Veil of Roses (14 page)

“It depends.”

“Will you have any say in the matter?” She asks this with a derisive tone.

“I would think so.” I would
hope
so is what I mean.

When Maryam and Ardishir return, Maryam seems different. Hardened somehow. I have never been good at gauging Maryam’s mood, but it seems to me that caution would be in order. Her smile is fixed and her posture is unnatural. Too straight.

She is deliberate in taking a few more bites of her food. When she does finally speak, it is to me.

“Haroun called earlier today.”

I take a long drink of my water and avoid looking in Eva’s direction.

“Did he mention to you that he is to be out of town for several weeks?” Maryam’s lips are pursed with disapproval.

I shake my head. “No, he didn’t. Did he say how long exactly?”

“He wasn’t sure. His company is bringing a new computer system online and he is very involved in the project. They are expecting some problems as it launches.”

“Who is Haroun?” Eva asks.

“No one,” I quickly reply before my sister can assign him as my fiancé.

“A nutcase,” Ardishir says at the same time. Maryam glares at him.

“He did give me the number of his doctor so we can make an appointment for you. He’s Persian, the doctor.”

Why must she bring this up now?

I try to keep my face from turning into a pout. I do not like this doctor business at all.

“Are you sick?” Eva asks me.

“Not at all.”

“Then why the doctor?”

“It’s complicated.”

I look directly at Maryam. “We can talk about this later, can’t we?” It is more of a demand than a plea.

“Who’s Haroun?” Eva repeats.

“Tami’s fiancé,” Maryam tells her.

“He is
not
my fiancé.”

“But he will be,” Maryam insists.

Ardishir has been quiet since we returned to the table. But now he looks up from his plate and looks at Maryam. “I will not give my permission for Haroun to marry Tami. Not ever.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Eva asks.

“Nothing,” says Maryam.

“Everything,” says Ardishir. “Tami is not going to marry him.”

Eva turns to me. “Well, Tami? What do you have to say about all this?”

I put down my fork and wipe my mouth with my napkin, which I fold carefully before responding.

“Apparently, what I have to say about this is not so very important.” I keep my tone light and wait for someone to dispute this.

But no one does.

T
he next morning, I grumble a good morning to my sister and brother-in-law. They do not even seem to notice my dark mood as I flop down at the table and bump it so their teacups tremble.

Ardishir reads with his face hidden behind his
New York Times
. Maryam, who has never been much of a morning person, slumps at the table in her bathrobe, her hand propping up her head. She thumbs idly through a recipe book of South American dishes.

“Why do you bother?” I ask her. “It’s not like you ever cook anything other than Persian food.”

She doesn’t raise her head to me, but only lifts her sleepy eyes to look at me across the table. She says nothing. I am being ignored, yet again.

“Well?” I insist. “Would it kill us to eat burritos once in a while? I mean, we do live in a city where half the population is Mexican.”

“Are you unhappy with the dinners I have prepared for you?” Her look has turned sharp, yet she maintains a neutral tone.

“I just don’t know why you think the Persian way is always the best way. The only way.”

“You are welcome to cook dinner anytime you wish, Tami.”

She holds out the recipe book until I take it. Then she gets up and kisses Ardishir on the forehead. He smiles, but does not look up from his newspaper. Maryam puts her dishes in the sink and announces she is going to take a shower.

Alone now with Ardishir, I make as much noise with my silverware as possible. I clink my teacup while stirring cream into my tea. I drop my knife onto my plate twice. I clear my throat a few times. Finally, he lowers the newspaper.

“Tami, is there something you wish to discuss?”

Yes. I want you to stop running my life.

But I cannot say this to him. He is my brother-in-law. He paid for my ticket to America and welcomed me into his home. And in most matters, I trust his judgment completely.

“No,” I respond sullenly, not meeting his gaze.

“You’re sure? Speak up if there’s something on your mind.”

It’s now or never. I came to America for the freedoms it offers. One of those is the freedom to disagree with those in authority. And here, that means Ardishir.

I swallow hard and look up at him. “I think I should be able to marry whomever I decide to.”

“I see,” he says, nodding at me. “And do you really want to marry Haroun?”

“That’s not the point.”

Ardishir folds the newspaper and sets it on the table. He places his hands in his lap and gives me his full attention. “What is the point?”

“The point is…” I stop, suddenly flustered.

Oh, yes. I am a grown and university-educated woman. I have as many brains as Ardishir or any man. And where there are decisions to be made about my future, it is I who should make them.

“The point is,” I continue in a voice that is less shaky with each word, “it’s only tradition that demands Haroun ask you for permission to marry me. It’s only a formality. You need to honor my wishes in this matter. After all, I am the one most affected by it.”

“True,” he says. “Very true. Yet both of us know he’s got some issues. I think marrying him would be a mistake, and I doubt I’ll change my mind about that.”

“You don’t have to change your mind,” I tell him. “You only have to respect my decision.”

He looks long and intently at me. I feel my bottom lip quiver, but I do not look away.

“I have seen how you let Maryam push you around.”

I open my mouth to protest, then fall silent. He is right. I do let Maryam push me around. But she is my older sister, and she is only looking out for me. She wishes for me only the best. And Ardishir already knows this.

He continues. “Regarding this marriage, as much as Maryam pushes you in one direction, I will push you in the other.”

Tears fill my eyes.

“Just to provide a balance,” he assures me. “Just to make sure you are seeing all sides. But I will respect your decision. The choice is yours, Tami.”

“Thank you,” I choke out.
The choice is really mine.

