Things We Left Unsaid (6 page)

I was trying not to look at Artoush. The demeanor and stiff behavior of both mother and son, the forced conversation, the bitter lukewarm orange juice, the heat and the bad lighting of the room
– it was all unbearable for me. Not more than ten minutes had passed before Mrs. Simonian stood up. ‘We eat dinner early.’

Artoush volunteered ‘We do, too,’ with such haste that I felt sorry for him. Why had I forced him to come? Why had I accepted this invitation in the first place? Probably because the
twins had been talking non-stop about Emily for several days and because, well, we were neighbors, after all.

This time when Mrs. Simonian barked, ‘Emile!’ I got up. ‘Please allow me to help,’ I said. Emile, half standing, looked at me, smiled, and sat back down.

The kids’ menu was steamed rice with boiled chicken, which they were to eat at the kitchen table. Whenever we were invited somewhere new for a meal, I would feed my kids something in
advance. It was a good thing I had given all three of them sandwiches before we came over, because steamed rice and boiled chicken was the diet Mother imposed on them when they were sick, and they
would never eat it.

The adults were served rice with an okra and tomato stew. The table was set before we got there, with a white cotton tablecloth and matching napkins. The china plates decorated with orange
flowers must have been old and were certainly expensive, though my plate was chipped in two spots. Mrs. Simonian sat at the head of the table and told Artoush and me where to sit. I remembered the
twins’ quip – ‘Just like in the movies.’ The hostess opened her napkin, dropped it in her lap and, motioning to the wooden cabinet, said, ‘Emile!’

Emile brought the candelabras from the cabinet, set them in the center of the table and lit the candles. Artoush stole a glance at me. Mrs. Simonian waited, still and silent, for the final
candle to be lit, as if anticipating the conclusion of a ceremony. When her son sat down and opened his napkin, she said, ‘Please begin.’ In the candlelight, the white tablecloth looked
yellowish. There were faded stains in several places, and a cigarette burn.

I put the first spoonful in my mouth and tried not to look at Artoush. The stew was so spicy that even I, who liked spicy food, was on fire. Artoush hated spicy food.

Mrs. Simonian offered a small china bowl to Artoush. ‘If the stew is insufficiently spicy, use some of this chutney.’ Artoush set his water glass down and just shook his head, no. If
it were me, I would have phrased it like this: ‘If the stew isn’t hot enough for you...’ I told myself to shut up.

Emile shifted in his chair and without raising his head, said, ‘Mother, maybe it would have been better not to make the stew so spicy. Not everyone is used to it.’ Then he looked at
me and Artoush, and smiled. I felt he was apologizing.

His mother put two spoonfuls of chutney on the side of her plate and, without looking at her son, said, ‘Please don’t give me cooking lessons. Okra stew must be spicy.’ Then
she looked at me. ‘I learned how to make this chutney in Calcutta from our cook, Ramu.’ She carefully set the bowl of chutney next to the platter of rice. ‘Before dismissing
him.’

Emile ran his hand through his hair. His fingers were long and thin. Alice would say, ‘Sensitive people have long, thin fingers.’ She’d hold her hand in front of her face and
flutter her fingers. ‘Like mine.’ I would look at my sister’s hands, which were a bit chubby, like the rest of her, and nod yes.

For a while no one spoke. We could hear the frogs and crickets in the yard. The light in the room was so dim that I wanted to get up and turn on another lamp. Mrs. Simonian was eating her food
in silence and I felt I should strike up a conversation. The children were laughing in Emily’s room. Had they finished dinner? How come none of them had come to tell me, ‘I don’t
like it’? Emile was still looking down, and I could not think of anything to say.

Artoush set his second glass of water back on the table and asked, ‘In Masjed-Soleiman, what department did you work in?’ Emile looked up and smiled. This time in gratitude, I
sensed, for breaking the silence.

I looked at Artoush and thought he and Armen must be in a father–son competition, vying to do things they had never done before. I could not remember my husband ever taking the initiative
in a conversation, except to contradict my mother.

Emile raised the napkin and dabbed the corner of his mouth, but before he could answer, his mother said, ‘Emile was a top student at university. In India, and of course in Europe, he had
outstanding positions. The Oil Company was extremely lucky that my son agreed to its proposal for collaboration. In reality we do not need Emile’s salary, but now that I have decided to live
in Iran, I thought it would be better for Emile to keep busy. I haven’t yet had a chance to hang up his degree certificates from the university. I took the certificates to the most expensive
frame-maker in Calcutta and had him frame them, all in betel-nut wood.’

