My aunts have done everything they can to make our trip pleasant. I feel sorry for the way they bring up the past. It’s as though by doing so, they hope some of their sweet memories may rub off. Aunt Mandy tells me stories of their best summers on the shores of the Caspian Sea. She tells me how they went swimming, dancing and even peach picking. She tells me grownups dressed up and went to the casino while kids made bonfires at the beach and a servant helped them to roast corn-on-the-cob. None of that is easy to picture when all I see is their long robes, dark scarves and a society that leaves little room for fun.
“You look beautiful,” Aunt Mandy says.
I chuckle. “In this?” I’m wearing pants and a silk top, but it’s all covered under my Islamic garb.
“Even in that,” she says and smiles. “You’d look good even in a burlap sac!”
“Thank you.” I no longer question her odd expressions.
None of my mom’s sisters resembles her and yet there’s a family thing going, a similarity in the way they walk, the sideway glances they give me. Aunt Soraya’s giggle is exactly like Mom’s. I’m most comfortable around Aunt Mandy. Maybe it’s the language, or because I’m staying with her, but I also think we have more in common. She teaches English at a high school and is the only relative with whom I can have a normal conversation.
Today, Uncle Jamshid will drive and he offers me the front seat to see more of the city.
“Do you like Iran?” he asks me for the umpteenth time.
That’s the first question everybody asks and I have trained myself to guess the level of their English from the depth of their accents. At first, I used to elaborate on the points I liked, until I realized they’d be just as happy with a nod or to hear me say, Kheili—a lot.
And I do mean a lot. With each passing day, I am more impressed by its contrasts. The superhighways, tall buildings and subway system are all notable, yet it’s no longer a surprise to see a donkey on the street, a dilapidated building in the best section of town or to find an incredible mess on its sidewalks. I figure those must be what they showed on the news abroad, things that had also caught the eyes of the cameramen. Did I really expect this to be a nomadic society riding camels? The huge green signs above the highways are much like ours back home, except I can’t read most of them. Such similarities to the US give the place a surreal look. It’s as if I’m seeing all this in my sleep because one moment I’m close to home and the next I find myself in the land of Ali Baba. Here the sounds are too loud, the smells too strong and the foods, even the ones Mom has made for me before, look the same but taste different.
“You must be excited to see your sister, no?” Aunt Mandy says.
I nod, but can’t find words to add.
“Excited” doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. It’s as though I’m about to see a ghost, a good ghost. At the same time, I am conscious of the fact that she connects me more than anyone else to my real father. We talk about Vida, but no one has mentioned his name. It’s a taboo subject and sometimes I think there must have been frictions between him and my mom’s family at some point. That no one asks how I feel about him is just as well because, if they did, I wouldn’t have a simple answer. To see Vida may be a reunion, but the word doesn’t begin to describe what I have in mind for the now Colonel Moradi.
“Have you talked to her?” my aunt asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet. But she sounds nice.”
“Very nice.” Uncle Jamshid jumps is. “Vida very nice person!”
Aunt Mandy tells me how Vida makes a point of visiting all the aunts. The more I hear about my sister, the more I like her. I sure couldn’t be that nice if I’d been the one left behind.
I look out the side window at this busy city. Tehran has many attractive sights, but overall I can’t say it’s beautiful. There’s no particular pattern to its architecture, it’s just been built, and in some areas over expanded. Luxurious modern buildings are adjacent to a shabby old bazaar where the air smells of tobacco and spices. Even under the Islamic robes, one can see how some women are overdressed for this time of day. Here and there I notice a lock of bleached blond hair, red nail polish, or flashy jewelry. They mingle with ease around the bazaar, pass the beggars on the sidewalk, and haggle with store owners. I don’t know if it’s the way our T V back home has conditioned me, but each time we’re out of the house, I expect chaos, even an outbreak of violence. Something about this place both allures and frightens me at the same time.
