Veil of Roses (5 page)

I
’ll be fine,” I assure Maryam for the hundredth time. “We’ve driven the route twice. I have your cell phone number, and it’s only four kilometers from here.”

Maryam is leaving for work. Soon after, I will leave for my first English conversation class. She wants me to take a taxicab. I am determined to walk. It is January and a beautiful seventy degrees. I have been in America for a little over a week now, and this will be my first outing without Maryam as my chaperone. And while I admire the ease with which she moves through her world, I am eager to explore it on my own.

She hands me an index card that has her address and cell phone number at the top. Underneath are these phrases written in both English and Farsi:

1. I am lost. Could you call my sister, please?

2. I do not understand what you are saying. Could you call my sister, please?

3. Leave me alone or I will call the police. Could you call my sister, please?

“Just point to whatever the situation calls for,” she instructs. “And don’t talk to any strange men.”

“How will I know if they’re strange if I’m not allowed to talk to them?” I ask this mischievously. This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation. Besides, I can’t fathom a situation where the opportunity would come up.

“Don’t talk to
any
men.”

“What about my classmates?”

“Tami.”

I laugh, take her elbow, and lead her to the door. I kiss her on both cheeks.

“Go,” I say, gently pushing her outside. “I’ll be fine.”

I watch and wave until she has backed out of the garage and driven off. And then I sigh happily. It is such a rare occurrence for me to be alone in a house. In Iran, my mother seldom ventures outside. And this is Maryam’s first day back at work since I arrived. I’d forgotten how much of a busybody she is. Ardishir is her exact opposite. He is quiet and mild and smiles sympathetically at me when Maryam issues all her rules. He doesn’t impose any of his own.

I turn up Siavesh on the stereo and put my sister out of my mind almost immediately. I am so excited for this day and only a little afraid. I am wearing a watch that Maryam gave to me as a present when I arrived. It is a Mickey Mouse watch she bought for me at Disneyland. I am also wearing Ardishir’s gift to me, a University of Arizona sweatshirt, which is good because I will be walking through the campus today to get to my English class. I am also wearing jeans and new black boots with two-inch heels.

But more important is what I don’t have on: No
hejab
. No manteau. I’m wearing dangly gold earrings and just a hint of makeup—only mascara, eyeliner, and tinted lip gloss. I let my hair hang long. I take one last look in the mirror and practice my laugh yet again. Americans laugh openmouthed and loud. I still can’t bring myself to be loud about it, but I now show off my teeth like Julia Roberts does in the movies.

I leave the house at exactly ten o’clock. This is one hour before Maryam thinks I need to leave, but I am allowing myself some time to take a break and maybe buy for myself a cup of tea.

I can hardly describe how I feel on this, my first outing alone. I can barely keep from crying in excitement. This is
me,
finally.
My
route to school.
My
air to breathe. My life, to make of it what I will.

Maryam’s house is east of the university, in a neighborhood called El Encanto Estates. There is very little traffic, no sidewalks, and lots of cactus and desert landscape. Her house is at the end of Calle Splendida, a dead-end street with a roundabout right in front. I hardly ever see anyone outside, and so today I am eager to walk through the university campus on my way to the downtown library, where my English class meets.

I lock the door behind me, lock Maryam’s wrought-iron gate behind me, and then set out. I inspect each house and yard as I pass it, deciding which ones I would like to live in someday. Maryam’s house is truly the most beautiful, although any of these houses would be fine with me.

I turn out of the neighborhood on Country Club Road, cross Sixth Street, and continue walking to Third Street, which is a bicycle route. I am now in what’s called Sam Hughes neighborhood. I pass an elementary school and stop for a moment to watch the boys chase the girls and the girls chase the boys. Chase. It seems to be the most popular game. The squeals and shrieks and laughter tickle my soul and cause me great happiness.

I have been walking for twenty-five minutes now.

I cross Campbell Avenue, a busy boulevard, and am now officially on the campus of the University of Arizona. It is so open compared to universities in Iran. I marvel at the women, with their tanned skin and white teeth and blond hair and sleeveless tank tops, walking along, talking on their cell phones, and eyeing the men just as much as the men eye them.

I didn’t count on my solid two-inch boots hurting so much. They are Naturalizers, and Maryam said they were comfortable. But they are new, and I find that to avoid limping I must stop often to let my feet rest. My enthusiasm for this adventure is fading to dread. I have a long way to go. I finished my twenty-ounce bottle of water ten minutes ago, and I am thirsty again.

I will not call on Maryam to rescue me. I must never even mention it to her or she will not let me walk to class again. Okay.
Okeydokey,
as Ardishir says whenever Maryam asks him to do something around the house. America is all about live and let live. No one has minded that I’ve been taking photographs of houses that I like with the camera Ardishir has lent me. I took a picture of a teenage boy with three earrings hanging from his nose. I took a picture of a barefoot black man with no shirt and long braided hair riding a unicycle and playing a flute. No one has approached me to yank my camera from me. No one has yelled at me to hurry along or demanded to know what I was doing. I have been left alone on the streets, unmolested, for what feels like the first time in my life.

If I were braver, I would bend down and unzip my boots. I would pull them off and walk barefoot. I can just imagine the relief! I would wiggle my poor toes. I would pull off my socks as well, because if they get dirty then Maryam would know what I have done.

Maryam.

She would disapprove. She would say it is low-class, beneath our family.

I leave my boots on. I owe her that much, and so much more.