Artoush was still looking at Emile. ‘What department did you say you were working in?’ As if he hadn’t noticed the mother had said a word.

Emile gave a little cough, glanced over at his mother and started to speak. He looked just like his daughter in our kitchen that day, when her grandmother arrived. Tense and afraid.

Artoush only ate the rice, only looked at Emile, and only nodded his head. Mrs. Simonian spooned chutney over her food a second time, with such precision you would have imagined she was
measuring out a rare elixir.

I was wondering how, once back at home, I would answer Artoush’s reproachful grumbling.

Mrs. Simonian asked, ‘What time do your children go to bed?’ There had been no peep from the kids for half an hour. I started to worry. ‘Usually at eight-thirty, nine
o’clock. But on nights like tonight, when they don’t have school the next day...’

Mrs. Simonian laid her spoon and fork neatly side by side on her plate and picked up the napkin from her lap. ‘Whether they have school in the morning or not is no reason for children to
change bedtimes. A child has to get used to a fixed schedule. Emily sleeps at nine o’clock sharp. When Emile was a child I ordered his governess...’

I scooted my chair back and stood up. ‘Let me look in on the children.’

Emile got up and gave a slight bow. Artoush took a bite out of a piece of bread.

In a corner of the hallway, a few suitcases were stacked atop each other. Next to them was a statue of a stone elephant. Half of its trunk and part of an ear were broken off. I looked at my
watch. It was a quarter after eight.

Emily’s room was an exact copy of Armen’s, though it, too, seemed a bit larger to me. There was not much in it, except for the metal bed, a small desk, and a crimson carpet. The
windows had no curtains, and the room was dimly lit. The twins were sitting on the carpet, and Armen was sitting in the chair at the writing desk. Emily was reclining on the bed. The hem of her
white dress had hitched up above her knees, one of her pigtails had come undone, and her hair was falling in her face. She was playing with the ribbon. When she saw me enter, she sat up straight,
pulled down on the hem of her dress, and placed both hands on her knees.

Arsineh looked at me, her curly hair spilling out from beneath her orange headband. ‘It would be great if tomorrow...’

Armineh, her curly hair spilling out from beneath her orange headband, continued, ‘...Emily could come to the movies with us.’

Arsineh asked, ‘Can you ask for permission for her?’

Armineh cocked her head, ‘Please?’

Armen picked up a book off the writing desk and flipped through its pages.

‘Are you having fun?’ I asked. ‘What have you been doing?’

Armineh said, ‘We were talking until now.’

Arsineh said, ‘Emily was telling us about the schools she’s gone to.’

‘Now we’re going to play Spin the Bottle.’

‘Emily has taught us how.’

‘Spin the Bottle?’ I took a deep breath.

I had met Artoush playing Spin the Bottle at the birthday party of a mutual friend. The guests spun the bottle one by one and had to kiss whomever the bottleneck was pointing to when it came to
rest. Once the arrangements were finalized for our marriage, Artoush admitted, ‘I tried to spin the bottle somehow so that it would point at you.’ After our first anniversary, I was
bold enough to say, ‘Me too.’

Armineh said, ‘The person who spins the bottle...’

Arsineh said, ‘...gives the person who the bottle points to...’

Armineh said, ‘...any command he feels like.’

‘Neat, huh?’ the two of them chimed together.

I let out my breath and laughed. ‘As long as the commands are not dangerous.’ How innocent children are, I thought.

Artoush and Emile were talking in the living room. Mrs. Simonian was clearing the dinner table – I was surprised she hadn’t set her son the task. I helped. As we went back and forth
from the dining room to the kitchen, she hitched up her dress and talked on and on. ‘I had attendants and servants from birth. Now I am forced to do the work myself. India, with all its
problems, had an abundance of maids and servants. In my father’s house in Julfa we had all the servants you could want...some families served for several generations in our house.’ The
pearl necklace kept catching on the dishes and the door handle. ‘When we were in Masjed-Soleiman I brought a girl servant from Julfa. She was not quite right in the head. I informed her
family, and they came to get her. I believe she wound up in Namagerd, though you probably don’t know and don’t care where Namagerd is. Can you recommend a good maid here?’

