Veil of Roses

by Laura Fitzgerald

  Once the revolution came, she, like so many other women, was forbidden from singing in public. I am sure she could have fled her homeland, but for twenty years she remained in her apartment in Tehran like a bird whose wings had been cruelly clipped. Her fame only grew. Bootleg copies of her music flourished, and she became for us a symbol of the bitter choices we all face. Do you stay in your homeland even as it suffocates your spirit, do you love it even if it does not love you back, or do you declare defeat, do you hand over to the thief the keys to your home and say, Take it, it doesn’t matter to me anymore anyway, you have already taken too much and there’s nothing here for me now?

  After twenty years, Googoosh’s husband secured permission for her to leave Iran. She performed first in Toronto to a crowd of twelve thousand, and we heard back in Iran that her voice, so long suppressed, was never more beautiful. We heard there was not a dry eye in the crowd, hers included. We heard this and we cried, too, and we urged her in our hearts, Sing, Googoosh, sing. Sing for us. Sing for yourself.

  On this night, I watch the flame from the candle and listen to her voice. I feel her sadness; it washes over me. I saw real freedom today on my walk to and from English class—I saw young boys and girls chase one another on the playground; I saw Agata and Josef make their way toward love. I saw men and women sit together at outside patio tables; I saw university girls bare their skin to the sun. I rode on the back of a man’s motor scooter and felt a thrill when my body touched his. My girlfriends in Iran might never have a day like I had today, and this makes me so very sad. As for myself, I want to have days like this again and again and I do not want to fight with Maryam every step of the way.

  I will make my parents’ dream come true. I will find a husband. I will get married. But I do not want to wait a lifetime in order to find my happiness.

  I love Googoosh. But I do not want to be her.

  I am happy for Ardishir when I learn how he spends his days. His office is in an adobe building with a four-tiered fountain out front. He has three women assistants who answer the phones and file insurance information and make appointments. It is very pleasant; the music he plays in his lobby is not Persian or even classical.

  “What is this music?” I ask Maryam. I have not heard this style before.

  “I don’t know,” she replies. “Ardishir takes care of everything for his office.” She chats with one of the receptionists and picks up a picture on her desk to admire.

  “It’s Keb’ Mo’,” Ardishir says as he greets us out front, kissing us both on our cheeks. “Sort of New Orleans-y.”

  I remember that Ardishir got his undergraduate degree at Tulane in New Orleans. This was before he knew Maryam. He has told me several stories about how much fun he had living in the college dormitories and then with friends. It sounds like he had many years of fun times before he got married.

  Seeing his office is like seeing a whole new person. It is as if he has carved out for himself a piece of the world only for him, designed just how he likes. I feel in myself a sense of envy, that he gets to nurture a whole other self besides the one he is in his home, in his marriage.

  “I like your office,” I tell him. “I like it very much.”

  He extends his arm. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  While Maryam stays to chat with the employees, Ardishir shows me the X-ray room, two patient offices, and finally, his personal office. It is decorated with sleek modern furniture. Copenhagen style, he tells me. The walls are painted a rich cream. There are photos on his walls of his patients after surgery, using the limbs and muscles he has repaired for them. I see a picture of a woman waterskiing; another woman rock climbing. Yet another is on a bicycle; while a fourth is running a footrace.

  He sets women free. I feel a new admiration for Ardishir, and I am suddenly so thankful for his intervention last night on my behalf, to convince Maryam to let me keep walking to school. He’s trying to set me free, too.

  “I admire the work you do,” I tell him. “I admire it very, very much.”

  “Thank you. Tell me, are your feet still very sore?”

  I confess they are. “But please, do not tell Maryam.”

  “You really like to walk?”

  “I love it. It’s so different from home. It’s how it should be, you know? Clean air, no one bothers me. It will help me, I think, to learn to be unafraid.”

  His eyes crinkle with kindness. “Takes practice, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s a big change.”

  When we get back to the lobby, the women have eaten all the Nane Shirini cookies that I brought.

  “These cookies are delicious!” one of them says. Her size indicates she perhaps enjoys sweets a little too much. Poor Ardishir. This lady ate his share. He will have to wait for dinner tonight to have some.

  I smile. “Thank you, you’re very kind.”

  “Really, they’re awesome. Have you thought about opening a Middle Eastern bakery?”

  “Oh, no,” I tell her. I have to get married, I think.

  But as Maryam drives to Sabino Canyon, I consider her suggestion. If I didn’t have to get married right now, if I really had the freedom to choose my life’s path, I think maybe I would like to open a school for girls. I would teach them to think for themselves. I would teach them to look inside their hearts to recognize the right way to treat others. Their hearts know what is kind and just, better than any book or government. I would teach them that they are not better than anyone else, but they are not worse, either. They are not worth only half of what a man is worth. They do not need to veil themselves from the world. They are not the cause of all corruption in the world. I would teach them it is okay for girls and boys to be friends. I would teach them it is okay to sing. Go ahead, I would urge them. Go ahead, it will make you happy.

