Veil of Roses
Page 6
“It is not so good for womens,” I tell them instead.
“My turn,” Eva announces. There is a sudden electrical charge in the air as everyone turns to her. Her eyes sparkle at me. She leans closer. “What do single women such as yourself do for fun? Do you ever sneak off and meet men?”
I know that she expects me to say no. But it is not true that there is no fun to be had.
“We go to clandestine parties in our friends’ homes,” I say. “In the street we must wear hejab, but in private homes we can wear miniskirts and makeup. Or we go to Internet cafés, and women are on one floor and men are on the other and we meet together in the chat rooms. Or we go to the mountains.” I explain how in the mountains, we can let our hejab hang down our backs and our hair, too. “We gather in mixed groups in the mountains. It is not so bad as you might think.”
“Do your parents know you do this?” Eva asks. Her eyes tell me she is impressed with our daring.
I think of my mother, her wistful eyes. She so wants for me to know some of the freedoms she herself used to have. “Our parents know. They tell us go. Have fun.” Even so, I do not go to the mountains very much. I fear the bassidjis. Not so much for me—I do not fear one night in jail or two—but for Maman Joon; I would not want her to worry.
“Do you have a boyfriend there?” Eva asks.
I shake my head. “No, no boyfriend.”
“Forgive such personal questions,” Danny says. “But we are all interested in life for you back there. It’s so different from what we know. No matter where we’re from, we know Iran is very different. Don’t feel you have to answer our questions if they’re too private or if they upset you in any way.” He looks directly at Eva as he says this.
“I do not mind,” I say. “I am curious for all your cultures as well. I am eager to know all of you, too.”
Nadia looks at me and holds my gaze. She has both hands on her pregnant stomach and rubs it gently. She looks very much like she could use a friend.
“Should we introduce Tamila to an American folk song?” Danny asks, perhaps to lighten the mood. He reaches for his guitar.
“Do ‘This Land Is Your Land,’” Agata suggests.
“The great Woody Guthrie.” Danny nods in agreement and strums the tune.
His voice sounds out loud and true, a beacon for the others. Eva and Edgard bob their heads and sing gamely, while Nadia mouths the words and remains silent. The stars of this little performance, though, are clearly Agata and Josef. They claim this land, this country, as theirs, every square centimeter of it. Tears come to my eyes listening to this campy, off-key serenade, as I see how they cover their hearts with their hands. For it makes me realize, yet again, how much has been denied us back home.
For many years, it was illegal for women to sing in public, as it was deemed too provocative. Now they may perform in concert, but for other women only. And yet here we are, in a mixed setting, and none of the men seems lustful and none of the women seems immodest, except for Eva, and I suspect that has nothing to do with the singing. Mostly, they simply seem happy.
It was the Ayatollah Khomeini who forbade us to sing. I see his face now, glaring at me as I admire the others. He glares at me as he did throughout my childhood from high brick walls and the sides of buses and from picture frames in government buildings. His image was everywhere, omnipresent, judging my most secret thoughts. The memory of his voice admonishes me now as he admonished us back then: There is no joy in Islam.
I shudder away his terrible words. This land is your land. These words are so much better.
It angers me that I must leave my homeland to seek the joy that has been denied me in Iran. For even in the best of circumstances, America, the land for you and me, can never be anything more than a stand-in, a substitute. I want my homeland to be for me.
How dare women be forbidden to sing?
I sit up straighter in my chair.
How dare they stifle our voices?
I do not know the words to this American song, yet I have picked up the catchy tune. And so I begin to hum, softly, softly, as the others sing on.
Someday, I know, the people of Iran will sing in joy and in chorus once again.
My homeland will one day be for me.
And I will be ready.
As I approach the Starbucks on University Avenue after my English class ends, I am intensely aware of the time. Ike said he would be outside at a table at three o’clock. It is now three-thirty, so I expect that I shall pass right by with no notice.
But it is not to be. He sits at a table facing the direction from which I approach. He gives a big wave from a distance and stands to wait for me. At the table with him are two other Starbucks employees, both women. It still astounds me, and makes me envious, to see how men and women can sit together so freely and talk. They have no idea what a luxury this is. Freedom, I am beginning to realize, means not even being aware you’re free.
“Hey, Persian Girl!” Ike calls out and waits for me to approach. Persian Girl. His loudness makes me cringe with embarrassment, but I smile at him my Julia Roberts smile. I see his head shift back a fraction and he seems to hold his breath for a moment. It is almost like what happens in the movie I have studied so much, My Best Friend’s Wedding, when Julia Roberts smiles at her best friend and he loses himself. It is almost like Ike is so startled that he cannot think fast enough to smile back.
I do not stop to join them. I continue my walk toward the main gate of campus and don’t look back. Inside I laugh, to think that maybe I was flirting back there. I am not sure. I may be making this up in my head, that I affected him in some way. I replay the moment over and over like it really is a scene from the movies, where the man falls in love with the pretty girl who passes by. This is fun to imagine, and it also takes my mind off my feet, which I suspect may be bloody inside my boots, that is how bad they hurt. I try to walk upright without evidence of a limp. And I think I am doing okay, until a few minutes later I hear a beep-beep, followed by the sound of a motor scooter pulling to the side of the road near me. I stop and turn in time to watch Ike pull off his helmet.
