Mr. Eskandary is short and a bit overweight, and despite the summer heat, he insists on wearing a three-piece suit. He is also one of the few men I’ve seen wearing a necktie in public. We are investigating the different possibilities to petition on Mom’s behalf for her divorce. A ray of sunlight comes through the single small window, but the room is rather dark. I imagine my grandfather sitting in this same chair for the exact reason that has brought me here. I watch Eskandary scan through a folder and wonder if I’ll ever understand the Islamic law.
“As we discussed on the phone, Islam allows a man to retain four legal wives,” Mr. Easkanday says. “The law only states that he should treat his wives equally. That’s where I hoped the hardship your mother has endured would help us.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Unfortunately, no. There is no evidence of mistreatment and it was your mother who abandoned her spouse, and not vice-versa.”
His English, despite the heavy accent, is clear and strong. In fact, he sometimes uses words that sound too bookish, but maybe that’s his lawyerly nature, trying the most impressive vocabulary.
“This fact may astonish you,” Mr. Eskandary says, “But he still has inclusive power.”
“What do you mean?”
“The law gives the man full control over a wife. For example, in order to leave the country, your mother will require his authorization.”
I’ve known that, but realize there’s more to learn. It doesn’t help to be reminded how none of my law books are of much help here.
Our day’s work is done and as I get up, I tell him I still want to go to court with this.
He extends a hand for me to shake, a sure sign of defiance toward the new regime. “Rest assured, Miss Moradi. If there’s a way to obtain your mother’s freedom I will find it.”
I am tempted to remind him that my last name is Ameli, but decide we both have bigger things to worry about. As I leave his office, it’s clear I shouldn’t build up too much hope.
Aunt Soraya’s beautician is all ours for the day. The entire salon is closed to the public so the bride and family can enjoy all kinds of beauty treatments. Disregarding the Islamic ban, lively dance music blasts throughout the place. There’s a young girl in charge of serving Turkish coffee and pastries, and if it weren’t for the strong odor of hair color and cosmetic products, this could very well be a party.
Aunt Badri has finally materialized. Making a special appearance all the way from Shiraz, she arrived last night and is staying at a hotel. So this is the first time we meet. When she first sees me, she comes close and studies my face closely. “You turned out more of an Ameli, no?” I’m not sure if she means that as a compliment, but decide that’s how I’ll take it. She doesn’t know a good hairdresser in Tehran, so Aunt Tara picked her up on the way here. Apart from that comment, despite her good English she had nothing more to say to me. She did say a few things to Mom and mentioned my name while giving me a few suspicious glances, but they speak Farsi and I am not even sure I want to know what she says. Now sitting under the dryer, she dips her long nose into a fashion magazine and I decide I’m not going to like her.
This is the first time I see Mom with rollers in her hair. Back home, she only blow-dries her hair and either ties it back or wears it in a bun. Vida is behind a striped curtain, getting a facial. I’m the first to be done with my simple chignon, although the way the woman pulled, pushed, and teased my hair was anything but simple. The only English words she could utter were an occasional “Peeleez” and also for each one of my “Ouch”s she had a “So sorry” to offer.
Mom stops reading her Persian magazine and shouts from under the dryer, “How do you like your hair?”
I mouth my words. “Love it!”
She gives me a broad smile and takes out a pencil to do a crossword. It is fascinating to watch people do that in Persian, going right to left, especially since I don’t even know the alphabet. Mom seems to have slid back into her old lifestyle with such ease, you’d think the past decades didn’t exist, that she was frozen all these years and has just been thawed.
I glance in the mirror and have to admit, the woman has done a good job with my unruly hair. With nothing more to do, time goes by too slowly. There are a couple of French hairstyle magazines, but everything else is in Farsi. Why didn’t I bring a book? I change seats, drink tea and eat another cream puff. Everyone else’s empty Turkish coffee cup is sitting upside down on a napkin, waiting for the owner of the salon to read fortunes. I couldn’t swallow the thick contraption; otherwise I would have loved the ritual.
