chapter 27
Jennifer sat in the living room and sketched designs on paper she had found stacked by the phone. It calmed her somewhat to be working. She thought of a pattern of blue and green swirling lines, the color of the mosaic used frequently here in decoration. It would look good on a thin, silk fabric.
There was a loud knock on the outside door. She listened intently, on edge. She went to the window to see who it was. A young woman, wearing a blue roopush with her hair covered by a scarf, appeared in the garden.
“Is Dr. Daneshpoor in?” the woman asked, taken aback by finding her there.
“He’s away at work.”
“Are you Bijan’s new … ?”
“He’s just…” Her voice faltered. Then she went on more firmly, “… helping my son and me. You can wait for him if you like.”
The woman came inside and sat down on a chair. She took off her scarf and let her long, deep chestnut hair flow over her shoulders. Her eyes were the same color as her hair. She was very pretty and young, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. “My name is Fereshdeh,” she said. “Jennifer.”
“You’re an American, but you know Farsi so well.” “I’m married to an Iranian.”
Fereshdeh’s eyes were riveted on her with curiosity. “Really?”
“My son and I have had some complications. Bijan has been very kind to help us out.”
Fereshdeh kept staring at her, waiting for her to elaborate, it seemed. Then she said, “I saw the dress you’re wearing somewhere. Yes, in the window of Naiin Shop.”
Jennifer felt herself blushing. She was wearing the dress that Bijan had bought for her.
“Didn’t he mention me to you?” the woman asked.
“No. But I haven’t been here that long.”
Fereshdeh looked very upset now as she picked up her purse and took out an envelope from inside it. “This is a letter from him. I brought it to remind him of his promises.” She handed it to Jennifer.
Jennifer began to read it.
My dear Fereshdeh,
How can I tell you what a difference knowing you has
made? You’re like a life-saving potion. Before meeting
you I thought of death all the time; existence was
meaningless. When will I have you to myself? When
will I share my life with you …
She stopped reading. The date on it, she noticed, was in April. Why is it I feel so betrayed by this man to whom I have no real claim, she thought, a man I’ve known only for a few days? But her heart was thudding unpleasantly.
“He practically kept me a prisoner for two years,” the woman said, keeping her eyes steadily on Jennifer. “Now he doesn’t know me.” She took the letter back and got up restlessly. “I’m going to his office.” Then with an air of pride she added, “Don’t misunderstand, I’m not going to beg him to take me back, I just want him to talk to me about it in a respectful way like he used to.” She walked away with languorous steps. She paused by the door and said, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
Jennifer watched her go through the garden, passing the servant who was pulling weeds from a flower bed, his face hidden behind a straw hat.
Bijan returned around four o’clock. He took out a little box from his briefcase and gave it to her. “A present for you.”
“Another present? You’re spoiling me.”
She opened the box and found a gold ring set with sapphire stones clustered together on it to form a flower. “This is beautiful, but how can I? No, I can’t accept this …” Apprehension swept over her. His lavish presents and attention, his insistence that she stay on, his words, “I won’t let you,” all had a threatening undertone. What if he tried to hold her back somehow?
“You’ve filled my days with pleasure,” he said, taking the ring from her and trying it on different fingers. It fit her middle left hand finger perfectly.
She looked at it next to her braided wedding band. The juxtaposition filled her, more than anything else, with a sense of loss.
“Anyway I have no one to spend my money on,” he said, half-joking.
She wondered if she should bring up the young woman. After a moment of hesitation, she said, “Someone came here to see you….”
“Yes, I know, Fereshdeh. She came to my office. I hope she didn’t bother you too much.” A flicker of embarrassment passed over his face. His voice was dismissive as he said, “I must admit I was carried away by her once. Then reality hit me—that she and her family were only after my prestige and wealth. I would only be a symbol to them.”
“Aren’t I a symbol to you too. My being an American?” For a moment it was as if she were playing a dizzy game whose rules she didn’t quite understand herself.
He laughed. “But a more worthy one. You represent a free, independent woman.”
“I wouldn’t be so free living here.”
As if he had not heard her, following his own train of thought, he said, “When I was just a small boy I used to play house with little girls, my cousins mainly—I played the father or the doctor—I always imagined my playmate, no matter what she looked like in reality, to have blue eyes and curly blond hair, like the foreign dolls I’d seen on display in shop windows. They looked like you.”
She tried to hide her feelings of apprehension. She said,
“It’s odd, but I too always had foreign looking boys in my fantasies”
“We’re a good match then,” he said, smiling. He leaned over and kissed her hard on the lips. “You do believe me, don’t you, that I’m in love with you?”
“If that’s possible after three days!”
“Oh, Jennifer, don’t be so skeptical, tell me how do you feel about me?”
“I’m attracted to you, of course …”
“That’s all, attracted?”
“I’m leaving in two days.”
“You will change your mind.”
She was relieved when Darius came into the room, interrupting them.
Chapter 28
Patches of light were gleaming in the distance as Karim and Jamshid approached Teheran. Monir, Azar, and Zohreh, who had turned up unexpectedly in Babolsar, had remained behind to take the bus in the morning, so that there would be room in the car for Jamshid to lie down in the backseat.
In Teheran the streets were relatively free of traffic at that late hour of the night and they drove through the city quickly. Some tea houses were open and men were sitting in the dim interiors or on platforms outside, smoking waterpipes and talking. Jamali Avenue was quiet. Gas lamps blinked in the windows of the Meli bank. Karim parked in the garage, next to the bank, where his uncle kept the car, and helped him out.
At the house Jamshid opened the door with his key. Karim saw him to his room, then went into his own.
He was surprised that Jennifer and Darius weren’t there. Then he remembered
Monir had said something about them having gone to Qom with Aziz. He noticed an airmail letter on his bed. He picked it up and looked at the sender’s address. It was from Nancy Carpenter. He opened it, though it was addressed to Jennifer, and looked through it quickly.
Dear Jennifer,
We’re eagerly waiting for some news from you. Your
house is all in order. Joe has been mowing the lawn
regularly. I’ve watered the plants—the azaleas
though are finally dying—and I’ve been bringing
your mail inside. I didn’t see anything urgent
enough to mail to you, but anyway you may be back
here before it would get to you. A good play series
is starting on the campus. We should try to take
advantage of it this year…
The rest seemed to be gossip about other women she and Jennifer knew. He stopped reading. It was paradoxical how the very things that had drawn him to the American way of life were now depressing him.
He got into his pajamas and went to bed. The street lamp behind the window cast a yellow light into the room. Moths clung to the lamp like bits of paper. The alley had remained so much the same. Even the telephone poles seemed to have the same birds sitting on them as in his childhood.
Voices of boys talking and laughing reached him from the alley. One of them began to whistle softly the tune to a song Karim knew well. “I’m only fourteen, full of dreams. Bright dreams like stars against a black sky.” He thought of himself at that age. He had been studious, made friends with boys who dreamed of changing things for the better, thin, idealistic boys, full of philosophical questions and ideas. But now he felt exhilarated just being in this familiar house, city, surrounded by the sights and sounds of his youth.
What is a realistic solution for us? he wondered. Maybe they could live in Iran part of the year and in the United States the other part. It would be hard to balance it out fairly. The whistling outside stopped suddenly and so did the voices …
The Heart's Desire Page 13
