“Fine. Very well,” she finally said. Oh, stop your silliness! Rana blinked her tears away, emptied the rest of her glass in one big gulp, and felt its warmth rise to her cheeks.
“There isn’t a day when Claire doesn’t come home with a new comment on how everyone admires Marjan’s looks, her gorgeous eyes,” Kathy went on. She patted the back of Rana’s hand. “Too bad you don’t come to our luncheons, honey. It’s a nice break from the daily routine because while we socialize the children can play.”
Rana nodded her approval, and as another server came around, she placed her empty glass on his tray and took a fresh glass of wine.
“I like to go to this lunch,” she said.
Kathy sounded unsure she had heard her right. “You would? Really?”
“Yes. I like.”
“Great! Next Wednesday there’s a pot-luck at my house.”
“Pot …ah, what?”
Kathy gave a hearty laugh. “Pot-luck. It just means everyone will pitch in and bring something to eat. But you don’t have to. Be my guest.”
“No, I will bring my pot-luck.”
Someone giggled. Kathy leaned to put an arm around Rana’s shoulders. “Don’t you just love her English?” she said to the other women. “It sure beats my Farsi.”
“May I borrow my wife for a dance?” Major Moradi’s voice rose behind Rana.
Kathy beamed another smile. “You most certainly may.”
Why is he doing this? Rana could not possibly refuse him in front of all these women. As she stood, she felt a little giddy and had to reach for his arm. It was hard to walk over the grass in high heels, and this forced her to continue leaning on him. He didn’t say a word until they had reached the dance floor and faced each other.
“Look at me, Rana,” he commanded in a low voice. “Everyone’s watching and you must look straight at me. Pretend we’re talking.”
Rana laughed, but it came out sadder than she felt. “Let’s just dance,” she said, afraid that with the effect of wine, one more word would make her cry and then nothing could stop her. So, saving face was what coming to this party had been all about. She shouldn’t have fussed so much over her looks, but then again, hadn’t she done that only because such pretence suited her plan, too?
Moradi put his hand on the small of her back and held her tighter, making Rana feel so weightless that for a second she thought her feet were off the ground. Twirling to the smooth tune, she stared at the colorful strands of light in the background and watched them turn into luminous rainbows against the backdrop of the dark sky.
Farhad Moradi had never put his wife to bed before. In fact, without Dayeh’s assistance, he wouldn’t have found Rana’s night-gown. The old nanny had rushed to his aid the minute he walked in and now that they had tucked her in, he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go to Parisa’s.
Ever since their return from Tehran, he had sensed a change of heart in Dayeh, as if the old witch had finally forgiven him. Rana, too, seemed mellower, which led Moradi to believe his life had finally stabilized. Now if only he could clear his conscience, all would be well.
Rana was never good at holding her liquor and if she drank wine, it knocked her out. On the ride back, she seemed drowsy and finally had fallen asleep on his shoulder and from time to time said a few words that didn’t make any sense. Once he thought she said Parisa’s name, but that might have been his imagination. Whatever it was, the thought of Parisa came rushing back and what had started to feel like the renewal of an old affection for Rana was quickly replaced with a strong urge to go to the woman he truly loved.
With Rana safely in her bed, Dayeh finished tidying up and said good night. Moradi stood in the middle of the room and stared at his wife’s calm face and tried to ignore the heavy burden of blame. Poor Rana, he thought. She deserved better than this. Then again, so did he.
His arranged marriage to the lovely daughter of Dr. Ameli had been based purely on the discretion of older family members. His mother had been confident of her choice and assured him that love would come with time. “Son, at nearly thirty, you’re past having crushes and silly infatuations,” she had said one evening on the topic of marriage. W hen he said he’d rather wait until he found love, she responded, “Some men are wiser, more practical. If you were the type to fall in love, you’d have done so already. Besides, a marriage based on solid wisdom lasts longer while love tends to fade as quickly as it comes.”
He trusted his mother’s judgment. Indeed, it might have worked.
But then he met Parisa.
In the soft light of the bedside lamp, Rana’s pale face looked so fragile, so helpless, that he regretted the pain he had caused her. Nothing he had done was with the intention of hurting her. They had a good marriage and she had never given him a reason to dislike her. But his mother had been wrong. He didn’t love Rana, not the way he did Parisa. Over the years of marriage, instead of growing closer, he and Rana had grown apart. Their emotional detachment had been slow, unnoticeable, like an old seam coming undone, one stitch at a time.
Moradi had wanted to explain himself on several occasions, even tonight when they danced, but that would have misled her. He was sorry, but not enough to go back, not sorry enough to regret having met Parisa. Parisa was worth risking everything, even the love of his daughters and certainly this fixed marriage. His sister Badri had assured him that no matter whom he loved, his daughters would always be his. “Don’t you ever forget, they’ll carry our family name,” she said.
Loveless as this marriage was, Moradi had to maintain his family. It was a matter of pride, honor, even principle. He wasn’t blind. He’d seen how some officers eyed Rana tonight. What was it like to have one’s wife be with another man? How could her father ask him to let her go? The mere thought of divorcing Rana brought to mind images of her in bed with another man, laughing at him the way he laughed at Parisa’s fool of an ex-husband. He sometimes went as far as picturing her with a new family, kids who would be siblings to his children. To picture these possibilities made his blood boil. No, he was not about to give Rana such freedom. The divorce her father-in-law had suggested was out of the question.
