by Donia Bijan
The snow cheered Zod and brought a renewed friendliness as he sat down with the mustache-and-Marlboro regulars to play a few rounds of backgammon. All but one lived alone. Each had sent his family abroad and lived a solitary life except for these moments of fraternity when they leaned over the board to slide the cream and black discs across the inlaid wood. They wore their loneliness with characteristic Persian humor and self-deprecation, referring to the sorry state of bachelorhood and bald-headedness, cracking jokes about habitually unfaithful Rashti women (a standing shtick among Iranians), and the prohibitive nature of an Islamic Republic that made sex taboo. This subject alone provided good pantomime—the rapid raising and lowering of their thick eyebrows or two hands crossed over the groin.
“Every night my wife says she is closed for business,” complained Abbas, whose family was intact. “She feels the ayatollah’s eyes looking down on her!”
Zod listened but wouldn’t partake in their saucy banter, now or ever; he didn’t like obscenity, but knew they had suffered and this dice game is all that remained. In a better world they would have talked about their children, graduations and weddings, wives who waited to eat supper with them, in-laws who visited too often, grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. But instead all they had were splintered limbs scattered across the globe; an exodus so vast and irreparable that each man was unmoored and every letter brought news of a relative adrift.
When Zod received a letter from Noor, his heart welled and it was all he could do to walk, not run, to the sitting room, tear it open, and gulp it down. Then he would tuck it in his breast pocket and carry it around the rest of the day with a private smile until he found a moment to reply. His letters to her opened with vivid descriptions of the place where he sat with pen and paper, to give himself and Noor the illusion that they were there together—at the kitchen table, on a stone bench under the almond tree, in the café during the lull between lunch and dinner.
He could not remember when Noor first requested a recipe, but he stuffed each envelope with loose instructions for making the dishes of her youth, trusting her to improvise for ingredients that were difficult to find, and Noor would respond, eagerly reporting each time she came across fruits or spices—blood oranges, dates, persimmons, saffron, sumac—like long-lost relatives she had never expected to see again. This was before pomegranates became the darling of consumers, and chefs squirted yellow spirals of saffron on every plate.
Whenever there was some break in correspondence, due to the mess of the Iran – Iraq war, Zod moped. Twice a week he would walk his letters to the post office, calling to Naneh Goli, “I’m going to the post office!” as if he had somewhere else to go, then return to wait impatiently for the mail. Drafting one letter after another kept him busy—never in his life had he been such a devoted correspondent.
Zod reckoned daughters wrote letters, sons didn’t, and that was all right because Noor’s letters, lush with details, included news of her brother. Zod learned that his son was a spendthrift and his daughter was frugal, that Mehrdad had a sports car and Noor didn’t have her license, that one worked in a record store and the other in the college cafeteria (so you don’t have to pay for the meal plan, Baba). Bless you, my dear, he wrote, but please resign from this job immediately and concentrate on your studies! He had not sent her across the planet to become a sandwich maker.
Zod tried to forget about the snapshot taken by Farah of his children on the white terrace with their uncle seated smugly between them. Their anxious gaze had not reassured him. A rapid inventory of the setting—the ornate patio chair, the pink backdrop of bougainvillea, Morad’s sledgehammer hands crossed on his lap—was unsettling. Age had not softened his brother’s features, if anything he looked more petulant, like he had a sour plum lodged in his cheek. Twice he took a razor blade to carve out Morad’s face from the photo, something that furious devil had so often done to deface family pictures. Finally the picture was shoved in a drawer.
It eluded Zod how Farah endured his brother, though he was overcome with gratitude for her kindness towards his children. Noor wrote of how Farah invited Mehrdad, who also lived in Los Angeles, for Sunday night dinners and frequently sent Noor special parcels of chocolates and toiletries. Recalling his own brief stay away from home, he understood the comfort of food and a good smelling bar of soap. It pleased Zod that Noor could write of this heretofore unknown side of his family. Yet how did Mehrdad sit across from the furrowed face of his cantankerous uncle every Sunday?
