A Bitter Veil (3 page)

The time Anna spent in Paris visiting her mother that summer was torture. Her mother lived on the Left Bank, off boulevard Saint-Germain not far from the Sorbonne. Anna wandered the neighborhood, past Notre Dame, the cafés, the tiny farmers’ market that popped up as if by magic on Wednesdays and Saturdays. She often ended up in the Jardin du Luxembourg where, despite the riot of flowers and blossoms, she felt colorless and drab. She was jealous of every couple whose arms were wrapped around each other, who shared secret smiles and giggles.

She and Nouri spoke on the phone twice a week, frantic calls in which they professed undying love, but once they disconnected, she was wracked by doubt. He was an only son, and although he had a sister, he was the heir to the family name. No doubt they treated him like a prince. The brave hero who’d returned from the front. He was probably having the time of his life. Though he claimed to miss her more than she did him, and he alluded to intimate parts of her body only he knew, Anna couldn’t help wondering whether he might be eyeing Iranian girls the same way he once looked at her. Iranian girls were dark and fiery and beautiful. Her pale blonde coloring couldn’t compete.

After one such call, she met her mother in a small café on the rue des Écoles. Julianne Schroder divorced Anna’s father when Anna was five and moved back to her native France. Though Anna flew to Paris every summer, and sometimes for Christmas too, her mother was more like an aunt, or a cousin, than a mother. She was a painter, and spent most days in a bright, sunlit studio. Anna was allowed to spend time with her in the studio, but her mother never pried. She kept her distance. Whenever Anna revealed a piece of herself in conversation, her mother would nod or purse her lips. Anna guessed her mother had decided she’d surrendered her right to judge Anna when she abandoned her so many years ago. She didn’t want to believe her mother just didn’t care.

She slipped through the door of the café. The smell of coffee mixed with cigarette smoke saturated the air. It was early afternoon, but the place was crowded and cramped, at least for her American sensibility. But Americans had an exaggerated need for room, her mother insisted. Here in France everyone rubbed elbows, apparently not bothered by the invasion of their personal space.

Her mother was already there, a Gauloise dangling between her lips. Anna had cautioned her about smoking many times, but her mother always made that dismissive blowing out “pee-ue” sound the French do so well. Anna was a less beautiful version of her mother, who had enormous blue eyes and thick blonde hair she wore in a twist. Her body still looked like a teenager’s, and she could wear a scarf over a black sweater and jeans and look like she’d just stepped out of a house of couture. Next to her, Anna felt clumsy and big, and, well, American.

Her mother waved her over to the tiny table. “
Bonjour, ma petite
. Gerard is going to meet us here. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Anna sat. Gerard was the latest of her mother’s lovers, all scruffy men with beards and vague intellectual pretensions. Many of them were Communists, her mother confided, but some were existentialists who lived dreary, disappointing lives at the same time they sought happiness and contentment.

“I thought we could go to the cinema later,” her mother said.

Anna nodded. Despite her faults, her mother was the one who kindled Anna’s love affair with film. Her mother would take her to see Antonioni, Bergman, Chabrol, Truffaut—sometimes two films a day. Anna suspected it was a way for them to pass time together without really communicating. Perhaps because of that, Anna had fallen in love with the celluloid stories played out on the screen. She loved the larger-than-life characters, who, with just a flick of a finger or the narrowing of an eye, spoke volumes. She loved the editing which could take her from a Paris village to New York, or from the present to the past in less than a second. They went to films in the early evening, after which her mother typically brought her back to the flat, said goodnight, and went out again. When dawn was creeping over the rooftops of Paris, her mother returned, her long blonde hair hugging her shoulders, smelling of men and sex.

Once Anna asked her mother why she left her father. “It was a marriage of convenience,” her mother said after a long pause. “We were—are—very different people.” She was quick to add that Anna was the only worthwhile thing from the marriage. But if that was true, why did her mother live seven thousand miles away? And why, Anna thought, with a frisson of resentment, did she seem so happy? Anna used to wonder if she would be as vibrant and alive as her mother if she moved to Paris. Now she knew it was Nouri who fueled her energy and joy. Stripped of his body, his smell, his hands on her, she was a pale shadow of a woman.

Her mother ordered a Croque Monsieur. “What about you, darling? What will you have?”

Nouri’s absence was so visceral and raw it scraped the inside of her stomach. “Nothing.”

Her mother frowned. “You’ve been eating poorly since you arrived.”

Anna shrugged.

Her mother stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. Then she looked at Anna, a knowledgeable glint in her eyes. “You are in love.”

How did she know?

