Veil of Roses

by Laura Fitzgerald

  As I wait for Rose to answer her door the next afternoon, my eyes fall on the running shoes Ike gave me, still resting in the basket Rose so kindly placed outside her door. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. I am not here to cry over Ike. Today, Rose and I will enjoy our tea date and say our good-byes.

  “Tami!” She throws open her door and spreads her arms for a hug.

  After we hug, I step back and look at her. “I am getting married tomorrow.”

  There. I have told her. I have dreaded saying these words to my unmarried Rose.

  Her eyebrows rise.

  “Are you terribly upset with me?” I say it in a pleading way.

  “Not at all!” she declares. “He seems like a delightful young man.”

  “Who?”

  “Ike! That young man who walks you home.” Her voice fades as she realizes it is not Ike I am marrying. “Why don’t you come in for tea and tell me all about it.”

  Rose has this way about her that reminds me of my mother. She stands willing to enfold me into her life, to accept me without judgment. Without really even knowing me. Tell me all your secrets, she seems to say. I will like you, anyway.

  I step over her threshold, into La Casa de Rosa, and, as always, I am overcome with its character. It reminds me of Café Poca Cosa, a Mexican restaurant that Maryam and Ardishir took me to shortly after I’d berated Maryam for never cooking anything other than Persian food. It was there I was introduced to cilantro and salsa, two things Masoud has promised me are in Chicago as well. The walls of the restaurant were lime greens and deep purples. Hers are turquoise and magenta, with stenciled flowers arching over the doorways.

  While she busies herself preparing our tea, I take a seat at her kitchen table. It is a table for two, with only one place setting.

  “Why did you never marry, Rose?”

  She sets two saucers and teacups on the table and pours our tea. After she sits, she pushes a small plate of shortbread cookies in my direction. “I would have liked to, I suppose. But the two men I’ve loved didn’t love me back, and the two men who did love me, I didn’t really love. After a while, I just came to accept that I was meant to be alone.”

  “Do you ever get lonely?”

  “Sure.” She sips her tea and flinches from its heat. “But I know plenty of women who are lonely in their marriages, and to me, that’s worse.”

  I fold my hands into my lap and lean into the table. “I have to get married in order to stay in the United States, you know.”

  “I expected as much.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. Nonjudgmental.

  “He’s gay.”

  She says nothing.

  “He’s Persian and he lives in Chicago and I’m not at all sure he’s a nice person underneath the surface.”

  I watch her exhale. Her look is serious.

  “Is there no other way?”

  I shake my head.

  “Tucson is filled with illegal immigrants. Plenty of people live here illegally.”

  I have read about this in the newspapers. There is a group who hunts them at the border as they cross over to the United States from Mexico.

  I shake my head again. “What kind of life would that be? I couldn’t get a job. I couldn’t go to school. I couldn’t travel. And if I got caught, I’d have to leave America forever.”

  Rose tilts her head. “I’m curious. What does your handsome friend think of your dilemma?”

  I stumble. “Ike? He, ah…I don’t see him anymore.”

  “I think you should marry Ike.” She is so decisive.

  “Ike’s not ready to be married.”

  “Are you?”

  “Sure.” I hear the falseness in my voice.

  “But he’s not?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because…” My voice breaks, and I am forced to pause. “Because I’ve been told my whole life, Get ready for marriage, get ready for marriage, and he’s been told, Go make your dreams come true.”

  She clicks her tongue. Tsk, tsk, tsk. “Well, that doesn’t sound very fair to me.”

  I hate it when Americans talk about fairness.

  “It’s not fair, but that’s not the point. The point is, it’s time for me to be married. It’s time for Masoud to be married.”

  And it’s time for Ike to make his dreams come true.

  It is the morning of my wedding. Everything is ready. I have picked up all the paperwork I will need from the immigration office. Maryam’s wedding dress has been fitted for me. Ardishir has cleared the living room for the traditional ceremony we will have tonight.

