by Nayeri, Dina
What a wonderful way to describe someone—even her rage made into poetry.
Around the sofreh, three men are lounging on a thickly stacked row of large, colorful pillows. They wear the clerical robes of mullahs, and turbans wrapped around their heads like crowns of white rope. Saba hates Mullah Ali, the oldest one with the white beard, whom her father credits with keeping the family safe despite her mother’s too-loud Christianity and flagrant activism. She hates his robes and his mealtime speeches, his reverent attitude toward old women, and the way he has taken her witless cousin Kasem under his wing. Most of all she hates him for being a mullah, a symbol of a bleak new Iran. The constant intrusion of a mullah in one’s home is a strange thing in the quiet, unassuming North. So his presence, however friendly, is a sort of blackmail, alms for all the secrets he keeps for her parents. She wonders how her father first broached such topics with the mullah, how he knew the subtle language of it. It is her habit to reject or ignore every kindness offered by this man.
Now he is telling a story about his recent dental surgery. “I’m serious as the grave!” he says, through bites of watermelon. “He pulled out a tooth so long, my left arm shrank. See? You see how it doesn’t match?” He holds both arms to the side of his body and the men roar with laughter. One of the women tries to top him. “I once had a tooth that went as deep as my jaw. There’s still a hole where I hide jewelry from thieves.”
Her father sits quietly in a corner, not eating, only reflecting, taking no part in the conversation. Is he thinking of his wife and other daughter? Does he know the truth about them? He must. Wherever she is, Maman would need his help. They say that children have an intuitive sense for what is true, and Saba has always felt a certain truth in the shadowy mother and daughter at the airport, rushing for a plane to America. Once, though, she dreamed that a faceless pasdar held a knife to her throat and ordered her to stake her life on Mahtab’s whereabouts. She woke with a tight aching in her stomach and the words bottom of the sea new and salty on her lips. Or was it across the sea?
Her father leans back, showing little need to entertain. These guests come every few days unannounced, cook for themselves and for him, expect none of the politeness and cheery hospitality they would feel entitled to if he had a wife, only raw materials and a place to practice their conversational arts. Most of them have never been invited into another home like the Hafezis’. Saba imagines that privately they feel sorry for her father and like to assure themselves they are helping—that these parties are good for his spirit.
“Agha Hafezi.” Mullah Ali addresses her father, but looks over at Saba the way a cunning parent looks at a small child about to be tricked into being good. “How would the lady of the house like to bring us some fresh bread and yogurt?” He asks this with a flourish, as if he expects her to be honored by her role. A better, smarter girl would have gotten up right then. But she ignores him and goes back to eavesdropping on her adopted mothers. Her father sighs loudly and glares. She can almost hear him thinking, May Ziade.
The mullah clears his throat, embarrassed. “Oh, were you talking to me, Agha?” she says dryly, and her father turns white. Mullah Ali chuckles and shakes his finger at her. Luckily he has been at Agha Hafezi’s pipe. He takes a sip of his tea—which the other mullahs will swear was the only pleasure of the evening. No alcohol, no crude stories, no women present, young or old. Mullah Ali leans on his side and takes a puff of the water pipe, breathing in opium from Khanom Omidi’s stash. Saba knows where to find the rest, tiny brown balls buried deep in a jar of turmeric-cumin mix. Why does she bother to hide her indulgences? Opium is cheap and she’s a harmless old woman.
“This is just a light tobacco, yes?” the mullah asks Agha Hafezi, who nods twice.
Convenient, Saba thinks, how opium and hashish—which sedate the masses—are so easy to find in this new pious Iran, and alcohol—mutinous and unpredictable—has to be consumed in shame and secret, hunted and bargained for from trustworthy sources, or brewed in tubs in the bathroom where a mistake in its strength could kill (and has). For a few after-dinner drops, Agha Hafezi must travel to back alleys and transport cheap sludge in unmarked containers to his storage room. Meanwhile, his hookah is always uncovered in a corner. Though, if he isn’t discreet, either habit could get him jailed or killed. Saba recalls the early days after the revolution, before his trust in Mullah Ali was fully cemented, when her father would invite friends and business partners to the house. He was a jovial man then, hopeful of maintaining his prerevolutionary lifestyle. He used code over the telephone to indicate what he had procured. Each drink had its own name: whiskey was Agha Vafa. Gin was Agha Jamsheed, and so on. He would say, “Come over, my friend. Agha Vafa and Agha Jamsheed have both arrived. Come and talk with us.”