As if she had spoken the words aloud, her mother said, “I know the signs.” She waved down the waiter. “Henri, a carafe of wine for us today.” She looked back at Anna. “Tell me about him.”

Anna smiled and told her mother everything. She didn’t mind. Talking about Nouri made him seem closer.

Her mother listened keenly, perhaps for the first time in Anna’s life. When Anna finished, her mother lit another Gauloise and slowly exhaled a stream of smoke. “I know some Iranians here. They are exiles. Mostly Communist.”

Anna nodded. “Nouri says the Communist Party was expelled by the shah.”

Her mother tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. “There are other Iranians as well. Muslim clerics.”

“I didn’t know.”

Her mother hesitated. “Is your Nouri…religious?”

“Oh, no,” Anna said. “He’s studying engineering. He’ll go back to Iran once he has his degree.”

Her mother inclined her head. “And will you go with him?”

Anna had asked herself the same question. She didn’t know.

“I see,” her mother said. “So. Do you have a photo of your lover?”

Anna fished in her bag and extracted a shot of Nouri she’d snapped one night after sex. His hair was tousled, and his heavy lidded eyes said he couldn’t wait to go again. She handed the photo to her mother.

Her mother examined it. “Ahh. Now I understand.” She gazed at Anna as if she was seeing her for the first time. As if her daughter had suddenly become a woman. Though her cheeks got hot, Anna felt a perverse sense of pride. She had just become a member of a sorority she never knew existed. She took the photo back from her mother and smiled.

But her mother didn’t.

Nouri lay on Anna’s bed in August—their bed now, he reminded himself. A small fan blew desultory air across his body. Anna, who, like Nouri, had just returned from abroad, was lying beside him, so still he wondered if she had fallen asleep. He turned his head. She was staring at him. She was always watching him. As if she was afraid he would disappear if she looked away.

He rolled over and cupped her chin in his hand. She was so blonde and waiflike, so different from anything he’d known before. Like one of those yellow-haired porcelain dolls his parents used to bring his sister from Europe. From the best shop in Geneva, his parents would crow.

He kissed Anna’s nose—it was small and straight with a slight tilt at the tip. She nestled into the crook of his arm. Her scent drifted over him. Since they’d reunited, he was never without the smell of her on or near him. Sometimes it caught him unawares; he would shift or turn around, and a hint of her wafted over him. He loved it. He was only half teasing when he called the similarity in their names a sign. They belonged to each other, body, soul, and scent.

Anna rolled on top, her long hair trailing across his chest. Since their return, she had grown more sexually assertive. Sometimes she even took charge. She gave him a half-smile, another new habit she’d adopted. Part come-on, part mystery, it hinted at depths and secrets and untold pleasures, and it drove him crazy. Whatever she’d picked up in Paris he liked. He let her do her magic.

Afterwards they napped. When they woke, it was dusk but still steam bath hot. August was a tricky month in Chicago, and sometimes even the setting sun offered no relief. Still, when people in Chicago complained, Nouri turned a deaf ear. Until you’d lived through a Tehran summer, when the air scalded your throat so relentlessly it was hard to breathe, you didn’t understand what heat was. He went into the bathroom to shower. Anna joined him. He admired her pale body, lithe and slim. There was not an ounce of fat on her.

Anna made a cold eggplant dish for dinner, which she served with salad and flatbread. Although she tried to hide it, he spotted the Middle-Eastern cookbook she brought back from Paris. She was making an effort to prepare food he knew. But when he thanked her, she waved a dismissive hand and said it was healthier. He tried to show his appreciation, but her cooking was uneven, and he was still hungry much of the time. Sometimes he snuck into McDonalds for a Big Mac.

By the time they finished eating, it was dark, but the heat had finally lifted. They decided to walk toward the Point on Lake Michigan. He laced his fingers through hers. “I need to finalize the topic of my thesis.”

“Oh? What are you considering?”

“I haven’t decided. But I know the criteria.”

“What are they?”

“I am to describe the problem to be solved, analyze why previous solutions to this problem are unsatisfactory, propose a better solution, and then compare its benefits and drawbacks to what has gone before.” He swatted at mosquitoes. They had to be nearing the lagoons.

“Civil engineering is broad, isn’t it?” Anna said. “There is structural, construction, environmental, municipal. You have so many choices.”

He slipped his arm around her. She’d been studying his field. It was so like her. To make sure she understood
his
world. “I know. The proposal is due next month. I have twenty minutes to present it to the heads of the department.”

A fishy smell permeated the air. They were definitely near the water.

“You’ve said you want to contribute to your country. Help modernize it. Like the shah.”