“That is Khomeini,” Uncle Jamshid points to a banner over the street. I’ve seen the Ayatollah’s face in the media, but there are a hundred versions of it around Tehran and they vary based on the artist’s impression. The one we just passed seemed angry, definitely not his best.
“Do people miss him?” I ask.
Uncle Jamshid looks at me, but waits for Aunt Mandy to interpret before responding. “Oh,” he says and switches to Persian for my aunt to translate.
“In the privacy of our car and with no fear of the SAVAMA I can tell you this. We thought things might change after him; unfortunately it has been much worse. He sure raised a lot of snakes in his sleeve.”
I think about that for a while and marvel at the sharpness of some Persian expressions. I want to ask if Khomeini knew about the snakes in his sleeve, or if they grew there unbeknownst to him, but unsure of whose side my uncle is on, I decide it best not to.
I’m not surprised when an entire family loaded on a motorcycle passes by. At the light, a woman wrapped in a black chador drags a child by the hand and zigzags through traffic.
Making this trip was the right thing to do. Even if I don’t achieve what I have set out to do, being here is helping me to understand my mother’s background better. Each day I seem to chisel a bit more at the wall she has built between me and the life she had put behind us.
I see a couple of planes above and picture Vida in one of them. There are rumors of my father accompanying her on this trip. Knowing that none of my aunts would welcome him, I wonder why he wouldn’t fly separately. But for all I know, he could be up there, sitting next to Vida. We are supposed to greet the bride at the airport and I can’t even guess what I might do if indeed he is with her.
It’s good that Mom has decided to stay home with Grandma while we pick up Vida. I’m happy we will stop by Aunt Soraya’s first as I’m dying to finally see Grandma, even though I’m prepared for her not knowing me. I’m also hoping to talk with Mom. Does she feel as I do, or is it worse for her? And how does Vida feel about all this?
“Why so quiet?” Aunt Mandy says.
I smile. This is the first time that anyone has called me quiet. But if I am, it may be because I feel so out of place.
We arrive at Aunt Soraya’s shortly before noon. The iron door to the garden is ajar and I see Uncle Ardeshir, holding a striped green hose and watering the lawn. Regardless of our language barrier, my uncle is quite chatty. “Befarma - come in, this your house!” he says, and puts the watering hose down. He walks over to us and insists I should enter the hallway before him. “We have not children. I like everybody like is my children.” He receives an extra hug from me just for that remark.
As we cross the vast yard that has an abundance of fruit trees and roses, I notice a couple of wooden platforms under a window. Aunt Mandy has told me how years ago people slept outside during hot summer nights, the mountain breeze offering comfort in the absence of central air conditioning.
I nod to the beds and whisper to my aunt, “Do they sleep here?”
Aunt Mandy shakes her head. “Not any more. Ardeshir won’t allow it.”
“Why not?”
“I think he worries about Soraya being out there in her night-gown.” She gives a long sigh. “Ever since the revolution, people don’t even use their swimming pools for fear the neighbors might peep.” She turns to me with a smile. “But maybe if I repair the mosquito net, Jamshid will assemble our outdoor beds and you and I can give it a try.”
Uncle Ardesh
id holds my elbow and leads me to the guest room. “You here first. More person not here.” He then goes to the staircase and calls out, “Soraya jan. You come here.”
We hear aunt Soraya’s giggle and I understand the word ‘Englissee’ before Mom joins her laughter. I gather the two sisters find it funny that he has spoken English to his wife. I link arms with my uncle to show I appreciate that.
The house has a faint smell of mothballs. Heavy velvet curtains block the sun and a ceiling fan is going full-blast. As soon as we are seated, in comes Dayeh, followed by a younger woman who carries a tray of tea. I am grateful to Aunt Soraya for finding Dayeh’s whereabouts and even more than that, to the old nanny for making the long journey. She must be in her nineties.
Though an icon of Mom’s past, I feel even closer to Dayeh now that she is with us. She studies me through the shield of tears. Ever since our arrival here, I’ve had more than my share of being stared at. Yet, when Dayeh does it, it’s neither rude nor unpleasant. I sense her approval, as if I have turned out precisely how she wanted me to, that I am the harvest of her field.