In the family’s vast but dim kitchen, Saba takes some lavash bread out of the oven, along with newly picked parsley, mint, and a bowl of yogurt, and returns to the sitting room. She places the food on the sofreh and gives her father a cold, wet cloth. He smiles his thanks as he places it on his forehead and leans into the soft crimson pillows. When Mullah Ali praises her for the sofreh, she picks a dead bee from the bowl of honeycomb and dumps it on a used plate between him and the food. Her father glares at her, but the mullah doesn’t notice. He leans over the bee and takes a spoonful of fresh cream.
In moments like this, she daydreams about America, promising herself that she will go one day. She has outlearned most of her tutors, yet her father never mentions college. She knows he is afraid to let her go, that he thinks she is too fragile, though all her Tehran friends are preparing for it now. Saba has never pressed the subject because if she goes to university in Iran, she will have chosen this life. She knows what happens to Iranian doctors and engineers in America. They drive taxis. No, she won’t go to college here. She will read novels and speak flawless English, and she will save herself. One day she will wear jeans and hairclips to class. Brazenly polish her nails in the middle of a lecture like she saw once in a movie. She will be a journalist and she will find her mother.
Soon Reza arrives. Saba sits up and thinks of all the ways to escape with him. If Ponneh were here, the three of them could sneak off together and Reza wouldn’t suspect Saba of loving him. At eighteen, Reza is unusually tall for an Iranian man, and a target of jealous jokes. He has dark hair, longer than the devout men wear theirs. It’s silky and straight and falls neatly around his face. It reminds her of the French tourists, college boys who came to visit once when she was eight. Saba likes his Western clothes, his refusal to grow more than a millimeter of facial hair, his accent, and his love of music. She likes that he thanks her when she brings out the tea, unlike his older brother, who doesn’t even look at his wife when she brings him something. She even likes the worshipful way he listens to his mother and defends old Gilaki traditions without a thought.
Flushed from playing football, he pushes back his sweaty black hair. His shoulders are relaxed, his smile full of recent victory. From her bedroom window, Saba has seen him score hundreds of effortless goals in sandaled feet. He must know that she watches him, because he plays in the same spot every day, then knocks on her window to see if she has any new music. He still has that same ball from when they were children.
“Agha Hafezi, when are you giving your daughter for marriage?” one of the black-bearded mullahs asks in a grandfatherly tone, despite the fact that he is much younger than her father. She flinches and glances at Reza, who shows no reaction at first and then gives the pitying half-smile he uses when the adults discuss her marriage prospects. She looks at Khanom Omidi for help, but she is busy digging into the spaces between her yellowing teeth with a long fingernail.
“She’s only eighteen,” her father says.
“Too old, I’d say,” says the mullah, whose oafish lounging is making Saba livid—one leg spread out, another tucked in so that his knee is to his belly, and a hand clutching bread hangs off the
edge of his knee.
Vultures. Vipers. Vermin.
Reza catches the look on her face and gives a reassuring shake of the head. “Leave her alone, Agha jan,” he says to the young mullah. “Smart girls should study.” At first Saba isn’t sure if she likes this comment, though later she decides that she does.
From across the sofreh, Khanom Basir is keeping an eye on her son. She nibbles on a piece of mint as Reza settles on a pillow. He accepts the cup of tea Saba offers him, stirs in two cubes of sugar, and places a third between his teeth, pouring the hot liquid in over it. Saba pushes a plate of ghotab bread toward him. This is another morsel that she has added to her stores: Reza has a sweet tooth. He hates mornings and he loves the Beatles.
“Saba, can you come here a moment?” Khanom Basir calls, an unlikely sweet smile stretching her face. “Saba jan, I say this in place of your poor mother, who isn’t here to tell you herself. But that skirt is bad for mixed company.” She takes Saba’s hand and pulls her close like a confidante, while Saba struggles not to crave her approval. “We have full view of your ankles. Go and fix yourself. Find a chador in the bundle, my good girl.”
