Veil of Roses (23 page)

“These are such beautiful gifts,” she murmurs. She sounds dreamy, far away.

I want to take her by the shoulders and shake her.
Come back to this moment. This is the moment that counts.

“Do you think there will be room in the car for them?” She looks at each of us in turn and smiles back at us as we nod that yes, of course there will be room in the car for her baby things.

“Good,” she says. “Because I love them all so much. I love
you
all so much.”

“Yay, Nadia!” I yell, and jump up from the couch.

Eva and Agata follow my lead, and soon enough we have surrounded Nadia. We jump and cheer and clap and do a little dance around her chair.

“I wish I could celebrate like you,” she tells us, laughing and holding out her broken arm.

“You will someday, because that arm’s going to heal just fine,” I bend down and remind her quietly. “And someday, Nadia, your heart will not be so sad, either.”

She gives me a small smile. “I hope you’re right about that.”

“I know I am,” I say with a confidence I do not truly feel. “Given enough time and distance, the heart will always heal.”

I want so badly for this to be true. For her, for me. For my mother, for all women.

A
s I wait for Rose to answer her door the next afternoon, my eyes fall on the running shoes Ike gave me, still resting in the basket Rose so kindly placed outside her door. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. I am not here to cry over Ike. Today, Rose and I will enjoy our tea date and say our good-byes.

“Tami!” She throws open her door and spreads her arms for a hug.

After we hug, I step back and look at her. “I am getting married tomorrow.”

There. I have told her. I have dreaded saying these words to my unmarried Rose.

Her eyebrows rise.

“Are you terribly upset with me?” I say it in a pleading way.

“Not at all!” she declares. “He seems like a delightful young man.”

“Who?”

“Ike! That young man who walks you home.” Her voice fades as she realizes it is not Ike I am marrying. “Why don’t you come in for tea and tell me all about it.”

Rose has this way about her that reminds me of my mother. She stands willing to enfold me into her life, to accept me without judgment. Without really even knowing me.
Tell me all your secrets,
she seems to say.
I will like you, anyway.

I step over her threshold, into La Casa de Rosa, and, as always, I am overcome with its character. It reminds me of Café Poca Cosa, a Mexican restaurant that Maryam and Ardishir took me to shortly after I’d berated Maryam for never cooking anything other than Persian food. It was there I was introduced to cilantro and salsa, two things Masoud has promised me are in Chicago as well. The walls of the restaurant were lime greens and deep purples. Hers are turquoise and magenta, with stenciled flowers arching over the doorways.

While she busies herself preparing our tea, I take a seat at her kitchen table. It is a table for two, with only one place setting.

“Why did you never marry, Rose?”

She sets two saucers and teacups on the table and pours our tea. After she sits, she pushes a small plate of shortbread cookies in my direction. “I would have liked to, I suppose. But the two men I’ve loved didn’t love me back, and the two men who did love me, I didn’t really love. After a while, I just came to accept that I was meant to be alone.”

“Do you ever get lonely?”

“Sure.” She sips her tea and flinches from its heat. “But I know plenty of women who are lonely in their marriages, and to me, that’s worse.”

I fold my hands into my lap and lean into the table. “I have to get married in order to stay in the United States, you know.”

“I expected as much.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. Nonjudgmental.

“He’s gay.”

She says nothing.

“He’s Persian and he lives in Chicago and I’m not at all sure he’s a nice person underneath the surface.”

I watch her exhale. Her look is serious.

“Is there no other way?”

I shake my head.

“Tucson is filled with illegal immigrants. Plenty of people live here illegally.”

I have read about this in the newspapers. There is a group who hunts them at the border as they cross over to the United States from Mexico.

I shake my head again. “What kind of life would that be? I couldn’t get a job. I couldn’t go to school. I couldn’t travel. And if I got caught, I’d have to leave America forever.”

Rose tilts her head. “I’m curious. What does your handsome friend think of your dilemma?”

I stumble. “Ike? He, ah…I don’t see him anymore.”

“I think you should marry Ike.” She is so decisive.

“Ike’s not ready to be married.”

“Are you?”

“Sure.” I hear the falseness in my voice.

“But he’s not?”

I shake my head.

