Veil of Roses (9 page)

I
find it fortuitous that I am paired with Eva this afternoon for one-on-one discussion to practice our English. Her light blue eyes sparkle with mischief as she pulls her chair near mine and leans in close enough for me to see her cleavage. I sit up tall and realize immediately I was correct in my first impression of her. She is a girl who pushes things into exciting territory.

“So,” she says directly, “I want to know
everything
about you. You’re so beautiful. Do you have a boyfriend?”

I hesitate to explain my situation. For one, it would take too long and by the way she taps her long red fingernails on my desk, it is obvious she does not have patience. For another, I am afraid it will make me seem not as fun and carefree as her, to be burdened by my need for marriage. Yet she wears a plain gold wedding band, so it is not like she will want to go out looking for boyfriends, anyway.

“You have heard of arranged marriages, yes?”

Her eyes widen, and the way she wrinkles her nose makes me smile.

“That is what we do in my culture,” I tell her. “We can’t officially have boyfriends. Only fiancés and then husbands.”

“Y’all don’t even date? You just get
married
?” She says this like it’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard, and she chomps on a large piece of gum as she waits for my response.

“Y’all,” I repeat, sounding it out. I want to change the subject. “What is this word,
y’all
?”

She sniggers. “My husband’s from Texas. They slur all their words together down there like lazy asses. You all. Y’all. Get it?” She blows a bubble slowly and deliberately for effect, like an actress. “But seriously, dating is the fun part! Once you’re married, it’s all downhill!”

“I hope for me that my marriage will be fun, too.”

“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath.” Eva tells me she has been married for only one year, to an American soldier she met when he was stationed in Germany. He is on a mission now, and she lives by herself in an apartment downtown while she waits for his return.

“It must be hard to be alone in a new country with your husband gone.” I commiserate, yet secretly I am pleased because this means she might have more time to be my friend.

Eva shrugs. “I could live on base with all the other military wives, but they bore me to pieces, most of them. All they talk about are their husbands and how hard it is to be away from them.
Get a life,
I want to tell them. Life’s too short to be waiting around for someone all the time.”

We chat more about how she has applied for her green card so she can get a job and make some money of her own. I have many questions for her, like has the government interviewed her yet to make sure her marriage is for real, and did they ask questions such as what is each other’s favorite color and what the other one likes the best to eat. Eva laughs. She tells me they studied those things, but all the interviewer asked them was how they met. Which was at a dance club in Dresden and they were both very drunk.

“Did you tell the interviewer this?” I am shocked as much by her openness as by her drunkenness.

She laughs at my shock.

“
Of course not
. I was just telling
you
. Man, y’all are so wide-eyed about everything that I’m tempted to make it my personal responsibility to corrupt you.”

I am delighted by her statement and cannot hide a broad grin. “I would very much enjoy being your friend and spending time with you. But as for corrupting me, well, I am not so sure that’s possible.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge.”

“Please, do not take it as a challenge,” I say, wondering what it is with these challenges people keep issuing to me—first Ike, now Eva. It must be a popular thing to do in America. “But you could take it as an invitation to do something together sometime.”

“Have you ever gotten drunk?” Eva asks.

I shake my head. “I have drunk homemade beer sometimes. And there are parties with alcohol, definitely. But I didn’t go out much.”

“So you
can
drink.”

“Well, alcohol, it is not legal in Iran.”

She grins. “Good thing we aren’t in Iran, then, isn’t it? Have you ever gone out dancing at a club?”

“That, too, is illegal.”

“What, dancing or going to clubs?”

“Both, I imagine.”

“Man, you guys are repressed.”

“Why do you keep calling me
man
?”

She laughs. “Slang. Thought you should get to know it. Another popular thing to do is say,
Girlfriend.
” She says this in a funny tone. “Like,
Ooh, Girlfriend, check out that fine dude.
”

I burst out laughing. “I didn’t understand a word of that.”

“
Fine dude
means a sexy man.”

I refrain from asking what makes a man sexy. Her explanation might very well make me blush. And besides, I have an idea. He would have eyes as blue as the Caspian Sea. He would have hair blond from the sun. He would be a gentleman. He would be, I realize, someone remarkably like Ike.

“And
check out
. What does this mean?”

Eva raises her eyebrows twice at me. “
Check him out.
Look him over.”

