Daughters of Smoke and Fire

by Ava Homa

  Life has happened to me without much agency on my part. Baba and Mama brought me into this world, into Mariwan; Chia took me to Tehran; and now Karo is taking me to Toronto. If I make it there alive, I vow to take the wheel: find a job, “a room of my own,” get into a college, pay back Karo, carry on Chia’s legacy. So long, smothering grief.

  A pretty woman with a shy smile sat beside me and said hello. She was wearing a blue sari and had large dark eyes, long braided hair, and a bindi. Before the plane took off, she swallowed some pills from her cupped palm and gulped down a full bottle of water. “I am a mail bride,” she winked.

  “I am an imposter bride.” I winked back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I got off the plane after ten hours. The sun still shone in the middle of the sky, just where it had been when I left Russia. The man who had taken my passport in Moscow ran after me and returned it. Every man who set eyes on me looked like a human trafficker. I braced myself for the arrival process and made my way to customs.

  A clean-shaven, blue-eyed officer asked me questions, looked over my documents, then brought me to a spare, well-lit room with several cubicles, sat behind a desk, and asked more questions. I gathered all my mental faculties, but he spoke so brusquely that I could understand only a few words in each sentence. Guessing at his questions, I tried to answer, resulting in many awkward misunderstandings, repetitions, and corrections. I was worried to death he’d interpret my language barrier as dishonesty, which was also part of it, perhaps the real reason for my palpitations. He told me to wait and left.

  It all dawned on me: Karo didn’t really want me. I had no money. My English was terrible. I’d saved myself from the threat of prison only to die alone in a foreign land.

  I looked around at other people conversing with officers. A shabby-looking woman broke down and started shouting. All I understood was her very liberal use of the word “fuck.” Two giant uniformed men grabbed her arms and took her out. I held my scarf over my mouth for fear of throwing up.

  My officer returned with a neutral expression and handed me my passport and a bunch of documents and application forms. He spoke in a soft voice, too fast for me to understand. I stared at him blankly, got up, and followed the exit sign.

  Once at the baggage carousel, I looked back. No one was following me.

  My suitcases heaped onto a luggage cart, I made my way to the arrival hall and looked for Karo. The Canadian flag with the red maple leaf hung from the high ceiling. A sea of faces swam around, expressions ranging from ennui to excitement. A woman in her sixties stood out among the crowd, with tanned skin and blond hair, dressed in a tight, knee-length, black-and-pink dress and tottering in high heels of the same colors. She wore too much makeup. Her bulging belly stretched her tight dress. She stared at me too. I could read her lips saying in Persian: “Is that my daughter-in-law?”

  The man next to her, bent over a backpack and battling with its zipper, was Karo. He waved at me. I waved back, but my hand froze in the air, suddenly self-conscious about my bedraggled appearance: my ugly sneakers, the turned-up cuffs of my jeans, my ill-matching white, purple, and blue shirt, my boyish hair, which I’d kept pixie short.

  Karo’s mother shook hands with me, leaving me slightly bewildered by evading my attempt to kiss her cheek. I admired her majestic height.

  Karo gave me a warm hug and kissed me on the top of my head—headscarf-free for once. His mother held her hand over her mouth, tittered, and then let the laughter shake her body. “Don’t you worry, honey. I know a place that sells gorgeous wigs.”

  I didn’t respond, but she didn’t seem to mind. We made our way to the parking lot, where she got into her white BMW. Karo, who had come from work, indicated an old Toyota and moved his work files to the trunk, atop my luggage. He slowly drove toward the parking lot exit.

  The awkwardness of our reunion was unexpected. After exchanging pleasantries in tight, clipped sentences, I finally asked, “What did you tell your mother?”

  Karo tilted the rearview mirror to check out his face and ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing.”

  “She doesn’t know the marriage is a charade?” My body twisted toward his.

  He drove up to the parking exit and inserted a ticket and a credit card into the slot machine, and the gate opened. “Don’t you want a bigger audience for the show?”

  “Not funny.” I moved uneasily, restricted by the seatbelt.