“Not like the shah. He buys weapons, expands the army, enforces cultural edicts people do not like, and calls it modernization. That is not my plan.”

“Okay.” She was quiet for a moment. Then, “What if you wrote a thesis about bringing electricity or running water to a specific rural village? If you do it right, it might even serve as a template for the real thing. When…,” she paused, “…you go back.”

He thought about it. Of course.

“You could choose a place where you already know the condition of the soil. Or the closest water supply,” she added.

An idea jumped into his mind. “You know something? My parents have a summer home on the Caspian Sea. There are villages nearby. Some are in the mountains, but others…” He stopped. “The Caspian is salt water, but only slightly. If I could figure out a way to desalinate the water—it wouldn’t have to be as rigorous as the methods they’re developing for the ocean—perhaps the water could be pumped from the sea into the village.” He felt mental cylinders clicking into place. His enthusiasm mounted. “Oh, Anna, what a wonderful idea!”

Even in the dark he knew that half-smile was on her lips. “It is perfect! You are perfect!” He kissed her on the nape of her neck, a spot he knew was one of her favorites. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. This girl, this marvelous American girl, completed not only his body but his mind, too. At that moment he knew, without a doubt, that Anna was the woman he would marry. They would go back to Iran. She would teach; he would be a famous engineer. They would serve their country and live a perfect life. He would bask in the respect accorded him for choosing such a progressive, desirable woman. They would call him Mohandes.

*****

The fall semester began on a sunny September day, and the pace of their lives quickened. Anna’s three seminars required hours of reading. She also did the shopping, cooking, and laundry. Nouri saw her only at night. Nouri’s schedule was more flexible—he had blocks of time supposedly devoted to researching his thesis—but he was busy. He had discovered a new pastime.

Over the summer in Tehran, Nouri and Hassan had engaged in long discussions about the shah and the state of the country. They agreed that the shah’s massive military buildup had caused economic and social dislocation. They also agreed that the corruption, the inflation, and the gap between the rich and poor were potentially disastrous. Although the shah did try to fix some things, his clumsy actions alienated the very classes who supported him. Even a new prime minister didn’t help. Iran’s economy was in shambles.

Hassan also deplored the encroaching westernization. “There are over sixty thousand foreigners in Iran,” he said. “And forty-five thousand of them are Americans. We see only Western fashions, music, films, and television. What has happened to our culture?” He confessed to Nouri that he had joined a group of students with similar complaints.

Their discussions continued via letters. In his latest, Hassan wrote that more people were speaking out. Amnesty International had condemned the number of political prisoners in Iran; even the American president was making noise about human rights. The opposition was strengthening. Hassan encouraged Nouri to get involved.

“You are in the belly of the beast,” he wrote. “If you can convince the American people to join our cause, their leaders will not be far behind.”

Nouri took Hassan’s letter into the bedroom.

Anna looked up from her book. “What is it?” Was her voice sharper than usual or was it just his imagination?

He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers gently through her hair.

She put the book down and her body went slack. She seemed tired, but she was still ready for him. He swung his legs up on the bed and lay down.

“I’ve had another letter from Hassan.”

“Oh?”

“Opposition to the shah is building. People are organizing. Speaking out.”

“What opposition?”

He propped himself up on his elbow. “Lawyers, judges, university professors. Professional groups like the National Front, the IFM, and—”

“The who?”

“The Iran Freedom Movement. Anna, the revolutionary spirit is spreading. People are writing open letters demanding the restoration of the constitution. For the first time I think there is a real chance we might get rid of the shah.”

She ran her fingers up his arm, letting them sweep across his skin.

“You miss being there, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I have been lucky to lead a privileged life when there are many who do not. But America could do so much, if people just understood how evil the shah is.”

“But you’re supposed to be here to study. What about your thesis?”

Nouri waved a hand. “Sometimes there are more important matters than academics.”

Anna’s eyebrows arched. “Your family has prospered under the shah. Your father supports him. They socialize together. What are they going to say?”

“The oil industry will do well no matter who’s in power. And my father’s support is one of convenience. Believe me, he wasn’t happy when the shah declared war on profiteers and exiled those industrialists. You should have heard him.”

“But you’re just a student. What can you really do?”

“How can you say that, Anna? You know how powerful a student movement can be.”

“That’s true.” She sighed. “Looking back, though, I’m sure we believed we were more powerful than we really were.”

“That is not the case for us. The Iranian Students Association has a chapter in Chicago. I’m going to a meeting.”

Anna dropped her hand from his arm. She frowned slightly, as if she wanted to say something.

“What, Anna?”

She hesitated, then looked down at her book. “Nothing.” She pressed her lips together.