by Donia Bijan
She had not left her bedroom since their arrival four days ago, nor spoken a word to her grandfather. Noor didn’t insist—not yet—instead bringing her meals on a tray and sitting quietly in the armchair. Sounds of heaving continued through the half open window and then came her grandfather’s voice. Lily had no idea what he was saying but the tone was apologetic and when she peeked again, Hedi was gone. Then came Naneh Goli mumbling under her breath and twirling what looked like Aladdin’s lamp, with smoke, pungent and peculiar, curling through its spout. Lily had met Naneh Goli the first night, the old woman small and folded over as if rooting the earth. She had pulled Lily down into a bony embrace, her claim on Lily, the beloved grandchild of the boy she had raised, had seen suckle and drool, was swift. Now Lily heard the tak tak of Zod’s cane on the stone path. He was calling urgently to Naneh Goli and soon she, too, was gone.
The next time Lily looked out the window, her grandfather stood gazing up, a pipe smoldering at the corner of his mouth. He lifted his cane up in the air to wave, scaring the finches in the birdbath. From where she stood he looked tiny and vulnerable, but his eyes danced beneath bushy eyebrows and he smiled big and made a motion for her to come down. She turned away.
Lily heard feet padding along the landing outside her room and then her mother pushed open the door without knocking, carrying a breakfast tray: bread and jam, a glass of pomegranate juice, and a pot of tea. Yesterday, Lily couldn’t drink the milk. It was warm, tasted too much like cow, and the egg yolks were bright orange, so she just ate the naan. She had never before eaten flatbread like this—baked on hot stones, dimpled and crusty, it tasted sour and earthy and so delicious, she could eat an entire slab. Her mother told her that Soli stood in a long line at dawn to buy their morning bread and would go back just before noon for another fresh loaf. Lily eyed the breakfast tray and a growl surged from her stomach, but she would wait to eat until her mother left the room. Noor, who was in no hurry, pulled a chair closer and put her teacup on the bedside table.
“I have good news,” she said, the corners of her mouth curling up hopefully.
“You’re sending me home?” said Lily, raising her eyebrows sarcastically.
“No, but the Wi-Fi is working. It’s slow, though, so you have to go downstairs for it to work. You can write to your father now. I already told him that we’ve arrived safely, but I’m sure he’s waiting to hear from you.”
“I’m not leaving this room unless it’s to go to the airport,” Lily snarled.
“Suit yourself,” Noor said, then turned away from her daughter with a sigh.
As soon as Noor closed the door, Lily reached for a piece of bread, spread a thick layer of jam on it, and shoved it in her mouth. Maybe she could run away . . . that was her chief recurring thought. There was an eight-foot wall enclosing the yard that would have to be scaled. Beyond that, she had only seen a narrow alley in the dark when they arrived. Even if she were to lower herself into this unfamiliar street, she lacked the language to even call a cab. And where could she go without money or a passport? Noor had warned that unaccompanied young women on the street were bait for the morality police, that the most mundane social activities were forbidden and you never knew when they might stop you on the street to tell you to fix your headscarf.
She remembered how on the plane when the announcement was made, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tehran,” all the women pulled scarves from their handbags to cover their hair. No way I’m wearing a turban, she thought, rejecting this sudden, phony show of piety. That it was done out of respect or necessity was unfathomable.
When her mother had reached over to show Lily how to wrap the headscarf, Lily ignored her. She persisted, still trying to tie it for her, and Lily screamed at Noor right there in front of the whole plane, “Leave me alone! I hate you!”
“Lily, please,” Noor said, gently enough, then looked around apologetically at nearby passengers whose eyes filled with pity as they busied themselves arranging their belongings. At that Lily had twisted in her seat and pressed against the plane window. She imagined flinging herself out onto the lights below. How sorry her mother would be. That made her feel better—envisioning her mother’s remorse and sorrow when she was gone.
