The two of them giggled at the thought of so much nudity. Samira wondered how long it would take to bathe every day. At least an hour. What a waste of time, she thought, and wondered if Mrs. Darkan was really serious about the mandate.
“Matters of cleanliness are not treated lightly in this household, ladies,” Mrs. Darkan said as if reading her mind, “and I hope you’ll respect them.”
“Mrs. Darkan,” Samira said, “I’m really sorry; we’re used to washing up before prayer every day, of course, but actually stripping down to nothing and soaking our entire bodies, like our hair and everything? I just don’t know that we’d even have the time—”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Mrs. Darkan said. “Now, if you’ll follow me over here, I’ll show you the closet.” Samira and Maman obediently followed to another door that opened up into a smaller room filled with clothing, shoes and headscarves.
“The closet is its own room?” Samira asked.
“It’s called a walk-in.”
Mrs. Darkan explained that the contents had been chosen by Davoud himself: rich silks of brilliant amber, cerulean and lavender pantsuits—“It’s stylish to wear these during the day and evening”—something called “hip-huggers”, made of polyester, in taupe, black and gray, that Samira thought looked ridiculous—“They flare out at the bottom, these are the newest style from America”—and skirts of deep amethyst, ivory, and tangerine, far too short to be proper for a respectable girl—“Your husband will enjoy them, trust me.”
Samira noticed the labels on the clothes. She had seen labels like these before on some second-hand clothing donated by city women to the Kandovan Center for Donated Goods. They were English.
“Some are from America. That blouse right there, over there, the pink one, that label is German. So it’s made in Germany.” Mrs. Darkan informed with a matter-of-factness that communicated neither superiority nor humility. “And many of them are actually made in Tehran, even though they have English labels, such as the chadors in your mother’s room, which I’ll take you to next.”
The clothes in the closet were, by many measures, nicer that those Samira wore on her body, or what was folded in her bag. These new clothes were made of finer fabrics, and had fancy labels and pearl buttons. But her own clothing was chosen by her, made by her, and even dyed by her. She controlled the length of her hem, the shape of her collar, the fabric of her shawl, and the color of her scarves. In this closet, there were no scarves. And no choices.
“Mrs. Darkan,” Samira said, “I don’t know if I’ll be, um, comfortable in all of those clothes.”
“To be his wife, you have to modernize.”
Samira was not at all sure what that meant. All she had felt since entering his house was emptiness and a strange grief. As if she had just lost a loved one. She hoped that was not what Mrs. Darkan meant by modernization.
“Now follow me. We’re on a tight schedule here.”
“Mrs. Darkan?”
“Yes, Samira Khanum?”
“Won’t I be sleeping . . . well . . . in the same room as my husband? Once we’re married, I mean?”
“You have your own room,” she said, continuing down the hall. “Mr. Montazar has his own room. He will come to your room whenever he desires it.”
“And where will his other . . . I mean, the other . . .”
“Mrs. Montazar has her own room as well. Shabnam and Hamid each have their own room.”
“Shabnam and Hamid?”
“Mr. Montazar’s children.”
Yes, of course. The children.
“How old are they?” Samira asked.
Mrs. Darkan shot her a look of surprise. Samira did not know which was surprising—that she did not know how old her new husband’s children were, or that she had the temerity to ask such a question.
“Shabnam is fifteen. Hamid is eighteen.” No further information was offered, and Samira did not ask.
Mrs. Darkan opened the door to another elegant room, more modest than Samira’s but still far more lavish than anything she could have imagined. A large oak bed, covered with a floral bedspread, sat in the center of the room. On the floor in front of it was a rug. It looked like it might be silk. On the left wall a vanity table with intricate carvings around the mirror and legs stood beside a door she assumed was a closet.
“This is your room, Mrs. Fazlin.”
A room for each wife, each child, and still enough space for separate rooms for guests. Samira had never heard of anyone having, or needing, so much space.
Mrs. Darkan opened the door beside the vanity table. “And this is your closet.”