“But I have my scarf.” Saba straightens her head scarf and smooths her skirt. She doesn’t want to drape herself like an old woman. She glances at Reza, her lifelong friend, wishing that he would listen and help her in these underhanded moments with his mother.
There is a knock. “Reza, go and get the door,” Khanom Basir orders. “Do you think it’s Ponneh? Now, there is a girl who doesn’t need to show skin to be beautiful. No fancy-bazi. No trouble to her mother.” Khanom Basir sighs at Ponneh’s endless virtue, looks at her son for a reaction, and mumbles, “If only she was allowed to marry.”
Reza gets up and follows Saba out of the living room and down a few steps. One of the mullahs shouts behind him, “Watch out, don’t knock your head on the ceiling.”
In the hallway, Saba is afraid to look back at him, afraid to smile. She wonders if he too knows the things her father claims everyone knows. She walks down the hall feeling his presence behind her, unable to turn until he takes her hand.
“Stop rushing off, Saba Khanom,” he almost whispers, in his beautiful rural way. He interlaces two fingers with two of hers and she feels a heat bursting from her chest and crawling up through her blouse, creeping past her shoulders to her temples. It scorches her layers of fabric and leaves her naked. She tries to focus on his imperfections, his village accent and the awkward way he calls her Miss Saba. His voice is far too smooth and throaty, a ruttish eighteen-year-old who has learned to woo women from Western television he half understands. Saba knows this and she wants him more—because of this stupid attempt at touching her and because of the warm sweat on his hand and because of the way he’s trying to mask his height by stooping just a little.
They are standing a few feet from the door now and Saba tries to think of something to say. But before she can respond, she hears the demure clearing of a familiar throat, and Ponneh, having let herself in, stands watching them, the heart shape of her face outlined in a baby blue scarf knotted like a flower behind her neck, her almond eyes fixed on their fingers, which are intertwined for only a second more.
Reza drops Saba’s hand and shrugs, as if he knows what Ponneh is thinking. After a moment Saba mutters, “Are we going in?”
“Nice hostessing job,” says Ponneh, hanging her outer jacket on a nail by the door. “I had to let myself in. Oh no, no. Don’t kill so many sheep on my account.”
Saba waves her hand at Ponneh’s remark. “Don’t start the guest-bazi,” she says. “I have no patience for it today.” Ponneh laughs and takes Saba’s arm, because she loves being reminded that she needs no welcome here. For years she has let herself in, has even sneaked into windows at night and raided the kitchen with Saba.
Reza, looking embarrassed and annoyed, wanders back into the living room. Likely he has already forgotten whatever impulse she ignited in him.
“What was that about?” Ponneh whispers, her lips almost touching Saba’s ear.
“I don’t know. What?” Saba shrugs. “Guess what? I got us some Neutrogena.” Ponneh gets American products only when they are offered by Saba, not just because she is poor but also because of her mother, the widow, who seems to enjoy suffering. Khanom Alborz has always been pleasant to Saba. But she is methodical, traditional in the bizarrest ways. She battles her fear of the unknown with arbitrary rules that she imposes on her five daughters, including the sick, bedridden one. If she found Ponneh with an unearned luxury, she would give it to her oldest daughter.
Back at the sofreh Saba leans her head on Khanom Omidi’s shoulder and the old woman pulls her close. She tries to avoid the pudgy gaze of her lumbering, oversolicitous cousin Kasem, who seems to have arrived via the back door. As she brings a hot cup to her lips, Saba hears more of Mullah Ali’s wisdom. It seems that the mullah has had too much of the pipe, maybe even a drink. Usually he refuses alcohol, except when he is alone with Agha Hafezi or when he is given the drink “accidentally,” without his consent. Who’s hiding the bottle this time? Saba glances around. There is something hard under Khanom Omidi’s skirt. When she tries to touch it, the old woman slaps her hand. The mullah is shaking his head at her father. “I’m not talking about their baby-age. What I’m talking about is their minds.” He taps his head with his finger. “It is a well-known fact that women who are not otherwise occupied . . . physically . . . get unhealthy notions. It’s well documented . . . and then, even if you do marry them off, they never respect their husbands. They question and nag . . .”