  My friends from class are all so curious to see what a Persian wedding ceremony is like. And I have left them to wonder, for they will see tonight as my wedding guests.

  When my doorbell rings at ten o’clock, I hurry to answer it. I have invited Agata, Eva, Edgard, Josef, and Danny over to make Persian Wishing Soup. Traditionally, a woman who has a wish invites her friends over. Each provides an ingredient and they share the wishing soup. This is supposed to make the woman’s wish come true.

  For my wishing soup party, I start my own tradition. I do not want this party to be for only me. I want my friends to have their wishes come true, too. So they will toss in their ingredients and it will be our soup. Maryam thinks I am crazy to have a party the same morning as my wedding, but this is time just for us. They are all off to Lake Havasu City tomorrow, and I will be in Chicago by the time they return, so this is our farewell luncheon.

  Ardishir and Maryam come with me to answer the door. Ardishir practices his videotaping skills, as this will be his job tonight.

  “Good morning, good morning!” Josef calls out when I answer the door. He carries with him a beautiful bunch of red roses and a little bag of chopped onion for the soup. I am so happy to welcome him in my home. I introduce him to my sister and brother-in-law.

  Agata enters next and hands me two bags. One contains dried apricots sliced into thin strips and the other contains chopped parsley. When I introduce her to my sister, Agata throws her arms around Maryam and lifts her off the ground with the strength of her hug. “So dis is zee voman who has given our Nadia a better life.”

  Maryam blushes and waves off Agata’s compliments. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Eva says, barging in and tossing me a bag of chickpeas and a bag of rice. “You Persians need to get over your modesty. You changed her life by your kindness and you didn’t even know her. You’re a hero, in my book.”

  Ardishir glows from the praise Eva has heaped on his wife. He holds his hand out for Eva to shake and gives her a kiss on both cheeks. “You look lovely as always,” he compliments her.

  I am suddenly horrified to realize that Danny, our teacher and therefore most honored guest, is still outside the door. Edgard and Carrie are still outside as well. I give them a smile of apology and welcome them all in.

  “Thank you so much for coming!” I introduce them to my family.

  “Mint leaves and ground cinnamon,” Danny says, handing me his plastic bag.

  “Turmeric and toasted pine nuts.” Edgard hands his ingredients to me.

  Agata sees my sofreh aghd spread out on the floor. “Is this for tonight?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. Maryam and I have worked hard to prepare a beautiful sofreh aghd. Mine is made of white silk and adorned with many symbolic items.

  My class friends cluster around it.

  “What’s that for?” Carrie asks, pointing at a dish of honey covered with Saran Wrap.

  “After the ceremony, Masoud will dip his finger in the honey and I will lick it off. Then we will reverse the gesture. Once we have tasted the honey, we are ensured a sweet and joyous life together.”

  “I love it!” Carrie tells me. “That’s beautiful. Is it a Muslim tradition?”

  “A Zoroastrian one,” I tell her. “Zoroastrianism came first. Many, many Persian ceremonies and traditions have their roots in Zoroastrianism.”
r />   “Ees dat your-a parents?” Agata asks, pointing to a picture of Masoud’s parents.

  “Those are Masoud’s. These are mine.” We have placed the photos on either side of the cloth. In the center sits a large mirror, to bring light and brightness to our lives; two candelabras, one on each side of the mirror, to symbolize fire and energy. We have a spice tray to guard against the evil eye; decorated eggs to beckon fertility; and a dish of gold coins to bring us prosperity.

  “What’s that for?” Eva points to a small plate holding a needle and thread.

  “That’s my favorite,” I tell her. “It’s to stitch my mother-in-law’s lips together to prevent her from meddling in our marriage. Symbolically, of course.”

  Maryam thinks I should have left that off the sofreh aghd so as not to offend Masoud’s mother, but I insisted. It is an old tradition, and who can be offended by tradition? Plus, I mean to send a message: Leave us in peace. I hope Minu includes it on her sofreh aghd as well.

