If You Could Be Mine (20 page)

We rush outside, and Cyrus opens the door of the Mehdis’ Benz for me. I enter the car, sliding across the backseat to make room for the queen. As soon as she enters, the car fills with perfume, a designer scent that reeks of wealth. The dutiful son closes the door behind her, and then takes command of the steering wheel. Mrs. Mehdi and I both sit there in the backseat, neither of us speaking to the other. Cyrus begins to drive, his mother complaining that he is going too fast or too slow until the poor guy looks almost as bad as Reza did. Mrs. Mehdi puts her hand over mine in the middle of the seat.

“It’s over now. You understand?” I look at her and she doesn’t make eye contact; she keeps her eyes on the road to make sure Cyrus doesn’t crash into anything. I could pretend I don’t know what she is talking about. But after today it doesn’t really matter anymore.

“I understand. Perfectly,” I say, and she lets go of my hand. I look out the window at the traffic on the autobahn. I try to focus on details. We pass a vendor selling corn on the side of the road, two motorcyclists without helmets, and rows of Iranian flags aligned straight on exit ramps. “You must be very happy today,” I tell her, still looking out the window. “Reza is a handsome groom.”

“Enough.”

“I’m just saying my congratulations! Such a wonderful marriage you’ve planned, right, Cyrus?” I’m angry, but Cyrus is too dim to pick up on it. He just smiles, nods, and honks at the car in front of him. “She’ll be taken care of. She’ll never have to do anything for herself or explore the world. A housewife, just like you! What a lucky darling.”

“Not everyone is as clever as you are, Sahar,” she says. “Or as troubled.” I almost want to lunge at her and scratch her face with my newly manicured nails.

“No, Nasrin is a good girl. A very,
very
good girl.” And yes, I meant the comment to sound perverse, even though it embarrasses me to even entertain the thought of Nasrin having sex. Mrs. Mehdi’s hand is on mine again, this time with a bone-crushing grip. We make eye contact, and we both know we’ll never speak of this moment again. We probably won’t speak about anything again.

“This is the best thing,” she whispers. “For the
both
of you.” I know that one day I will agree with her. There is no way Nasrin and I can ever really be together. We all know that. I deflate and lean back against the leather seat. Mrs. Mehdi eases her grip but keeps her hand on mine the rest of the way to the ceremony. Her hand trembles a little. She’s scared, too. Of me, I think.

We at last arrive at the villa Nasrin’s grandfather owns. There are so many cars, and so many people walking to the wedding. It looks more like a funeral.

“Cyrus, go inside and make sure your father isn’t drunk already,” Mrs. Mehdi says. “It’s only two in the afternoon.” Cyrus rushes out of the car. We’re alone now.

“I’m not going to say anything in there,” I mutter. “I know she has to do this. You haven’t given her much choice.” Mrs. Mehdi takes her hand off mine. I ball my own hand into a fist.

“You are so like your mother,” she says. “She lost everything to be with your
baba.
Her wealth, status, family—and she never looked back.” Don’t cry. Don’t let her see you cry. “I admit that my husband and I aren’t madly in love. I used to wonder what it would be like, to be in love with someone. But after the children and the memories we shared, I don’t think about that anymore. You see? It goes away.”

No. I don’t think it does go away. I know it won’t for me. I will keep busy. I will distract myself. I will eventually have days when I don’t have to remind myself to breathe. I know Nasrin will exist, maybe even be happy, and I will be okay. I’ll bury my love, but it will never really go away.

Mrs. Mehdi shakes her head and looks at a group of her in-laws, their big, bouffant hairstyles shrouded by ostentatious Versace head scarves. “Look at them. So much money, and they still don’t know what to do with it.”

“How long have you known?” I ask. I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter anymore.

“I suppose I pretended not to know for a great many years. I thought that I was imagining things. But she looks at you the way I wish someone had looked at me. Just once.” Mrs. Mehdi smiles sadly. I don’t know whether to strangle her or to give her a hug because she’s the closest connection to my
maman
that I have. “I had to marry her off. You understand? Because if I could see it, it would only be a matter of time before someone else did.” She begins to tremble. Fear dominates everything.

