Mr. Bahmani beamed. “Well, I can tell you the obvious. No one’s crazy about this 15 percent profit limit that’s on businesses. Someone should tell the Shah that the communists and the mullahs aren’t the only discontents.” A frightening glare overcame Mr. Fardust. Mr. Bahmani must have noticed it too. He tried to change course, but it was too late. “Well, er; what I mean is, well, that—”
“I believe what Mr. Bahmani means,” Mr. Fardust interrupted, “is that to properly secure his monarchy, Shah Pahlavi should try to understand the woes of all segments of his population, from the clerics to the clerisy.”
“Yes!” Mr. Bahmani sighed. “That’s exactly what I meant!”
“Pleasing the peasants with nationalized benefits that come at the expense of business owners discourages the kind of long-term development and investments that would win him the favor of the majority of the population. Unfortunately, gentleman, it doesn’t seem that’s the direction that the Shah is headed.”
Mr. Fardust spoke with pessimism and, more surprisingly, criticism. Samira wondered how the head of the secret police could criticise the Shah’s regime so openly. As the conversation turned away from politics and on to more pleasant topics: the most amazing creperie that had ever opened in Paris; a new boutique across from the Ritz in London selling shirts with hand-cut buttons; the beauty of Mr. Bahmani’s young daughter, Samira’s mind and attention stayed on Mr. Fardust and his deliberate manner. Rhythmic. Calculated. The Shah’s upcoming demise must be more than a mere possibility, she reasoned. Fardust must be gearing up for survival. His loyalties must yield to his ambitions.
Dawn was upon them when the last guest left. Davoud walked Samira to her room.
“What do you think of Mr. Fardust?” she asked as they ascended the long staircase.
“I think what he was saying is a sign of big changes to come. What do you think?”
“My thoughts exactly. An alliance with him is a good idea. That man can see tomorrow’s tomorrows better than any fortune teller ever could.”
“I’d like to take credit for some of that insight!”
She smiled, mostly because she saw that Davoud was too tired to share her bed that evening. He held her chin in his palm, stroked her jawline and gave her a kiss. “I know we’re both exhausted, but we have a lot to celebrate tonight.” No, not too tired. Never too tired.
He took her by the hand and led her into his room. Soon, his lips were on her neck. Her breasts. Her stomach. He was tender, and she had not felt pain since her wedding night. And he tried to please her. Still. With every unwanted kiss, she shuddered. She did not resist in any way. But she did not encourage him at all either. She had long settled on making herself available as a wife should be, but could never stomach any further participation. It had occurred to her, of course, that she could manipulate him through sex. If she initiated. If she tried harder to please him. But to her, it was not really possible. And for his part, Davoud did not complain.
She took deep breaths and tried to allow her mind to wander. Tonight, for the first time ever, it wandered to another man. Her hands searched for Armin’s shoulders. For his chest. Her lips, for his skin. She felt his fingers caress her thighs. The tickle of his sweat on her chest. And for the first time in twelve years, she arched her back with passion while in bed with Davoud.
The next morning, Davoud was as happy as she had ever seen him. Convinced her ardor the night before was for him. He was eager to converse during breakfast. To talk about their future. All of the things he wanted to buy for her and the exotic places he would take her. She smiled, barely listening. She wondered if Armin would write to her as he had said he would. She could already feel the paper in her hands and the passion in her heart.
But months passed and no letter arrived.
10
Samira stood alone in the airport pick-up area, which was unusual because Jafar had always been there, waiting by the car before she arrived. A woman stood next to her with boisterous twin girls. They were dressed exactly alike and played excitedly around their mother’s suitcases.
“Mommy, look, that pretty lady has a mole on her cheek!” one of the girls pointed at Samira. “Can I touch it?”
Samira brought her hand to her belly and tried to imagine the feeling of a child inside. She swallowed a tear and offered a smile. “You’ve just landed?”
“Yes. Just. My husband will be here soon, I hope! It’s so difficult to fly with children, isn’t it?”
“I imagine it must be, yes.”
Samira noticed the porter guarding the luggage was stealing occasional glimpses at the bare calves that her three-quarter-length skirt displayed. She was about to give him a look of disapproval when a car she did not recognize pulled up next to her and honked its horn. The driver, wearing a sport coat and brown leather driving gloves, stepped out of the car and waved. It was his eyes that she recognized first. Her heart skipped a beat.
He approached her. She flung her hair to the side and tried to keep her fidgety fingers still. She could not help her smile. “It’s you!”
“I’ve come for the party and was sent to fetch you. It seems parties are the only time I see you.”
He helped the porter place her bags in the car and tipped him generously. The young boy accepted the money but seemed more concerned with taking one last look at Samira’s legs before scurrying off to his next customer. Armin opened the car door for her and closed it gently after she was safely inside. She smelled his cologne as she stepped in. The scent moved through her gut and down her spine.
“Where’s Jafar?” she asked.
“Is that the driver? Nice man. Gita needed him to take her into town.”
“You drove an hour to pick me up just so you could spend another hour to drive me home?” she teased, and found that she liked making him uncomfortable by being bold.