  Ardishir keeps the camera rolling as I invite everyone to accompany me to the ashe-paz khaneh.

  “The bathroom?” Eva asks.

  Maryam and I giggle. “Why would we prepare our wishing soup in the bathroom?” I ask. “The kitchen,” I say in English this time. “Let’s all go to the kitchen. I am the ashe-paz, which means the cook, or literally, soup preparer. That should tell you how important soup is in our culture.”

  Everyone washes their hands and helps to make lamb balls by rolling pine nuts, onion, ground cinnamon, salt, and pepper into ground lamb. While they do this, I heat some oil and cook some onion until it is golden. I then stir in the turmeric, rice, and some cinnamon, and after a while I add the apricots, parsley, and soup stock.

  “It already smells delicious,” Carrie says, peering over my shoulder. She puts her arm around me. “Are you excited for your big day?”

  “I am,” I tell her. “I only wish I weren’t moving so far away from my friends.”

  She nods. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Edgard is terribly homesick for his family and friends, too. Even though he knows it’s better here.”

  “It’s the contradiction of life,” he says. “If I were with them, I would only wish to be far away. Now that I am far away, all I do is wish for one more day surrounded by them.”

  “The life of an expatriate,” Danny agrees.

  I love these people. I truly do. They understand me in a way few others can. And they never, ever judge me. Well, except for Eva.

  “So just think,” she says with her characteristic pluck, “if it wasn’t for me, tonight you’d be marrying Haroun.”

  I flinch at the very mention of his name, which makes the others laugh.

  “Stop taping,” Maryam urges Ardishir. “The evil eye,” she says with a knowing nod to me. Ardishir clicks his tongue at us, but he does stop taping and puts the camera gently down on the kitchen table.

  But it is too late. The evil eye is upon us. I know it the moment I hear the doorbell. Maryam and I look at each other in great fear. This can mean nothing but trouble.

  It is Haroun at the door.

  Or it is Ike.

  I have been half expecting Ike to appear ever since things ended so badly between us. I have half hoped there would be some sort of Bend It Like Beckham ending, in which Ike would pound upon my door and insist to my sister that he is worthy of me and he wants to marry me immediately to prove his intentions.

  But life is so seldom like the movies.

  At the door is Masoud, the man I am scheduled to marry in a few short hours. He enters with a smile and an enormous batch of tulips, Iran’s national flower.

  “Is the party starting early? Am I missing my own wedding?” he jokes when he sees me surrounded by my friends at the kitchen table. I hurry over to greet him.

  “Thank you so much for the tulips.” I take them and sniff deeply. “These are my friends from English class. We’re making Persian Wishing Soup.”

  I introduce Masoud to my friends.

  “Ah.” He grins and kisses me on the cheek. “And what is your wish, my bride?”

  “That our marriage is happy.”

  “That’s an excellent wish.” We grin at each other, we coconspirators.

  “Did your parents and uncle get in all right?”

  He assures me they are settled nicely at Hacienda del Sol and are resting up for what promises to be a late night.

  “I don’t want to keep you from your friends, and I certainly don’t want to keep you from eating that soup and having your wish granted, but I wonder if I might speak to you for a moment in private?”

  “Of course.”

  I lead Masoud through the French doors that lead to the patio rose garden and fountain in the backyard and squint as I make my way into the sunshine. I take a chair at the wrought-iron table set, and Masoud sits across from me. I must hold my hand above my eyes to shield them from the morning glare. My heart thumps against my chest like it’s trying to escape.

  He smiles to put me at ease. “Is my bride excited for the big night?”

  “Very much so.” What I am most excited for is Monday morning when the courthouse opens, so we can register the marriage license. “And my husband, is he excited as well?”

  “He is,” Masoud assures me. He has a lovely smile.

  He takes a slightly deeper-than-normal breath. “There are some things we perhaps should have talked about before now, that in the excitement of our meeting Wednesday I did not think to bring up.”