  This is what I would like to do, open a school such as this. But then I remember: My school is not needed in America. It is Iranian girls who need to hear this message. No, Tami, I catch myself. They need more than the message. They need to live in a world where it is all true, every word of it.

  Maryam takes me to what is perhaps the most beautiful place in the world. I have certainly never seen anything like it, so many shades of brown and green, with the sky so purely blue. Sabino Canyon began forming over seven million years ago, and much of the canyon was created due to an earthquake in Mexico that made the rocks crash down. There is a river in this part of the desert and cactus like I have only seen in the old black-and-white western movies.

  “There’s no place like this in the whole world,” Maryam tells me as our tram ride begins its journey through the desert canyon.

  “I can’t believe how much work must have gone into building this road,” I say. The three-kilometer recreational road throughout the canyon is better than ninety percent of the roads in Iran.

  We weave up and down hills, around shady bends, past walkers and joggers. I marvel that all around me, women both alone and in groups walk and jog, exercising their bodies and building their muscles. I long to be one of them. I could truly be alone in my thoughts in a place like this. Here, the earth seems big and old and my grievances seem petty. My concerns about marriage and Maryam’s rules seem not so major, not so permanent in a place so timeless, that has withstood so many centuries.

  Maryam suggests we disembark the tram at the river and have our lunch of the leftover rice and chelo kebab and hot tea we have brought in a thermos. We climb down into the sand on the riverbank and claim a log. While I begin spreading out our little picnic, Maryam slips off her shoes and steps into the river.

  “Oooh, it’s so cold!” she squeals. In a flash, I have a memory of being at the ocean in America with her and my parents. Though still a girl, Maryam seemed so much bigger than I. She was always the one who ran ahead, who put her feet into the ocean first, and squealed in much the same way. And then she’d come back out, take my hand, and lead me to the water’s edge. With Maryam, I always felt safe.

  “Ca
n you believe we’re actually here in America together, drinking tea by a river, Maryam?” Happy tears spill from my eyes. There are some sad tears mixed in, too, for how long it has taken for us to be together as sisters again. “Did you ever imagine it would really happen?”

  I love the smile she gives me. “Always, Tami Joon. I knew my sister and I would be together again one day. And we’ll never be apart again.”

  “We’ll never be apart as long as we find a husband for me.” That, as always, is the caveat. So far, I’ve met three potential husbands, but none has worked out.

  “Well, the one coming to dinner tonight sounds promising.”

  “Maybe,” I say without much enthusiasm. I carefully pick up dried leaves from the sand and throw them in the river. They float past Maryam, and I watch the stream carry them away from me. Each one gets stuck when it drifts into an area with large rocks jutting out of the water. Each one bumps into a rock and can move no more. Stuck, stuck, stuck. I stare at the leaves, mesmerized. “If I can’t find a husband here, I can always marry Agha Reza. Did Maman tell you he was coming back?”

  “Tami.” I look up at my sister. Her lips are pressed firmly together. She walks over to the log and stands at my feet.

  “You should not even think about marrying Reza.”

  “He’s not so bad.” I shrug.

  “Yes, he is, Tami.”

  Her sharp voice causes me to look at her.

  “Does Maman think this, too?” I ask, wondering what it is they have not told me.

  Her voices sharpens even more. “Maman doesn’t always know what to think. If you haven’t noticed, she doesn’t exactly make the best decisions.”

  “What are you being so mean for, Maryam? She’s gone through a lot in her life, and you should be more respectful of her.”

  She issues an exasperated sigh and sits next to me.

  “Listen,” she says, softening her voice. “Ardishir and I talked last night. He pointed out that maybe I have not been too understanding of your situation. You are young and new to America, new to all these freedoms. You want to experience some of the fun things in life before you get married.”

  I shrug. I am still upset over how she spoke of Maman Joon. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Yes, it is. How you feel is a huge deal, Tami. It would make me so sad to know you were unhappy here. There’s no reason for it. I don’t want to be the reason for it.”

  “It’s just…I look at the girls around me with such envy. They get to do so much, so many simple things that have been denied me my entire life.”

  I sweep my arm toward the main road, toward a woman running past us wearing nothing more on top than a sports bra. Her long hair is in a ponytail and tucked through the hole of a baseball cap. I admire her. I want her strength.

  “These women have so many choices,” I tell Maryam. “They can do anything. They get to live life on their own terms, at least for a while, before they get married. And I envy them for that.”

  She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Maybe you can make friends with those girls in your class. What were their names?”

  “Nadia and Eva.”

  “Yes. You mentioned that Nadia looks like she could use a friend and that Eva seems like she would be fun. Maybe you could ask them to do some social things, like go to the movies or the mall.”

  I brighten at the thought. “This would be okay with you?”

  “Of course.” After a pause, she adds, “They’re both married, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then, sure. It’s fine.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and lean into her for a hug.

  “Just—” She stops herself.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What, Maryam?”

  “Just don’t get distracted.”

  She’s talking about Ike again, I know it.

