Veil of Roses (6 page)

Blech.
This is not tea. It is cold and tastes of fruit so sweet, it is as if there are a hundred sugar cubes in it. This must be what Americans drink, though, or the man behind the counter would not have had it ready for his customers. I keep sipping it, hoping it will perhaps come to taste better over time. I rest my feet and watch Ike behind the counter as I take my sips. He takes everyone else’s money the first time they hold it out. And every time he has a free moment, he looks outside and smiles at me.

I narrow my eyes at him the next time he looks over and he raises his eyebrows in response. I look at my watch. I have still more than one kilometer to walk, and I must hurry if I am to arrive on time. But as I push back my chair to stand, I see that a police car has lurched to a stop in front of the coffee shop. Two bulky policemen get out. They have guns in their belts.

My insides collapse. I freeze even though my body wants so badly to shake in terror. They walk right by me, so close they could reach out and grab my neck and haul me to their vehicle and make me disappear, and Maryam would know only that I did not return from class, but she would not know where to find me, how to help me. The bigger policeman yanks open the door to the coffee shop and they go right up to Ike.
He called them!
That spiteful man. I did
nothing
to him. I tried to pay, I really did.

My breath comes out in big heaves. This is horrible. I think how I can explain that it is my money in that box and I tried to give it to him even though he kept telling me no, and that it was him, not me, who did not know how to do
taarof
properly. And please, they cannot send me back to Iran for a simple misunderstanding.
Please.

I push my lips together and blink heavily to keep from crying. I reach into my backpack and fumble for the index card Maryam made for me. I will ask them to call her and she can explain what happened. I will beg them not to take me to jail, but please to call my sister. Ardishir has money if we need to give them some so they leave me alone. It can be arranged, I am sure.

The policemen come back outside, toward me, carrying large cups. The smaller one nudges the larger one as they approach. I cannot move from the fear.

“Ma’am.” He nods. “Is everything all right?”

I swallow over the lump in my throat and my breath comes out like I am having trouble breathing, which I am, only I don’t want the policemen to know it.

“Ma’am?” he says again.

I make my eyes look up at him and my breath comes harder. I nod and stretch my eyes out so the tears do not collect in the corner of my eyes and run down my face.

“You’re sure?”

I nod again. I even manage a small smile.

“Okay, then,” he says. “Have a good day.”

I do not trust myself to reply. I would probably be so nervous that I could only talk in Farsi and they would think I am crazy and lock me up. I give them another small smile and try to show that I am okay. For I have realized they are talking to me not to arrest me but because they think I need help. I smile and nod, smile and nod, even after they have their backs to me.

Once they have driven off, I can breathe again. I drop my arms onto the table and sink my head into my hands. You can take the girl out of Iran, but you cannot take Iran out of the girl. I know fears that Americans will never know,
Inshallah.

“Are you okay?” I hear a voice at my table. I raise my head.

It is that Ike. I let out my breath.

“I thought—” I stop. It is too many words to explain, and he will not understand, anyway.

“You thought what?” He looks like he really wants to know.

“I tried to pay, but you wouldn’t take my money. I thought—I thought maybe I did something wrong.”

He looks at me with curiosity. “Where are you from?”

“Persia,” I say, which is the old name for our country. Americans do not think so highly of Iran, I know.

“Persia,” he repeats back, amused. “You mean Iran?” He pronounces it right.
Eee-Rahn.

“Yes.”

“You’re new to this country?”

“Yes,” I say. “I have been here for only one week.”

“And you thought I called the cops to have you arrested for not paying for your drink?”

I nod.

“You poor girl,” he says with a big smile. He must be very rich, to have such nice teeth. But then again, if he were so rich he would not work behind a counter in a coffee shop. “It was a sample. You know what
free
means, don’t you?”

“I guess maybe I don’t.”

I know by how he narrows his eyes that he has caught the double meaning of my answer. “It’s a new drink,” he explains, slowing his words for me. “We want our customers to try it so that if they like it, they will buy a bigger cup next time. You don’t really think we’d charge money for such a small glass of tea, do you?”

I shrug one shoulder. “In my country, we have some drinks that are very strong and come in small cups.”

“Oh, right,” he says. “Espresso, I suppose. Well, don’t worry. You didn’t do anything wrong. And you don’t have to be afraid of the police here. They’re mostly decent.”