  “O-kay.” I say it slowly, not panicking because everything he has said so far indicates the wedding is still on, still on, still on. I am not panicking.

  Liar, my conscience taunts.

  “We talked about me paying a dowry to your brother-in-law in case the marriage does not work out.”

  I nod.

  “I had the money electronically transferred to him on Friday.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you very much.” Ardishir opened an account, and the money will sit there in case I ever need it. My Nadia money, I’ve come to think of it.

  “In America, people don’t often pay dowries,” he informs me.

  “You don’t want it back, do you?” That would be so low-class.

  “No, no,” he assures me. “That is for you, to protect you. It is a good tradition. Yet with so many marriages unfortunately ending in divorce, Americans do something that I think is quite reasonable, and I’m sure you will as well.”

  I wait to hear what it is I am supposed to find reasonable.

  “Has anyone told you about prenuptial agreements?”

  I shake my head. My hand is so tired from shading my eyes that I let it fall to my lap. I shift in my chair so my back is to the sun. There, that is much better. Now I can think.

  Pre means “before.” A nuptial is a wedding.

  “A before-wedding agreement?”

  “Exactly,” he agrees, and pulls out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He unfolds it and glances over it but holds it in such a way so I cannot see the words.

  “I would like to speak plainly to you. May I?” He gives me a friendly smile.

  “Please.” I want to snarl at him. I do not appreciate these complications at all.

  “You know that I have made some money over the course of my career.”

  I nod. I don’t know specific numbers, but Eva looked up what homes in his neighborhood sell for and the number is in the seven-figure range.

  “If our marriage were, unfortunately, to end in divorce, I would not want what I have earned prior to the marriage to be at risk of a loss. I’m sure you can see my point here.”

  I raise my eyebrows and wait to hear him out. We talked about this the first day we met, and I told him I have no problem with such an agreement.

  “I mean, I’ve been working for fifteen years to establish myself and I made all those business decisions alone and took all those risks alone, and I don’t want to lose the rewards from my efforts if, say, for instance, you would choose to seek
a divorce as soon as your green card arrives in the mail. Forgive my bluntness.” He says this humbly, almost apologetically.

  I can feel a deep, guilty blush explode on my face. It is a thought I have not permitted myself to consider consciously. Yet Eva’s words pop into mind: Marry the guy. You won’t have to sleep with him. And if you hate him, just ditch him as soon as you’re legal.

  “It certainly is not my intention,” I assure Masoud. “When one marries, they should marry for life.”

  “Of course, of course,” he agrees. “And yet, I am not comfortable taking this on as a matter of trust.”

  “That’s fine,” I say briskly. “I will sign the agreement.”

  He brightens at my words. “Excellent.”

  I reach out for the paper. “Do you have a pen?”

  He holds the paper close to himself. “There are a couple other small points still to cover as well.”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand. It is all I can do not to pull it back. A girl should not spend her wedding day discussing legal matters.

  “What are these small points, Masoud?”

  “I want for us to have a baby right away.”

  I exhale slowly, trying to hide my anger. “That’s fine.”

  It is not fine. It is petty and controlling, but there is nothing I can do about it at this late date.

  “You’re sure?” He gives me a hopeful look.

  “That’s fine, Masoud.”

  “Because it is something my parents are very much looking forward to, their only son having a child of his own.”

  “I said that’s fine. We can do that medical procedure anytime.”

  “Excellent! Then you won’t mind this next clause of the agreement.”

  “You are writing in a contract that we must have a baby right away?”

  I like him so much less than I did ten minutes ago.

  “The contract states that we will wait to file your immigration papers until after our child is born.”

  “WHAT?!”

  “It is necessary for the same reason the monetary agreement is necessary, to make sure this marriage produces what I expect.” Masoud speaks so calmly. This really is a business transaction for him. “You know my motives for getting married. My parents are elderly and infirm. They want very much to see their only son get married and have a baby before they pass on. Your motives in this arrangement are to secure for yourself a green card so you can stay in America forever. This ensures that we both get what we want.”