Lily looked out the bedroom window again and sighed. Once, she had overheard a teacher say, “Kids these days, they wouldn’t make it through a single day in the wilderness.” At the time, she’d wondered what that meant. What wilderness? But now she had a pretty good idea. Beyond the walls of Café Leila lay an unruly landscape she could never navigate on her own. She would either have to make nice with the company downstairs and secure a liaison to assist her escape, or kill herself.
NOOR HAD UNDERESTIMATED HER daughter’s will. For the first time in months she wished she could talk to Nelson. He was pragmatic, would never sidestep or shy away from a confrontation. Noor needed to decamp Lily from her bedroom, but how to go about it eluded her. She walked past her own bedroom, glanced at the unmade bed and her clothes on the floor—how quickly she had reverted to her girlhood. Downstairs, Naneh Goli waited to inspect the breakfast tray Noor had cleared. To spare her feelings, Noor lied and said Lily wasn’t feeling well, but the excuse no longer held up.
Finally she dialed Nelson’s number and left a message. “Please call me. I need your help.” Within minutes, her phone rang. Unlike her, he never anticipated the worst. If Noor heard that message, she would have automatically assumed an injury or death. But Nelson’s voice was calm, as if he was being called upon to mix a pitcher of sangria.
“Qué te pasa, Noor?” She winced at his slightly condescending tone and tried to be brief, but the standoff with Lily, once she began explaining, proved difficult.
“Will you please talk to her? She’s so much better with you.”
She bounded up the stairs to Lily’s room. “Your father is on the phone,” she said. Lily glared at her. “Don’t. Don’t call him ‘your father’ like you have nothing to do with him. He’s Dad!” She grabbed the phone and Noor turned to go, but her daughter had dissolved into tears and wailed to her father, “Daddy! Oh, Daddy, how could you let her bring me here?”
Seeing Lily come undone, she sank at the foot of the bed and clasped her hands in prayer. Lily was right, of course, to admonish her for removing herself from the equation that was their broken family. As long as a child walked between them, she would never be separate from Nelson, even across continents and oceans. It was hard to hear what Nelson was saying but slowly the sobs subsided to a soft whimper. Lily hung her head, one tight fist to her nose, but didn’t resist when Noor reached timidly for her feet and caressed them like baby birds, each toenail a glossy blue. Between hiccups she said good-bye to Nelson. Noor fetched a glass of water and sat on the rumpled bed. “What did Dad say, sweetheart?”
When Noor looked into Lily’s eyes, it seemed like the rain clouds had parted—at least for now. She wasn’t that naive to believe one phone call had made everything all right, but reaching out to Nelson, recognizing she couldn’t sway Lily without him, was a big step for her. Her pride would ruin them all if she wasn’t careful.
Noor switched on a lamp and studied her daughter. They were both looking gaunt but Lily’s skin shimmered and the roundness had tapered off, emphasizing the high planes of her cheeks. Lily got up to wash her face and even allowed Noor to plait her hair into a thick braid—a simple pleasure of combing and parting that was nearly forgotten. With her scrubbed face and her hair tied back, a small, splendid girl emerged, and gone quickly was the sullen teenager of the last year and a half.
Noor took a chance and said quietly, as if not to scare off a timid animal, “Baba would love to have a cup of tea with you.” She paused. “Come on down if you’re up to it,” and with that she left the door open and went to look for her father.
ZOD STILL MADE HIS way around the kitchen. He often cooked up a batch of pomegranate soup and ate what he could, but not much agreed with him. His chest caved in and his clothes had grown room
y, his belt tightened to its last hole. A clever eye could see behind his gallantry, the efforts to dress and greet and ask after your health. Noor, preoccupied with Lily and the marvel of finding Café Leila unchanged, had failed to notice until now, in this hour when the light poured into the living room, how frail her father had become.