I was about to admit that I do in fact know where Namagerd is, but held my tongue. I thought of Ashkhen, who came round to our place to help out with the housework twice a week, and to Alice and
Mother’s house once a week. Ashkhen’s husband was paralyzed after a back operation and received a pittance of a pension from the Oil Company. Her son had just returned from military
service and was out of work, or as Ashkhen put it, ‘His job is to hang around the Kuwaiti Bazaar dawn to dusk, stroll up and down along the Shatt al-Arab, smoke two or three packs a day, and
chomp on sunflower seeds. He supposes his poor mother, namely me, can pluck money from the trees.’ This could work out to their advantage – help for my neighbor and a little extra
income for Ashkhen.

Once the table was cleared, I sat down opposite Emile and Artoush, and Mrs. Simonian retook her earlier seat, saying, ‘We don’t take tea and fruit after our dinner. It inhibits
digestion.’ Then she asked for the address of the Adib Grocery near our house and jotted down the phone number of the children’s piano teacher. ‘I’ve sent Emily to piano
lessons since she was seven. She must continue. Of course, I was playing the piano from the age of five.’ I almost expected her to say, ‘I was performing on the piano.’

Emile was sitting with one leg crossed. He was wearing black patent-leather shoes and black socks. Artoush had one leg crossed as well. His shoes were black and his socks brown. That was my
fault. I forgot to lay out his black socks next to his shoes.

I was looking for an opportunity to catch Artoush’s eye and signal to him it was time to say goodnight when Armen rushed into the room. His face was red and he could not stop coughing. I
leapt to my feet.

‘What happened?’

Between coughs he croaked, ‘Water!’

Emile jumped up. Artoush also stood up. Mrs. Simonian didn’t budge.

I took Armen to the kitchen and poured him some water. ‘Did something get stuck in your throat?’

His long eyelashes were matted with tears. He asked for more water, coughed some more, drank again, finally regained his composure and said without looking at me, ‘I don’t know what
made me start coughing all of a sudden,’ and walked out of the kitchen.

Artoush had called the twins and was thanking Mrs. Simonian and saying goodbye. Emily, eyes downcast, was twirling the white ribbon around her finger. Was it just me, or was there a half-smile
on her face?

As I was shaking hands with Mrs. Simonian and her son, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Armen go over to the twins and whisper in their ear. Armineh tugged at my skirt. ‘The movies
tomorrow!’

I turned to Emile. ‘Would it be alright for Emily to go to the movies with the children tomorrow?’

Emile looked at his mother.

Arsineh tugged at my skirt from the other side. ‘Ask her grandma!’

Mrs. Simonian, after ascertaining which cinema and which film, with whom they were going and when they were coming back, and heaven forbid that they eat any sandwiches or chips, finally gave her
permission.

The twins, holding each other around the waist, crossed the street ahead of me and Artoush and Armen. Once or twice they turned back to Armen and laughed. I opened the front door and turned on
the light in the hallway.

Arsineh said, ‘Ahh! It’s so nice to have a bright house!’

Armineh said, ‘Ahh! And it’s nice and cool, too.’

‘That was fun,’ added Arsineh, ‘but their house is very dark.’

‘That was fun,’ agreed Armineh, ‘but their house was very hot.’

Artoush took off his tie and headed for the kitchen. ‘Do we have anything to eat?’ Armen went to his room and slammed the door.

I sent the twins off to their bedroom, took off my high heels and went barefoot to the kitchen.

Artoush was sitting at the table, staring at the flowers on the ledge. ‘Poor guy. Now I know why he doesn’t seem normal. With that mother...’ A small lizard on the outside of
the window screen was staring into the kitchen. I made a hard-boiled egg sandwich. Eggs, whenever and however prepared, were my husband’s favorite food.

Just as Artoush was about to bite into the sandwich, Arsineh yelled, ‘Tell me where Ishy is, or I’ll tell why you were coughing!’

I was about to get up from the table when Artoush caught my hand and said for the umpteenth time, ‘Don’t interfere. Let them fight. They’ll make up afterwards. They’ll
keep on fighting and making up. Let them be.’ Then he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t kill each other.’ Still holding my hand, he stroked the back of it with his
finger. I didn’t move. How long had it been since he had held my hand? He let go, picked up his sandwich and took a bite. ‘Your skin is so dry.’