We have brought our evening-wear, shoes, and accessories. The young girl who served pastries is now running around, helping us one by one to get dressed in the side room.
When Mom is done, I’m not too crazy about her coif. It looks a bit too formal, a contrast to her subtle style. But after she is dressed, I see how it complements her blue evening gown with its collar raised behind her graceful neck.
“Your mom has really aged,” Aunt Badri whispers, but loud enough for everyone to hear. I am now thankful that the salon’s workers don’t understand English. She then turns to me. “You must learn to ‘esspeak ’ Farsi.” And just then Vida emerges from the corner room looking better than any bride I have ever seen. In a way, she now resembles Mom in that old wedding picture and I wonder if I’m the only one noticing that.
“MashAllah,” Mom whispers and I know this is her word for knock on wood. She bites her lower lip, a sure sign that she is fighting tears. Everyone applauds and someone brings in a tray of burning incense. Smoke fills the room and it smells exotically good. Vida is blushing and she seems pleased. A female photographer appears out of nowhere and starts taking pictures. I’m not sure what I had expected, but as beautiful as Vida looks, I’m disappointed that her gown is no different from what a bride back home might wear.
There’s a knock on the door and a man announces something. Mom whispers to me, “The groom is waiting downstairs.”
“Isn’t it bad luck if he sees her?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “The groom is expected to bring flowers and drive his bride to the ceremony. That’s our tradition.”
What kind of ceremony will Paul and I have if we ever get married?
Although Vida has a veil, the hairdresser carefully drapes a chiffon scarf over her hair, which Mom explains is to ensure Islamic coverage in public. I’ll never understand these stupid regulations because in her sleeveless gown, she sure doesn’t look so Islamic to me. We each have a similar scarf to see us safely home.
Downstairs, Bijan in his tux is standing next to a silver Mercedes that is covered with many white flowers and resembles a mini float. He hands Vida a bouquet of orchids before helping her into the passenger seat. I notice there’s no kissing, not even touching.
The rest of us pack into two other cars and now all three drivers beep in unison. People wave at us from the sidewalk, other cars join our beeping rhythm, and we’re off. Tehran traffic is not too bad in the afternoon, so there’s a good chance we’ll make it in time for the ceremony at a garden in the suburbs.
I think of the shock of last week when I asked Aunt Mandy, “How come they don’t have their wedding in town, at one of the many hotels?” She looked at me as though that was the weirdest question. “And risk a raid by the committee?” She went on to explain the social ban on gender mixing, loud music, dancing and serving alcohol. Now I know better. As we drive toward this remote garden, I’m wondering if the committee won’t find us, any way.
We exit the highway and turn onto the gravel road that leads to the garden. Strands of colorful lights illuminate the gate. Drivers begin to sound their horns again and a man standing at the gate begins to clap. Dust rises behind the bride’s car and even as we park and get out, remnants of it linger around us. I hold my long skirt up a little as I walk through the dusty lane. There’s a blue partition in the middle of the garden, separating the men’s section from the women’s, and high eno
ugh to block the view.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me it’s not really a mix?” I say to Mom. “All this time I’ve been fretting that we may get arrested.”
“What did you expect?”
“You know, like our family dinners, men and women together, no hejab.”
“You seem to forgot that the crowd here isn’t just family. We dare to mix and next the Komiteh will be here to arrest everyone.”
I nod, though I’m still confused. I can’t understand why we had to come all this way if it didn’t guarantee some degree of privacy. Maybe I will never grasp the strange rules of this place, but tonight all I really care about is Mom. I give her my best smile. I’m here to make sure she enjoys every minute of this, that she is protected, and that Moradi and his woman won’t do anything to upset her.