If he could only see how his son came through the doors of that household like a song, that he brought bouquets of narcissus for Farah and mixed tapes of Dire Straits and Tears for Fears for Marjan, that he’d lured Morad to backgammon by claiming that he wasn’t a good player, thus leaving the door open for Morad to counsel him, drop by stingy drop, then crushing him in swift victory. Not surprisingly, Doktor declared that he’d been easy on his nephew, so as not to discourage him. Nevertheless, they played five rounds every Sunday after dinner and if Zod had walked in, he would’ve found them almost cordial, with plates of melon balanced daintily on their knees. Patiently, Mehrdad thwarted his uncle’s malevolence with mirth and even developed a curious liking for him, going so far as calling Morad “Amoo jan,” a familiar and endearing term for uncle that Farah could hardly believe was permitted. Poor brother, thought Zod, that you can’t see what a gift I’ve sent you.
Seventeen
In the fall of 1988 Noor and her best friend, Nassim, rented an apartment in San Francisco facing a café where the scent of roasting coffee and baking bread drifted into their bedrooms every morning. Their building was a ruin of a place—the over-painted window frames wouldn’t close, a threadbare tawny carpet and stained linoleum covered the floors, and on sunny days, termites swarmed the windowsills—but nothing could have diminished the wonder of their first apartment and being on their own.
They loved the quaint Cow Hollow neighborhood, they loved furnishing their space with mismatched chairs and a round table, a television and lamps and an antique ironing board that doubled as a bookshelf. At Macy’s they bought bright flannel sheets and thick towels, a shower curtain with a pattern of yellow ducks, pretty mugs and cereal bowls. Just eating Raisin Bran from those blue-and-white bowls, sinking into her bed, ironing blouses in her underwear and bra brought Noor enormous joy.
In the evenings the girls would return from work, uncork a bottle, and pour themselves big goblets of red wine. They feasted on buttered toast and fried eggs with tomatoes and danced to Persian disco in bare feet on the carpet—their hand motions and mock flirtatious expressions improvised and hilarious. Noor had passed the nursing board exams, finally acquired her driver’s license, and was working at Kaiser in South San Francisco. Nassim studied journalism and worked part-time at the Macy’s cosmetic counter where she faked a French accent and seduced women into handing over their credit cards. Soon she was named Employee of the Month, given a seventy-five-cent raise and a coffee mug, and her picture was mounted on the wall in the staff lounge where she sat with her legs crossed, eating dainty spoonfuls of yogurt on her break.
On Saturday nights they wore high heels and little black dresses purchased with Nassim’s employee discount, and went to pubs on Union Street or to comedy clubs, perching on little stools sipping margaritas. Neither of them really understood the jokes, but they laughed when everyone else laughed and before too long the mannerisms and intonations seeped into them until they were speaking English with each other, sticking hybrid words between their phrases like mortar. Noor wasn’t entirely at ease with this wild new independence, not always keen on leaving the apartment, but once she linked arms with Nassim, her anxiety lifted.
Soon Nassim was meeting her other friends after work, often leaving Noor behind. If Nassim invited guests over, Noor served cheese and crackers, lingered in the kitchen, took their empty plates away like an innkeeper, then faked a headache and went to bed early. She lay awake and listened to strangers flushing
her toilet and hoped she wouldn’t have to use the bathroom and smell the aftermath of their visit. Sleep came when the front door was finally latched. And then, there was a man.
Nassim kept him a secret but the sudden change in her eyes, her skin, her hair and clothes, the exceedingly soft tone of her voice when she answered the phone, lit the small rooms they shared like embers. When she wasn’t there, which was more and more often, the only light came from a spotted window in the kitchen where Noor warmed canned soup on the electric burner and ate in the dark. They no longer sat at the round table together or divided the Sunday paper or walked to their café for cappuccinos and blueberry muffins.