Sometimes he looked at Rana and thought she’d be the type who could live a life of isolation, raising her daughters alone, never needing another man. Earlier tonight, when he spotted her across the pool, she had seemed so fragile, so lonely and so out-of-place among those Americans. She needed him. He was her only link to this society.
Then again, the Amelis never gave him credit. To them he was the son of a farmer while Rana’s father was not only a doctor, but also a graduate of some fancy university in Switzerland. Oh, how he resented the way his mother-in-law belittled the lifestyle of small town people! He recalled the looks exchanged between that woman and her other daughters when his mother spoke in her deep Shirazi accent. Rana never even tried to intervene. True that she didn’t join the mocking, but she never gave the impression that she disagreed with her family’s sentiments, either.
If they were driven apart, her arrogant family shared some of the blame. After so many years of not being good enough, he was giving the Amelis as good as he had gotten. Too bad Rana had to suffer so, but this was his life and he deserved all the wonderful feelings that only Parisa could nurture. Life could be sweet, and he wasn’t about to let a silly thing like guilt ruin his one chance for happiness.
Rana turned in her sleep, and as she faced the bright light of the bedside lamp, she shielded her eyes with the back of one hand.
Moradi reached over, turned off the light, and picked up his keys.
Chapter
Eight
AS MORADI DROVE ALONG the sleepy streets of Shiraz, he smiled sadly at the thought that deep into the night only stray dogs and drunken men were outside. Parisa had to be asleep; then again, she didn’t seem to mind the odd hours he dropped in. Hard to believe that the first time they met, she had been a married woman. They had both felt the rush at first glance, and he instantly kne
w there would be more. It was as if a voice within assured him that their lives would be intertwined.
It had been during one of those boring business dinners in Tehran when she walked through the door and sent his head spinning. Moradi’s new lieutenant entered the room accompanied by a stunning woman. The bald and rather unattractive man grinned at everyone as if to confirm that this vision was indeed his woman. The lieutenant had just been assigned to Moradi’s new project to substitute in his absence. They had briefly met two days before and he knew little else about the man.
The woman walked with the grace of a queen, oblivious to the stout man at her side. Her slender figure was taller than the average Iranian woman and in fact, she towered over her husband. Her silky dark hair fell to her shoulders, framing features that Moradi thought belonged in the movies. She wore a burgundy dress of Chinese style, with a simple collar and tiny buttons running diagonally to one side. The side slit of her skirt revealed a pair of shapely legs. She didn’t look around, nor did she make any effort to exchange casual pleasantries with other guests. W hen her husband introduced Moradi, she lifted her eyes to meet his, pulling him into a black hole before diverting her attention elsewhere.
For most of the evening, he stayed near the bar, nursing his whisky, unable to take his eyes off her. She glanced at him a couple of times, but it was a distant look, as if she was looking beyond him. She bent her head to one side, letting the downfall of silky hair drape over half her face, and passively eyed the crowd. The way she sat away from other women told Moradi that, for some reason, she would not be welcomed among them. The mystery surrounding her regal presence and the sorrow in her dark eyes intrigued him. He wished he could be nearer, hear her voice, and learn her story. Her mystical presence made him forget everyone else. The pathetic new officer couldn’t have presented more contrast to this classy lady. Talk about the red apple falling into the lap of the lazy!
“Quite a looker, no?” another officer from Tehran whispered in Moradi’s ear, nodding in the direction of the woman. “I hear she can be pursued, too.”
Moradi glared at him. “Pursued?”
The officer chuckled and tapped him on the shoulder. “You know, purr..sued!” He lit a cigarette and leaned closer. “That’s what her husband did. I heard she was a high-class professional before he bought her out.” And he winked before walking away.
Not all of Tehranis were as traditional as Rana’s family. Moradi had heard about a few wild societies, couples in the upper class who had adopted the European “wife swapping” to a point where at some late night parties one couldn’t tell who was married to whom. But such women looked the part. Their bleached hair, exposed cleavages and exaggerated makeup were sure signs. This lady with her graceful manner didn’t fit the profile. The officer’s negative propaganda had to be fabricated by jealous wives.
Throughout the evening, only once did he have the chance to speak to Parisa. He walked over to her and gesturing to the empty glass in her hand, asked, “Can I get you another one?”
She gave him a faint smile and shook her head. “No, thank you.”
His admiring eyes studied her. “I must say, you don’t look like the rest of these ladies.” W hen she did not respond, he added, “It’s a pleasure to know you.”
She looked away. “You don’t know me.”
Moradi didn’t find this offensive. Something in her hushed voice gave the words a heavier meaning, as if she was telling him that no one understood who she really was. The unkind words of his colleague rang in his ear, “She can be pursued!” Yet this woman seemed out of reach. Something about her created a distance. The rumors about her couldn’t possibly bear any truth.
