Veil of Roses (16 page)

And today, she does not disappoint.

“Hello, you two,” she says. Ike nods to her. “Tami, I will see you for tea soon, yes?”

“Yes,” I promise.

Rose pulls her head back and closes the door. I suspect she will watch us from behind the curtain and try to hear our words through the glass window.

“Here, let me.” Ike gets down on one knee to untie my shoes. I feel like Shirin, a fairy-tale Persian princess, to have a man at my feet like she had the adoring Farhad at hers.

His bangs fall across his forehead and I am tempted to reach out and brush them back.

He catches me looking at him and smiles as if he knows what I am thinking.

“Will you go on a date with me sometime, Tami?” he bursts out.

Panic stabs my heart.

“I, ooh, ah…” I stumble badly over my response. In my sudden nervousness, I have forgotten my English.

“Just a yes or no will do,” he says with a smile. “A yes would be the preferred response.”

I cannot say yes, yet I do not want to say no. So I decide to stall, instead. I reach for my boots from the wicker basket and zip them onto my feet. I stand from the rocking chair and then I ask, “What do people in America do on dates?” I do not look at him as I ask. Instead, I focus on putting my walking shoes in Rose’s basket.

Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. This is what Eva has told me Americans do on dates. But by now, I know better than to listen to everything she tells me.

“We could do anything you want,” he says gently. “We could go to dinner, or to a movie. Or we could really live it up and go to dinner
and
a movie.”

His voice is so eager that I must look at him. And my heart breaks when I do. Poor Ike, his eyes are full of hope. Part of me thinks I should trade a potential marriage to Haroun for one date with this lovely American man, who has shown me nothing but kindness. But I could not justify to my parents my willingness to trade an evening of enjoyment for a lifetime of repression, and he has made it very clear to me that he is not ready to be married.

“I just can’t,” I tell him over the lump in my throat.

He licks his lips, nods once, and shifts his gaze toward the street. I have hurt his feelings, and I feel awful.

“Ike?”

He gives no response. I step toward him and put my hand on his arm. He visibly calms from my touch and turns back to me.

“I don’t get it. Am I reading something wrong here? Do you just not like me?”

I shake my head. My heart feels so swollen I fear it may burst.

“I like you,” I whisper.

“Then what? Is it your sister?”

My breathing is labored. I raise my shoulders in a shrug. He leans closer to me, and his eyes turn soft. “You do know that you’re killing me here, Tami, don’t you? I mean, you know how I feel about you, right?”

When he sees my panicked expression, he reaches out and strokes my cheek. I want to melt into his touch.

“You just met me,” I whisper.

“I think you’ve been in my heart my whole life, Tami.” His voice is husky. “You feel like home to me.”

I cannot look at him anymore, at his ocean eyes. It would be too easy to drown in them. I look away quickly, and see Rose yank her head back behind a curtain. This jolts me out of the moment.

“I need to go.”

“Don’t go,” he says. But now his tone is light, playful. And so I smile and repeat myself.

“I need to go.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.”

And with that, I turn and descend the steps on Rose’s porch. Ike follows. When we reach the sidewalk, he stops. I must cross in front of him to head in the right direction, and when I walk past him, he reaches for my wrist. I want to cry and he must see this because he shakes it gently and then lets me go.

“Bye, sweet Persian Girl.”

“Bye,” I whisper, and try to smile. I walk away as fast as I can and stop only when I am safely inside my house, and then I lean against the door after closing it behind me and bend over to gasp for air.
Breathe, breathe,
I tell myself.
Do not drown in this man.

“Tami?”

I straighten up and see Maryam walking into the living room. She does not notice my affliction.

“Haroun called. He’ll be back in town soon and wants to take you to dinner next Wednesday. I think he might ask you!”

She beams with excitement.

“Great,” I manage to reply.

After Maryam disappears into the kitchen, I rush to my room, collapse on my bed, and sob for fifteen minutes straight.
Maman Joon
once told me that sometimes there is nothing like a good cry to make a woman feel better. This is not one of those times. My American Boy has stirred feelings inside of me that I have never had before, and they have shaken me to my very core.

F
or my dinner date with Haroun, I wear stark red nail polish and the same low-cut dress I wore my first night in Tucson. I will dare him to disapprove of me. When the doorbell rings exactly on time, I answer the door myself and brace for his reaction to my appearance. Startled, he just stares at me for a moment.

“You look amazing, Tamila,” he finally says.

“Oh! Well, thank you!” I am pleased by his reaction. His eyes are not covetous, but rather proud. This is good, I think. I need to remind myself that Haroun is not the bad guy. He is a good guy. He might be the one who saves me.

“Come in, please,” I welcome him. He hands me one of the two bouquets of tulips he brought. “These are for you. I brought some for your sister as well.”