Loud music can be heard from the men’s section—no doubt an all male band. The sound system on our side is fabulous and a few women have already started dancing, kicking their heels, twirling, swaying their arms. Other guests watch, clap to the rhythm, and encourage the younger girls to join them. A tall woman in a long-sleeved black gown approaches to greet us and she motions to a long table close to the dance floor. The largest orchid arrangement sits in the middle and two of the chairs around it are decorated with white lace. Aunt Mandy and I proceed toward the table, but I notice Mom lags behind. I look back and find her at the entrance, still talking to the tall woman.
“That must be Parisa,” Aunt Mandy whispers.
I can’t mask my shock and turn around for a better look. She is bending her head to hear mom over the loud music and keeps on nodding. “And Mom talks to her?”
My aunt shakes her head in disapproval. “Tell me about it! And this isn’t the first time, either. Did she tell you about coming here yesterday to help her set the sofreh aghd?”
I glare back at the woman, fully aware of my own resentment. Yet as I watch, there’s an aura of serenity about her that surprises me. Dressed in a simple black gown that frames her tall figure with subtle elegance, she is clearly not trying to fit the mother-of-the-bride mold. I also notice a certain politeness, a respectful little bow to Mom now and then. I’m reminded of what my aunt once said. “There’s something about Parisa that makes it difficult to hate her.” But I can try.
Mom seems uncomfortable, but not sad, not even upset. I watch the two of them walk toward the building in the far corner of the garden. Aunt Mandy explains that’s where we shall have the ceremony. My aunt and I sit down and a server brings us tall glasses of sekanjebin. The minty sweet-and-sour drink soothes my dry throat and I use the tall spoon to fish out a few tiny cubes of floating cucumber. The music from the other side of the partition is too loud, making it impossible to talk, so my aunt and I just sit there and watch the guests and their parade of sequined dresses.
“Would you like to go around and meet a few older relatives?” Aunt Mandy asks.
I shake my head and have a feeling she is relieved. What’s the use when I know their first comment is going to be about my failure to learn Farsi? For all I know, this may be the first and last Persian wedding I’ll ever see, and to be sure it’s my only chance to be the bride’s sister. I look around, familiarize myself with faces, and absorb the details. By the time Mom comes back for us, the garden is filled with guests.
“How are all these people going to fit in that tiny building?” I ask her.
She chuckles. “They won’t, honey. Only the close family is allowed to watch the aghd.”
I’m now thinking that with so many regulations, there should be a manual about this for people like me. Mom is acting calm, but I don’t think she’s herself. Something about her pleasant façade is weird. Before she has turned around, I hold her sleeve and whisper, “Was that our beloved Parisa you were talking to?”
She glares at me. “I’m only going to say this once. I don’t know her well, but we are her guests. She could have forbidden my presence here tonight.”
I sneer. “It’s your daughter who’s getting married, Mom. Yours alone.”
“Is she?” Now my mom sounds angry. “That woman raised my child with all the love she had. She did everything that I failed to do.” She is holding my hand a little too tight. “In that sense, she is in a class all her own and the least I can do is show some gratitude.” She clenches her teeth. “And I expect the same from you.”
Mom turns around and starts walking toward the building. As much as I hate to admit it, I know she is right. I follow in silence, a little kid who has just been reprimanded.
My aunts and a few members of the groom’s family join us along the way. I whisper to Mandana, “Is the ceremony private enough for male relatives to be inside?”
She shakes her head. “Men are never allowed in the aghd room, any way.” Then noticing my surprise she adds, “An old practice.”
So at this rate, I may leave the country without really seeing my father.
The small building consists mainly of three connected rooms. I find Mom in the larger room to the right, putting the final touches on the decorations in the middle of the room. There’s a rectangle white cloth on the floor and a single bench next to it. I don’t know half the items of this spread, except for the silver mirror and two candelabras on either side. Then I recognize the open book sitting on a carved wooden stand. That’s the Moradi family’s Koran, the one Mom has kept on her mantle all these years. Even though neither of us is religious, for as long as I can remember she has passed me under it before I went on a trip. She must have brought it along, thinking Vida should have something that holds her history.