  “Did you tell your parents the truth?” We merged onto a highway called the 401 East and navigated our way into Canadian traffic.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Same here.”

  “But mine are far away, and they don’t need to know.”

  “Correct. No one needs to know.”

  “But your mother is here. She’ll figure it out. Why lie to her?”

  “Because she’ll be happier this way.”

  “And what are you going to tell her when I leave?”

  Karo eyed me. “Your short hair looks so different in person.”

  “Why does your mother assume I want a wig?” He didn’t answer. I unrolled the window and stuck my head out to let the wind comb through the short curls that could breathe from now on. I felt a slight thrill at being so exposed. The rising heat created shimmering pools that disappeared beneath the many cars’ tires on the expressway, leading us to a city unlike anything I’d ever imagined. Knots of intertwining four-lane highways whisked us through a canyon of towers, so lofty and modern that Tehran’s Milad Tower would be right at home in Toronto’s skyline. Fast cars savagely cut us off, speeding through the dense traffic as though they were jets traveling down an empty runway. We puttered along in our shabby little vehicle. As we pulled off the highway and drove through the megacity, I marveled at the spectrum of skin tones outside my window. Some women wore miniskirts, and some were covered by headscarves—by choice, I reminded myself. Some men wore ties, and some were in shorts. It was like a scene from the dozens of Hollywood films I’d watched back in Mariwan. But this time I was inside the movie, unsure of my lines or my role.

  We arrived in North York at a sleek, modern house with expansive windows. Trying for nonchalance, I explored the interior decorated with furniture in quantities and styles I had seen only in the late king’s palace, now a museum. Antique burgundy love seats and sofas with mahogany legs, large sculptures of leopards, lions, and warriors, buffets loaded with crystal and decorative dishes, finely woven handmade Persian carpets spread on the hardwood floors, a splendid fireplace in the corner. Not even one decorative bookshelf.

  Taken aback by the display of extravagance, I began to feel insignificant. The distance I’d traveled descended upon me. I did not belong there. We put my luggage in his mother’s finished basement, which was mostly a storage space crammed with older furniture and many labeled boxes but had a finished bedroom at one end of its hallway and a bathroom at the other.

  In his innocently excited manner, Karo explained that his mother was offering us some privacy by letting us stay in the basement instead of the guest room upstairs and said she’d like to take us out for dinner that night. Worn out after more than twenty hours of travel, I asked if we could stay home instead.

  “We can order takeout. What would you like?” he asked.

  With great effort I mustered a smile. “Something Canadian.”

  “I can find you any other type of cuisine you may fancy: Ethiopian, Korean, Chinese, Indian, you name it.”

  “Canadian.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Okay, they have one dish. But I warn you, you won’t like it. It’s called poutine and is mainly made of potato and some cheese. Wait, even that’s French! So no Canadian food. How about Italian? Greek?”

  “Poutine.” I chose it because I found it amusing to eat a dish whose name meant “boot” in Kurdish. Let the absurd theatre reach its peak.

  I changed into a comfortable T-shirt and pants and mu
st have dozed off, because next thing I knew the food had arrived. We sat on the edge of his bed and indulged.

  “We should get a little dinette down here. I’ve picked out three but was waiting for you to pick one of them. We’ll go to IKEA this week.”

  I had no clue what IKEA was. “This is so simple. But tasty. What was it again . . . poo-tin?”

  Karo laughed. “No, we are not eating the Russian dictator. Pou-teen.”

  “Whatever!” I caught him studying me again.

  “The new hair.” He inspected my face.

  “It’ll grow back.” I looked down.

  “I wanted to say it suits you. Long hair hides your face. I like this.”

  I squirmed. “Someone on the plane asked if I’d finished chemotherapy. I said, ‘kind of.’”

  Karo flopped onto a twin mattress on the floor. “Sometimes people make an effort to connect with you and end up saying the absolute worst shit. Others, like me, are so afraid of saying the wrong thing that we don’t make conversation. Listen. My mother.” He fetched an extra pillow and blanket from the wardrobe. “When she talks about things like, I don’t know, taking you to a makeup artist or plastic surgeon, she’s only trying to bond with you.”