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because…” My voice breaks, and I am forced to pause. “Because I’ve been told my whole life,
Get ready for marriage, get ready for marriage,
and he’s been told,
Go make your dreams come true.
”

She clicks her tongue.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
“Well, that doesn’t sound very fair to me.”

I hate it when Americans talk about fairness.

“It’s
not
fair, but that’s not the point. The point is, it’s time for me to be married. It’s time for Masoud to be married.”

And it’s time for Ike to make his dreams come true.

I
t is the morning of my wedding. Everything is ready. I have picked up all the paperwork I will need from the immigration office. Maryam’s wedding dress has been fitted for me. Ardishir has cleared the living room for the traditional ceremony we will have tonight.

My friends from class are all so curious to see what a Persian wedding ceremony is like. And I have left them to wonder, for they will see tonight as my wedding guests.

When my doorbell rings at ten o’clock, I hurry to answer it. I have invited Agata, Eva, Edgard, Josef, and Danny over to make Persian Wishing Soup. Traditionally, a woman who has a wish invites her friends over. Each provides an ingredient and they share the wishing soup. This is supposed to make the woman’s wish come true.

For my wishing soup party, I start my own tradition. I do not want this party to be for only me. I want my friends to have their wishes come true, too. So they will toss in their ingredients and it will be
our
soup. Maryam thinks I am crazy to have a party the same morning as my wedding, but this is time just for us. They are all off to Lake Havasu City tomorrow, and I will be in Chicago by the time they return, so this is our farewell luncheon.

Ardishir and Maryam come with me to answer the door. Ardishir practices his videotaping skills, as this will be his job tonight.

“Good morning, good morning!” Josef calls out when I answer the door. He carries with him a beautiful bunch of red roses and a little bag of chopped onion for the soup. I am so happy to welcome him in my home. I introduce him to my sister and brother-in-law.

Agata enters next and hands me two bags. One contains dried apricots sliced into thin strips and the other contains chopped parsley. When I introduce her to my sister, Agata throws her arms around Maryam and lifts her off the ground with the strength of her hug. “So dis is zee voman who has given our Nadia a better life.”

Maryam blushes and waves off Agata’s compliments. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Eva says, barging in and tossing me a bag of chickpeas and a bag of rice. “You Persians need to get over your modesty. You
changed her life
by your kindness and you didn’t even know her. You’re a hero, in my book.”

Ardishir glows from the praise Eva has heaped on his wife. He holds his hand out for Eva to shake and gives her a kiss on both cheeks. “You look lovely as always,” he compliments her.

I am suddenly horrified to realize that Danny, our teacher and therefore most honored guest, is still outside the door. Edgard and Carrie are still outside as well. I give them a smile of apology and welcome them all in.

“Thank you so much for coming!” I introduce them to my family.

“Mint leaves and ground cinnamon,” Danny says, handing me his plastic bag.

“Turmeric and toasted pine nuts.” Edgard hands his ingredients to me.

Agata sees my
sofreh aghd
spread out on the floor. “Is this for tonight?”

“Yes,” I tell her. Maryam and I have worked hard to prepare a beautiful
sofreh aghd
. Mine is made of white silk and adorned with many symbolic items.

My class friends cluster around it.

“What’s that for?” Carrie asks, pointing at a dish of honey covered with Saran Wrap.

“After the ceremony, Masoud will dip his finger in the honey and I will lick it off. Then we will reverse the gesture. Once we have tasted the honey, we are ensured a sweet and joyous life together.”

“I love it!” Carrie tells me. “That’s beautiful. Is it a Muslim tradition?”

“A Zoroastrian one,” I tell her. “Zoroastrianism came first. Many, many Persian ceremonies and traditions have their roots in Zoroastrianism.”

“Ees dat your-a parents?” Agata asks, pointing to a picture of Masoud’s parents.

“Those are Masoud’s. These are mine.” We have placed the photos on either side of the cloth. In the center sits a large mirror, to bring light and brightness to our lives; two candelabras, one on each side of the mirror, to symbolize fire and energy. We have a spice tray to guard against the evil eye; decorated eggs to beckon fertility; and a dish of gold coins to bring us prosperity.

“What’s that for?” Eva points to a small plate holding a needle and thread.