The combination of old and new items has created an amazing sofreh, a sort of alter which is both exotic and elegant. There are flowers every where, including two planters of unusually large orchids. The silver mirror is as large as the one on my small dresser. The reflection of candlelight in the mirror enhances the dreamy quality of all this white lace.
“In the old days, it was in this mirror where the bride and groom saw each other’s face for the first time,” Aunt Mandy tells me. She’s still holding a few items that need to go somewhere. “Would you like me to explain the other items?”
I shake my head. “Maybe later. For now, I’m kind of enjoying the mystery.” My thoughts fly back to Paul. Stuck in a Muslims surrounding, it’s even harder to imagine a possible future for the two of us. At the same time, with each passing day I miss him more. I would never survive here, where I only understand a few words, among people who know nothing about my culture, who seem too close for comfort. I love my relatives and appreciate their undivided attention, but oh what I wouldn’t do for a quiet day when I could be alone and invisible.
Loud music followed by everyone clapping announces the bride and groom’s arrival. I look up and see Vida, her veil lowered, her soon-to-be husband holding her elbow. I look beyond them, but only see a few cheering women following. Aunt Soraya helps Vida to sit down, rearranges the train of her gown, and makes room on the bench for Bijan. She then reaches for two sugar cones that are wrapped in lace and adorned with tiny pink flowers. Aunt Mandy beckons me to join her and the women who now hold a white lace over the heads of the bride and groom. In the silence that follows, we hear men talking next door, but then they stop and a man begins to recites verses. I know this must be the clergy because his a rabic words lack the melodic tone of Farsi.
Aunt Soraya starts grinding the two cones together and a dust of sugar falls on the white lace like soft snow. I give Aunt Mandy a questioning look and she whispers, “A shower of sweetness over their joint life.”
Sweetness indeed. Whether it is Baklava, white candies, or cream puffs -- whatever we back home celebrate with a glass of wine, Persians commemorate with something sweet. They also take every chance to celebrate. From the bride’s dress being delivered, to the new shoes we bought, everything required a shirini—sweetness.
Aunt Tara picks up a large needle that has a rainbow of silk threads. Everyone laughs as she chants some
thing while putting stitches into the lace we are holding. “She is sewing the tongues of the groom’s mother and sister—an old ritual, something to laugh about.” Judging by what I’ve seen of Aunt Badri, I’m now wondering if they neglected to sew her tongue at Mom’s wedding.
The clergy says in a louder voice, “Khanoom Vida Moradi, blah blah blah?” Vida doesn’t respond and Aunt Tara shouts something back that makes everyone laugh again. Aunt Mandana translates, “He asked Vida to say yes, but she’s not supposed to, not until the third time.”
I see Parisa standing outside, just short of the room’s entrance. When Aunt Mandy finds me staring, she whispers, “Women in black shouldn’t be in the room. It’s bad luck.” I want to believe this is a coincidence, but whatever her reason, I’m glad it is Mom who is here, now nodding her permission to Vida. Now that Mom has given her blessing, I notice everyone is looking to the adjoining room. Both parents’ permission is required. My heart leaps. I look at Mom, whose eyes are also fixated in that direction. Despite the heavy makeup, suddenly she looks too pale. Finally, a man’s deep voice is heard as he says something with Vida-jan in it.
Throughout the next minutes, while the bride and groom say their “Baleh”—yes, the man’s voice echoes in my head. “Vida–jan,” he had said. Would he ever call my name in that tone? Loud cheers followed by music and clapping drown the voices in my head. Mom reaches into the pouch she’s been carrying and showers the couple with tiny white candies and small golden coins. Women close in and one by one, they take turns to kiss Vida, kiss Bijan, and congratulate my mom. I keep an eye on the archway that connects this room to the next, still waiting, waiting for my father to walk through.
Moon Daughter Page 28
