Camelia (15 page)

“Don't go anywhere. Wait at the gate, and I'll come and help you.” At arrivals, hundreds of fans were waiting to receive him with flowers and posters. They rushed forward and devoured him like a crashing wave. A full head taller than everyone else, he raised his eyebrows and signaled to me to wait for him. Overwhelmed by the crowd, I grabbed my luggage and made my way to where my mother was standing behind the glass divider, waving at me. I had been in Germany for almost a month, and I couldn't wait to see her and Katayun.

My mother kissed me and said, “Did you see Ali Daei? He was on your flight. I was praying to myself, thinking how nice it would be if you met him.”

“Oh my God! You're too much, Maman. Come on, let's go before he shows up again. I just got rid of him, and now you say how nice it would be if I had met him! What did he do, what's with the huge crowd?”

I found out the answer when we almost crashed into Ali Daei's car. He was home for an important game. In the next few days, the Iranian national team would play Australia in Tehran. If Iran beat Australia, our team would go to the World Cup. Ali smiled. “Where do you live?”

My mother answered for me. “At the end of this street, in building number four.”

Ali hastily pointed at a large white house behind him. “That's my house. Isn't it nice that we are neighbors! Why don't you take my number and give me yours while we're at it.” He jotted his number down on a scrap of paper, and my mother gave him ours. “I gotta get down to the television studio for an interview. I'll see you in the morning!”

My mother was in seventh heaven. “Camelia, Khanum, you are very lucky.”

Ali Daei was the most eligible bachelor in Iran. The captain of
the Iranian national soccer team, he had a degree in engineering from Daneshgah-e Sharif University and a contract with one of the biggest soccer clubs in the world. The next morning our doorbell rang, and he was sitting in my living room. He was shy and very polite. He could tell immediately that there was no father presiding over our home. In Iran, most families hang an oversized photo of their beloved deceased in their salons, so as soon as he walked in, Ali faced my father's photo. My father had died suddenly when I was a teenager, and I was still reeling from the loss. When he was young, he'd been a champion player of table tennis and volleyball, and he'd coached at the Shir-e Pak sports club. He had just finished a game of table tennis when he died of a heart attack in the shower. My mother pointed his photo out to Ali and said, “Camelia's father was also athletic—he lost his life at the sport club.”

My mother couldn't hide her joy at having a celebrity in the house, and Kai Khosrou was in paradise. He was fifteen at the time and soccer obsessed. He couldn't believe he had such a hot story to tell his friends—the Iranian national team's captain was dating his sister! If we got married, he'd have a guaranteed seat at the Persepolis soccer club. He couldn't stop grinning, his face one big smile. My mother served us tea and quizzed Ali about his parents, where they lived, and when he'd bought the house nearby. She showed him my watercolors hanging on the wall and bragged about my writing talent. She completely ignored me when I raised my eyebrows to signal that she was going too far and that she had to stop the Q&A session.

In the space of five minutes the news spread throughout the building, and our neighbors had gathered on the front steps with hand-held cameras to take videos and get his autograph. In the blink of an eye, it seemed the whole town knew we were an item. As we started seeing each other regularly, we found that it was impossible to meet at home. Uninvited guests rang our bell continuously.
People just wore us out. So he'd come pick me up in his car, and we'd set off for some unspecified destination in Tehran. We would drive to a quiet area and park under the shadows of a big tree to hide and talk. Or he'd take me with him to run various errands; we'd chat along the way, and then he'd leave me in the car to sit and wait for him until he'd finished up and would drive me back home. Our star-crazed neighbors were monitoring my house so closely it was difficult for him even to walk me up to the front door, so he'd drop me off outside. He started making vague promises. “What I want is to get married. But I've got a problem to take care of, and until then you have to keep our secret and wait.” I'd nod, but at home, I knew my mother's news headquarters were in full swing. Also, everyone from
Zan-e Ruz
, where I worked, had found out, as one of the secretaries lived across the street from us in one of the houses built for employees by the weekly's corporate owners. (It was still some years before
Zan
would make its appearance in Tehran. Despite their similar titles, the two publications were unrelated.) It seemed like the only person who didn't know about Ali and me was Hafez of Shiraz, the fourteenth-century Persian poet.

Iran tied with Australia, one-to-one, which was a big victory for Iran. I was the first person Ali called from the stadium. “We did a perfect job, darling! I love you. I'll come home to you in an hour.” Wild with excitement, Tehran had burst into celebration, and I listened from our terrace to the cheering in the streets. Ali bounded up the steps to our apartment, took my hands in his, and kissed them. And then he left for Australia for the rematch.

 

He was a star, and I was only a small-time writer. My destiny was in his hands. And I think, even more than me, my mom was the one in love with him. The phone kept ringing, and my mother cold bloodedly insisted that I answer it. She wanted the whole world to
call and convince me to follow Ali. But they all expected to hear that he had proposed.

“Hello, Camelia,
salaam
. What's new?” Everyone started with this question.

“Nothing—the only news is that you're still calling about him!”

And then my friends and family would start in. “Don't be such an ass. Try your luck. Opportunity knocks only once. You'll be a star. You'll travel. He's a millionaire. All of Iran is after this boy, and he's in love with you—and you play hard to get?”