I step out of the car. I take deep breaths, hold my stomach, and silence any thoughts about screaming. And so I go forward. Shoulders back, like a good soldier, and I walk into the parlor, where chubby women dressed far too young for their ages hand their coats to a servant, their perfumes mingling in an odor I will always associate with sadness.

I take off my head scarf and coat, hanging them myself in the open closet by the door. I smooth out my dress and let myself be ushered into a living room, where the bride and groom sit next to each other. Reza looks so sure, so proud, even though he bounces his leg up and down. Nasrin puts a hand on his knee to stop him. She’s always in control.

The
sofra,
a large ceremonial cloth, is spread on the floor before them, laden with all the traditional wedding flourishes: a rainbow of flowers, an open Koran, colored walnuts arranged in beautiful designs, lit candles on either side of a golden-rimmed mirror that the bride and groom can see themselves in. It’s all too much to take in. I’m desperate to look at something,
anything,
else.

I look at Mr. Mehdi, who, after speaking with the mullah, has paid a group connected to the regime to allow the wedding to be coed. I look at Cyrus, who keeps checking his watch. I look at Dariush, standing next to Cyrus with a grin on his face that confirms to me that he and Sima have had sex. The other close friends and family push from behind me to crowd into the room. One of Nasrin’s filler friends, giddy and idiotic, grabs my hand and pulls me behind the couple. The friends and a few of Nasrin’s female cousins hold a linen cloth above the couple’s heads. I don’t dare look down to see the couple’s reflection in the mirror.

Everyone is quiet now and the mullah begins. One of Nasrin’s cousins to my left hands me the two corncob-sized blocks of sugar draped in white mesh, which I am to grind over the linen, ensuring the couple a sweet marriage. I begin to grind lightly, listening to the mullah go on about what marriage means and how pleased Allah would be at the union of these two fine people, whom the mullah has probably met only twenty minutes ago.

The mullah asks Nasrin if she accepts Reza as her husband. One friend calls, “The bride has gone to pick flowers!” Many people find this tradition cute and coy, but it sickens me now. The mullah asks Nasrin again, and one of her cousins says, “The bride has gone to put the flowers in a vase!” I grind the sugar feverishly. There will soon be no sugar left to grind, if I keep up this pace.

The mullah asks Nasrin one more time if she accepts Reza as her husband. I can’t help but look at the reflection in the mirror to see Nasrin looking back at me. She smiles, genuinely, probably for the last time today.

Say something. End this. It’s a lie. Everything about this is a lie.

I nod, and let her go. She looks at the ground, and gives her answer.

“With the permission of my parents and elders, I accept.” All the women cheer, yelping and making noises like Indians in cowboy movies. All that is left is to ask Reza. I am grinding the sugar violently, with more focus than I think anyone has ever devoted to this stupid tradition.

“
Baleh!
Yes!” Reza says, and the whole room erupts in cheers. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The mullah has them sign their marriage certificate. Afterward they dip their pinkies in a glass of honey and feed each other. I hope I’m not visibly cringing. My stomach feels like it’s caving in. Everything hurts. Nasrin pulls her pinky from his mouth with a smile. Mrs. Mehdi is dabbing her eyes. Tears of joy or guilt? I’m not quite certain. Mr. Mehdi slaps his son on the back. Reza’s parents approach the
sofra,
showing all the gifts they now bestow upon the couple. They are followed by aunts, uncles, and grandparents, who proffer pieces of jewelry, and at last by Mr. Mehdi, who presents a deed to a villa so expensive that Nasrin starts crying.

So do I.

Nasrin’s stupid cousin next to me pats my shoulder. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she asks, and I nod, wiping my eyes. The bride and groom stand and then exit, to have their photographs taken. I watch Nasrin walk away, on Reza’s arm, and she doesn’t look back. Not once. She’ll be happy. She’ll be taken care of. She’ll never have to worry about me.