  “What? Plastic surgeon? Has she cooked up a complete makeover for me in her head? What’s wrong with the way I look? I mean, I know I’m not beautiful like her, but I don’t want to be either. I have other priorities, at least for now.” And I was too busy surviving, I thought. How much of her own face and body had been retouched?

  Karo lay down on his mattress. “I’m not saying you should listen to her. I prefer women’s natural looks myself. I am just saying that she isn’t being cruel when she says those things. That’s her world. She is inviting you into her world. You know what I mean?”

  “I should brush my teeth.” I headed to the bathroom. My God, if that was her way of being nice, I’d hate to see her truly be mean.

  In the bathroom mirror I examined the exhausted, unattractive face of a girl who’d wished for death and failed, tried to save her brother and failed, and now imposed herself on this wealthy beautiful woman who was embarrassed, if not downright horrified, by her ugly daughter-in-law and her son marrying down, just like she had done. I brushed my teeth, painfully conscious of the missing molar that she may not have seen yet. I needed to get into the habit of covering my mouth when (if?) I laughed. And I needed to find a way to leave Karo and his mother as soon as possible.

  When I returned to the bedroom, Karo’s hands were clasped behind his head, and he was staring at the ceiling. I stood by Karo’s mattress. “You should take the bed.”

  “I said a horrible thing, Leila.” He sat up. “I am such an idiot. I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be hurt by her assumptions, and I hurt you myself. Look, she does these things to herself all the time, and she feels flattered by them, not insulted. So when she says . . .”

  “Please, Karo. Just get up and sleep on your own bed. Let me sleep on the floor.”

  “I’m very comfortable here.” Karo slid under the sheets and drew them over his face.

  “Well, I’m not. You’re used to your bed. I’d be more comfortable on the floor. Trust me.”

  He pretended to be snoring. I stood there and looked at him, reeling from the absurdity of the situation, my whole reality. The pixelated image on my laptop screen had now become this handsome man who slept in the same room as me but not with me, who temporarily hosted me but was my “husband,” who—albeit inadvertently—had killed my brother, yet saved me from the threat of death.

  I crawled into his bed and stared at the flat ceiling and freshly painted, opal-white walls all night. When I did finally fall asleep, I was back in front of Evin, watching men and women being hanged.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sweat dripped down Karo’s face and neck as if he’d been under a leaking faucet. “A hundred and fifty push-ups. Enough for today. Do you want to go downtown?”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I dreamed coming to Canada was a dream.”

  He laughed. “Pinch yourself.”

  “Why would I? I don’t want to wake up from this dream.” I stretched my arms out and yawned, my jetlagged body mildly achy all over, my brain still foggy. His sturdy naked torso glistened with sweat. I averted my eyes, an ice chip slipping into my belly.

  “Let’s make it the best dream ever, then. I took the week off to show you around.” He wiped his face with a light green towel. “Pack your bathing suit. But bring a sweater too. Canadian weather can surprise you.”

  “I have no bathing suit. Besides, I need a job, not a tan. Does your company hire anyone other than computer engineers?”

  “It’s a start-up with one CEO who does nothing and six engineers who do everything. But I’ll ask around next week. Today we’re doing something fun.”

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes but relented. I sat up and pointed to his bulging pectorals. “I still need a bathing suit, then. And you need a bra.”

  He laughed and left the room. “We’ll buy some beach stuff on the way.”

  I heard the shower turn on. The room was rather big and neat, but it didn’t have a window. I hugged my knees. How could a room not have a window? How could one live without the light and air? A dark bronze chandelier with eight little lampshades hung too low from the ceiling, a poor replacement for sunrays. There were no clocks in the room, and I was unable to tell the time. The black TV screen facing the bed reflected my body back at me like a fun-house mirror; I squeezed to take up less space. I stuck my tongue out at the image, and the reflection did the same. A PlayStation and a pile of comic books were placed under the TV.

