Veil of Roses (10 page)

“No,” I say firmly. “I am sure.”

Ike hands the roses back to me. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate….”

I tilt my head. “Yours?”

He laughs. “A guy named Shakespeare.”

“I see.”

We smile at each other for a moment.

“I
could
write a poem for you,” he offers.

I feel my smile grow larger.

“I’d write about your smile,” he says in a decisive tone. I close my lips involuntarily, but continue smiling. “And your feets,” he tells me. “I’d write about your feets.”

I belt out a laugh. “I must go,” I tell him regretfully. “Thank you for walking with me. It was very much fun.”

“Will you come by the store tomorrow on your way home from class?”

“I do not know if this will be possible.” I look at him directly. I want him to know that what I am really saying is no. It is not possible. I cannot spend time with him anymore. I can tell it is too dangerous.

“You wouldn’t want me knocking on your door tomorrow, would you?”

“
No.
Please, no.”

“Then you stop by and see me so I don’t have to stop by and see you.”

I shake my head at him. “You’re—”

“Incorrigible?” he asks hopefully.

“I’m only here in America for a short while.”

His eyes show confusion. “But I thought you’d moved here.”

I decide he does not need to know of my situation. “I’m only visiting.”

“How long are you here for?”

“A couple of months.”

“Oh.” His face falls as he processes this new information. But soon enough, the smile is back. “Well, then let’s make the most of the time we have.”

I am not sure what he means, but I know I cannot be seeing him every day like this. Already, I like him too much.

“I have responsibilities to my family. I do not have time for socializing, only for going to my English class.”

He searches my eyes. “Let me walk you home, then. You can tell your sister I’ll be your bodyguard.”

I laugh. “You’re the sort of person she thinks I need protection from.”

“Please, Tami.” His voice softens. “Just stop by for a few minutes every now and then and say hello.”

I cannot tell him yes. Yet I do not want to tell him no.

“I will do my best,” I promise.

“Great,” he says with a relieved grin. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You
are
incorrigible.”

“In a good way,” he adds.

T
he house smells of barley stew and unleavened bread, and I make my way toward the kitchen to greet Maryam, but she is not there.

“Maryam?” I call out. I saw her car in the driveway; she must be home. But there is no answer.

I make my way down the hall toward her bedroom and peer in. My heart softens as I see her lying asleep on the bed, with one arm thrown over her forehead, as she has done since childhood. I slip up to the bed and spread the throw quilt over her. She stirs but does not wake, and I decide to let her sleep while I take my bath. I lay the roses next to her, so she will see them upon waking. I will tell her they are for her, in thanks for our lovely day at Sabino Canyon.

I make my bath as hot as I can stand it. I pour in rose oil and I sink into the bubbles and close my eyes. My thoughts go immediately to Ike. I imagine him seeing me now. I wonder what his face would look like to see me this way, wearing no clothing and covered only by bubbles.

Ike.

Haroun.

I smile as I remember the special moment of laughter Ike and I shared. I lift my feet out of the bathwater and admire their new coat of pink nail polish. I wiggle them and make them wave up at me from the other side of the bathtub.

Hello, feets.

“Tami?” my sister calls into the bathroom as she knocks softly on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” I sink my feet back under the water.

Maryam comes into the bathroom and takes a seat on the closed toilet lid.

“Did you bring the roses home?”

“They’re for you.”

From Ike.

“Well, thank you.” I can tell she is touched. “How was English class?”

“Very good. My classmates have invited me to go dancing with them at a country-western bar one night. I said I would. Is this okay with you?”

“Which bar?” I see her trying to hide a frown.

“The Rustler, I think.”

Her eyes brighten. “That’s owned by a Persian!”

“What?! What does a Persian know about being a cowboy?”

“Persians know it is good to own your own business in America. That is the way to become rich.”

“Is this Persian bar owner looking for a wife?” I wonder.

“I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “You should introduce yourself to him when you go.”

“I will,” I agree.

We discuss once again what the best outfit is for me to wear. Maryam feels strongly that I should wear a black sleeveless dress. I feel just as strongly that I should not.

To force you to wear a veil is like forcing the sun to hide behind the clouds.

“I cannot wear black,” I insist to her. “Black is a chador. Black is death, and my new life is just beginning.”

It takes some firmness, but ultimately I am outfitted in an elegant long-sleeve blue dress. Underneath, I wear my new add-a-cup bra from Victoria’s Secret.