“That’s my favorite,” I tell her. “It’s to stitch my mother-in-law’s lips together to prevent her from meddling in our marriage. Symbolically, of course.”

Maryam thinks I should have left that off the
sofreh aghd
so as not to offend Masoud’s mother, but I insisted. It is an old tradition, and who can be offended by tradition? Plus, I mean to send a message: Leave us in peace. I hope Minu includes it on her
sofreh aghd
as well.

Ardishir keeps the camera rolling as I invite everyone to accompany me to the
ashe-paz khaneh
.

“The bathroom?” Eva asks.

Maryam and I giggle. “Why would we prepare our wishing soup in the bathroom?” I ask. “The kitchen,” I say in English this time. “Let’s all go to the kitchen. I am the
ashe-paz,
which means the cook, or literally, soup preparer. That should tell you how important soup is in our culture.”

Everyone washes their hands and helps to make lamb balls by rolling pine nuts, onion, ground cinnamon, salt, and pepper into ground lamb. While they do this, I heat some oil and cook some onion until it is golden. I then stir in the turmeric, rice, and some cinnamon, and after a while I add the apricots, parsley, and soup stock.

“It already smells delicious,” Carrie says, peering over my shoulder. She puts her arm around me. “Are you excited for your big day?”

“I am,” I tell her. “I only wish I weren’t moving so far away from my friends.”

She nods. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Edgard is terribly homesick for his family and friends, too. Even though he knows it’s better here.”

“It’s the contradiction of life,” he says. “If I were with them, I would only wish to be far away. Now that I am far away, all I do is wish for one more day surrounded by them.”

“The life of an expatriate,” Danny agrees.

I love these people. I truly do. They understand me in a way few others can. And they never, ever judge me. Well, except for Eva.

“So just think,” she says with her characteristic pluck, “if it wasn’t for me, tonight you’d be marrying Haroun.”

I flinch at the very mention of his name, which makes the others laugh.

“Stop taping,” Maryam urges Ardishir. “The evil eye,” she says with a knowing nod to me. Ardishir clicks his tongue at us, but he does stop taping and puts the camera gently down on the kitchen table.

But it is too late. The evil eye is upon us. I know it the moment I hear the doorbell. Maryam and I look at each other in great fear. This can mean nothing but trouble.

It is Haroun at the door.

Or it is Ike.

I have been half expecting Ike to appear ever since things ended so badly between us. I have half hoped there would be some sort of
Bend It Like Beckham
ending, in which Ike would pound upon my door and insist to my sister that he is worthy of me and he wants to marry me immediately to prove his intentions.

But life is so seldom like the movies.

A
t the door is Masoud, the man I am scheduled to marry in a few short hours. He enters with a smile and an enormous batch of tulips, Iran’s national flower.

“Is the party starting early? Am I missing my own wedding?” he jokes when he sees me surrounded by my friends at the kitchen table. I hurry over to greet him.

“Thank you so much for the tulips.” I take them and sniff deeply. “These are my friends from English class. We’re making Persian Wishing Soup.”

I introduce Masoud to my friends.

“Ah.” He grins and kisses me on the cheek. “And what is your wish, my bride?”

“That our marriage is happy.”

“That’s an excellent wish.” We grin at each other, we coconspirators.

“Did your parents and uncle get in all right?”

He assures me they are settled nicely at Hacienda del Sol and are resting up for what promises to be a late night.

“I don’t want to keep you from your friends, and I certainly don’t want to keep you from eating that soup and having your wish granted, but I wonder if I might speak to you for a moment in private?”

“Of course.”

I lead Masoud through the French doors that lead to the patio rose garden and fountain in the backyard and squint as I make my way into the sunshine. I take a chair at the wrought-iron table set, and Masoud sits across from me. I must hold my hand above my eyes to shield them from the morning glare. My heart thumps against my chest like it’s trying to escape.

He smiles to put me at ease. “Is my bride excited for the big night?”

“Very much so.” What I am most excited for is Monday morning when the courthouse opens, so we can register the marriage license. “And my husband, is he excited as well?”

“He is,” Masoud assures me. He has a lovely smile.

He takes a slightly deeper-than-normal breath. “There are some things we perhaps should have talked about before now, that in the excitement of our meeting Wednesday I did not think to bring up.”