“Thank you,” I say. “It is very nice of you to explain this to me.”

“My pleasure,” he says, bowing his head at me like a gentleman. “Did you like the
free sample
?”

“It’s very sweet,” I say. “I am not used to drinks so sweet. And I am not used to tea being cold. I have only had it hot before.”

“Well,” he says, shrugging a little, “I should get back inside. If you wait here, I’ll go get your five bucks back for you. I
thought
that was quite the generous tip!”

I like his laugh. It makes me laugh, too. I give him my best Julia Roberts smile, the one I practiced in the mirror before leaving home. He looks at me with a feeling I do not recognize. It feels close to affection, but that is not quite right. I realize suddenly that it is a look of attraction. He is attracted to me.

Oops.

“Oh, no,” I say, waving him off. “Please, keep it. Your English lesson was very helpful.”

He gives me another dazzling smile. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “Yes, very sure.”

“Okay, then.” He raises his hand in a small wave and backs away, still smiling. “I get off at three o’clock. If you’re still here, I’d be happy to help you practice your English.”

I remember Maryam’s admonition:
Don’t talk to any men.

“Oh, thank you. But I couldn’t.”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

“I have an English class I must get to.” I glance at my watch to show him I must hurry. “But thank you just the same.”

“Anytime,” he says. “On the days that I work, I always get off at three, and I usually sit outside and have a cup of coffee before leaving. We could practice then sometime. If you want.”

“That’s very generous of you to make such an offer.”

“I mean it. It’d be fun.”

He gives one last little wave to me and goes back inside behind the counter. He busies himself by cleaning a coffee grinder and I slip away while his back is to me.

I smile the whole way to English class and my feet do not hurt one bit. I feel almost as if I am walking on air.

M
y English class meets in the basement of the main public library in downtown Tucson. Someday I will arrive very early and linger in this library. I want to learn what is written about Iran. I want to see for myself that American writers are allowed to criticize their own government without fear of imprisonment. But today I arrive only five minutes early and find a man with a stringy-haired ponytail waiting for me outside the classroom.

“Are you Tamila?” I can tell by how his eyes crinkle when he smiles that he is very kind.

I nod and smile back, grateful to find that my heart experiences none of the flutters it did when I spoke to Ike.

“I’m Danny.” He bows his head slightly but does not offer his hand. I appreciate this. Shaking hands with men is still so strange for me. “I’m your instructor. I could tell from your name that you’re Persian, aren’t you?”

I nod.

“I lived in Turkey for two years, back in the late ’80s.” He looks proud of this fact, so I smile at him. “You’re the only new student we have this session. Why don’t you come on in and take a seat wherever you feel comfortable?”

I walk ahead of him into the classroom. There is a long table with chairs around it, and four other students are already seated and chat easily with one another. I select a chair next to an old woman who looks like she is from a Baltic state, somewhere very cold. She is tiny in her height but large in her bones. She leans over and pats my hand. “Good girl, good girl” is how she greets me.

“Thank you.” I smile at her, grateful for her friendliness.

“
Prosze bardzo.
You are a-velcome.” She smiles back. I like that she has a gold cap over her front tooth. It shows her character.

“You know good girl she is?” questions an old man sitting in front of the old woman. “Maybe she no good girl.” He is missing a tooth on one side of his mouth. He sucks air in through the space and then laughs at his own joke. Old men must be the same everywhere, I think. They laugh harder than anyone else in the room at their own jokes.

“I take this good girl on a trip to Lake Havasu City with me,” Josef announces with a wink to me. “
Only
this good girl.”

I draw back, unsure how to respond.

The old lady scolds him in a language I can’t determine. He argues back in yet another language, also Slavic but different from hers. I feel like I have somehow caused this rift but can’t possibly imagine what I could have done to prevent it.

“Don’t mind them,” says a man about ten years my senior who sits across from me. “This is how they tease each other.”

“What did he mean about taking me to another city?” I ask. I cannot go on a trip with this man!

“He was just trying to get a rise out of Agata. They’re smitten,” the man explains, extending his hand to me. “I am Edgard, and I am from Peru. We have all been together for two classes by now. At the end of each session, Josef takes the class on a trip. Last time, it was to Disneyland. The time before, the Grand Canyon. Next time, it will be Lake Havasu City. He’s renting a houseboat for us to stay on.”

