When does Sizzling Sam show up?” Kavita patted her hair.
“Why is Parviz late?” Darya looked at her watch, then at the door.
“He plays sitar?” Yung-Ja asked.
“Not sitar. Guitar,” Darya said.
They had finished math camp and their samosas and kimbap and were at the coffee shop where Sam was to perform. Parviz had even agreed to attend, though he had hesitated at first, but then he’d said that it would be rude to not come and hear Sam sing the Persian folk song he’d promised to play. After all, he had learned Farsi for it.
Kavita squealed when Sam walked onto the makeshift stage. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. He sat on a stool in the middle of the room as the audience sipped on cappuccinomochafrappeblanco—whatever it was they were drinking. Darya was a little put off by the large vessels from which the people drank. Why did they have to drink out of cups that were practically bowls? She breathed in her tea. Where was Parviz?
The manager of the coffee shop introduced Sam, said he was a local gem, and mentioned the names of some musicians who had apparently influenced Sam when he was young. He said Sam was available for lessons. Then he left the stage, and Sam picked up his guitar.
At first, he just strummed out the notes. Darya’s heart fluttered when she heard the introductory verse to the folk song she had loved all her life. Sam’s hair fell over his face as he looked down at his fingers on the guitar. Then he lifted his head, smiled, and began to sing. His voice was deep but soft and mellifluous. Each Farsi word in Sam’s American accent sounded like honey. The audience grew quiet, and the only sound was Sam’s music. Darya sat perfectly still. When he took in a breath, she held her own. Then when his voice soared again, she felt undone.
“Beautiful.” Yung-Ja leaned in. “He is good!”
“I am transported,” Kavita said. “I am besotted!”
Darya looked around the coffee shop and saw that Sam had given the gift of her favorite song to every person there, handed it out like a present. She loved him for it.
Halfway through the song, the door opened and there was Parviz in his suit. He must have come straight from the hospital. He found Darya, and she made space for him next to her, and together they sat as Sam’s voice filled the room, and Kavita closed her eyes and swayed while Yung-Ja’s eyes stayed locked on Sam. Near the end, Sam looked directly at Darya, and paused. Before he hit the climax, his face was completely at peace. And then, he went for the highest note, the note that always made Darya melt, the one that had always moved her. Sam held that note with delicacy and love. The audience hovered in the air with him, not wanting the moment to end, not wanting his voice to stop.
Darya quickly wiped her tears away and reached for Parviz’s hand. How many husbands would take this in stride? How many men would be so Parviz-esque and put away their pride and jealousy and come to a coffee shop to hear Sam sing a song that everyone must know he had prepared for her? She was thankful for all of it: for her good friends Kavita and Yung-Ja sitting with her, for the people listening rapt in the coffee shop, for the symmetry of numbers that helped her cope with the asymmetry of her life and always would. She was thankful for the husband who tapped his foot to the beat, no matter what, and for Sam who had taught himself a Persian song and had sung it from the heart.
THE AUDIENCE BROKE INTO APPLAUSE at the end of Sam’s performance, and a few people went up to congratulate him. Darya and Parviz and Kavita and Yung-Ja inched their way to the group of people gathering on the stage.
“Well done, my good young sir!” Parviz slapped Sam on the back a little too hard when they reached him. He then moved aside and brought Kavita and Yung-Ja in front of Sam. “Have you met these Lovely Ladies of the Mathematics?”
“Brilliant barely describes the beauty of your ballad.” Kavita shook Sam’s hand.
“Very good.” Yung-Ja bowed her head.
“Thank you,” Darya said quietly. She was sad that it had to end, that she had to go. She might never see him again. But above all, she was so proud of him.
Sam smiled at her and thanked them all. He was then engulfed by more audience members congratulating him.
They walked to the parking lot. Parviz had come straight from the hospital in his car, and Darya had driven from home in hers. After Kavita and Yung-Ja said good-bye, Parviz and Darya were left alone.
“Thank you for coming,” Darya said.
“It was a nice performance,” Parviz said. “I give him credit. His Farsi was almost spot-on.”
“I give you credit for being so . . . so . . .”