Restrained as she seemed, Moradi felt a connection. But just then an old general beckoned him from across the room and he reluctantly excused himself. By the time the old man finished talking, the couple had already left.
What brought him to Café Naderi the following week was no doubt sheer destiny. On his way back from a meeting, he parked the army Jeep and went in to get away from the sizzling July sun and enjoy some refreshment. As soon as his eyes had adjusted to the cool shade of the café, he spotted her at a table, alone and oblivious to her surroundings, reading a book. Now in a casual outfit, a white cotton blouse and blue jeans, she looked years younger. He approached her table without giving it a second thought.
“This place is sure crowded,” he said. “Would you mind sharing your table?”
She closed her book and gave him a mocking smile. “Why, Major Moradi, I’d expect a charming man such as you to come up with a more creative pick-up line!”
Embarrassed, he chuckled before clearing his throat and said, “Okay then, how about ‘could you please tell me what time it is’?”
When she laughed, he drew new warmth from the spark in her eyes. She seemed relaxed, unconcerned about possible onlookers, and not worried about who might say what behind her back.
Nodding to a chair, she said, “On second thought, I’d settle for your original attempt.”
Simple as that, there she was, his long lost fantasy, the focus of his dreams and soon to be the center of his entire universe. They talked a little before she went back to her book.
“Must be an awfully interesting book,” Moradi said.
She did not look up. “It is.”
He sat back and watched her read. Her dark hair parted on the side framed her delicate face. She bit her lower lip while reading. Her expression suggested she was really absorbed in her book and not pretending. Moradi finished his drink, took his keys as well as her indelible image with him and left the café.
The next day at Café Naderi, Major Moradi was not surprised to find her at the same table. This time, she did not have her book and once again allowed him to sit at her table.
“My name is Farhad,” Major Moradi said.
“I know,” she said and then caught the hint. “Mine is Parisa.”
Pari-sa, he thought. Fairy-like. How befitting! She couldn’t be so perfect.
Now driving through the empty streets of Shiraz’s late night, he neared Parisa’s neighborhood. He remembered the day they changed their meeting place. Parisa had shown no surprise at his suggestion and agreed that at the Naderi Café they ran the risk of being spotted. Still, they both acted as though her husband didn’t even exist. Parisa never seemed bothered by the gold band on his second finger.
A man of reason, Moradi had never done anything so rash in his entire life. His knowledge of romance up to that point had been a few hopeless crushes in his youth. His pre-marital experience with women consisted of a few visits to the houses of pleasure and one time of being seduced by a neighbor’s wife, which left him feeling used. None of those women touched his heart, nor had he respected them afterwards. Then he got married. Rana’s serenity had impressed him and she certainly fitted the profile of a good wife. He was proud to have her as his life’s partner and for years went through a programmed life with the same passion he gave his other duties. Soon they were a family with all its simple joys, responsibilities and troubles. And, now this!
Moradi stopped at a red light and thought of the new meaning Parisa had given to all the amorous clichés he had laughed at before meeting her. He could see why so much of the world’s art, music and poems focused on love. On his first night with Parisa, he had awakened at dawn, stared at her sleepy face in the moonlight, and sensed the fine line between love and madness.
Then he thought of how sad he had felt to look at Rana just minutes ago. All that was left in him for her was compassion with heavy guilt smeared on it. He couldn’t touch her any more, not now that he knew the meaning of truly intimate touch. He had never felt for Rana the extreme physical attraction he experienced toward Parisa. The flame of this forbidden love was a passion that he didn’t even know he had in him. No one had appreciated him the way Parisa did, and no woman made him feel as grand as he felt with her.
The light changed and he drove on. He couldn’t talk to anyo
ne about Parisa. Even when his best friend Nader brought up the subject he cut him off. She was a secret treasure he had stumbled upon and it was best not to share the information. How could any man let her go? Moradi never dared to discuss her previous marriage. Following her divorce, with no children and still a few relatives in this town, Parisa moved to her small townhouse in Shiraz. He offered to help, but she raised her head with dignity and responded, “Money is the evil in all relationships. I won’t let it come between us.” And she meant it. She may not care what people said behind her back, but had enough rules of her own to live by. W hen he bought her an expensive pearl ring, she gave it back. “Please, Farhad. Don’t make me feel cheap!” And that was the only time he saw her tears.
Over the past months, he had mentioned Parisa to two people: his best friend, Nader, and his sister Badri. Nader said he was crazy to cheat on Rana. Badri understood. The city had its own whispers.
Parisa never spoke about the future. Once, when he mentioned his family’s long tradition of lasting marriages, she had smiled wisely and said, “Please don’t explain what I’ve never questioned.” But why didn’t she? It had always been he who brought up the future, as if the repetition was needed to convince him. What would his life be like if he had met Parisa sooner? Parisa seemed content with living her life one day at a time. Not once did she acknowledge the disrespectful glances of the neighbors, or complain about their whispers. His love for her had grown to a point where it hurt not to be with her and the mere thought of losing her made him crazy. But when he finally gathered enough courage to propose marriage, she seemed shocked. “Marry?” she had said and laughed bitterly. “For what?”
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