Now she watched as he gripped furniture to traverse the room, a withdrawn look in his eyes. Maybe their arrival had worn him out. Maybe he was feverish. She poured him some water from a silver pitcher always kept full on a side table and sat down next to him on the sofa. She reached out and felt his forehead, suddenly overcome with concern.
“Hi, Baba. Would you like to lie down?” She spoke more loudly than usual.
Zod tilted his head as if he’d just now seen her. “No, no, no, I want to sit here with you. And Lily.”
“Baba, are you feeling all right? When was the last time you had a checkup?” Zod looked up amused, unaccustomed to her stern, nursely voice.
For months he had been losing weight, his appetite diminishing, wretched back pain keeping him awake at night. He had asked Dr. Nasseri, one of his Friday regulars, to prescribe some pain medication, but the doctor insisted on an exam and blood tests. Not long after, Dr. Nasseri and his colleague, Dr. Mehran, came to see Zod at the café to deliver the diagnosis, but Zod did not want to hear it until he had fed them. Only then did he sit across from his glum old friends to receive the news of pancreatic cancer. The two physicians wept openly into their cloth napkins and their patient consoled them. All he wanted to know was how long. How long did he have?
He swore the household to secrecy. He did not want to worry his children halfway across the world. They would feel obliged, he thought, to come, to leave their families, their jobs, their lives. And for what? To see him unable to manage simple tasks? To urge treatment he had already refused, or worse, force him to leave Iran for better care abroad? Never. This was his home, every inch, every crooked wall, and this is where he would die. Yet here sat his wounded girl, unaware of his disease, and by the time she understood, it would be too late to retrace her steps back to his bedside.
“My doctor says I am the picture of health.”
“Hmm. I’d like to talk to him.”
Lily appeared at the edge of the doorway, standing stiffly with her head bowed. Particles of dust, visible in the afternoon light, floated midair over a sitting room that slowly revealed its features—the faded Persian rug with pink and blue paisleys, a radiator, an upright piano cluttered with photographs, a credenza stacked with newspapers, crystal candy dishes placed over lace doilies on a tea-stained coffee table, and in the corner, Zod seated next to Noor with a blanket on his lap, merged into the patterned couch and the carpet beneath his feet. He stood up with some effort, rested a hand on Noor’s head, tilted his chin, and reached for Lily.
She took two wobbly steps forward, like an unsteady toddler, then two more, then managing a weak smile, she rested a hand trustingly in her grandfather’s palm. He led her to the piano and gestured to the dozens of framed pictures. “Our family,” he said in a shaky voice.
Noor, feeling light-headed with relief, made her way to the kitchen for tea and bumped into Karim racing out the door.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asked.
Karim hopped from one foot to another in the new Nike sneakers Noor had brought him and flashed a gap-toothed smile.
“T-t-t-to b-b-b-buy i-i-i-ice cream,” he stuttered and Noor felt ashamed for making him speak, but his wide grin seemed to forgive everything.
At thirteen, Karim shouldered responsibilities Noor couldn’t fathom for her daughter. His after-school activities were helping in the kitchen, running for provisions, tending the fire, ferrying a mop bucket that slapped against his skinny legs from room to room, and the occasional ironing.
News of Lily’s descent had caused a stir in the household. After all, people who lived and worked close together in a house were naturally roused with the lightest footstep on the stairs, the slightest creak of the banister. She found Naneh Goli chirping around the samovar, preparing the tea tray. “My prayers have been answered,” and her eyes gleamed with the pleasure of knowing, no, believing, that incense and her hushed pleas to God had brought Lily into the fold. “My beloved daughter of my beloved son, take the tray and I’ll bring you each a dish of ice cream as soon as Karim comes back.” How wonderful to be on the receiving end of such kindness, Noor thought. Naneh Goli sat at the table where leeks waited to be trimmed for the evening meal and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Then, a little yawn, for she was tired. For days before Noor and Lily’s arrival, she had lorded it over the household to dust, polish, and scrub, to scour the upstairs bathrooms, to sweep and freshen the bedrooms, to wipe the windows with vinegar until Hedi nicknamed her “Colonel.” They understood Naneh’s absorption with these tasks, just as they accepted her inspections. Let Noor find everything just as she’d left it. Naneh had earned the right to savor this homecoming. The waiting was over. At last she could kiss their cheeks and hear the voices of children in the house.