  I made the bed, then inspected the walk-in closet to my right. It was also meticulously organized, its clothes arranged by season and hung on matching hangers, tops sorted from bottoms, jeans and sheets folded, wires and other electronics arranged neatly in a bin, several bottles of whiskey lined up. I did a double-take seeing the bottles displayed so openly. Oh, yes—one wouldn’t get lashed for it here, I reminded myself. My suitcases were placed carefully by the wall, and the shelves atop them were unoccupied. I wondered if Karo’s head was also that neatly compartmentalized, offering a temporary corner to the sister of a dead friend. I was envious, tired of the mess that I was inside and out.

  “These shelves are all yours, and I can give you more space too if you need it. I laid out some towels, and the soap is in the bathroom cabinet. On the right.” Karo stood behind me as I tried to decide which stuff to take out of my luggage. His soap smelled like sandalwood.

  “What’s that thumping sound?” I pointed to the ceiling.

  “My mother is on the elliptical machine. Hercules, her trainer, is barking at her. And he needs a bra more than I do.”

  I gathered my toiletries to my chest and made my way to the narrow basement hallway. There was a small rectangular window high upon the wall at its end, a laundry room and bathroom to the left. There was the steady noise of a vacuum cleaner, and I couldn’t comprehend how his mother could be working out and cleaning too.

  When I stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered, I saw a smiling woman with chubby cheeks lugging the vacuum down the stairs.

  We got dressed and drove to the station. During the subway ride, I was relieved to learn I was not the only one for whom English was foreign. Some of the riders spoke different languages, making me feel I was not in one new country but many, all at the same time. The teenagers standing there and speaking perfect English were a mix of Asian, European, and African. “Will you help me find a job?” I asked Karo.

  “Leila, you’ve barely been here twenty-four hours. We should get your residency paperwork sorted out first. You can’t work in this country without a social insurance number. Also, your first real job is to prepare for your English exams and put together a list of nearby universities that offer film studies.” Karo looked uncomfortable but added that he would be happy to help.

  Nearby? I’d attend any college in Cana
da that offered some sort of financial aid, nearby or not. “So, that’s a no? To helping me with the job hunt?”

  “Why are you so impatient?”

  “I want to repay you.”

  “You will. What’s the rush? You have a lifetime to do that. You could dedicate your first film to me. How about that? That would be a lovely repayment.”

  As the train came aboveground and an automated woman’s voice intoned “Arriving at Rosedale, Rosedale station,” the train car was filled with a cacophony of dings and beeps, notification tones from all the cell phones regaining service at the same time. The door slid open, and a man wearing a hoodie boarded, nodding his head rhythmically to a beat, making me feel like I was listening to his music. We got off at the Dundas station, where people jostled and teenagers ran.

  “It’s not even rush hour,” Karo said.

  “When is rush hour here?”

  “Nowadays in Toronto? Almost all day long.”

  “Aaa! You come from Tehran, and you complain about the traffic here?”

  His face brightened into a charming smile. In the daylight, his indigo eyes looked darker. “I suppose I carry too many expectations of a developed country.”

  We ascended the stairs to the sidewalk, where a sloppily dressed man with long, scruffy hair carrying a large bag on his left shoulder rummaged through the garbage. “Dear God. Poverty everywhere? Even in Canada?”

  “That’s what I was talking about. Expectations.” Karo grabbed my bare arm, which made my temperature suddenly rise. “This is Dundas Square.”

  I twirled, taking in the many large buildings and numerous billboards. The moving image on top of the H&M store showed anorexic-looking girls in bikinis running on the beach and posing for pictures. An instant later they were back on the beach and running again. And again. And again.

  We continued south on Yonge Street and entered a large big-box store called The Bay to buy bathing suits. I tried on a yellow one-piece swimsuit the color of sunshine; it offered more coverage than all the skimpy bikinis on display. Though still relieved about not having to wear a headscarf, the idea of wearing a bathing suit in public was uncomfortable, especially before Karo, who’d now see how scrawny my body was. Joanna’s meals had helped me regain some ten pounds, but I still had a shrunken look about me. Oh well. It wouldn’t change anything anyway. And dipping into an actual lake was a long-held desire of mine. I had to be brave. I was brave. I didn’t panic before a gun held to my forehead.