Yet as for my thirst, I know I can solve this problem. Once I leave campus and cross Park Avenue, I find myself at Main Gate Square on University Boulevard. I see the Starbucks ahead. Maryam has pointed this out to me, as perhaps a place I would like to enjoy a drink on my way to class.

I study the stickers on the door to make sure I am obeying all the rules.
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.
I am glad for leaving on my boots.

Make This Your Neighborhood Starbucks.
Okay, I think. It is good to have neighborhood places. In Iran, we had so many
bazaaris,
shopkeepers who would look out for us, remember how many people are in our family and how much meat to give us, share with us the news of the day, that sort of thing.

I pull open the door and step inside. I clasp the straps of my backpack with each hand and look around. There is an unlit fireplace. Two men play chess, speaking not at all. A table by the window separates two easy chairs. One is occupied by a woman about my age, who curls her legs under her on the chair. She highlights the passages of a text and chews on the highlighter when it is not in use. In the other chair sits a woman of perhaps Korean heritage, chatting quietly into a cell phone. All four of these people have drinks beside them and backpacks at their feet. All must be students. Not one of them looks at me.

I close my eyes and inhale the coffee smell, surrendering to the memories. I am back in Iran, a little girl at my grandmother’s house in Esfahan. I am skipping through the citrus trees, hopping from brick to brick in the courtyard. Inside, the angry talk of my aunts and uncles and older cousins is how the revolution is not so good, how maybe it was not so smart to have traded one corrupt leader they knew well for another they did not know so well. They talk of lessons learned: Beware the charismatic man who speaks the words our hearts long to hear, who rails against misdeeds and excess and promises to create a just society without ever explaining he will silence his critics by executing them, at a rate of four or five per day. They talk of who is in jail and who has been tortured and who has disappeared into the mountains, attempting escape. They talk of how much more expensive things are in the marketplace now and how there are no new cars or refrigerators because of all the boycotts against our country. Maryam sits with them, but this talk is not for me. I am young, six maybe. Young enough that wearing
hejab
is not yet required of me, and their words I have heard many times already. It is all anyone talks about anymore.

So I am outside, running in the crisp autumn air, collecting pecans that have fallen from the trees, when my grandmother calls me inside. As I step into her warm kitchen, the smell of coffee overpowers me just like it does now, here at this Starbucks on the other side of the world. Not many people serve coffee in Iran; I know only of my grandmother. And granted, in Iran there is only instant coffee, no percolation machines. But the smell is the same.

When I open my eyes, I am no longer in my grandmother’s warm kitchen. I am back in my very own America. The man behind the counter smiles at me like he knows just what I have been thinking. This startles me. I am not used to a man looking so closely at me, seeming to understand me even without words.

I look past him to the colorful menu board written in chalk. But I want only one cup of water and so I must go closer to talk to him. My chest feels tight, scared. This is the first time I have handled a transaction, the first time I am without Maryam, who usually speaks for both of us. The man smiles and watches me the whole time I approach.

I clear my throat. I swallow hard. “Excuse me, please. Could I have some water?” I say it as fast as I can so maybe I don’t seem so much like a foreigner.

He holds out a small plastic cup of something that is not water. “Here, try this. It’s our new drink. Mango kiwi tea.”

I had not planned on buying some tea right now. I thought perhaps after my English class, on my way home, I might buy a cup of tea and write in my journal. I glance at my Mickey Mouse watch. There is time. Mango and kiwi, these are not fruits we have in Iran. I will try it, I decide. I take the cup, then place it on the counter and reach into my backpack for some money. I pull out five dollars and hand it across the counter, trying not to look at this man in the green apron too closely. Instead of at his face, I look at his name tag.
Ike.
This is a short name. Not one I have heard before.
Ike.

He waves my money away. “No, it’s a sample.”

I am confused. This is
taarof,
and Maryam told me that Americans do not do
taarof
. In Iran, this is how you pay for something in a store: You try to pay the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper waves the money away and says, “No, no. Really, I couldn’t take your money.” You insist; he refuses again. You insist again; he refuses yet again and puts his hand over his heart to show you how sincere he is. Only after refusing three times will he accept your money, and when he does, he thanks you over and over again for your generosity. It is a roundabout way to buy some simple groceries, but it makes everyone feel proud of what they are able to give the other person.

So this Starbucks man, this Ike, is doing
taarof
. He must know, then, that I am from Iran. I am disappointed to look so obviously Iranian, and I wonder what aspect of my appearance or behavior has given me away.

I again try to hand him the money. “Please,” I say. “You must let me pay for it.”

“It’s free,” he says, a little louder. “Enjoy.”

“No, really, I must insist on giving you some money.” My smile says that I acknowledge his kindness, but the truth is I have always found the ridiculous politeness of
taarof
tiresome.

“It’s a sample,” he says earnestly. “A free sample.”

That’s three refusals. But he forgot to put his hand over his heart and he is looking more insistent than humble. He does not know how to
taarof
very well.

“You’re very kind,” I say. “Here, please. I must give you something.”

“It’s FREE.”

Tears come to my eyes; I cannot help it. I am stuck. He won’t take my money, but I have to go. I do not have much more time to do
taarof
with him.

“Here,” I choke out, trying to swallow my panic. “Take it.” I should not have come into this store. I should not have insisted on walking to class. I should have let Maryam call a taxicab for me.

He shakes his head and keeps the same goofy smile on his face. I see there is a clear acrylic box on the counter with some money stuffed in it, some coins and dollar bills. I push my five dollars into it, collect my drink, and rush out without saying another word. I want to leave this place quickly, but my feet are in desperate need of a rest. I take a seat on the patio at the only table available, which is right outside the door.