Things We Left Unsaid (7 page)

I looked at my hands. At my close-clipped and unpolished nails. When I shook hands, did Mrs. Simonian notice how chapped my hands were? What about her son? I felt embarrassed at the thought of
his kissing my hand. The kids were quiet. Half an hour later, when I looked in on their rooms, all three of them were fast asleep and Armineh was hugging Ishy.

On Fridays, when we did not have to rush off to work, we always ate a big breakfast.

The radio was on. I cracked the eggs into the frying pan and told Artoush, who was getting the cheese and butter from the fridge, ‘I’ll set the table. Go wake Armen so they can make
it to the cinema’

From the kitchen doorway Armen said, ‘Awake and at your service. Go wake up your lazy daughters. And, by the way, good morning to you.’ His hair was all wet and his face all rosy.
Artoush looked at me and arched his eyebrows. We both stared at our son.

Armen took a seat at the table. ‘What’s the big deal? Never seen anyone fresh from the bath before?’

Artoush slid the spatula under the egg, sunny-side up. ‘We’ve had occasion to see a freshly bathed face or two in our day, but not usually a freshly bathed Armen.’ He put the
egg on Armen’s plate and we both laughed. Since the age of ten, getting Armen to take a bath was one of my hardest chores.

Armen was complaining that he didn’t like runny eggs when the twins bounced in, wearing their red and blue plaid pinafore dresses over white blouses. They said they didn’t want eggs
and both asked instead for toast with butter and jam, and chocolate milk.

Over the radio came the pinched voice of the Iranian radio announcer, Forouzandeh Arbabi: ‘These are the days of spring blossoms and the rain in Tehran...’

Armen declared loudly, ‘These are the days of scorching heat and mugginess in Abadan.’

Arsineh asked, ‘What are you talking about?’

Armineh mimicked in a nasal voice, ‘He’s talking like Forouzandeh Arbabi.’

Arsineh, convulsed with laughter, said through her giggles, ‘Are we eating lunch at the Club?’

Armineh added, ‘Let’s eat lunch at the Club.’

When we were not invited over to someone’s house on Fridays, or did not have our own guests, we went to the Golestan Club. The kids liked the Chelow Kebab at the Club, and I thought it was
wonderful that we could all be together to eat lunch once a week. Artoush poured sugar in his tea. ‘On one condition.’

Armineh quickly swallowed what she was chewing. ‘What condition? We’ve done our homework. We’ve also practiced the piano. We’ve also toadied up our room.’ She
sought her sister’s approval, as usual. ‘Isn’t that right, Arsineh?’

Armen separated the solid and the runny parts of the egg. ‘Not toadied. Tidied, you dim...’ He caught my glance and did not finish his sentence.

The twins were looking at Artoush. ‘What condition? Tell us!’ Artoush was stirring his tea.

Armineh said, ‘We accept.’

Arsineh affirmed, ‘We accept any condition.’

They chimed together, ‘What is it? Tell us, tell us!’

Now Armen and I were also looking at Artoush, waiting for his answer. He carefully removed the spoon from his cup, laid it ceremoniously on the saucer, stared out the window, looked at me, then
at Armen, then at the twins. Finally he said, ‘On condition that my beautiful daughters each give their father a big kiss.’

The twins began to laugh, and both leapt up from their chairs. Armen made a face. ‘Hahaha, very funny.’ I laughed and started clearing the breakfast table.

Sitting on Artoush’s knee, Arsineh said, ‘It would be so nice if Emily could come to the Club with us after the movie.’

From his other knee, Armineh said, ‘Oh my gosh! We have to go get her.’

Armen pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll go get her.’ Artoush looked over Arsineh’s curly hair at me. Armen had already reached the hallway when the twins yelled after him,
‘Wait!’ and rushed out of the kitchen.

Artoush looked over at the kitchen door. ‘Our son has become very meticulous about his manners.’ He got up. ‘After the movie, I’ll pick up the kids from the cinema, and
come get you. Call Mother and Alice. Ask them to come too.’

I was taken by surprise. Artoush knew very well that Mother and Alice had no need of an invitation, and would certainly come in any case. And I knew full well that Artoush had no particular
desire for either of them to come. So what was the reason for all the lovey-dovey?

From the hallway he yelled, ‘After I drop off the kids at the movies, I’ll drop in on Shahandeh.’