“That is very kind.” I reach for my bouquet. “Let’s go to the kitchen so you can give them to her.”

We chat pleasantly in the kitchen with Maryam for several moments. Then we take our leave and drive in his spotless black Mercedes to the west side of Tucson. We are going to a steak house in the desert that used to be a ranch, and when we arrive, the host is expecting us.

“Mr. Mehdi, how are you this evening?”

I am impressed. This must mean that Haroun eats out often. This is also good, for I do not want to be tied to a kitchen my whole life.

“I am fine, thank you, Mr. Hiller. May I introduce you to Tamila Soroush?”

Mr. Hiller and I shake hands.

“Please, come right this way. Your table is ready.” He leads us to the patio and to a table close to the open-pit outdoor barbecue. “I have a shawl for you, Ms. Soroush.” He slips a warm black shawl over my shoulders, for which I am thankful because of the mid-March chill.

Haroun smiles at me once we are seated. “The flame from the fire sparkles in your eyes. It makes them even more beautiful.”

“Thank you.” How nice. His eyes, too, sparkle pleasantly.

When the waiter comes, Haroun suggests we order margaritas along with our steak dinners. I barely hesitate before smiling and nodding my acceptance.

“So you are not opposed to alcohol?” I ask once the waiter has taken our order.

“Not at all,” he says. “I never overindulge, that would be wrong, but a glass of wine or beer every now and then is one of the true pleasures of life, I think.”

“That’s what my father says,” I tell him.

He smiles. “Mine, too. Does your father secretly brew beer in the basement as well?”

I laugh and cover my lips with my index finger. “Shhhh. You never know who might be listening.”

He winks at me. “I think we’re safe here.”

When our drinks come, we clink glasses. “To our fathers,” Haroun says.

“To our fathers.”

As I take a sip of my first margarita, I am reminded once again that the best things about America are the little things, the little freedoms that Americans don’t think twice about. The freedom to sit outside with a man and watch the fading sunset. To wear a little makeup and smile at a man without being accused of corruption. To sip a margarita in the chilly desert air.

I also realize that I am having fun with Haroun. He is handsome and attentive. He dresses well and there has been nothing so far to dissuade me from accepting his marriage proposal, when it officially comes.

Time to get to work. I take a gulp of my margarita and feel the alcohol burn its way to my stomach, giving me courage. I need to be bolder now than I have ever been before in my life.

“So, tell me what you want from a marriage,” I say. “Tell me what you want from a wife.”

Haroun sets his drink down and puts his hands in his lap. I look into his eyes and see gentleness.

“I want someone to go through life with,” he says. “Someone to travel with and have dinner with and care for. I want my wife to be my best friend.”

My heart softens when I hear his response. But I persevere in my tough questioning. “Are you traditional in how you view your wife?”

He shakes his head. “I think the traditional way has left many women in Iran very unhappy.”

“So your wife could work outside the home?”

“Sure.”

“Would you let your wife go on a trip with her classmates to, say, Lake Havasu City to see the London Bridge?”

“Of course!” He smiles broadly at me. “I want my wife to be happy. To have many friends and not feel isolated like so many women in Iran do.”

My heart is suddenly full of song.

“So you are not one who believes a woman’s place is in the home?”

Haroun shrugs. “I have a housekeeper who comes twice a week to clean, prepare meals, and do my laundry. I do not see that this would change. It took me a long time to find the right housekeeper, and I am very pleased with her attention to detail. I would not want something such as housework coming between us.”

Our steaks arrive still sizzling. They have been prepared right before our eyes on the grill. Haroun’s is charred, it is so well done. I ordered mine medium rare, over his mild protests.

“These look delicious,” Haroun tells the waiter.

I cut into my steak, and with the first bite I am in ecstasy. It practically melts in my mouth.

“Mmmmmmm,” I say. “I have never tasted such wonderful meat.”

“I am glad,” Haroun says. “I only hope you don’t catch mad cow disease.”

Mad cow disease? I put down my fork. “What is this mad cow disease?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Then why did you mention it?”

He shrugs and goes on cutting his steak into bite-size chunks that he carefully places on the right side of his plate. Piece after piece, very methodically. I find him annoying all of a sudden. “I am surprised you have not read about this,” he tells me. “It’s all over the news. It’s a European and American disease you catch by eating meat that is prepared too rare. The brain wastes away and you go crazy and eventually die.”

My stomach threatens to throw up what I have just eaten. “Why did you not tell me about this before I ordered? Why did you not tell me to order mine well done like you did?”

“How would that make me look?” he says. “I do not want to control you. You should be able to decide things for yourself.”