At the sight of the garments, Maman brought her hands to her chest and gasped.
“Maman jan,” Samira said, “look at all these beautiful chadors!”
“Where?”
“In the back. Here, see?”
“Oh—yes . . .”
“You can just wear these over your own clothes,” Samira whispered. “He’ll never know.”
“Yes!” Maman said with relief, fingering the other Western garments and wrinkling her nose.
Mrs. Darkan rolled her eyes and Samira tried to understand how her world could possibly join Davoud’s. What would Maman and Baba wear when they visit my husband’s home or meet his friends? Would they even be welcome?
A servant girl came into the room and Mrs. Darkan introduced her. Her name was Sudabeh. Mrs. Darkan explained that Sudabeh would take care of Samira, and during the two months Maman was there, she would take care of her needs as well. Sudabeh wore a uniform. Starched stiff with a crisp collar. Polished shoes. Her hair perfectly wrapped in a tight bun. She was taller than Samira, which made Samira feel even more subservient. She was particularly envious of the girl’s small gold loop earrings. Wedding guests were fond of giving jewelry to the bride as gifts, so she would soon begin her own collection. She wondered what her new husband’s family would give to her, and how it would compare to the luxuries she had already seen since arriving in his home. She wondered if she should tell someone that her ears were not pierced.
“Alright now, off you go,” Mrs. Darkan said to Sudabeh before Samira could so much as say hello to her.
“Mrs. Darkan?”
“Yes, Samira Khanum?”
“Where is Mr. Montazar’s other . . . I mean, Mrs. Montazar? And his children? Will I meet them today?”
“They’re paying an extended visit to the Missus’s brother in Tehran. They’ll not return until after the wedding.”
Samira wondered what they looked like, how they smelled, what part of the house they lived in, how they dressed, and mostly, how they would treat her. She wondered if she and Shabnam would be friends and if Hamid was handsome. She thought of how insulting it would be to Maman if Baba brought a second wife into their home, especially one as young as Samira. A feeling of disgust came over her. How could her life with this man ever be any measure of normal? How could she ever look his family in the eye? At least she did not have to meet them today.
Soon after, the tour ended. Davoud stopped in to let them know he had been called out of town for business but would return in several days. She and Maman were expected to eat in the dining room, but eventually found their way into the kitchen, where Maman managed to insult the cook, Fereshteh, by critiquing her saffron rice.
The next morning, Samira awoke at five-thirty a.m., as it was her habit to wake up with the sunrise. She prayed, dressed and found her own way into the kitchen. Fereshteh stood in the back, cleaning, cutting and marinating meat. Maman stood over the stove, cooking her own eggs.
“She tried to make me eggs, but how can I let anyone else make me eggs?” Maman said. Fereshteh snickered. Samira could not help but laugh.
“You’re in the kitchen, again?” Mrs. Darkan walked in.
“Mrs. Darkan, you haven’t had eggs until you’ve been on our farm. How long has it been since you’ve had a fresh just-out-of-the-chicken egg?”
Samira was surprised to see Mrs. Dar
kan’s slight smile. “Well, it’s been a while.”
“There’s nothing like it. You could eat it all day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. They’re that good! But these eggs are fine too, of course.” Maman shut off the stove and scraped her eggs onto a plate. She offered the plate to Mrs. Darkan.
“Thank you, but no. We have to get started on our lessons, Samira Khanum.”
“Lessons?”
“In etiquette, of course. Please don’t doubt me because I’m a housekeeper. As Mr. Montazar told you about my finishing school days, I have extensive experience with etiquette.”
“Etiquette?”
“Well, yes! Didn’t Mr. Montazar tell you before he left?” The look on Samira and Maman’s faces clearly communicated that he had told them nothing of the kind. Mrs. Darkan rolled her eyes. “Well, you must learn how to behave in this new environment, you see. How to conduct yourself during dinner, to properly dine. What are appropriate garments for which occasions. What to discuss during dinner parties. And you’ll need to learn some basic information about your husband, his family, and his friends, so you can maintain polite conversation. You know, etiquette!”