Aha, I thought. So that’s why... ‘Wait!’ I called out, and ran after him.

He stopped in the middle of the path and waited for me to catch up to him. He was stroking his goatee and chuckling. So I was right! He was horse-trading with me. I stood directly in front of
him. ‘Didn’t you promise me not to go to Shahandeh’s?’

He pushed back the hair that had fallen in my face and said patiently, ‘I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s not true what you have heard. When was Shahandeh ever mixed up in
politics? If one or two folks come around to his store and we chat a bit, so what?’ He touched the tip of my nose with his finger. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll only have a little
rosewater sherbet and come right back. Shall I bring back some sherbet for you?’ And he laughed.

If the weather was hot, Shahandeh would offer rosewater sherbet to everyone who visited his store. And when the weather wasn’t hot, it was tea with dried lemon. I had only tried rosewater
sherbet once and did not care for it at all.

We walked to the gate together, and Artoush said, ‘Maybe he’ll even tell an interesting hunting yarn. When I get back I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘Not that you’re any good at telling stories,’ I teased. The hunting adventures Shahandeh recounted were interesting, even in Artoush’s truncated and lifeless re-telling.
I helped him open the garage door. ‘There really isn’t anything going on at Shahandeh’s store? Then why was it closed from Norouz almost until Easter? The owner of the perfume
shop next door said they had come after him from Tehran.’

The sunlight fell on the dark maroon Chevrolet, a twenty-year-old model that was one of Alice’s favorite reasons for ridiculing Artoush. He opened the door. ‘The perfume-seller was
talking nonsense. Shahandeh, like me, did some things in his youth. By now the heroic stuffing has been knocked out of the both of us.’ He climbed in. ‘We’re only going to chat a
little. Honest.’ After turning the ignition a few times, the car finally started. Artoush was backing out of the garage when the children walked up.

Emily had her hair scraped back off her forehead under a red hairband. Now that her hair was not spilling over her face, her eyes looked larger, her lips and cheeks more prominent. I wondered
again whether she was wearing lipstick.

The twins were pouting. ‘Emily’s grandmother did not give her permission to come to the Club with us.’

‘Her grandmother said restaurant food is not good for her.’ They each took hold of my hands and swung my arms back and forth. ‘You go and ask permission.’

‘Please, go.’

‘Pretty please?’

Armen, standing a few paces back, was rolling a gravel stone back and forth with the point of his shoe. Emily was looking down. Artoush called from the car, ‘Come on. It’s
late!’

I put a hand on the shoulders of each twin and led them to the car. ‘Okay. Maybe I’ll go and ask permission for you.’

Arsineh and Armineh scrambled onto the back seat. Armen held the door for Emily to get in, then closed her door and sat in the front seat, next to his father. Artoush headed off and waved. The
twins rolled down the window and yelled, ‘Permission for Emily! Please.’ I nodded and waved goodbye.

I waited until the Chevy reached the end of the street and turned in the direction of Cinema Taj. A warm wind kicked up, gently swaying the Msasa trees lining either side of the street. Our
neighbor, Mr. Rahimi, whose garage adjoined ours, was fiddling with his car. His five-year-old son was crying and tugging at his father’s trousers. ‘Daddy, let’s go pol.
Let’s go pol!’

Mr. Rahimi greeted me and laughed. ‘Son, the pool is not open yet.’

The little boy was whining, a packet of Kool-Aid in his hand, and an orange ring round his mouth. In Abadan, the adults used lemon, orange or other flavors of Kool-Aid to create refreshing
drinks. But the children loved to take the powder and eat it dry, sticking out their tongues to ask, ‘Is it orange? Is it red? Is it purple?’

I asked after Mr. Rahimi’s wife, who had gone to Tehran to buy things for her nephew’s wedding. Then I said goodbye, opened the gate and shut it behind me. I walked up the path
across the lawn. I looked at the red clover in the grass and remembered what Armineh had said. ‘Just like violet
Smarties.
Aren’t they, Arsineh?’ They both loved
Smarties
, colorful round chocolate beans. The branches of the willow tree hung down over the swing seat, and the rose bush was decked with new red blossoms.

I went inside and locked the door behind me. In Abadan, nobody locked the door in the middle of the day; I only did so when I wanted to make sure I was alone. My penchant for
self-criticism meant that I had challenged myself on this more than once: What does locking the door have to do with being alone? To which I always answered: I don’t know.