“For being an open-minded gentleman who tolerates the crushes of musicians on my wife?”
Darya laughed. “See you at home.”
“Don’t run off with him! You’re not going anywhere. You’re mine!” Parviz kissed her, then walked to his car.
That night, Parviz set the table while Darya prepared dinner. They watched an episode of a nature show devoted to coral reefs. Parviz ate his pistachios, and they both had honeyed milk before bed.
And Darya fell asleep, still hearing Sam’s song, in the arms of the man who had helped her climb over the rough and rocky places on all those past mountain hikes and beyond.
Chapter Forty
Just This
The house was scented with heaps of crimson and purple flowers. Darya’s hair was blown and styled, the gray waves bobbed up and down as she rushed about the house, rearranging pieces of furniture. Sometime after her return from Iran, Darya had stopped using hair dye. She no longer felt the need to have red hair to prove that she was free. Today, she wore a gold dress lined with silk that she had sewn at her old sewing machine. The dress ended right below her knees, the three-quarter sleeves would’ve pleased Jackie O. Most important, the cut and style befitted a mother of the bride. Darya fluttered from room to room putting velvet cushions at just the right angle on the fat sofas, straightening the fringes on the Persian rugs, sifting through her fingers the burgundy and yellow Esfand seeds, and scattering orange rinds on a tray so they could finish drying in the afternoon sun for her Shirin Polo dish.
Her sister, Nikki, polished the large oval wedding mirror. It had been difficult and expensive for Nikki to get the visa, but after their reunion in Iran, the women had vowed to keep visiting each other. Darya was determined to see her father and sister and all the rest of the relatives regularly now. Nikki would be coming to the U.S. more frequently, even if it meant going to Dubai and waiting for months for her visa clearance. Darya dusted the colored eggs that they had dyed in greens and blues. The idea of grandchildren floored Darya, but one day, Mina would know that first flicker of movement inside her belly. One day, Darya could hold against her cheek the soft face of a new baby. Darya stopped her thoughts. She was thinking ahead too fast, too soon. She didn’t want to jinx it all.
“He seems like quite a good man,” Nikki said.
“He does. He is.” Darya arranged the eggs in a bowl. “My sources told me about the older brother, but said nothing about the younger one. You don’t think it was deliberate, do you?”
“Chemeedonam. I have no idea. The point is . . . Mina found him. May God give them a healthy, long, and joyful life together. May their children grow up safe under their parents’ shadows. May they always have each other,” Nikki murmured and prayed as she polished the wedding mirror.
Parviz walked in, his arms loaded with more flowers.
“I was the first one at the Chelsea flower market early this morning!” he said. “Because he who wakes up early is he who accomplishes!”
“Put them in the kitchen, Parviz, I’ll have to organize them,” Darya said. “Oh no, this one’s wilted!”
“Everything in the universe is as it should be, Darya Joon,” Parviz said. “Nothing can be perfect. You just have to work . . . in your circle of energy!”
“I’ll work on my soup is what I’ll do, thank you.” Darya
went into the kitchen and dropped stalks of leek into the food processor. All week she’d browned beef, chopped sabzi, sautéed vegetables, prepared desserts. The food at Mina’s wedding would be her own; she would have none of that catered stuff. Hooman’s wedding had been in a rented hall, with catered food and soft music. The bride’s family had arranged everything. It was perfectly American. But Mina’s wedding—at Darya’s home, with her food, her friends, would be Persian.
At exactly 11:15 a.m., Mina returned from the hairdresser. Her black hair was slightly trimmed, blow-dried straight—but not at all specially styled.
“Mina Joon, just this, hameen?”
“Just this,” Mina said.
Darya forced herself to say nothing more about the sleek hairdo that was no hairdo at all, about how being a bride comes but once in a lifetime (God willing), how her hair ought to be teased, sprayed, propped, pinned, perfected.
“Just this,” Mina repeated and threw her wind slicker on the armchair.
As she watched Mina go up the steps, Darya suddenly felt the impulse to rush up, grab her, and whisper, “Mina Joon, you don’t have to get married. You can stay right here, in this house—who needs it, the meals you’ll have to cook, the screaming children you’ll have to deal with, the nights next to him while he snores, who needs it, Mina Joon! Just continue to be my little girl, always.”