“He’s very rich?” I whisper.

Edgard shrugs. He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “I think he hoarded money all his life. Then when his wife died a few years back, he realized he should have used his money to have fun with her when he could have. So, he just does things like this now. He doesn’t have family left, so he says he has adopted us.”

“That’s very sweet. Your English, it is very good,” I tell him.

“Thank you.” He bows his head. “We were required to speak English in medical school.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“There, I was. Here, for now, I wash dishes in a restaurant.” He smiles like this is not so bad.

“How long have you been in United States?”

“In
the
United States,” he corrects me. We don’t use definite articles like
the
in Iran and it is something I often forget. “Six months. I married an American nurse who was in the Peace Corps in my country.”

“What is this, Peace Corps?”

Edgard shrugs. “Mostly, it’s a bunch of do-gooders who help poor communities around the world. A bunch of hippies with long hair.”

Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of a guitar softly strumming. It is Danny, at the front of the table and sitting on its edge.

“He was in the Peace Corps, too,” Edgard whispers to me with a wink before leaning back and sitting upright.

“Let’s begin, friends. It looks like everyone’s here.”

“Except Eva,” call out the others. They share a laugh.

“Except Eva,” Danny agrees, setting his guitar at his side. “We have a new student joining us today. Let’s all say hello to Tamila.”

“Hello, Tamila,” they say in chorus. I feel very glad to be with such a friendly group. Maybe these people will be my friends. Maybe I will make jokes with them soon.

“Hello, it is very nice to meet you,” I respond. “Please, call me Tami.”

They introduce themselves. The old woman is Agata from Poland. There is Edgard from Peru; Josef from Czechoslovakia; and Nadia from Russia, who is pregnant-large and speaks very softly. She looks sad or shy, I cannot tell which.

“And here is Eva,” announces Agata with a flourish, just as the introductions conclude and a light-featured woman enters wearing the shortest skirt I have ever seen. She carries a tray of some type of dessert that smells delicious. Agata turns to me. “Eva is from Germany, and she is
not
good girl.”

The class laughs, even Danny and Nadia. Eva grins at me. The grin reminds me of the woman from the airplane, the one who was twice divorced and liked the tongues of Persian men. I will need to be careful around Eva.

“But I make good
stollen,
no?” She passes the tray to Edgard, who takes a helping and passes it along to Josef. I enjoy hearing their appreciative murmurs as they taste her
stollen
.

As the passing of the treat continues, Danny turns his attention back to me. “When we get a new student, we have that person tell us a little bit about themselves and then we take turns asking questions. Only if you’re comfortable. Do you feel up for that?”

Up for that. My nerves shake inside my body as I push back my chair and stand. I take a deep breath. I tell them I am twenty-seven years old and I am from Iran and I am visiting my sister and her husband in America. I say I am very pleased to meet you all. I pronounce my words carefully. My nerves relax as I talk because I realize from their encouraging expressions that each of them has had to speak like this in front of the class at some point or other.

“Thank you, Tamila.” Danny compliments my diction and gestures for me to sit. “Now, who would like to ask the first question?”

Eva raises her hand very quickly. The whole class laughs. “Not you, Eva,” chuckles Danny.

“Darn.” Eva snaps her fingers as she says this.
Darn.
I need to find out about that word, too. I write it down in my notebook.

“Nadia, why don’t you start?”

Nadia offers me an apologetic smile. My return smile lets her know it is okay, I do not mind. “Do you have husband?” she asks.

“I do not have husband,” I reply.

“
A
husband,” Edgard corrects. “I do not have
a
husband.”

“Sorry,” I say.

Danny lifts his eyebrows at Edgard. “Today, we’re helping Tamila speak publicly. That is all. We’ll not correct mistakes.”

“Oh, please do,” I say. “I very much want to learn good English.”

Danny says there is time for that. It is now Edgard’s turn to question me.

“Do you miss your family back home?”

I nod as it hits me, a terrible wave of missing
Maman Joon
and
Baba Joon
. I feel their presence right here with me in the room, waiting to hear my response.

“Very much, I miss my family.” I stop to clear my throat from a lump of sadness. I receive smiles of sympathy from everyone. I want to say more, but the smiles tell me I don’t have to.

“What job does your father do?” This from Agata. He builds roads, I tell them. He is an engineer educated in America. He builds roads and studies maps, but he himself is not allowed to venture outside his homeland.