We are free of each other.

“Sahar? Are you all right?” Baba asks me. I snap out of my daze. He looks at me with a worried expression. All the others have made their way to the courtyard in back.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I guess I just don’t believe it. She’s married.”

Baba smiles and offers me his arm. “You girls are growing up so fast. One day it will be your wedding,
Insha ’Allah,
” he says. The poor man—he is always so clueless. Right now I love him for it. I take his arm and ready myself for all the dancing, the pleasantries, and the vomit-inducing kisses the happy couple will share.

“Let’s go,” I say, and together we venture into the worst night of my life.

20

“PENCILS DOWN,” PROFESSOR AMINZADEH
says. I was one question away from finishing my biology midterm. University is more difficult than I thought it would be, but I’m grateful for the challenge. It’s kept my thoughts occupied. When I saw my name in the newspaper as one of the accepted students to Tehran University a few weeks after the wedding, I didn’t laugh or yell or call Baba. I just sighed and thanked god that I had something to keep me busy. The Concours was hell, but so was watching Nasrin get married.

I pass my test to the front, to the professor’s assistant collecting them, and I look at Taraneh. She shrugs sheepishly, and I laugh as I stand up. We meet outside the classroom.

“I didn’t get to the last question,” I say.

“Last question?” Taraneh raises an eyebrow. “I think I got half of that exam wrong! I’m never going to pass.”

Taraneh is a good student. Not as good as me, but studying is all I have to do. She comes from Shiraz and lives in the female dormitory. I live at home, with Baba. We bonded in Professor Aminzadeh’s class, groaning over our lecture notes and commiserating about his illegible handwriting. She’s part of my study group. We’re a serious bunch of five girls, but sometimes we go to the movies or smoke a hookah together at a teahouse. Taraneh and I are the only ones in our group without boyfriends, but we never talk about it. I don’t mind the boys. Soheila’s boyfriend is funny and never takes his studies all that seriously. He reminds me of Ali.

I hear from Ali, but I can’t write him, because he never includes a return address on the envelopes for the letters he sends. I think he will let me know how to reach him. He says he’s doing okay in Istanbul, working as a nightclub promoter. I have a feeling that he hands out flyers and hangs around hotels to entice tourists to come with him.

He and Nastaran pretend to be brother and sister. She keeps their shoe-box apartment clean. In one photograph Ali sent, he and Nastaran are on either side of an obese Israeli drag queen named Big Sara. Nastaran sticks her tongue out at the camera, and the drag queen swoons while Ali kisses him on the cheek. I taped it onto my bedroom wall. It makes me smile every time I look at it.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Taraneh asks. Tomorrow is Thursday. After class I will cook dinner and study, and Parveen will come over and we will have tea. She will discuss her fresh crush on Jamshid from group, and I will chuckle halfheartedly. Goli
khanum
has noticed Parveen’s crush, so she often asks Parveen and Jamshid to prepare the tea for everyone in the kitchen. The blooming romance has also distracted the group from Maryam’s absence. She’s back on the street, selling herself for drug money.

After Parveen leaves I will study some more. Baba will come home from his workshop, and we will eat dinner together. Ali left behind so much money that Baba was able to rent a better work space and to hire an assistant. His business has been growing, and I can actually see glimpses of his life before Maman passed away. After dinner we will talk about the day. Then we will watch the newest soap opera from Brazil, dubbed in Farsi. Baba will yell at the television, hoping “Julianna” will somehow hear him and run away with Dr. Claudio.

“I’m not doing much,” I tell Taraneh as we exit onto the quad. “I have a lot of studying to do.” There are some young men playing football. Badly. Students huddle around the juice stand, sipping on melon drinks while checking their cell phones. Two young women are selling tickets to a campus concert featuring the poetry of Hafiz.

“If you want to take a break, maybe we can hang out?” Taraneh suggests.

“Oh, is the group up to something?”