“I hope you don’t mind my company.”
An hour with him by her side. More than sixty minutes in a car with his scent. An eternity to refresh her memory and fill it with him.
“So, how are you? How was Paris?”
“Charming. It helps my French to be immersed in the language.”
“You speak French! Of course you do.”
“Yes, some. But only because Davoud insists. There’s little use for it, really.”
“So why didn’t Davoud return with you?”
This was good. Small talk. Indifferent conversation. Very good, but how she had missed his voice. It had a silky cadence that hummed like the remnants of a favorite melody.
“He was held up on business. He’ll be here by Friday though. He’s very excited about Shabnam’s birthday party. He just needed an extra day or so to wrap up a few things.”
“And why didn’t you wait to come back with him?”
Presumptuous question! Although, maybe not. Maybe Armin did not know about Samira’s unencumbered willingness to give Davoud time alone with his French mistress. Maybe he did not know about the mistress at all. It seemed like the type of thing Gita would never mention, even if she knew, which was a big if.
“I have to finish Shabnam’s birthday present,” Samira said. It was not entirely untrue.
“Ah, I see. Another painting?”
“Do you mean that it’s unoriginal?”
“Not at all. It just looks like you haven’t painted in a while.”
“What makes you say that?”
His hand motioned toward her fingers resting softly on her leg. “Your fingers. They’re not paint-stained.”
She felt a blush coming to her cheeks. “Oh, yes.”
“You don’t paint as regularly anymore?”
“I do! Well, I don’t have a real studio in Paris. Just an easel and a few paints. Bare essentials.”
“Oh.”
“I did buy some beautiful art books though. Because of them I have more Monets and Van Goghs with me now than any art dealer!” She felt as though she was talking too much. After a moment of silence, they pulled to a red
light and she said, “You never wrote.”
“Pardon?”
“You said you’d write.”
“I didn’t write. That’s true.” He turned to look at her. His gaze left her feeling fluid. Something about him reminded her of Baba. It was the way he tilted his head when he smiled. Yes, that was it. A tremor of fear twinkled underneath her skin. She regretted saying anything about him not writing. He definitely had the upper hand now. She could see that in his smile. The discomfort, and the reminder of Baba, made her long for Maman. Maman and her cooking. With a deep breath, she tried to remember the smell of chopped fresh basil on the cutting board, the tomatoes boiling over the stove, and the eggplants roasting in the oven. She wondered why it was that Armin so reminded her of home.
Shouting protestors outside the window interfered with her meditation. They walked into the middle of the intersection and arranged themselves in the shape of an X from one corner to the other so that no cars could pass. They waved banners with photographs of the exiled Ayatollah Khomeini. “Down with the Monarchy. Down with Imperialism. Down with the cruelty of SAVAK. Long Live the Ayatollah! Long Live Democracy!”
“Oh—it’s just after the noon prayer, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes. They probably listened to another audio sermon at the mosque, then took to the streets.”
“I kept a copy of the interview he gave in Paris in last month’s Guardian.” Samira pulled the issue from her Chanel purse. “Freedom of the press, more rights for women and religious minorities. He claims he won’t take any leadership role in politics if he ever returns.”
“And what does the Shah do in response?”
“Relaxes controls to permit demonstrations to give the illusion that we live in a democracy already.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
“To him relaxing controls just means killing fewer people than he otherwise would’ve killed! It’s too little, too late. No one trusts him.”
“The religious find him deplorable. The students want a democracy they can’t have under this regime and independence from the Americans.”
A breeze entered through Armin’s open window and gave Samira another hint of his scent, the subtle cologne now mixed with perspiration. She noticed his every movement. That he liked to leave his right hand resting on the stick shift with the left controlling the wheel. The curve of his neck when he checked his blind spot. The ever-so-small way a muscle in his right bicep twitched beneath his shirt when he shifted gears.
The best method of keeping her mind from wandering, she determined, was to focus on politics. “The bazaar merchants feel betrayed, taxed in the forced welfare state imposed overnight. Another last-ditch attempt to save the monarchy’s hide.”
“I’ve even heard the merchants are funding the mullahs!”
“Thinking that the democracy the Ayatollah promises must be better than the dictatorship we live under now.”
“And with money and God on their side—”
“With lofty promises, there’s no stopping the Islamists.”
“Samira, do you think a revolution is coming?”
“These things have a life of their own. Who knows? Maybe. Probably.”
“Maybe things will change for the better. The situation of women may improve and perhaps it isn’t all bad to root out the West, nationalize our oil, you know?”
“But the only way a democratic revolution will succeed is if multiple groups share power. The communists are hoping for their share of the pie but the only face I’m seeing on the posters is the Ayatollah’s. If we’re left with only the clerics in charge, we’re in trouble.”
The protestors’ chants got louder.
“Long Live the Ayatollah!
“Long Live Democracy!”
It did not take very long for the police to arrive. Dozens of protestors were cuffed and thrown into the back of unmarked white vans. Samira wondered what would become of them. How many would be tortured. How many killed. Her heart was heavy with sorrow.