But instead she heard her own voice tell Mina to hurry up and get ready because the guests would be arriving soon.
In the kitchen, Darya put on her apron and found reassurance in her pots and pans. The cast-iron Dutch oven, her stainless steel sauté pan from Iran. Darya boiled and sautéed and fried. She ground walnuts for the sauce for her sweet-and-sour fesenjoon dish. She tucked raisins and dates between mounds of saffron rice. She sprinkled sliced almonds on the top.
She heard movement upstairs. The water pipes gurgled. She remembered her own wedding.
That small square window with the ugly yellow light in Mamani’s bedroom. Darya had sat at the vanity table, rubbing rouge into her cheeks as she cried. For one moment she’d considered contorting her body into a shape that could squeeze out that tiny square window and escape. All the guests had already gathered in the living room. She had been able to hear her parents being congratulated. But Darya had been nineteen and not ready for the gift that Mamani had given her. And Parviz—all gangly and nervous, the white flesh of his skinny wrists peeking out below his shirtsleeves, a scattering of acne barely faded from his face. Darya had walked out of that bedroom ready to die.
But instead she had lived. And created more life. Parviz had proved to be kind and tender and sweet—tending to her every need, resurrecting her dead dreams. Her mother had not failed her.
Darya picked up her rubber spatula and spread icing on the sponge cake she had baked earlier in the day, swallowing the lump in her throat. Mina loved her sponge cake. On this, her unofficial last day in that house, she would have her mother’s sponge cake. Darya would give her that.
THE GUESTS CAME IN DRESSED up, laughing, excited. Ramin came with his parents and his older brother, Mr. Dashti. Greetings and kisses and congratulations were shared. After Ramin’s family, the Persian wedding officiant arrived. Darya retreated to the kitchen to finish cooking.
From the open kitchen door, as she dropped the dark burgundy barberries onto her Shirin Polo, Darya caught a glimpse of Ramin. He sat at the dining room table, his friends surrounding him—college friends and colleagues probably, as he talked and they listened. One particularly tall blond woman clapped in glee as Ramin recounted his date with Mina at the People’s Park.
There he was. Darya patted her koofteh meatballs into the Pyrex dish, making room for the grilled vegetables. Where was she?
Darya whizzed through the living room, grazing guests on the shoulder and giving them quick smiles as she hurried upstairs. Where was she?
Upstairs, in Darya’s bedroom Mina sat on the bed, dressed in white. Lisa, Hooman’s wife, and Deborah, Kayvon’s girlfriend, fluttered about her. Yooni was pinning the bridal veil onto Mina’s hair, and Pria was fussing with the bouquet. For a fleeting second, Darya had an image of having tea with her married daughter. Maybe she would be one of those women in stores and restaurants with their grown daughters, the ones she used to see when they first came to America, the ones that had made her miss her own mother. She realized then that it wasn’t the end. Hadn’t Darya relied on Mamani even after she was married? She and Mina would still have each other. When Mina got back from her honeymoon, Darya and Mina could go out for “together tea” and talk about Mina’s work plans and where to buy the best moisturizer. It was a huge relief to realize that her daughter would still be hers.
“You look beautiful,” Darya said.
DARYA CAME DOWN THE STEPS first, to happy cheers. Baba stood with the other guests gazing up at Darya descending in gold, then at Mina coming down in her bridal white. As Mina came into view, everyone broke into applause. Cheers filled the room. Darya reached the bottom of the stairs and turned and looked up at Mina as if to say, “Mina Joon, this is for you! You are the star.”
Then she stepped aside.
THE HEELS OF MINA’S PEARL-COLORED pumps sank into the thick carpet with each step. She had to concentrate on her balance. With one hand, she lifted her wedding dress and with the other she held tight to a bouquet of roses. The cheering grew louder and louder as Mina descended the stairs. When she walked down the final step, the guests exploded in applause. Ramin sat on a tiny bench near the silk bridal sofreh spread on the floor, waiting for her. Men and women whistled. Mina took it all in. She could see the pride on Darya’s face. Baba had never looked more optimistic. Hooman and Kayvon whistled and did a shimmy together. Mina looked out and saw Aunt Nikki. She saw Yung-Ja and Kavita, laughing and clapping hard. She saw Mr. Dashti. He stood there in his favorite beige suit, his few strands of hair combed strategically across his head. He wiped a handkerchief across his forehead with his doughy hand and smiled. Next to him stood a petite Asian woman, his girlfriend.