“But if I’d only known about this disease, I surely would not have ordered mine rare!” I sputter through my sudden anger. “I do not want to catch a brain disease that has no cure! You should have told me of this.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “In the future, I will make sure to inform you of such things. Should we send your plate back and ask them to cook it properly? Or would you like something else?”

My appetite is ruined from the very idea of crazy cows. I push my plate away. “I’m not hungry. Why would a restaurant even serve food that can make people sick?”

“America is all about freedom of choice.”

“There is such a thing as taking freedom too far, I think.”

“I agree.” Haroun raises his arm and the waiter quickly approaches. “Please take her plate away. It is covered with brain-disease germs.”

“Yessir, of course.” He immediately clears my plate. Behind him, I watch the cook accept a ten-dollar bill from another waiter and tuck it into his front shirt pocket. They laugh openly at the waiter bringing back my plate.

Hmmm. It seems there has been some sort of wager regarding this dinner date.

“Haroun, the host who seated you seemed to know you quite well. Do you come here often?” I say this like it is small talk. And I down another large gulp of my drink.

“Oh, yes. It is my favorite restaurant for steak in town. I like that I can watch the cook prepare my food. Plus, I have inspected the kitchen and it is very clean. Top-notch.”

Grrrrrrr.
Of course a restaurant wouldn’t serve food it believed would be harmful to its customers. This is just more of Haroun’s craziness.

“Haroun,” I say, “I have something very important to tell you.”

I have his full attention.

“There is nothing wrong with my smile.”

He looks at me, puzzled. “Of course there is not.”

“I mean, I will not agree to have corrective surgery on my mouth, because there’s nothing wrong with it.”

He looks incredulous. “Of course there’s not! Why ever would you be concerned with such a thing? Your smile is full of hope and joy,” he says. “I have never seen one more beautiful.”

I sit back, stunned. “But the night we met, you told me it needed repair.”

“No I didn’t.” He laughs very loud. “I only said there is no repair that could be made on such a beautiful mouth as yours.”

“Oh. I must have misunderstood.”

I didn’t! I didn’t!

I take another two gulps of my margarita.

“And another thing,” I say, leaning forward. “I have some concerns about…”

I stop and swallow hard. It is hard for me to say things so directly. It is not how I am used to behaving. But this is my life, my future, I’m deciding on. Haroun will just have to forgive me for my words.

Or not.

“You have concerns about what?” he asks, as if he has no cares in the world.

I look at him with kindness to show I do not mean him any offense. “You seem perhaps overly concerned about cleanliness.”

He nods in agreement. “Cleanliness is very important to me.”

“I mean, I wonder if it’s an unhealthy way of being.” I brief him on my observations—the quite earnest hand-washing, the mad cow disease concern, the paranoia about a potential bug in the corner of our dining room, the illusionary spider bite.

Haroun places his fork down on the corner of his plate and reaches for my hand. My heart rate spikes at his touch.

“It is true I am concerned about my health,” he says. “I value my life and all life. I want to live it to the fullest and enjoy a future with a lovely person for a wife and, God willing, children someday. Is that so wrong?”

He gently strokes my hand with his thumb. He makes it all sound so reasonable.

“No, of course not.”

Haroun’s eyes darken and sadness falls across his face. His hand becomes limp in mine.

“I will tell you something that I usually never talk about. My only sister died from an infection when she was eight. She suffered greatly and it was a needless death due to carelessness at the hospital.”

I squeeze his hand and feel tears come to my eyes. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. Your poor parents.”

I receive a small smile. Haroun’s eyes have turned watery.

“It was a very bad time for my family,” he says. “I loved her very much. This is why I am careful. I know how quickly life can be lost.”

I pat his hand. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You remind me of her,” he says, looking into my eyes with great kindness. “Your hopefulness. Your zest for life. These are qualities to cherish. To protect.”

I blush. I am pleased he has recognized these traits in me. It is good, for a husband to want these qualities to remain in his wife.

“Tami,” he says quietly, intertwining his fingers with mine. “You would make me a very happy man by agreeing to be my wife. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Ike.

I take a deep breath. My heart pounds. My mouth is so dry I have to lick my lips before responding. But when I speak, it is with a strong voice. “Yes, Haroun, I will marry you. It would give me great pleasure to be your wife.”

His smile is huge. I smile back and am relieved to find that I do not feel sadness. I certainly do not feel the joy one would hope for, but joy is not required, only willingness.

And I am willing to marry Haroun. I shall marry him and stay in America.

Haroun pats my hand one last time and then raises his margarita glass for a toast. I raise mine as well.

“To us,” he says. “To my new bride.”

“To us,” I agree, and smile at the man who is soon to be my official husband.

And then I gulp the rest of my margarita while he devours his well-done steak.