“And if you decide you do not want to marry him, you must make sure I know this. I’ll make sure that no marriage takes place, and I’ll shoulder the burden from Maryam’s anger.”

I smile at him as I blink back tears. “That is very brave of you.”

He chuckles.

“I am so ashamed of my behavior, Ardishir. Please, forgive me for thinking the worst of you instead of the best.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You took my words at face value,” he says lightly. “Sometimes it is not good to be so direct. Sometimes, it is best to hide one’s true thoughts.”

He reaches again for his newspaper. He unfolds it and raises it to block his face. It occurs to me as I watch this kind man hide behind his newspaper that it is not only Iranian women who wear veils and curtain themselves from the world.

I
leave my house and walk toward school with my heart much lighter. It is a beautiful and cloudless morning. I am addicted to Tucson’s fresh air. I allow my lungs to breathe deeply here in a way I never did back home.

I smile as I walk, for each step brings me closer to my new life in America. I am eager to get to class, enjoy my classmates, and perhaps see Ike on my way home. I will have dinner with Haroun when he returns and I will observe him to see whether he is someone I can marry. I am hopeful he is. After all, he showed so many good qualities when he came to our home. He was gracious, well spoken. Polite, loves to travel. Successful in his profession, able to provide. Not unattractive. This morning, in the bright spring sunshine, his odd behaviors seem only to be quirks, not negative judgments about his character.

I walk with my head held high, looking at each house and yard as I pass it. I must say, the native desert landscaping has grown on me. The saguaro cactus, the cholla, the creosote bushes and mesquite trees. But the colored rocks that people dump in their yards for decoration are simply awful. Natural dirt, the desert floor, is so much more pleasing than these horrid manufactured rocks.

I slow and look around as I approach the yard where I have hidden my walking shoes. When I reach the spot where I hid them, I squat down and reach into the grass.

But they are not there. Puzzled, I poke through more of the long grass, but yank it back when I see an iguana scurrying away. I do not understand where my shoes could have gone and wonder if perhaps an urban coyote might have taken them to eat.

“Looking for these?”

The voice is friendly, but I close my eyes in embarrassment and keep my head down. I’ve been caught. I no longer think such a transgression will land me in jail. I only wonder what sort of explanation I can give. Slowly, I crawl back from the bush and look up to the voice.

“Hello,” I say with a chagrined smile. Before me stands an older woman beginning to crumple into herself from age. But her green eyes sparkle, still young. She is clearly amused.

I rise to my feet and brush myself off before I approach her to retrieve my shoes. “I’m sorry for leaving them on your property. Please, excuse me for the transgression. I will not do so again.”

“What nationality are you?” She peers at my face, trying to figure it out.

“I’m Persian.”

“Well, you’re beautiful, that’s what you are. I’m Rose McClellan.” She extends her hand and I step forward to shake it.

“Hello, Mrs. McClellan.”

“No
Mrs.
I’m not married. Never have been.”

My skin tingles with excitement.
Never been married!

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “Forgive me for assuming.”

“Just call me Rose.”

“Thank you. I’m Tami. Tami Soroush. I am in town visiting my sister.”

Her eyes twinkle again. “Why are you hiding your shoes in my yard?”

I sigh. “It’s complicated.”

“I see.” She gives me an appraising look, as if to tell me it probably is not so very complicated. And she’s right. But I feel so mortified at moments like this, moments when Americans catch me acting crazy. I worry that Americans will base their opinions of all Iranians on their opinions of me. I want to tell them:
No, no. Don’t let me reflect badly on them. I represent only my silly self.

I think that perhaps I have offended her by my reluctance to confide my secret. “I won’t leave them here anymore,” I assure her.

She leans toward me, peers at me. “Did you steal them?”

“Of course not!”

She winks to tell me she is joking. “Are you hiding them from your sister?”

I must visibly cringe, for she laughs out loud. “You’re welcome to leave them here. In fact, I’ll put a basket on my front porch and you can throw them in there.”

“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, but it will! Or else my sprinkler system will drench them each morning before you collect them.”

“Well, thank you. You’re very kind.”

“Here, come on the porch and sit in my rocking chair and put them on.”

I do not know how to refuse her offer, so I follow her to the porch and sit in her bright red rocking chair. While she disappears inside the house, I quickly unzip my boots and lace up my walking shoes. I watch the door, waiting for her return, noting the hand-painted sign above it,
La Casa de Rosa.

She emerges a moment later with a white wicker basket, which she places next to her door.

“Here! You can keep your boots here and then switch back on your way home. I just love the intrigue! I feel like I’m involved in espionage of the highest order.”

I laugh. “I know this is so silly.”

“I have only one condition.” Rose has lowered her voice to make it sound serious. “I’ll guard your shoes only if you promise to stop in for a cup of tea sometime and share with me this so very complicated secret of yours.”

“I, ah…It’s not a very good secret,” I confess. “And I don’t want to bother you.”

“It would be no bother,” she says lightly. “I’d enjoy the company.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“Come soon, Tami.”

I nod and we say our good-byes.

I find myself smiling the rest of the way to class. I like Rose. Unmarried Rose. I wonder if she lives in that big house all alone. I wonder what she does all day by herself. Does she play her music loud? Paint her toenails while watching television? Read until late into the night? Does she try new recipes for fun, knowing she has to spice them only for her palate and pleasure? Does she sleep in the middle of the bed? Does she think I am a crazy girl, to be hiding my shoes in her yard?

I grin at that thought. For maybe I am crazy, but she has invited me into her home, nonetheless. It’s nice to meet someone who wants to know my secrets and who, I suspect, will still like me, anyway.