There were other things Zod could have said. He could have questioned Lily about her absence, or wondered about her attitude, but he seemed to be taking it for granted that his girl’s girl had drifted into this room like the pleasant breeze that came late in the day. Maybe if you’ve lived as long as he had, you knew all too well that looking for blame was futile, that you need not go back and ask for explanations.
The afternoon had brightened and Zod asked for little but to invite Lily into a room he had lived in all his life. Dozens of family pictures, bleached from the sun, nudged for space on the upright piano: a tall, bespectacled father and a young mother holding a bundle with two small boys on each side, standing in front of a fountain; a woman seated at this same piano looking over her shoulder; three boys—one slightly older—with their hair licked back; Noor and Nassim in their college sweatshirts on the Golden Gate Bridge; a young man in a cap and gown; a wedding portrait that matched the one Lily still carried of her parents.
But the oval frame Zod blew dust off of and handed to her was of Pari in a cloche hat with an open smile for the photographer she was clearly fond of. Peering at that face was like looking in a mirror after a haircut—the girl who looked back was so alike, yet different. That this woman was her grandmother unsettled Lily—how could she be related to all these people? It scared her to think that this could not be undone, that she could not go back to who she was just a week ago. She was glad to sit down, grateful for the tea being handed to her.
THAT NIGHT, ZOD, NOOR, and Lily ate dinner at a corner table in the café. Noor provided headscarves and they sat with their backs to the diners. Of course Noor and her father had been eating their meals together here most nights, but the addition of Lily sent a ripple through the room and folks were having a hard time averting their eyes.
Zod made his way slowly to the regulars, exchanging customary greetings, accepting their affection, asking after their families and thus diffusing the solicitude. Quickly the general clatter of things resumed and the men ate greedily, chewing big mouthfuls of food. Ala set a vase of silk flowers from his late wife’s dresser on their table and lit a candle from the drawer where they kept such things for blackouts. Soli made a leek and potato kuku that Hedi carried to the table in his meaty hands, sizzling hot straight from the skillet, and served with homemade yogurt and fresh tarragon.
Lily was startled to see the bear up close, too afraid to look at him, having seen him half undressed and grunting in the yard. The restaurant was hardly as grand as her mother had made it out to be, but it was cheerful with conversation, people coming and going.
Back at the head of the table, Zod sipped broth from a teacup and looked down the length of the room, at customers, at a daughter and a granddaughter, and his only thought was, Please, just a little while longer.
WHEN LILY HAD RETURNED to her room after dinner, she noticed her clothes—the ones she’d been wearin
g since her arrival and finally changed earlier that afternoon—were washed and folded neatly. Her jeans, and even her nightgown, were ironed. The bed was made with fresh sheets, and pulling the cool covers to her chin, she brought them to her nose and inhaled deeply—Naneh Goli used a rosewater spritzer for ironing, she even kept a bottle by the sink to dab behind her ears like a new bride.
It took awhile for the house to settle down after the lights were turned off, only the tapping of Zod’s cane on the stone path and the faint cherry wood scent of tobacco from his pipe drifting into Lily’s bedroom. She had trouble falling asleep, so she silently repeated a rhyme her father had taught her:
Había una vez un barquito chiquitito,
Once upon a time there was a tiny little boat,
Había una vez un barquito chiquitito,
Once upon a time there was a tiny little boat,
Que no podía, que no podía,
That could not, that could not,
Que no podía navegar.
That could not sail.
Pasaron una, dos, tres, cuatro,
One, two three, four, five, six weeks
cinco, seis semanas;