H
aroun arrives right on time. By this, I mean
exactly
on time, not one minute before six and not one minute after six.

“He’s prompt, that’s good,” says Maryam. Ardishir nods his agreement. Persians are notoriously late to everything; his punctuality means to me that he has adapted to life in America and wants to make that known. Maryam and Ardishir met Haroun at last year’s
Noruz
festivities. Maryam knew at that time that my father was trying to get a visa for me, and so when she learned he was unmarried but established in his engineering practice, she told him about me and he seemed open to meeting me.

Maryam answers the door and welcomes him in. She takes his hand and kisses both cheeks. I approach once their greeting has concluded. Ardishir stays behind me, in the doorway.

“Salaam,”
we say to each other. Remembering the dentist’s approach to me on my first night in America and how badly I handled it, I hold out my hand for Haroun to shake. His grip is suitably firm. He assesses me with kindness in his eyes.

“How are you finding America?”

I assure him it is wonderful, everything I hoped for.

Ardishir comes forward and shakes his hand. After Haroun removes his shoes, we all take seats in the living room and have a very friendly conversation about the weather, the well-being of our families, and our respective experiences being newcomers to America. Haroun tells several very witty stories, and when he is not looking, Maryam and I exchange glances.
So far, so good
is what we signal to each other. I like how he carries himself. His posture is admirable, and his manner of dress is neat and presentable. Even Ardishir, at the end of a long workday, comes home rumpled. Yet I suspect that Haroun does not. And he is handsome, with noteworthy cheekbones and an easy smile.

It is at the dinner table that things begin to take a strange turn. Rather, it is just before we sit down to dinner. Haroun washes his hands at the kitchen sink for an inordinately long time; it is as if he has several hundred hands to wash rather than only two. Behind his back, Maryam, Ardishir, and I make big eyes at one another, to say,
What is this all about?
But we follow him with quite vigorous cleansing of our own, so as to continue with the good impression.

Maryam and Ardishir sit at each end of the table, and Haroun and I sit across from each other. The vase of Ike’s roses obstructs our view of each other until Maryam reaches to move them.

“Beautiful roses,” he admires.

Maryam tells him that I purchased them for the centerpiece of such a special dinner. As a smile of gratitude crosses his face, I smile back and wonder how Ike would feel, knowing his roses are being used to impress another suitor of mine.

Maryam’s dinner is delicious. Haroun says he is happy to be eating Persian food again, as living alone he mostly eats takeaway food from restaurants. The conversation continues to be lively and engaging. All is going well. After a period of roughly twenty minutes of general conversation, Haroun turns his attention solely to me.

“So you were a teacher in Iran?”

“Mmmmm,” I reply, as I am taking a sip of my water when he asks the question.

“What age did you teach?” I can tell this is all polite talk, nothing more. Nothing to be upset about. Yet I feel my stomach muscles tighten.

“I taught eight-year-olds,” I say evenly. “Eight- and nine-year-olds.”

“What is it you hope to do here in America, Tami? Do you want to teach here as well?” His tone is pleasant, yet unreadable.

“I hope to be married.”

“I think she should be a photographer,” Ardishir says. “You should see some of the pictures she’s taken since she got here. None of those posed, one-two-three-smile-everybody pictures. Hers are quite unique. Artistic. She’s really trying to say something.”

I look at him with curiosity and appreciation.

“What is it you are trying to capture with your pictures, Tami?” Haroun asks.

Freedom. It comes to me instantly, now that I have been asked. I am trying to capture freedom. Today I photographed: The first bloom of a prickly cholla cactus. An old lady wearing a goofy red hat. A car with pink daisies painted on it. A teenage boy and girl were holding hands on Fourth Avenue; I took a picture of their intertwined hands.

But does Haroun really want to know this? Or does he want to know that I will be there for him, put him first, put his career ahead of my own? There seems to be no sense in silly talk like capturing freedom. What I must capture is a husband.

“Oh, taking pictures is just something I do for fun.” I wave the topic away. “What I really hope to do is be married and have children,
Inshallah,
if it pleases my husband. Not right away, but someday.”

“Children are important to you?”

“Oh, yes,” I tell him earnestly. “It has always been my dream to raise my children in freedom, to give them a life where they know nothing of repression. I think that is the best way for a child to reach his true potential in life, to have no ugly messages put into his head that he later has to struggle to rise above.”

I say
he
and
his,
but what I really hope for is a girl. Yet I know better than to tell this to a potential husband, who will surely prefer a boy.