I leaned up against the door and closed my eyes. After the bright light and heat outdoors, and the noise of the children, the cool, quiet chiaroscuro of the house was lovely. The only sound was
the monotonous humming of the air conditioners, and the only smell, a hint of Artoush’s cologne hanging in the hallway. I felt like having a coffee.

I looked at the kitchen clock. It was just before ten. Mother and Alice would certainly turn up within half an hour. I’ll wait, I thought, so we can have coffee together, and took the pack
of cigarettes out of the fridge. Where had I heard that cigarettes would not go stale if kept in the fridge?

I didn’t smoke much, but when the house was empty, I liked to sit by the window in the green leather armchair, lean back, puff, and think. In these rare moments of solitude, I tried not to
think about daily chores like fixing dinner, getting Armen to study, Artoush’s forgetfulness and indifference.

I would reminisce about things I usually didn’t have time to think about. Like our house in Tehran – its little yard and big rooms, its long hallway that was dark even in the middle
of the day. My father used to come home at noon, wash his hands and face, sit down at the table and eat a big lunch. He ate whatever Mother had prepared that day with great enthusiasm, listening
attentively to her recount the morning’s events in minute detail: how the watermelon she had purchased proved pale and unripe once cut open. About the rising price of pinto beans. About the
fights between me and Alice, which were a daily occurrence. Father would mutter things under his breath that we could not quite make out, or if we could, we would not remember. Then he would get up
from the table, thank Mother for lunch, and head down to his room, at the end of the somber hallway. It was a small room with brown velvet curtains, always drawn, and cluttered with stuff that
Mother would constantly complain about, saying, ‘Why do you keep this junk?!’

After the forty-day commemoration of his death, Mother went into Father’s room with Alice and me, and she cried. ‘God only knows why he kept all this junk.’ The
floor-to-ceiling shelves were stuffed with books and newspaper clippings and magazines and half-finished crossword puzzles. There were letters from people none of us knew, not I, nor Mother, nor
Alice. There were group pictures of my father with his friends when he was young – friends that none of us had ever seen. Alice choked up and Mother wept. ‘For all these years! Why did
he hang on to all this junk?’ I opened the books and closed them. I examined the broken wrist-watches, recalling, as I turned them over, how Mother always complained of Father’s lack of
punctuality. In an old shoebox I saw rusty razor blades and in a wood crate, a whole assortment of empty aftershave bottles. As far back as I could remember, Father had a bushy beard and he never
used aftershave.

In that little room at the end of the hallway Alice found nothing worth keeping. I took the books, and Mother dried her tears, opened the brown velvet curtains and threw out everything she could
put her hands on. With the little room at the end of the hallway emptied, Mother felt her principal duty had been accomplished, and with an uncluttered mind, she sat down to mourn for Father. Since
then, the phrase, ‘If your late father were alive...’ had become her litany.

Little by little we forgot that nothing would have been any different, even if Father were still alive. Father would read his books, solve his crossword puzzles, and eat fatty foods. He would
not share his opinion about anything, or, when he did, we would not hear it, or would not remember it. We would get on with our own lives. I would come to Abadan with Artoush and raise my children.
Alice would go to England for a few years, ostensibly to study nursing, but secretly hoping to find an English husband. Mother would wash the kitchen floor twice a day, backbite about the sort of
women who stored Persian melons and watermelons in the fridge without washing them first, and find some reason to worry every day.

With my head sunk deep in the green chair, I thought of the Simonians. The son’s elegant hands, the mother’s rhinestone-embroidered shoes, and Emily, who had yet to speak a word to
me. I thought about what kind of woman Emily’s mother must have been. Mother had said, ‘She went crazy and turned up in Namagerd.’ I wondered how old I had been the year we went
to Namagerd. Eight? Maybe eleven? Or perhaps about the same age as my twins were now.

I heard the gate squeak and craned my neck to see Mother and Alice coming. In the sharp sunlight, with her flappy yellow dress, my sister looked like a big sunflower among the trees and the
hedgerows. Mother, wearing a black dress, looked thin and hunched, like a stick of wood. Armen used to say, ‘When Aunt Alice and Nana walk side by side, they look like Laurel and
Hardy.’ My sister was carrying a big cardboard box. I knew what it was without looking. Alice observed her Friday visits to the Mahtab Bakery to buy cream puffs more religiously than her
Sunday visits to church.