If Bita had been there, she would have cheered the loudest for Mina. Aunt Firoozeh would have cried and Uncle Jafar would have shushed her quiet. Leila would have been proud to be there, her children could have been the ring bearer and the flower girl.
And Mamani. If Mamani had been there, she would have stood quietly next to Darya, her dark eyes shining with pride, her soft, feathery face wrinkled with the largest smile.
Last, her eyes rested on Ramin, waiting for her by the sofreh, in his crisp clean suit, his kind eyes smiling up at her. Mina’s body started to shake. A tickle worked from the bottom of her toes all the way up to her face. Baba jumped up and down. Darya’s hazel eyes filled with tears even as she smiled. Her brothers stood tall in their shirtsleeves, clapping as hard as they could.
And Mina was made of laughter.
THE BRIDAL SOFREH, A TERMEH CLOTH that Mamani had sewn by hand for Darya’s wedding years ago, was spread on the living room floor, its gold and silver threads glittering in the sunlight filtering through the windows. It was at once strong and soft, covered with significant objects for this occasion. Darya and Aunt Nikki had spent days preparing and arranging them:
A mirror at the head of the bridal sofreh lit by candelabra on either side, positioned so that when Mina sat on the bride-and-groom bench, her reflection in the mirror was all Ramin saw.
A tray of spices to guard against evil spirits and the evil eye, arranged in different colors. Esfand seeds carefully sprinkled to ward off negative energy and bad thoughts. In the upper portion of the tray, Darya had spelled out “Mobarak Bad—Congratulations”—in grains of wild rice.
Lace napkins in the shape of doves carrying in their beaks candy-shell almonds in pastel blue, pink, and white.
A large flat sangak bread with the blessing “Mobarak Bad” spelled out with cinnamon seeds, garnished on the side with feta cheese and gree
n herbs.
A bowl of colored eggs to symbolize fertility.
Bowls of sweets and small Persian pastries prepared by Darya—sugar-coated almonds, rice cookies, chickpea cookies, almond cookies, and baklava.
A bowl of honey to ensure the sweetness of their future.
Two cones of sugar to be used during the Aghd ceremony.
An open Koran by the mirror surrounded by jasmine and rose petals.
On the corner of the bridal sofreh, Mina had added the khatam box with the painting of the long-lashed woman and the man in profile kissing her. A reminder of her journey.
MINA TOOK HER SEAT ON the small bench next to Ramin in front of the bridal sofreh. The bench was small, so that the two of them touched. A piece of white silk cloth was held above their heads. Tradition called for women who were happily married to hold up either end of the cloth. Darya held up the side closest to Mina’s head, and Aunt Nikki held the other. Ramin’s mother, a tall, elegant woman, with her hair in a sophisticated bun, rubbed two cones of sugar above the white silk cloth. The sugar was to rain down happiness and sweetness on the bride and groom.
“I vood like to velcome evehreevon to dees ceremony,” the wedding officiant said with his strong Iranian accent. “Vee are here today to join in marry-age dees man and dees voo-man.”
The officiant then proceeded to translate what he’d just said into Farsi.
Mina sighed. This would take a while.
As the officiant continued to talk, explaining everything in two languages, he also added Arabic prayers. Mina didn’t understand a word of those. She wanted to reach and tug Darya’s skirt as she had as a child so that Darya would tell the officiant to hurry up and get on with it.
As if reading her mind, Ramin slid his hand across to Mina and held her hand in his. As the officiant droned on, Ramin lifted Mina’s hand and kissed it.
Mina squealed in surprise.
The officiant faltered for a minute, but then went on more loudly. “And you see, deh veddeeng eez for the man and voo-man to expehress der deevoshun!”
Together Tea Page 24