“O-kay.” I say it slowly, not panicking because everything he has said so far indicates the wedding is still on, still on, still on.
I am not panicking.

Liar,
my conscience taunts.

“We talked about me paying a dowry to your brother-in-law in case the marriage does not work out.”

I nod.

“I had the money electronically transferred to him on Friday.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you very much.” Ardishir opened an account, and the money will sit there in case I ever need it. My Nadia money, I’ve come to think of it.

“In America, people don’t often pay dowries,” he informs me.

“You don’t want it back, do you?” That would be so low-class.

“No, no,” he assures me. “That is for you, to protect you. It is a good tradition. Yet with so many marriages unfortunately ending in divorce, Americans do something that I think is quite reasonable, and I’m sure you will as well.”

I wait to hear what it is I am supposed to find reasonable.

“Has anyone told you about prenuptial agreements?”

I shake my head. My hand is so tired from shading my eyes that I let it fall to my lap. I shift in my chair so my back is to the sun. There, that is much better. Now I can think.

Pre
means “before.” A nuptial is a wedding.

“A before-wedding agreement?”

“Exactly,” he agrees, and pulls out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He unfolds it and glances over it but holds it in such a way so I cannot see the words.

“I would like to speak plainly to you. May I?” He gives me a friendly smile.

“Please.” I want to snarl at him. I do not appreciate these complications at all.

“You know that I have made some money over the course of my career.”

I nod. I don’t know specific numbers, but Eva looked up what homes in his neighborhood sell for and the number is in the seven-figure range.

“If our marriage were, unfortunately, to end in divorce, I would not want what I have earned prior to the marriage to be at risk of a loss. I’m sure you can see my point here.”

I raise my eyebrows and wait to hear him out. We talked about this the first day we met, and I told him I have no problem with such an agreement.

“I mean, I’ve been working for fifteen years to establish myself and I made all those business decisions alone and took all those risks alone, and I don’t want to lose the rewards from my efforts if, say, for instance, you would choose to seek a divorce as soon as your green card arrives in the mail. Forgive my bluntness.” He says this humbly, almost apologetically.

I can feel a deep, guilty blush explode on my face. It is a thought I have not permitted myself to consider consciously. Yet Eva’s words pop into mind:
Marry the guy. You won’t have to sleep with him. And if you hate him, just ditch him as soon as you’re legal.

“It certainly is not my intention,” I assure Masoud. “When one marries, they should marry for life.”

“Of course, of course,” he agrees. “And yet, I am not comfortable taking this on as a matter of trust.”

“That’s fine,” I say briskly. “I will sign the agreement.”

He brightens at my words. “Excellent.”

I reach out for the paper. “Do you have a pen?”

He holds the paper close to himself. “There are a couple other small points still to cover as well.”

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. It is all I can do not to pull it back. A girl should not spend her wedding day discussing legal matters.

“What are these small points, Masoud?”

“I want for us to have a baby right away.”

I exhale slowly, trying to hide my anger. “That’s fine.”

It is not fine. It is petty and controlling, but there is nothing I can do about it at this late date.

“You’re sure?” He gives me a hopeful look.

“That’s fine, Masoud.”

“Because it is something my parents are very much looking forward to, their only son having a child of his own.”

“I said that’s fine. We can do that medical procedure anytime.”

“Excellent! Then you won’t mind this next clause of the agreement.”

“You are writing in a contract that we must have a baby right away?”

I like him so much less than I did ten minutes ago.

“The contract states that we will wait to file your immigration papers until after our child is born.”

“WHAT?!”

“It is necessary for the same reason the monetary agreement is necessary, to make sure this marriage produces what I expect.” Masoud speaks so calmly. This really is a business transaction for him. “You know my motives for getting married. My parents are elderly and infirm. They want very much to see their only son get married and have a baby before they pass on. Your motives in this arrangement are to secure for yourself a green card so you can stay in America forever. This ensures that we both get what we want.”

Tears well up in my eyes, and I angrily wipe them. I pull my hand away and glare at him.

Masoud sits back, calm like a businessman. “Signing this doesn’t mean we aren’t going to have a good relationship. We will have fun and be good friends and have a child together, just as we planned. I really mean this. I want to marry you. I think you’re a great girl. I thought we were only formalizing what we already agreed to. But we shouldn’t get married if you feel so strongly about not signing this agreement.”