“Want a lift?”
The idea of this is so absurd, I have to laugh.
“No, thank you,” I say. I cannot even imagine what the punishment would be in Iran for riding on the back of a motor scooter with a man who is unrelated to me.
“You look like your feet hurt.”
“I have new boots, that’s all.”
“Do you have much farther to go?”
“Maybe about two kilometers.” I try to keep my tone light, but I am afraid the dread comes through in my voice and in my eyes.
This Ike is a perceptive man. He studies my face, looks thoughtful.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing with his head. “I’ll have you home in no time.”
We look at each other, and this is what I am saying with my eyes: I know that’s how it’s done here. I know men and women can sit at tables together and have coffee. I know they can smile and make small talk and no one will harass them. I know that I could climb on the back of your scooter and my world would not come to an end. I know this. But even so, it is a big step for me, too big a step for me to take right now.
“Come on,” he says again. “I dare ya.”
I shake my head a little. “I do not know what that means.”
He smiles. “It means I challenge you to get on.”
“You can’t challenge me,” I reply, with a little bit of indignation in my voice. “This isn’t a game.”
“But it is,” he says, in a teasing tone.
And all of a sudden, it is. Will Tami get on the scooter or won’t she? Because of his dare, he wins if I don’t get on the scooter. And I win if I do. He is very clever, this Ike.
I think of Maryam. I know what she would say. Stay away from all men. Yet I know, too, that I have what is a much bigger game ahead of me: Will Tami be able to convince a modern Iranian-American man—one who does not forbid joy—
that she is worthy of marriage? To win that game, I must learn to flirt. I must learn to make myself fun to be around. I must learn to convince a man that it is more fun to be with me than without me. He must choose me above all the American girls. To win that game, I must first win this one.
And besides, he’s cute and it’s a new feeling for me, to have a man admire me. If that’s what this is.
I glance at my watch. He could drop me off and Maryam would never be the wiser.
“Okay,” I say, smiling broader and stepping dangerously close to him. “I accept your challenge.”
I give Ike that slightly teasing tilt of my head, the tiny smile I seem unable to hide. It is the same look I gave the dentist one week ago.
The look did not work on the dentist at all. If anything, it repulsed him. But from the sharp intake of his breath and the momentarily stunned look in his eyes, I can tell it succeeds with Ike quite well.
At dinner that night, Maryam asks me question after question. She asks how things looked to me and what confused me and did I meet any nice people at class and what mistakes did I make. Her eyes gleam as if I am telling an adventure story. And I suppose it is, Tami’s Great American Adventure.
Of course I do not tell Maryam or Ardishir about my ride on the back of Ike’s scooter. But I tell them how very much I enjoyed walking through the Tucson neighborhoods and through the university. I tell them about my English class, about how Danny lived in Turkey and how Agata is from Poland and Josef is from Czechoslovakia and how they have a cranky affection for each other like they are an old married couple. I describe them in detail, how they are both so short and how Agata is hunched over and how Edgard from Peru told me that Agata lost both parents in the Holocaust of World War Two. I tell them how Josef is a widower and that he takes the class on trips after each session. I tell them about Eva, who is German and who laughs all the time, who seems to laugh at life itself. I tell them about Nadia, how she looks like she maybe could use a friend. I tell them how the class sang for me. I tell them about my mistake in trying to pay for a free sample of tea. At this, they laugh very hard. I tell them of my fear when the police came to the Starbucks and I thought they were coming to arrest me. I tell them about Ike, and how he came outside to look after my welfare and explained to me what a free sample is and how he offered to help me practice my English.
At this, Maryam’s eyes narrow and so I turn my attention to eating my chelo kebab.
“I can take you to school tomorrow,” Maryam informs me in a slightly hardened voice. I stuff a large spoonful of rice into my mouth. “And I can pick you up afterward, too.”
I should not have mentioned the incident with the police. Or anything at all about Ike.
“My boss says that perhaps soon I can change my schedule,” she continues in a pleasant voice. “Then I’ll be able to drive you to class each day. You shouldn’t be walking alone on the streets.”
I drop my eyes and concentrate on scooping more yogurt onto my rice. “My teacher has given us an assignment to speak with three strangers every day to practice our English.” I keep my voice neutral. “I intended to stop in at several stores each day to ask questions of the shopkeepers on my way to and from school.”
“I’ll take you to the mall. There are plenty of shopkeepers there.”
I reach for my water glass and will myself not to cry. Today was my first day of true freedom all by myself, free even from my sister’s admonitions, and I am heartbroken to think it may be my last.
I am thankful when Ardishir speaks up. “It seems like she enjoys walking.”
“She doesn’t need to be distracting herself with talking to American men,” Maryam snaps at him.
I knew it.