Haroun listens pleasantly to my response, yet when I finish, his eyes snap from me to the corner of the ceiling. He points. “There’s a bug! A large bug!” He moves to shield his plate with his hands.

I cringe inwardly, for this is a horrible impression to make and the evening has gone quite well until now.

But upon inspection, there is no bug. No one but Haroun has seen it, anyway. Maryam, Ardishir, and I see nothing. Ardishir even stands and walks toward the corner of the room for a closer view, and then turns quizzically to Haroun.

“Maybe I was mistaken,” Haroun apologizes, and with that, the matter is closed. He continues with his dinner as if nothing has happened. I am afraid to look at my sister or brother-in-law for fear of their reaction. Haroun again compliments Maryam on her stew and assures her that, no, it is not too salty. He tells of some interesting weekend trips he has taken to Santa Fe and San Diego. I try to pay attention, but I am confused by what has just happened. I keep glancing to the corner of the ceiling, hoping to catch sight of the horrible bug Haroun thought he saw. But there is nothing, not even a shadow or speck of dirt that might have confused him.

“Are you interested in travel, Tami?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” I tell him. “My English class is going to Lake Havasu City for our final trip, and staying overnight on a houseboat. That sounds so fun.”

“Will you be going, too?”

“Ah…” I don’t know what to say. “I’m not sure. It depends. Probably not.”

Maryam and I exchange glances. She knows as well as I that it depends on whether or not I am married. It is not a decision I alone can make.

“Oh, you should,” Haroun tells me eagerly. “Did you know the London Bridge is there?”

“The London Bridge?” Maryam asks. “In Lake Havasu, Arizona?”

“Yes, you know that children’s rhyme?” He sings, “
London Bridge is falling down, falling down….
Well, it
was,
and some businessman in America had it taken down brick by brick and reconstructed in Lake Havasu.”

“Why on earth would anyone do that?” Ardishir is incredulous. “What a total waste of money.”

“It put the place on the map. Now it’s a huge tourism—” Haroun suddenly drops his fork and swipes at his shin beneath the table.

“What’s wrong?” Maryam asks with urgent concern.

“Something was crawling up my leg.” He gives Maryam an accusing look. “Have you sprayed for pests lately?”

“Yes, of course, we’re on contract with Truly Nolen,” she assures him.

Haroun continues rubbing his shin. “I think it bit me, whatever it was. Felt like a scorpion.”

“A scorpion wouldn’t come inside,” Ardishir tells him. “It was probably only a fly.”

“In any case,” Maryam says, “I am very sorry it bit you.”

“A fly wouldn’t bite him,” says Ardishir.

“It
wasn’t
a fly, I am sure of it. It was much larger and had tentacles.”

“You could feel that it had tentacles?” Ardishir sounds doubtful.

“Yes.” Haroun looks Ardishir straight in the eye. “Tentacles.”

“Do you need some ointment?” I ask him. “Or a washcloth?”

“No, thank you,” he says brusquely. “I’ll address it when I return home.”

My hope for a marriage to him is quickly fading to dread. I have not seen any bugs, inside or out, since arriving at Maryam’s house, and I do not believe Haroun has been bitten. I think his imagination tricks him. I take a long drink of water and pour myself some more from the pitcher.

“Your hands are shaking,” Haroun points out.

That’s because you’re weird.

But I smile, as if I am touched that he noticed.

“My sister is perhaps just a bit nervous,” Maryam speaks for me.

“Please, we’re all friends here.”

I smile again, closed-lipped. Perhaps a fly really bit him and perhaps there really
was
a bug in the corner. Perhaps I am misreading the situation because the stakes for me are so high.

“Did you have to see a doctor before leaving Iran?” he questions, still rubbing his leg. “Is that still the law, that you need a medical examination to enter the United States?”

“Yes, I did see a doctor. It’s still the law.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ardishir and Maryam exchange glances.

“Do any degenerative diseases run in your family?” he asks me.

“Tami is very healthy, if that’s what you’re asking,” Maryam says. Her polite tone is strained.

“I’m sure she is,” he assures her. “I was asking more about whether anyone in your family required a health attendant or long-term care.”

“Tell us more about your travels,” Ardishir urges Haroun quickly, seeing how Maryam is angered by the question.

But Haroun now turns to me. “You would not object to getting a complete physical, would you? I would pay for it, of course. And send you to my personal physician.”

“Um…”

Ardishir comes to my rescue. “We are perhaps talking too far ahead of ourselves.”