Bile rises in my throat. “You know I have no choice. I have to be on an airplane back to Iran on Thursday if we don’t get married.”

“It may feel as if you have no choice, but you do, Tami. You always have a choice.”

“Give me the agreement,” I say with venom.

“Are you sure?”

I reach for it. Masoud bites his lower lip and hands it over. He watches as I read through it, ready to hand me a pen when I finish.

“Can you understand it all? It’s in English because that is how business is conducted here.”

“What is this last part?”

“What last part?”

“The part about custody of children in the case of divorce.”

“Oh,” he says easily, giving me a half smile. “That part says that in case of a divorce from a marriage that produces children, we shall follow Iranian law for custody purposes.”

“Is this a joke? This is a joke, right?”

“No, it’s not a joke.”

In Iran, the father gets full custody of any sons when they reach the age of two. He gets full custody of any daughters when they reach the age of seven, and I would not even get any visitation privileges. If we were to divorce, I would be dead to my children.

I throw the agreement on the table. “I will
never
agree to this.”

“Tami,” Masoud tries to reason with me, “I don’t want to get divorced. That is not my intention. You have said it is not your intention, either. So this is our guarantee that we
won’t
get divorced. Because now we have too much to lose.”

“You mean
I
have too much to lose,”
I snap at him. “I don’t see how you will lose anything, except me, which doesn’t seem to be your concern.”

“Tami,” he admonishes me. “Of course I care for you. As my wife, you will be my best friend. I will always take care of you.”

“Do you think I can’t read?” I demand. “You say one thing and your contract says another. You get everything you want! You will get married and have children and make your parents proud. They will die happy. Then you can divorce me anytime you want and keep full custody of the children, and I will be left with nothing. Nothing!”

“I would never do that,” he promises.

“Then put
that
in the agreement, Masoud.”

He pales. “It is not necessary.”

“To me it is. Make it say,
Masoud will not initiate divorce proceedings. Masoud will not take the children away from their mother.
”

He shakes his head, no. “If you were in Iran, we wouldn’t even be having this discussion. I would be the only one who could initiate divorce and I would get custody. Period.”

“We’re not
in
Iran, Masoud. This is why I
left
Iran. Because of men like
you.
”

He doesn’t like this, being told he’s like the others, like the ones who make such a beautiful country such an intolerable place to live. He narrows his eyes and puts his elbows on the table. He folds his hands and rests his chin on them. “This is nonnegotiable, Tami.”

I sit back and stare at him.

“This cannot be happening,” I say, stunned. “I just really can’t believe this is happening.”

He gives me a small smile and raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes there’s a price to pay for freedom.”

My eyes sink closed. I lean my head back to feel the sun’s warmth and let out all my breath. All this way I have traveled, all these compromises I have had to make, been willing to make, and it comes to this. This man wants me to bear his children and then put them in his arms and walk away.

Sometimes you need to hold them close, and sometimes you must let them go.

I sit up and open my eyes. Around me, I see the cloudless skies, the clear air, and the buffer of the Catalina Mountains to the north. A jackrabbit scurries from one hole he’s dug under the wall to another by the agave cactus. Birds sing their songs of freedom from the palo verde trees around us. The bougainvillea blooms explosively and the air is scented with the blossoms of the honeysuckle. It is so beautiful here. So very, very beautiful. It is a wonderful country in which to be born. And American citizenship, it is a wonderful gift to give a child.

Sometimes you need to hold them close.

And sometimes you must let them go.

I lick my lips and then rub them together. I turn my attention to Masoud. The look in his eyes is not entirely unkind. There is some sense of understanding there, too.

I sigh wearily. “I thought you were coming to me with good thoughts, good words, and good deeds.”

“I have to look out for my best interests here.”

I sigh again.

It is the sigh of someone who is very sad. It is the sigh of someone who has no hope anymore for a happy ending.

“You’re very fortunate to be in a position where you can look out for your own best interests. I am not so fortunate. I need to look out for the best interests of the children I hope to have one day.”

I give Masoud a rueful half smile as I stand and pass the prenuptial agreement back across the table.

“And I just don’t want them to have a father like you.”