Noor tried to remember her last sight of Nassim, as if they had boarded different buses and she’d lost her pupil. How quickly Nassim adopted the ways of the women they saw on television and in clubs, with their glossy hair and bare legs. With what sensual ease she spoke to men, enchanting them with the sweep of her black lashes, writing her phone number in the palm of their hands. Where did she learn to do that? Every day, Noor went to work and came back to an empty apartment. Some days there was mail and she would sort through the envelopes by the mailboxes, hoping to walk upstairs with a letter for Nassim from her parents—believing that news from home would bring her back.
One day Noor sat across the street slouched over a coffee at Café Moka when she saw a boy carrying a huge vase of red roses. He paused in front of her building, checked a piece of paper, then rang the bell. When there was no answer, he turned to leave. Noor intercepted him just as he was about to open his van.
“Are those for apartment 4A?”
“Yes, ma’am! Is that you?”
“Yes!”
“Well I’m glad you caught me.”
The small card stapled to the cellophane read: I miss you all the time, P.
Noor carried the flowers to the dumpster behind the building, lifted the heavy lid, and threw the roses headlong into the garbage below, shattering the globe vase on the metal wall. Rage cleared her head and, back at the café, she sat at a sidewalk table and lifted her face to the sun.
The following evening the telephone rang while Nassim was in the shower. A man named Paul asked to speak to her. Relieved that she had picked up the receiver before he could leave a message, Noor told him that Nassim wasn’t home.
“Gone away for the weekend.”
“Where?”
“Napa,” she said, because it was the first thing that came to mind. She then quickly hung up before he asked more questions.
Nassim came out in her bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel, carrying a manicure caddy filled with an assortment of polish. Nassim diligently maintained her long, tapered nails and tonight’s appearance of the caddy made Noor smile, because it meant her roommate wasn’t going out for the evening. Noor offered to run to the video store to pick up a movie. “Sure,” came an indifferent reply. It had been ages since they had curled up on the couch with ice cream to watch a film, so Noor bolted out the door and ran down the street, returning less than fifteen minutes later with Moonstruck.
Noor carried in a plate of vanilla wafers and a pint of chocolate chip ice cream. Nassim looked up from the couch and shifted to make room for her.
“Moonstruck again? How many times have you seen this film?” She said it as if Noor had watched the film alone, as if only Noor had memorized the dialogue and knew the songs.
“But this is our favorite! We love Cher!”
Nassim shrugged and leaned back. How many times had they seen it? How many times had she yelled, “Bring me the big knife!” when they were making dinner? How often had Nassim compared Ronny to her crazy cousin Vali? Noor had always related to the dutiful Loretta, but tonight she recognized herself in Rose, Loretta’s mother, in a lilac housecoat making breakfast, dining alone in their neighborhood Italian restaurant, especially when Rose cries, “Ya gotta love bite on your neck, your life’s goin’ down the toilet!”
As the silence between the roommates opened and bloomed, Noor half laughed, half cried after many of her favorite lines. A nail biter in her youth, she raised a hand to her mouth to chew a raggedy nail. Nassim seemed to endure the movie, studying her opaque enameled nails, crossing and re-crossing her arms, glancing sideways at the telephone like she wanted to call for help.
A week later, on Sunday morning, Noor allowed herself to sleep until nine. Assuming Nassim was still asleep, she tiptoed to the kitchen, but Nassim was already at the table with a mug of cold coffee. Even red-rimmed, her eyes were beautiful, and for a split second there shimmered a trace of an earlier compassion that she blinked away. A small duffel bag rested at her feet. Noor pulled out a chair and sat next to her, resisting the impulse to pull open the pink section of the San Francisco Chronicle for movie listings, to brew fresh coffee and make toast. Whatever Nassim was about to tell her was not good, but it would help if she had a hot beverage.
“Did you think we could play house forever?” Nassim’s sarcasm was sharp. She told Noor everything then, about the man she’d been seeing, the missed calls and missing flowers. That Paul was married was irrelevant, she said.