Ardishir studies me for a moment, and then asks Maryam, “What would your new work schedule be?”
“Four to ten P.M. Wednesdays through Sundays.”
He frowns. “That is no good. That’s when I’m home.”
“Tami can prepare dinner for you. Can’t you, Tami?”
“Of course,” I reply, over the lump in my throat. I stare at my plate so they do not see the despair that I am sure is in my eyes.
“I want for us to have dinner together,” Ardishir says firmly. “Husband and wife. That is what is right. I want for us to spend our evenings and weekends together like we always have. When you accepted your job, that was part of the arrangement.”
“Well, things change,” Maryam replies with anger in her voice. I suspect he seldom orders her to do anything.
“Ardishir is right,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to be a burden to you. I don’t want to come between you and your husband.”
“You’re not coming between us.” Maryam glares at Ardishir. “She was almost arrested!”
“No she wasn’t.”
“Well, she thought she was. That’s bad enough. Can you imagine how frightened she must have been?”
“Walking is good for her,” Ardishir states.
“I felt very safe today, except for those policemen, and that was my mistake,” I tell Maryam. “Please, it’s very important for me to learn about America and learn how to handle things on my own. I do not want my husband to have to accompany me everywhere after I’m married. I should learn how to take care of myself.”
She sighs.
“It’s just—you’re so naïve, Tami.”
“I know,” I agree.
“You need to be careful around men.”
“I am,” I tell her.
“They take advantage of women alone,” she continues. “Especially when they know you’re new here and don’t understand American customs. They’ll try to be alone with you and corrupt you.”
I think of my ride on the back of Ike’s scooter. I tried to hold on only to his shirt, but when we went up a hill, I tightened my arms around his waist and felt a rush of longing for the moment to stand still. The closeness of a man against my body was a new sensation for me, and it was exquisitely delicious. If that’s corruption, I want more of it. That’s what the not-so-naïve part of myself thinks in response to my sister’s warning.
“I’ll be careful,” I promise.
“Maybe Tami can find an American man to marry,” Ardishir says casually. But his tone is a joking one, designed to get a rise out of Maryam, which it does.
“Right! No American is going to marry her just so she can get a green card!”
“That seems unfairly critical,” I say. “You do not think even one American man would do such a favor for a female friend of his?”
“No.” She is adamant. “They’d only do it because there’s something really wrong with them. Or they’d only do it for the sex. Here, people take a long time to date before they get engaged, and then a long time being engaged before they get married.”
“I know that,” I tell her sullenly. “Do you really think I don’t know that? All I’m asking is to walk to school.” My voice catches in my throat. It does not seem like this is too much to ask. “I just want to walk to school.”
“I know,” Maryam soothes, patting my hand. “And that’s fine. But you must promise me you won’t get yourself into a situation with an American man that could affect your chances of marrying. Word gets out, and if you act in a dishonorable way, like a badjen, we won’t be able to find you a husband.”
“I just want to walk to school,” I insist.
“I know,” she soothes.
It is time to change the subject.
“Eva brought to class a wonderful dessert called stollen,” I say. “Do you think I should make some Nane Shirini cookies tomorrow?” I am an expert at making these delicate cookies, which contain orange rind and lemon juice and walnuts, but with the main ingredient of sugar.
“An excellent idea,” Ardishir offers, quick as me to change the subject. Ardishir is one who likes to keep the peace. He likes things to be pleasant in his home. “Make some extra for me, please.”
“We can bring them to your office,” Maryam offers.
After dinner, I help Maryam with the dishes and I watch Iranian television out of Los Angeles with them for a little while. But I am very tired and I am feeling something close to sadness, so I excuse myself and announce that I am going upstairs.
I close my bedroom door behind me in relief. The master bedroom is downstairs, which means I have the whole upstairs to myself. I pretend sometimes when I am up here that I live alone, and I relish the quiet. I cannot hear the Iranian television and I cannot hear Maryam. For this, I am so very grateful.
I have developed a nightly ritual for myself since arriving. I have bought what is called a Perpetual Light candle from the grocery store, which from the label I see you are to light and perhaps your hopes will come true. I have created a little altar for myself on my dresser, with the candle and the blue perfume bottle of American sand that my father gave me. I have tucked my favorite picture, the one of my mother in her pink bikini, into a bottom corner of my mirror and I have hung my brightest hejab over a top corner of the mirror, having vowed only to use it for decoration and never again for concealing myself from the world. Every night, I light my candle. Every night, I turn on my CD of Googoosh and climb into my bed. While lying in the dark, I watch how the flame from the candle dances, how it dips and weaves all by itself in the night. It dips and weaves and moves in whatever direction it must in order to keep from being extinguished.
Googoosh. Her voice is a gift to the world, a gift of true beauty. She is, without question, the most famous Iranian singer, loved by both women and men. Before the revolution, girls went into beauty shops in Tehran and asked for a Googooshi haircut. She was the fashion; she set the trends under the Western freedoms the Shah permitted. It is she who introduced our country to the miniskirt, and my mother loved her for it.