“I see.” I am very amused by this.

“Do you do that in Iran?”

“Check out the fine dudes?” I enunciate carefully and laugh at how silly I sound.

“Yeah.”

“Sure,” I say. “But all we do is look.”

Eva sighs, like that’s so sad.

“And talk on the phone,” I add, wanting to show the daring side of my generation. “Sometimes we used to go out driving and pass our phone numbers to boys in their cars.”

“Mmmmm, sounds thrilling. I suppose you’re inexperienced in matters of the heart?”

“That would be correct,” I say with a smile.

“How long until you get married?”

“By the beginning of April.” I explain my visa situation.

“That’s not much time,” she says. “But we’ll have a bit of fun first, you and I.”

“I would very much like that.”

She stands. “Excuse me,” she calls to our classmates, who are partnered off at various spots around the room. When she has their attention, she continues. “We’re going to take Tami to a nightclub. She’s never been to one before.”

Agata claps in support of the idea. Edgard laughs. Josef sucks air into the missing space where his teeth should be. And Nadia smiles sadly.

“I suggest we take her to Eye Candy,” Eva proposes.

“Not appropriate,” Danny warns. He explains to me, “It’s an adult nightclub. Naked women dancing around onstage.”

“Ah, not appropriate.” I feel a hot blush. I nod gratefully at Danny and wonder why Eva thinks I would like to see naked women dance.

“Let’s take her to The Rustler and teach her how to line dance,” Edgard suggests. Agata and Josef nod their agreement. Danny gives me a smile that lets me know it will be okay. I shrug my shoulder at Eva to tell her The Rustler is fine with me.

“Line dancing it is.” Eva turns to me. “How about Saturday?”

“This Saturday?” She nods. I should ask my sister. But she was the one who suggested to me that I make friends with Eva, after all. It would be rude to refuse her invitation. But still. “I must ask my sister, to see if we have any plans. Maybe not this Saturday. But for sure, I will go.”

Eva plops back down in her chair with a self-satisfied grin. I watch her blow a big bubble with her gum.

Unable to resist, I reach out and pop it.

I
leave my English class in high spirits and with one goal in mind: to get myself home quickly to prepare for my dinner date with Haroun the engineer. Maryam has given me a bottle of face mask from Origins that has charcoal in it to rid my face of impurities. She has also left for me expensive conditioner for my hair and full use of all her makeup. She has suggested that I take a bath in rosewater and do my face mask right away when I get home. After I do this, she will help me select my clothing and put on my makeup. And she will prepare the food, so that my skin does not smell like onion and garlic, so that it remains appealing to Haroun.

As I walk, I talk to myself in a positive manner. I tell myself this engineer will be very nice. What I know of him is this: His name is Haroun Mehdi. He has been in this country for as long as Ardishir, having come right after fulfilling his military duty in Iran. He is eight or maybe ten years my senior, which is not so old, and good because he will be established in his business. His parents live still in north Tehran.

He will be nice. He will be funny. He will be handsome and engaging and interested in my thoughts. He will be open to me working outside the home. He will encourage me to have friends. He will like Persian and American food and he will think restaurants, both to visit and for takeaway, are excellent means by which to have dinner. Haroun. Haroun and Tami, happy together.

I am so deep in my hoping that it takes me a moment to recognize that the pedestrian signal to cross Fourth Avenue has turned from walk to remain in place. I take one step off the curb and must jump back as a large pickup truck comes at me. The driver yells something through his closed window and I see that I have angered him. I narrow my eyes at him to tell him,
Big deal. No need to be rude.
He drives off, and I feel pleased for standing up for myself.

I am now only a few blocks from the Starbucks where Ike works. My nerves increase as I near the coffee shop and I try my best not to limp as I approach. I cannot accept a ride from him again. To do so would be a betrayal of my agreement with Maryam. I tell myself I will walk by Starbucks fast, without glancing toward the patio.

Yet my plan shatters as I hear his voice call out, “There she is!” I look over to the patio to see him jump up from his chair. Today he sits alone. My heart stops from the shock of him, for in his arms is a large bouquet of red roses. He walks over and holds out the flowers. I cover my heart with both hands, that is how taken aback I am.

“Here,” he says. “These are for you.”

“But, but…” I stutter. “But why?”

His eyes smile at me, those eyes that remind me of the Caspian Sea with waves twinkling in the sunlight.