It’s hard to fathom the kind of pressure that would prompt anyone to leave a place where so much affection is gained effortlessly. How did my mother cope with her lonely life in a foreign land?
A commotion in the hallway tells me Grandma and Aunt Tara must have arrived. They enter the living room. Grandma is carrying an elegant walking cane, but I notice she prefers to lean on Aunt Tara. She has aged much more than I expected and seems heavier, too. As always, she smells of a good perfume, but gone are the fancy clothes and stylish hairdo. I go forward and give her a big hug. “Good to see you, Grandma.” Her face takes on the expression of a lost child. “It’s Yalda, Grandma, I’ve come all the way from the US to see you.” Her eyes glaze over. There’s no recognition.
Mom rushes over, helps her into a wingback chair and tucks a cushion behind her. She then greets me with a tighter than normal hug, perhaps hoping to make up for the fact that Grandma doesn’t remember me.
Aunt Tara is wearing a sage-green cotton dress and I notice how the matching Hermes scarf she slips off her head is meant to stay on her shoulders as an accessory. Even though she’s not the prettiest of the four, her poise and the way she pulls her graying hair into a bun give her the elegance of a ballet teacher.
She embraces me in a tight hug. “Tehran weather is good. It make you more beautiful!” she says, and everyone laughs. By now I’m used to such pleasant exchanges, they call this ta-arof and it seems to be a form of social etiquette.
The men come in last and suddenly everyone is talking, but nobody offers a translation.
How good is Vida’s English? I wonder.
I check the time and realize that with the long drive from the airport and in Tehran’s heavy traffic, it’ll be two to three more hours before we will return and Mom will see Vida.
My uncle says something and all at once, everyone stands, which to me indicates they are preparing to leave.
I whisper to Mom, “Do I really have to go? I hate to leave you here.”
She strokes my hair and smiles apologetically, “You’re the younger sister. It’s expected of you.” And when I don’t move, she gives my back a gentle push.
Aunt Tara grabs my elbow. “You go my car. Mandana see you many time,” she says and plants a kiss on my cheek.
Back into our Islamic shrouds, we jam into three cars and hit the busy streets. As we drive to the airport, I picture Mom sitting down with Dayeh and trying to make some conversation with Grandma. She must be even more nervous than I am.
I check my watch again. It will be anther hour before I will finally meet my sister and possibly face my father, too. Ever since Aunt Mandy hinted at that possibility by mentioning that his presence will be needed for the pre-wedding arrangements, anxiety hasn’t left me alone. I tell little Yalda that there’s nothing in this for her, that the man is probably too old and it’s much too late for him to begin playing the father role, but that doesn’t stop her from checking the time every few minutes.
We pass the large roundabout and turn into the airport boulevard. A heavy-set policeman is standing by his car on the side of the road. For all I know, the handsome Major Moradi could now be as fat as this man. But why should I even care what he looks like? Will he speak to me? My heart drops at the thought. I am shocked to realize that after an entire month of preparation, I am still not ready for this. Is that why Mom didn’t come?
Little Yalda may be excited to see her dad, but it’s too late for me. I’m here to greet my sister. Maybe the Colonel had enough sense to take a different flight. And if not, maybe he will slip away before Mom’s family spots him. I curl in the corner of the backseat and for the first time admit to my deep fright. With each mile we drive, my anxiety grows another notch.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
WE ENTER THE LOBBY OF THE AIRPORT and the smell makes me feel I have stepped into a huge ashtray. People push and shove without apologizing, and their chatter makes it hard to hear the announcements that come in all languages. A few kids are chasing each other and screaming, but it doesn’t seem to bother anyone else.
My eyes search the crowd, but then I check the time and realize the flight won’t land for another half hour. My uncle leads the way to a row of chairs. No one bothers to ask me what I want to do. This is Iran. You follow the leader and do as they plan. Even invitations are never a question and need no response. “We are going to Aunt Soraya’s for lunch.” End of subject.