Out of the chaos of the moment, he said, “You came home to a beautiful day.”
She looked up from the protests to the cloudless sky and challenged the sun to burn the pain from her eyes. To reshape the way she saw things.
“Yes, beautiful day. It rained nearly every day I was in Paris, you know.” The weather. Vay Khoda, now they were talking about the weather. How trivial. Well, at least it was a comfortable subject.
“Did it? That’s unfortunate.”
“Oh, yes. Very. Though it did give me an excuse to purchase a new umbrella.”
“Oh?”
“A wide bright-red umbrella.”
“I can just picture you, walking down the gray wet streets of Paris with your red umbrella.”
“With ruffled trim,” she said, laughing at the absurdity of it.
“Well, of course. A red umbrella could not exist in Paris without a ruffled trim.”
The vans drove off and traffic cleared. She wanted to look at Armin. To learn more about his thoughts, his feelings about their world. Their Iran.
“Listen, why did you say you would?” she immediately regretted asking the question.
“Why did I say I would what?”
“Why did you say you’d write?”
“Right. I guess we’re done with politics and the weather then.” He smiled. She glared at him. “I said I’d write because I wanted to. Very much.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You said it wouldn’t be appropriate, remember?”
“I did?”
“You did.” He turned the corner into her tree-lined street.
“Oh. Yes. I did.” But she had not really meant it. Had she?
“And upon reflection, I suppose I agreed.”
“Yes, well, right decision. Good decision.” She was not sure at all.
“It was the prudent decision. I don’t know if it was right.”
“It was. Absolutely.”
“Good then. We’re agreed.”
“Agreed.”
“I think that woman is waving to you,” he said at a stop sign. Samira looked up. Mrs. Azin was walking Visky and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She forced a smile and waved back. Oh, Samira alone in a car with a younger man. This was enough to start rumors. When they moved again, she asked what she felt she had to ask.
“Just out of curiosity, if you had written, what would you have said?”
“I would’ve written five words.”
She could feel the desire, and the total lack of expectation, in his voice.
“And what would they have been?” she asked.
He said nothing, exhausting her with silence.
She turned to him, feeling the unfamiliar agony of yearning. A frost ran up her spine. She was not accustomed to any of this and had no grasp of how to engage in this conversation, or in this moment. For years, Davoud had primed and positioned her, prepared and trained her to shine comfortably and gracefully, and meet every situation with intelligence. But neither Davoud nor his multitudes of tutors had ever prepared her for whatever it was that was happening now: the energy between her and Armin. She thought of all the characters in her books and considered plagiarizing some of their words. Instead, she decided to just be honest.
“I would have liked it. If you had written.” She tried to keep her voice even and dispassionate. Free from the stuttering of her heart. And felt in peace for speaking the truth. From the heart, for the first time since her marriage. Allowing the love in her paintings to color her, lift her from her loneliness.
He smiled and any armor she had left broke apart.
“Have you thought of me?” he asked.
“Very little.”
“A little is better than not at all!”
She held her breath and said, “I lied.”
“You didn’t think of me, or you didn’t think of me only a little, so you thought of me a lot?”
Silence.
Then he said it so she did n
ot have to, “I thought of you a lot. I . . . I think of you a lot.”
She inhaled. “I don’t understand what this means.”
“Me, neither. But I think it’s important.”
He turned into her driveway, pulled up to the intercom and pressed the red button. A buzzing sound. And with that, they left their world and entered Davoud’s. She was about to open her car door when he suddenly put his hand on hers. Alarming intensity. It never felt like this when Davoud touched her.
“Wait,” he said.
She faced him.
“Tonight, after everyone’s gone to bed, meet me in your studio. I think . . . that is . . . there’s more to be said here.”
“I’ll be there finishing Shabnam’s painting, but I don’t want you to come.”
“But––”
“I just can’t,” she said, pulling her hand away and opening her door in a sudden, guilty gesture. She stepped outside the car and looked at the shadow cast by the mansion. Davoud’s mansion. And she walked inside. This was not the home she wanted. But the familiarity of the smell comforted her somewhat and eased her beating heart.
Mrs. Darkan extended her hands to Samira’s in the hallway. “It’s good to see you, child.”
“I’ve missed you.” Samira wanted very much to hug but Mrs. Darkan would never allow it. Instead, she squeezed her hands for a second longer before releasing.
“Has my sister returned from town?” Armin asked, walking in behind Samira.
“They’re all in the music room. Jafar will take care of your bags.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Darkan released Samira’s hands and walked toward the kitchen. Samira turned to find Armin staring at her. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said and continued to stare at her as they followed the sound of the clumsy playing emanating from the music room. Armin flung the door open abruptly. “Guess who?”
Upon his entrance, Shabnam stopped playing. “Dayee Armin!” She jumped up from the piano stool to greet him with the same warm energy she always had, with a hug and kisses on both cheeks that were duplicated by her mother. He returned their warmth with a wide smile, kisses and hugs of his own.
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