“I enjoyed meeting you yesterday,” he tells me. “I give you these roses as a sign of our new friendship.”

“Oh.” I feel so light-headed that I am afraid my knees will collapse and I will fall to the ground.

“Are you okay?” Ike asks. “Your face is white as a ghost.”

I catch my breath.
A sign of our new friendship.
I can manage my way out of this.

“I, ah, it’s just that I, ah, have never been presented with flowers before. I am not quite sure how to respond.”

He chuckles. “You respond by saying thank you and accepting them.”

Maryam.
This is my first thought.

He’s so beautiful.
This is my second thought.

Careful, Tami. The engineer, Tami.
This is my third thought.

“Oh, but I don’t think I can accept them.” I cannot meet his eyes. I look instead at the window of the coffee shop. Two girls behind the counter who have been staring at us turn quickly away.

“Oh, but you have to,” he replies in a playful voice. “It would be rude not to. Plus, everyone inside is watching, and they’ll never let me live it down if you refuse them. They’ll positively torture me.”

“By torture, you mean what?”

“They’ll make me feel like a real loser.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved. Where I am from, it means something very different.

“They’ve already been teasing me all day, getting me all nervous to give roses to a girl whose name I don’t even know.”

I cannot help but smile to think I’ve made him nervous. “Tami,” I tell him. “My name is Tami.”

“I’m Ike.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I know this from your name tag.”

“Oh, right,” he says, glancing down at his name tag. It says
Ike,
then
Shift Supervisor
. “Well, Tami, will you please help me out here and take these roses off my hands?”

I reach out and he places the bouquet in them. Their sweet fragrance wafts over me and I close my eyes for a brief moment from the beauty of the smell. When I open them again, I see that Ike is very pleased with my response.

“Will you have a cup of coffee with me?” He gestures toward his table. “I promise no mango iced tea today.”

I grin. That mango tea was
not
very appealing.

“I cannot,” I tell him, making my face to look regretful. “I have to get right home today.”

Ike’s face falls. But he brightens again almost immediately.

“I’ll give you a ride home, then,” he offers.

Maryam. The engineer.

“No, no! Thank you very much, but I cannot.”

“Oh, come on,” he urges. “We’re not going to have to go through this every day, now, are we?”

Today, I do not have time for a game. Today, I must make myself ready for Haroun.

“I cannot,” I tell him again, kindly. “It is not something my sister would approve of, and I cannot go against her wishes. I’m sorry.”

He lets out his breath, foiled by my cultural rules. He stares off into the parking lot for a moment. Then he nods to himself and looks back at me.

“Then I will walk you home,” he determines. “Your sister can’t possibly be opposed to that.”

“Oh, yes, she can.”

“Tami,” he says firmly.

“Yes?” I respond warily.

“I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

I raise my eyebrows at him.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you last night,” he continues, his face reddening. I feel mine color as well. “I couldn’t believe I let you get away yesterday without getting your phone number, or at least your name. I’m serious. You’ve got the most amazing smile I’ve ever seen in my life.”

I experience a shortness of breath the likes of which I have never felt before.

“If you hadn’t walked by here this afternoon, I was going to come to your house and deliver these flowers in person.”

“No,
please,
” I beg him. “That would not be a good idea.” I never should have let him drop me off at Maryam’s house. I should have insisted that I walk the final few blocks.

Ike shrugs off my plea. “A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. Let’s go.” He nods his head in the direction of Maryam’s house.

“I will go alone,” I say firmly.

“I don’t think so,” he says in a teasingly matter-of-fact voice.

I bite my lip and look down at my Mickey Mouse watch. It is three-thirty. The longer I delay in getting home, the less time I will have to make myself attractive for the engineer.

“If I let you accompany me part of the way, you must let me walk the last few blocks by myself. Do you agree with this?”

“Nope. Door-to-door service.” His refusal comes with a smile.

“My sister will not be happy.” I feel I must warn him of this.

He grins, not at all bothered. “To know me is to love me. She’ll like me soon enough.”

“No,” I say. “You do not understand. You will not be meeting her. She will be mad if she sees you from the window. It will cause trouble for me. You must respect my wishes, please.”

“This is so
Bend It Like Beckham
.”

“So bend it like what?”