 

When he asked me, I agreed to fly to Germany. The hawk of good fortune was sitting on my shoulder. My family would normally have been scandalized by my living with a man I wasn't married to, yet now they were thrilled. I thought he was a good candidate: famous, rich, gentle. I liked that he called me from anywhere in the world to share a sweet moment—just to say goodnight and that he couldn't wait to have me in his home. It was the first time that, from the bottom of my heart, I'd really wanted to marry a man. And, of course, who he was made a difference—everyone was attracted to him. I was also highly manipulated by my mother, who was really pushing for the relationship. She wanted to be able to proudly tell everyone that I was marrying Ali Daei. My family was sure that if I went to Germany, we'd get married there.

 

I got off the train in Bielefeld, and Ali stood waiting for me at the station. He waved at me. I jumped up, almost out of my shoes, to embrace him.

“Whoa! Whoa! What are you doing? You'll ruin my reputation. Everyone here knows me. Quick, get in the car!” This was our first encounter since he'd left Tehran a month earlier. He had my heart, and I wasn't myself.

Karim Bagheri, a teammate, lived in a cozy unit next door to
Ali's apartment with his young wife, Leila, and Ali had no choice but to introduce them to me. In my honor, he invited them out to dinner, but he told them that I was a friend of his cousin's, and that I'd come to Germany to wait for an interview at the embassy for an American visa. They seemed to believe him—at least they didn't ask me any questions. I was mortified, but I also didn't contradict him.

Leila was a provincial girl from Tabriz, where she'd lived her whole life until good fortune alighted on
her
shoulders, and she'd married a famous player from her hometown. To go out to the Italian restaurant, she'd put on a pink satin evening gown and fasten a tiara laden with paste jewels to her wavy black hair. Ali and I would sit in the car laughing at her together until our sides split.

But though we ridiculed Leila together, he treated me like a personal secretary. In the evenings, when he got back from the soccer club, he'd plop a big sack of faxes and letters on the ground for me to sort through. They were always full of letters from young women, accompanied by their pictures, entreating him to marry them. Some wrote that they had wealthy fathers, and some wrote that they observed
hejab
and were good homemakers. Still more asked him to send them money or gifts. I crumpled up the letters and sat miserably with my arms wrapped around my knees. I had no idea why I'd followed him so easily to Germany or why I would now trudge through the snow to the supermarket every day without fail, just so I could make him
khoresht-e badamjan
or
fesanjun
for dinner. I spent hours on the phone with my mother, asking about recipes for
kuku-ye sabzi
and
khoresht-e qorma sabzi
. Was I supposed to be happy with this life? I had expected to have the life of a celebrity, like the stars who appeared in
Okay
or
Hello
magazine. I thought we'd go out together every night and have a fancy, romantic lifestyle. But nothing was romantic—he hadn't bought me a single gift or even taken me out to the movies. In my mind, I'd become his housemaid as
well as his lover.

We weren't made for each other. We desired different worlds. He expected me to be an obedient Eastern woman whose greatest thrills in her married life were making her husband's dinner and cleaning the house. Though “marriage” or even “engagement” weren't things he spoke about often. He hated my job and asked me never to return to newspaper reporting. He wanted to turn my world into washing and ironing his practice uniform. He would fight with me over burned eggplant
kuku
, saying, “What kind of strange food is this? Why couldn't you have made something better?”

I wept when I told him I wanted to go home to Iran, but he barely responded. At the train station he tried to put a wad of money in my hand.

“No, really, I don't need it. Thank you for your hospitality.
Khoda hafez
.”

 

My mother finally changed her tune. “Camelia, Ali Daei called here yesterday and asked after you. I didn't give him your number.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. I said you weren't here. And then he said who does she think she is, this daughter of yours? That he has thousands of girls chasing him. And then I told him that you weren't one of these girls, that he should go after the girls that are after him.”

As I told my story, I could hear my interrogator marching back and forth behind me. When I finished, he spoke in a sad voice. “Dust on the head of your mother for sending her daughter to Germany and shame on Ali Daei, who is a respected man and acts so pious.”

The list of sixty-seven men sat in front of me, a heavy file of sin,
and I was amused to see the names of my uncles Bizhan and Manuchechr listed along with some of my father's old friends. Apparently they had simply gathered the names of any and every man listed in my phone book, regardless of whether we were related or remotely close in age. I said, “ I am very sorry, but I have to tell you, even my own uncle is on this list!” He coldly responded, “ So what? Anything is possible from you.”

We were standing in front of the Shaqayeq pastry shop in Shahr Ara, when Kristian's mother happened along. She teased me, asking, “Do your chicks have beaks?” She wanted to know if my breasts were growing. I crinkled my eyebrows and acted like I didn't hear her. She turned to my mother and said, “When did she start getting her period?” My mother responded with a pointed look. All our relatives and friends buzzed with this question. In Iran, like so many other Middle Eastern countries, this is a big issue. When a girl gets her first period, she's no longer a child and must behave like a woman. It's not an easy process. They don't educate you at all about it at school, but it's openly discussed among women in the family, though an embarrassing topic for girls to raise themselves. My mother, however, simply didn't know the answer—I refused to tell her.

I was fourteen, and we fought constantly. For whatever reason, my mother had never been able to speak honestly with me about entering the world of womanhood. When I got my period, I was caught off guard, bewildered and angry, like a child whose mother has let go of her hand in the street and run off. I felt fragile and emotional, and she didn't seem to understand me, or if she understood, she just shrugged her shoulders and said to herself, “She'll say something about it when she's ready.” And the longer we didn't talk about it, the more the distance between us grew. I'd hear the chatter of all the women in the kitchen. Frowning and sour-faced, I wouldn't answer anyone, not even Kati, when they asked, “Did you
get it yet?” My cousin Elham was sent on a mission to ask me in private, but I lied, “No, and don't ask me again.” I knew it was my mother who really wanted to know.