“Do I have to do this?” Samira asked. “I was actually really hoping to do some sketching today.”
“You can do your sketching during your free hour of the day.”
“Free hour?”
“Mrs. Fazlin, you’re welcome and in fact encouraged to attend our sessions.”
Maman did an excellent job of hiding her disdain. “No, thank you.”
“I’m only doing this until the wedding and only because it’s very difficult for me to say no to Mr. Montazar. After the wedding, your tutors will take over all of your teaching. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“There’ll be many very important businessmen and politicians at this wedding and you need to learn how to behave and what to expect in such a setting.” Mrs. Darkan had no expression on her face. “Mrs. Fazlin, you have to interact with these people too. Are you sure you won’t join us? It would have been better if Mr. Fazlin was here, too, but I suppose it’s impossible to pull a farmer away from his land. He told Mr. Montazar something about needing to fertilize or losing the crop altogether.”
“Mrs. Darkan, my maman, well, you see, it isn’t respectful—”
“I have some missed prayers I have to make up,” was all Maman said before digging her fork into her eggs.
“Please understand that it’s not my preference to add decorum teaching to my otherwise packed schedule. Anyway, it isn’t a matter of choice for you, Samira, unless you want to humiliate yourself and Mr. Montazar in front of the Mayors of Tabriz and Esfahan and the entire Iranian diplomatic envoy from England.”
***
Over the next two months, Davoud’s free time was consumed with planning the wedding (a process with which Samira had little involvement). When Maman continued to refuse the etiquette lessons, Mrs. Darkan informed them that they had reached the maximum number of guests. Other than her parents and Jaja Khan, Samira could not invite anyone to the wedding. They were limiting their embarrassment, Samira realized.
Mrs. Darkan also repeatedly stated that Samira’s headscarf was not welcome in the house or in her new life. Samira refused to take it off and, as a refuge of comfort, leaned toward wearing her red one with the butterfly stitching. Mrs. Darkan seemed to accept it for the time being, but warned that Samira could not wear it or any other headscarf at the wedding or after she was married. “Perhaps we can get you a lace veil that you’ll be comfortable with for the wedding day,” she said.
When the wedding was only two weeks away, Samira was called away from her regular session by Sudabeh.
“Mr. Montazar wishes to speak with you.”
“Just me, or my maman, too?”
“Just you. Your mother is in the middle of prayer.”
Samira flushed, knowing that she should be at prayer with Maman. She was missing at least one, sometimes two prayers a day. In this household, only a few of the servants prayed. Davoud certainly never did (he expressly discouraged it) and Mrs. Darkan told her that his other wife and children did not pray, either.
Sudabeh followed Samira into the grand hall where Davoud stood with his arms folded across his chest.
“Samira darling!” he said, planting an unwelcome kiss on her cheek. “I come bearing gifts from Paris!”
“More gifts?” Samira asked with little actual interest.
A very large trunk sat at the other end of the hall, next to another maid, Golshad.
“Sudabeh, please go over there and help Golshad,” Davoud commanded.
Sudabeh walked over to Golshad. The two of them opened the trunk and lifted out the gift, each girl holding up one side. The unveiling scene was clearly rehearsed, because each girl had a stool in front of them that they stood on, so as to properly present the item they were holding.
“So, what do you think?” Davoud asked.
Samira had nothing to offer but a blank stare.
“It’s Christian Dior!” he added helpfully.
Samira knew nothing of Dior.
“It’s called Chantilly,” Davoud gestured to the intricate hand-embroidered lace on the bodice, looked at her and grinned. “Come and touch it. It’s the most beautiful French lace.”
And so she did, touching silk and texture, pearls and beauty. So much cloth! How many people could have been clothed in the fabric of this gown? How many seamstresses were employed for how many days to create it?
“It must’ve taken hundreds of hours,” she whispered.