“You had no right to interfere!” Nassim fumed. “And don’t you dare tell my father.”
“I don’t even know your parents!” Noor shot back. Did Nassim think she would cross the ocean to carry them this news?
Paul, the professor, eleven years Nassim’s senior, had been a devoted husband until Nassim spurred his appetite. Each day brought an endless parade of lovely young women into his classroom who could’ve donned burkas for all the attention he paid them, but Nassim blew into his office one day like a soft breeze—indeed that was the definition of her name—in a floral print dress cinched at the waist and peep toe sandals that showed just the tips of her pretty red toenails, and by the time she sat on the edge of the chair across from him, he felt a new hunger for this girl who observed him with her dark eyes as if she understood that there was so much more to him than his pasty complexion and marshmallow physique.
Within an hour, a long-suffering wife, who had put up with his stale breath and wet palms for twenty-three years, was dismissed for hardly glancing at him anymore, always rushing about, always reminding him to do this and that, getting exasperated when he forgot errands and chores, barking “I’ll just do it myself!” Why, just that morning she had berated him in front of their two daughters, ages eleven and fifteen, because he misplaced his keys—quickly bemoaning, “It’s like having three children in the house!” The best part of his day was spent alone in his car, removed from that sense of duty, of never getting it right. Yet here was this girl who wanted nothing from him and he would pursue her for pure pleasure. Nassim had never received the devoted attention of a grown man who gazed upon her with such passion.
Upon finding out that this was an affair, Noor erased any of her misgivings over the discarded bouquet or the few white lies pertaining to Nassim’s whereabouts, pleased that her instincts about this charlatan were warranted and that every action had been taken to protect her friend.
“Nassi, did you think about his wife? What about his kids?” Noor inquired with unmistakable judgment in her voice.
Nassim lashed out. “What? Yes! Well, not really. How should I know about them?”
Nassim’s fury confused Noor. “But isn’t that what we’re supposed to do . . . to look after each other?”
“No! You see, I don’t want you to look after me, to babysit me, to cook my eggs and iron my clothes like you’re my nanny!”
Poor Noor. Since leaving home, she had unwittingly assumed the role of Naneh Goli. However, Nassim’s secret affair was not nearly as devastating as the heartbreak that followed.
“I’m going to stay with my aunt in Phoenix for a few days,” Nassim said. “She’ll help me find a job. I’ll come back for my things. I just have to get away from San Francisco.”
“What about our apartment?” cried Noor. “Doesn’t it mean anything to you? This place is our home.” She flun
g open her arms to the four walls of their shabby apartment.
Nassim gazed straight ahead, a haughty chin in the air. “I want my space, Noor. Space for big love, a big job, a big house.” She stood up to pry open the window. Street noises cut through the silence that had settled in the kitchen.
When Nassim finally spoke again, she shook her head and said, “I mean, look at this,” scoffing at the rusty hinges that held the window frame. “It’s so sad.”
By June Nassim had packed her clothes and books, loading them into a friend’s Honda Accord for the road trip to Arizona. She was so eager to go that she skipped graduation and left Noor all the housewares they had purchased together. Noor flinched at the clap of the car trunk closing on the brief happiness of those few months. The former roommates exchanged a wooden embrace on the curb and then only a hand waved good-bye from the open car window before Nassim was gone.
In the years to follow, Noor often thought that she was never as happy as when she lived in that apartment. She remembered coming home from work, feeling the reassuring weight of her keys in her pocket. She would open the lobby door to the soft sound of the evening news from the ground floor unit and the scent of someone’s laundry soap suspended in the stairwell. No matter how much her feet ached, how dire the prognosis of a patient, how ill-tempered the doctors, the light in the window would shine in a place of her own and there would be supper to share with her best friend. There was so little space between her and Nassim and they crossed over it again and again. Beyond the doors of 4A, there was nothing but space between people. No one could get enough of it—everyone crying for more (“Give me some space!”) and flapping their wings like caged birds fighting for their lonely lives. Flap flap flap.