Khanom Basir sighs dramatically. “For God’s sake.”
“What about Kasem?” Mullah Ali hums and pats Kasem’s thick neck, as if expecting everyone to have followed his thoughts. “A fine boy. Saba should marry him.”
Saba sits up. She blurts out, “But he’s my cousin.” Beside the mullah, Kasem looks down and smiles through a deep, feminine shade of red.
Vomit!
Kasem is shorter than Saba and strangely proportioned. He isn’t overweight, but he has a surprisingly protuberant backside. He looks soft—in his physique, in his face; Saba imagines he is a bit soft even in his bones.
“Let the men talk, child.” Mullah Ali closes his eyes and addresses Saba with a hushed, almost weary voice, as if he is tired of repeating himself.
“You’re lucky your daughter hasn’t been to England or America,” the other mullah interjects. “You escaped a curse. America would have corrupted her.”
Saba imagines again Mahtab’s life in America, a less compliant coming-of-age. Is she happy there? Is she in love with an exuberant American? At the very least she would have a much larger pool of men to choose from. In Cheshmeh, though talk of marriage is a constant pastime, the war with Iraq has left few men her age—and none like Reza.
“He’s her cousin,” her father says, with finality. “She can’t marry her cousin.”
“The boy is my student. A fine choice. And you know cousins are a match ordained by God and the heavens.” Mullah Ali sits up, offended, determined to win.
Saba sees that her father is annoyed, that he wants to say something about genetics and chromosomes. Like the educated Westerners he admires, he holds his tongue. She knows that he won’t insult his nephew, who has been faithful to the family, kept their secrets, and spoken well of them to Mullah Ali.
Her father clears his throat. “In any case, they’re too young.” He waves away the topic like a lone mosquito, too small to merit much effort, too bothersome to ignore.
Victory, Saba thinks in English, silently congratulating her father.
“You know who is a good choice for Saba?” says Khanom Basir. “Agha Abbas. Yes, he’s old, but he is rich and kind.”
Saba begins to object. Agha Abbas is the oldest bachelor they know, a widower even older than her father. “Saba a
nd I will decide this later.” Agha Hafezi is quick to preempt.
She leans on a cushion and observes her father’s kind eyes, the way he doesn’t share food with the villagers and waves away their rural wisdom. Should she show him that she is thankful? No, he won’t understand what she means by it. He will probably pity her. She eyes the snaking blue lines on Mullah Ali’s ankles as he leans across the sofreh.
Varicose veins, she thinks they are called.
She watches the clerics, and she waits for the darkest early hours when matchmaking will be safely out of every mind and an unmarried girl with too much spirit might have a moment of pleasure.
Since Mahtab left, Saba and her friends have hidden in the dark food closet of her kitchen during parties. They always find a moment to get away, even if for only ten minutes. Now they sit in a circle in the pantry. Ponneh produces a small soda bottle of clear liquid. Reza’s eyes light up and he reaches into his pocket. A half-smoked hashish joint.
“Where did you get that?” Ponneh asks.
Reza feigns nonchalance. “One of the men in the square.” Saba doubts that’s true. Even the Tehrani won’t meet her right out in the town square, certainly not with drugs.
Ponneh checks the door again. “Right here in the pantry? What about the smell?”
“Please,” says Reza. “This whole house smells funny. If they catch us, we’ll say we found it in Agha Hafezi’s bedroom.”
“That’s a lot better,” mutters Saba.
“So Mustafa proposed again today,” Ponneh offers. “He thinks that pasdar uniform is attractive. I’d rather die.” Saba giggles. Reza scoffs and lights the joint.
They sit there together for half an hour, consuming their stolen treasures, glancing at the door every few seconds. Saba relishes the intimacy of it, smoking together in the dark. It’s an indulgence that only the best of friends share nowadays. She lets a fat curl of smoke escape her open mouth and breathes it back in through her nose. Ponneh takes dainty puffs. She brings the tiny joint to her lips, locks eyes with Reza, and looks away. She passes the stub to him and leans back against a shelf full of cans.