“The lace of the bolero is removable,” he said. “You can take it off after the ceremony and the dress will then be strapless!”
Samira looked up at him with shock. “Oh, no, I could never do that.”
“Why not?”
She tightened the tie of her headscarf and said, “The world would see my shoulders!”
He laughed and she felt very small, very much the village girl. “Well, however you’re comfortable, my dear. But you know the long veil will cover your shoulders.” She winced at the endearment. With each gram of excessive flattery he took from her a kilogram of respect. Yet she voiced no objection.
“The hem,” she said, “it curves up and down.”
“Just like a Degas painting, isn’t it?” He paused for a response but receiving yet another blank stare, continued, “Degas is a very famous artist and he’s well-known for his paintings of ballerinas, the inspiration for this gown. We’ll make it a point to educate you in the arts, Samira, given your love for the subject. Oh, and here’s the best part: the cap and veil!”
He offered his hand. She felt compelled to take it. The smile that took over his face at their touch set her teeth on edge. He walked her over to the other side of the hall and handed her an old, circular box. A good excuse to take her hand away, she took the box and opened it. A velvet skullcap. A headpiece, presumably intended for her to wear at their wedding. She lifted it out of the box. Complex sequence and bead work, with a circular veil that gathered at its center and folded at the cap. She hated it.
“Here, try it on!” He gently placed the cap on Samira’s head and instructed Golshad to drop the train of the dress she was holding and get a mirror. “Now this, this is the real deal. A beautiful vintage piece, isn’t it? It’s what my mother wore on her wedding day. You look stunning, my dear.”
As he said this, he brought his hand to her cheek and caressed the small mole. She shivered. How different was this from her father’s touch. She wished he would stop and regretted her submissions thus far. What would happen if I slap his hand away? If I say “NO” and walk away? Maman and Baba will not force me if I insist. If I kick and scream and yell. They have never forced me to do anything. But what would happen afterwards?
There must be a husband, after all. She did not know how a man’s touch was supposed to feel. Perhaps just like this. If not this man, then another. Another with the same touch. Or perhap
s far worse. The other might not have another wife, children, or absurdly lavish skullcaps that he would force upon her, but he might forbid her art, her poetry, her education. He might allow the headscarf, but could be a religious zealot and forbid any color in her attire. No more sunset orange or poppy red. How could she say goodbye to color?
Perhaps this, his hand on her cheek, was exactly right.
Not knowing was terrifying.
She looked up at him. She could see that he expected her to smile.
She smiled.
Later that afternoon, while Maman napped, Samira decided that she should take a walk on the grounds. She grabbed some chalk and a sketchpad. There were very few things that made her happy since she had arrived at the mansion. One of them was sketching the flowers in the greenhouse. She walked through one of the halls, exiting through the glass door with the ornate handle, down the gravel path that led to the greenhouse. Glass walls and an angled ceiling welcomed the sun while the sprinklers maintained the humidity. In the greenhouse she was, for a moment, at home. The colors of nature abounded in this small space. Among the hanging bags, perennials and fernery there were varieties of fritillaria in full bloom. Maman used to crush the large flowers into a tea for a cough remedy. A little bit of Kandovan right here in Tabriz.
One corner was full of silk trees, tall with spreading, flattened, umbrella-like crowns that looked like thousands of stiff pink strings bursting out of a yellow center that reminded her of Riri’s whiskers. Down the center aisle was a group of bulb-forming perennials herbs with the prettiest pendant bluebells. Next to those was a favorite subject of drawing, a small section of dwarf tulips surrounded by magnolias. She had sketched their colors several times already. Her pencils and chalks could barely capture the golden rust, ruby and maroon, like bits of sprinkled Heaven.
To the far-right corner was a species of flower she was too intimidated to even try to draw. The leaves were large and long, and the flower itself protruded horizontally, emerging like a sword in all its vibrant, lucent scarlet, vivid golden yellow and blood orange. It was the most bewitching thing she had ever seen.
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