“What is I-Ran like? Is it as bad as the news says it is?” This is Josef talking. He pronounces my country
I-Ran,
as in I Ran to the Corner to Buy Some Milk. It sounds harsh and ugly to hear it this way.
Eee-Rahn,
that is how Persians say it. But I do not correct his mistake.

“It is…” I do not know how to describe it for them so they will understand. It is crazy drivers. It is open-air markets all over the city selling spices and onions and fish with their heads still on. It is linking arms with your girlfriends and whispering about the good-looking boy you have passed. It is saffron and tea and naps in the heat of the afternoon. It is escaping sometimes to the mountains or the Caspian Sea, where the air is moist and not so repressive.

It is, I want to say, all that I know.

“It is not so good for womens,” I tell them instead.

“My turn,” Eva announces. There is a sudden electrical charge in the air as everyone turns to her. Her eyes sparkle at me. She leans closer. “What do single women such as yourself do for fun? Do you ever sneak off and meet men?”

I know that she expects me to say no. But it is not true that there is no fun to be had.

“We go to clandestine parties in our friends’ homes,” I say. “In the street we must wear
hejab,
but in private homes we can wear miniskirts and makeup. Or we go to Internet cafés, and women are on one floor and men are on the other and we meet together in the chat rooms. Or we go to the mountains.” I explain how in the mountains, we can let our
hejab
hang down our backs and our hair, too. “We gather in mixed groups in the mountains. It is not so bad as you might think.”

“Do your parents know you do this?” Eva asks. Her eyes tell me she is impressed with our daring.

I think of my mother, her wistful eyes. She so wants for me to know some of the freedoms she herself used to have. “Our parents know. They tell us go. Have fun.” Even so, I do not go to the mountains very much. I fear the
bassidjis
. Not so much for me—I do not fear one night in jail or two—but for
Maman Joon;
I would not want her to worry.

“Do you have a boyfriend there?” Eva asks.

I shake my head. “No, no boyfriend.”

“Forgive such personal questions,” Danny says. “But we are all interested in life for you back there. It’s so different from what we know. No matter where we’re from, we know Iran is very different. Don’t feel you have to answer our questions if they’re too private or if they upset you in any way.” He looks directly at Eva as he says this.

“I do not mind,” I say. “I am curious for all your cultures as well. I am eager to know all of you, too.”

Nadia looks at me and holds my gaze. She has both hands on her pregnant stomach and rubs it gently. She looks very much like she could use a friend.

“Should we introduce Tamila to an American folk song?” Danny asks, perhaps to lighten the mood. He reaches for his guitar.

“Do ‘This Land Is Your Land,’” Agata suggests.

“The great Woody Guthrie.” Danny nods in agreement and strums the tune.

His voice sounds out loud and true, a beacon for the others. Eva and Edgard bob their heads and sing gamely, while Nadia mouths the words and remains silent. The stars of this little performance, though, are clearly Agata and Josef. They claim this land, this country, as theirs, every square centimeter of it. Tears come to my eyes listening to this campy, off-key serenade, as I see how they cover their hearts with their hands. For it makes me realize, yet again, how much has been denied us back home.

For many years, it was illegal for women to sing in public, as it was deemed too provocative. Now they may perform in concert, but for other women only. And yet here we are, in a mixed setting, and none of the men seems lustful and none of the women seems immodest, except for Eva, and I suspect that has nothing to do with the singing. Mostly, they simply seem happy.

It was the Ayatollah Khomeini who forbade us to sing. I see his face now, glaring at me as I admire the others. He glares at me as he did throughout my childhood from high brick walls and the sides of buses and from picture frames in government buildings. His image was everywhere, omnipresent, judging my most secret thoughts. The memory of his voice admonishes me now as he admonished us back then:
There is no joy in Islam.

I shudder away his terrible words.
This land is your land.
These words are so much better.

It angers me that I must leave my homeland to seek the joy that has been denied me in Iran. For even in the best of circumstances, America, the land for you and me, can never be anything more than a stand-in, a substitute. I want my homeland to be for me.

How
dare
women be forbidden to sing?

I sit up straighter in my chair.

How
dare
they stifle our voices?

I do not know the words to this American song, yet I have picked up the catchy tune. And so I begin to hum, softly, softly, as the others sing on.