“Nothing,” he laughs. “Just a movie. Cross-cultural romance-type thing. I’ll respect your wishes. I promise.” Ike reaches out for my roses and takes them back. We begin to walk, and it is clear that Ike must shorten his pace to match mine.

“Your shoes still hurt?” he asks after a moment.

“A little.”

“I could run back and get the scooter. Have you off your feet and home in no time.”

I imagine Haroun arriving early and seeing me climb off the back of Ike’s scooter, seeing my arms encircling his waist. Seeing me with roses from him.

“Walking is better.”

“How come you don’t just get walking shoes?”

I sigh. “It’s complicated.”

Ike gives a short laugh. “I’m pretty smart. Tell me. Let’s see if I can follow.”

I laugh. I try to think of how best to explain it. “You have heard how in Iran life is restricted for women, yes?”

“Sure.” He nods. “I’ve seen things on the news. You all have to dress like nuns in those black things.”

“Chadors,” I tell him. “And we do not have to wear them, only people in very religious families wear them all the time. But we must wear other garments to cover ourselves.”

“And this has what to do with walking shoes?”

Now he has me giggling.

“Nothing,” I admit. “It is only that for me to be on the street in America all by myself dressed like this is a big deal. My sister already wishes I would take a taxi or accept rides from her. If I make trouble or complain or show that my feets hurt, I will be forbidden to walk anymore. And I do love to walk, even with my feets hurting.”

Ike stops and turns to me with a smile. He puts his hand over his heart. “That is
so
sweet, you call them
feets
.”

I can tell he is not making fun of me, but I find my face hot nonetheless. “What is the correct way to say it, please?”

“Oh, you are so adorable. You’re breaking my heart here, Tami, I swear.
Feets.
” He begins to laugh and continues laughing until tears come to his eyes.

People don’t laugh like this in Iran. Life is not so funny there. But what I have said is apparently very funny.
“Feets,”
Ike keeps repeating. He bends over and clutches his stomach and laughs and laughs. I watch him until I am infected with his laughter. Soon enough, I am crying from laughter just like him. I wipe my eyes, but he allows his tears to flow freely. Several cars honk as they pass us. This makes Ike laugh harder.

It is a very long time and many half starts before we calm down enough for me to learn that the correct plural of
foot
is
feet,
not
feets
. I know that I will not be making this mistake ever again, at least not without remembering back to this moment.

As we continue our walk, I cannot stop smiling. I used to laugh this hard with my girlfriends sometimes. The littlest thing that happened on the street we found extraordinarily funny and we would have to pull one another into the alleys to hide our loudness from the
bassidjis
. When fun is forbidden, it is all the more treasured. Perhaps that is why I am having so much fun with Ike right now. He is forbidden to me.

“What’s it like, having to wear a veil all the time?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I explain that it is not so bad as one might think, that the streets in Tehran are dirty and windy and it offers protection from those elements. That I am so used to it that I still feel strange without one. Not, I am quick to point out, that I miss it. It only feels strange to be without something I have known for so long.

Ike has been watching me as I speak. When I finish, he looks down to the ground. After a moment, he clears his throat.

“To force you to wear a veil is like forcing the sun to hide behind the clouds,” he says quietly.

I stop walking. I take a deep breath to steady myself. Ike also stops and slowly turns to me, looking for my reaction. His eyes are so kind and beautiful and searching,
searching for me,
searching for who I am and how I feel about him in return, that I cannot look away and I want him to look at me this way forever, for this moment never to end.
He sees me,
I think.
He really sees me.
This thought tips my emotions into sadness, for I realize that no one has ever
really seen
me before, not even my family or my girlfriends. No one has ever made me feel the way I do at this moment.

Ike sees my sadness. “I’m sorry. Was that too forward of me?”

I wave off his apology. “I am not used to men saying things like this to me.”

“Then I was too forward,” he declares. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It was beautiful,” I assure him. “It was like poetry. Do you write poetry?”

Now it is Ike who blushes. “I may have come across it on a website or something when I was looking for information on Iranian women. I don’t
think
I came up with it myself.”

“You researched Iranian women on the Internet?” I am incredulous. And flattered. So very, very flattered.

He nods.

I swallow hard over the lump in my throat. But then I remember it is the engineer who needs to have these feelings for me, not Ike. I stumble over my words. “I, um, I need to get home.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, of course not.”

“You’re sure? I didn’t offend you?”