  “I won’t, Maryam.”

  She squeezes my hand apologetically. “I don’t mean to spoil your fun, Tami. But I would hate to see your life ruined because of one mistake. That’s all it takes sometimes, one mistake.”

  I squeeze back. “I am so lucky to have a sister who looks out for me.”

  We eat our lunch and drink our tea from the thermos, and then we climb the riverbank to wait for the tram. On the whole drive to my English class, my spirits are high as I plan how to invite Eva to do something with me after class one day. I have a feeling that it is with Eva I would have the most fun. She seems so confident, so sure of herself.

  “Don’t forget,” Maryam reminds me as I wish her good-bye. “Haroun is coming to dinner tonight at six.”

  “Of course I remember,” I tell her. “How could I forget? He has called for each of the last three nights to confirm!”

  Maryam laughs. “He’s eager. That’s good. You want me to pick you up after class?”

  “Oh, no thank you. I might perhaps see if Eva wants to stop for an ice-cream cone. Do you think it would be appropriate for me to ask her?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Maryam smiles and brushes the wisps of hair from my forehead. “Just try not to be home too late. We want to get you all prettied up for tonight. Wouldn’t it be great if we found you a husband so soon? Tami, you could be married by the end of the month!”

  “Maman Joon and Baba Joon would be so happy.” Me, not so much.

  “They would,” she agrees. “You know how much they want for you to stay in America, right?”

  “I know.”

  “You shouldn’t even think about going back. You shouldn’t even think about marrying Reza. Promise me you won’t, okay? You must focus on staying here, on marrying someone here.”

  “I know, Maryam.”

  I climb out of her car. She waits at the curb until I’ve stepped through the automatic doors of the library. As I turn back, I can’t help but notice that my heart feels lighter as I watch her drive away.

  I find it fortuitous that I am paired with Eva this afternoon for one-on-one discussion to practice our English. Her light blue eyes sparkle with mischief as she pulls her chair near mine and leans in close enough for me to see her cleavage. I sit up tall and realize immediately I was correct in my first impression of her. She is a girl who pushes things into exciting territory.

  “So,” she says directly, “I want to know everything about you. You’re so beautiful. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  I hesitate to explain my situation. For one, it would take too long and by the way she taps her long red fingernails on my desk, it is obvious she does not have patience. For another, I am afraid it will make me seem not as fun and carefree as her, to be burdened by my need for marriage. Yet she wears a plain gold wedding band, so it is not like she will want to go out looking for boyfriends, anyway.

  “You have heard of arranged marriages, yes?”

  Her eyes widen, and the way she wrinkles her nose makes me smile.

  “That is what we do in my culture,” I tell her. “We can’t officially have boyfriends. Only fiancés and then husbands.”

  “Y’all don’t even date? You just get married?” She says this like it’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard, and she chomps on a large piece of gum as she waits for my response.

  “Y’all,” I repeat, sounding it out. I want to change the subject. “What is this word, y’all?”

  She sniggers. “My husband’s from Texas. They slur all their words together down there like lazy asses. You all. Y’all. Get it?” She blows a bubble slowly and deliberately for effect, like an actress. “But seriously, dating is the fun part! Once you’re married, it’s all downhill!”

  “I hope for me that my marriage will be fun, too.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath.” Eva tells me she has been married for only one year, to an American soldier she met when he was stationed in Germany. He is on a mission now, and she lives by herself in an apartment downtown while she waits for his return.

  “It must be hard to be alone in a new country wi
th your husband gone.” I commiserate, yet secretly I am pleased because this means she might have more time to be my friend.

  Eva shrugs. “I could live on base with all the other military wives, but they bore me to pieces, most of them. All they talk about are their husbands and how hard it is to be away from them. Get a life, I want to tell them. Life’s too short to be waiting around for someone all the time.”

  We chat more about how she has applied for her green card so she can get a job and make some money of her own. I have many questions for her, like has the government interviewed her yet to make sure her marriage is for real, and did they ask questions such as what is each other’s favorite color and what the other one likes the best to eat. Eva laughs. She tells me they studied those things, but all the interviewer asked them was how they met. Which was at a dance club in Dresden and they were both very drunk.

  “Did you tell the interviewer this?” I am shocked as much by her openness as by her drunkenness.

  She laughs at my shock.

  “Of course not. I was just telling you. Man, y’all are so wide-eyed about everything that I’m tempted to make it my personal responsibility to corrupt you.”

  I am delighted by her statement and cannot hide a broad grin. “I would very much enjoy being your friend and spending time with you. But as for corrupting me, well, I am not so sure that’s possible.”

  “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

  “Please, do not take it as a challenge,” I say, wondering what it is with these challenges people keep issuing to me—first Ike, now Eva. It must be a popular thing to do in America. “But you could take it as an invitation to do something together sometime.”

  “Have you ever gotten drunk?” Eva asks.

  I shake my head. “I have drunk homemade beer sometimes. And there are parties with alcohol, definitely. But I didn’t go out much.”