“This way,” Uncle Ardeshir says with a nod and I notice he won’t touch my shoulder the way he does at home. By now I’m familiar with such social limitations. Under the Islamic law, only men who are immediate family can have the slightest physical contact with a woman, and even then, they’ll need proof: a birth certificate, marriage license, or what have you. It has taken me a week to finally stop expecting a man’s handshake.
What am I doing here?
My feet are so heavy, it’s as though little Yalda has wrapped her arms around my ankles, begging me to stay with her. I know it’s time to let the child go, but that’s not as easy as I had thought.
When it’s time, I follow my aunt to the middle of the lobby. Aunt Soraya stops and waits for the rest to catch up. There’s a huge monitor on one of the walls, showing the customs area, where overseas passengers wait in line. For a moment, I wish they had a similar screen for domestic flights so that I’d get a glimpse of my sister before facing her. Or is it Moradi who I want to see on a screen?
We pass through the terminal and reach a gate. Even I can read the heart-shaped number five above the black curtain. Two bearded men and a veiled woman are sitting on their plastic chairs, chatting. They each have a picture ID hanging around their neck and I gather they must be waiting to receive—or inspect—the incoming passengers. As more people gather, we form a tight frontline behind the rope. I listen to my thumping heart and wonder if I will recognize my father. Will he recognize me?
For the first time I’m experiencing an incredible adrenaline rush. This can’t be fear, though I do understand why Mom had been afraid that Moradi would have detained me as a minor. But what can he possibly do now that I’m an adult? He was never there before, never mattered and didn’t play a role in my life. What makes him so important all of a sudden?
Each time the black curtain is lifted, I hold my breath in anticipation. Now the passengers come out two and three at a time. More women are wearing black chadors than I’ve seen around Tehran and I figure that must be how it is in smaller towns.
“Vida!” Aunt Mandy’s joyful voice turns my attention to where she is running now.
A young woman in a lightweight raincoat and turquoise-blue scarf has just come through and she turns to the voice and rushes to embrace my aunt. My tears make it hard to see. Mesmerized, the rest of our group is standing back. It’s only when Vida puts her hands on my aunt’s shoulders and pulls back that I notice the tall man in a gray suit st
anding a couple of steps away. In civilian clothes and wearing glasses, with so much gray hair and a white moustache, he looks nothing like the pictures in Mom’s shoebox.
The man is staring directly at me. He won’t move, paralyzed. I can’t understand why I wish this moment would last longer. Aunt Tara touches my back and gives it a push, but my feet are in heavy cement. Aunt Mandy says something in Vida’s ear and now it’s Vida walking over to me. I hear someone sniff. Vida’s uncanny resemblance to Mom, especially the bashful smile, makes it easy to hug her, to kiss that familiar face. She is much taller than me and as she pulls me into her arms, I welcome her soft scent of Jasmine and rest my head on her shoulder. “Yalda joon,” she whispers and I feel her fingers stroking the back of my head. I have a sister. I have a loving big sister! Engulfed in newfound warmth, I am suddenly at enough ease to face anything. I look over her shoulder and prepare to meet my father.
But he’s gone.
I look around where he had stood a minute ago. At his height, it should be easy to spot him in a crowd. I scan the room in all directions, but there’s no sign of the man.
“Baba had to leave because a friend is giving him a ride,” Vida says. She has read my mind. “I’m sure he’ll make some other arrangement to visit you.”
Like a stubborn child, I look away and shrug, but I’m furious. Come on, Yalda, you didn’t really expect anything different. Now I’m not so sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this, not being ignored. Pride had not allowed me the enthusiasm to meet him, but I was in no way prepared for not being met.
On the way home, Vida and I are moved to Aunt Mandy’s bigger car while Uncle Jamshid takes care of her luggage.
“I asked Bijan—my fiancé—not to come to the airport,” Vida explains. “I wanted this to be our time, just me and my little sister.”
Moon Daughter Page 26
