Persian Girls: A Memoir (9 page)

“How exciting,” I said.

“The play has been changed a lot from the original. Miss Jahanbani insisted on certain changes. But the grain of it is still there.” Pari turned to look at me. “Don’t tell Father I’ll be in it.”

“Isn’t he going to find out? Manijeh will tell him. Maybe it will be in the newspaper.”

“Manijeh doesn’t pay attention to such things at school. She may not even know about the play. And I doubt it will be in the newspaper.”

That evening we went to the balcony and looked out on the street. Groups of boys stood talking under streetlamps or trees. Some had lined up in front of Sahara Cinema. We had seen them around the town. They tried to amplify their individuality by their clothes. One always wore a black shirt to show his affiliation with the conservative Nationalist Party, one wore a red kerchief in his jacket pocket to indicate he supported the Tudeh Party, or Communism, which was outlawed; its members were arrested if they were caught. He was taking a big chance by wearing the kerchief.

“The handsome but conceited one,” Pari referred to the boys. “The one trying to imitate Marlon Brando.” “The one with the tiny eyes and funny-looking head.”

She sank into a somber mood. “I know Father and Mother are going to try to force me into marrying some old man,” she said. “I won’t give in.”

Later that night, Pari practiced her part for me, playing Laura. She contemplated how to move or hold her hand, how simple or complex her facial expressions should be at any moment. The story of a girl whose mother’s hope for her and the family was to find her a suitable husband was not unfamiliar to us. It was the sole wish of almost all parents to match up their daughters with the right man as soon as possible, to avoid the danger of their becoming “old maids,” and “sour,” like some of the teachers and nurses. Higher education was for girls who couldn’t find husbands. Girls without husbands would be pitied or shunned. After their parents died, they would have to live with family members willing to take them in.

Pari’s ability to put herself in the head of the shy American girl filled me with awe and admiration.

When Pari stayed at school to rehearse I eagerly awaited her return as the household went through its slow, anxious routine. I was worried that Father might notice Pari’s delay in coming home as he came out of his office periodically to check up on what everyone was doing. Mohtaram fretted over her domestic tasks, Manijeh hovering around her, Ali watching or feeding the pigeons between his chores.

After I did my homework I read or wrote. I wrote little sketches and stories, aside from my assignments for composition class. I fantasized that one day I would write a play and Pari would act in it. As soon as Pari came back, the pulse of the household returned.

 

 

 

 

 

On the day of
The Glass Menagerie
opening Pari was ecstatic.

“What’s the most exciting thing for you about acting?” I asked.

“To get to a point where I feel I’m the character.”

“I like to write fiction so that I can shape a character’s life, make sense of it.”

She had managed to keep her part in the play a secret from Father. But then Father came into her room, where I was sitting with her, and said, “I don’t approve of your involvement with that school play. We can get into trouble.” He threw a cutting from
Etalaat,
the daily newspaper he subscribed to, on the floor and left.

Pari picked it up and we both read it.

“I wonder how Father found out about your being in the school play,” I said.

“Miss Jahanbani must have told him. You know Father talks about us with her all the time. But
The Glass Menagerie
doesn’t have anything anyone could possibly misconstrue as anti-government.”

Pari went to Father, cried and begged, and he finally told her she could go ahead this one time. But he didn’t come to see the play. Neither did Mohtaram, going along with Father’s wish. Manijeh wasn’t interested. I was the only one in our family who went to see it.

The stage was designed to look like a shabby St. Louis tenement apartment: two soft armchairs, with exposed stuffing and faded floral upholstery, a worn rug on the floor, a table covered with a checkered plastic tablecloth, and four chairs. The audience, not a large one, consisted of teachers, some from other schools, a few parents and students. I sat in the first row. The stage was dimly lit but a spotlight focused on Pari’s face. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She had become Laura. Wearing a full-skirted dress falling below her knees, with puffy sleeves and frills at the neckline, she sat at the table and played with small glass animals. The mother, Amanda, wore a long silk dress and pumps. She pressed her son to find a “gentleman caller” for his sister while Laura avoided them by engaging herself with the animals.

Two of Pari’s friends, Ziba and Fereshteh, played the male parts—Tom, the restless, poetic brother, and Jim, the gentleman caller. Tom wore a suit and tie, and Jim a suit and bow tie.

When the play ended, there was long, loud applause. People were saying how good Pari was. I beamed with pride. As Pari had explained to me, they had left out or changed from the original what would look immoral to an Iranian audience. They didn’t show that Laura once had a crush on Jim, that he used to call her “blue roses.” They didn’t show them alone together onstage at any point. They had changed the fact that Jim told Laura directly that he was engaged. Instead the mother drew it out of him.

I headed backstage immediately after the applause stopped. “Pari, you were so good,” I said, as she changed into her clothes.

A girl who had worked as an usher came in with a bouquet of flowers and gave it to Pari. “For you,” she said and walked away.

Pari looked for a card but there wasn’t one.

As we walked home with Pari holding the bouquet, she said, “It has to be from Majid. Did you notice the man sitting on the side in a plaid maroon and blue shirt?”

“Yes, he looked very excited watching.”

“That was Majid. A few days ago, after a rehearsal, he was waiting for me outside, just standing next to his cherry-colored Buick, his arms folded. It was like we had an appointment. The street was empty then and I dared to get into his car. He drove through backstreets and we talked like two people who know each other well. He teaches in a boys’ high school but he’s interested in all sorts of things. He loves movies and plays. He believes women should have equal rights.” Pari paused, then said, “I let him kiss me.”

My heart was pounding loudly in my chest. Pari had entered a forbidden realm, condemned not just by people in Maryam’s milieu but even by the more modern Iranian society.

“He’s going to send his mother over to ask for marriage.”

“But, Pari, do you want to get married?”

“I know I will have to. It may as well be Majid. Just a few days ago Father said to me I should be seriously thinking of marriage. He said someone appropriate has asked for me, but didn’t say who.”

The blind flute player who usually sat on the Karoon Bridge was sitting against a wall on the path, singing and playing his flute.

“Why do we have to be content to exchange notes and look at each other from afar?” Pari said, half to me and half to herself.

At home we used the door that led directly to the second floor and to her room so we wouldn’t have to go through the courtyard or the porch in front of our parents’ bedroom. Pari put the flowers in a vase and the room filled with their scent.

T
hat would look really good on you,” Pari said as we walked on Pahlavi Avenue. She was pointing to a dress in a shop window.

“I’ll try it on,” I said.

The dress wasn’t my size and they didn’t have it in other sizes, so we bought another dress, dark pink with white circles on it, and headed home on a quiet path that ran parallel to Pahlavi Avenue.

As we were passing a field filled with wild sumac and jasmine bushes, a little boy rushed over to us and handed Pari a rose. A small envelope was tied to the stem with a ribbon. The boy walked away quickly and disappeared into another street. The path was empty and quiet and Pari opened the envelope. I watched her read the note. She was so absorbed in it that I lost her for an instant. Then she came back to me, her face radiant. “Here, I’ll let you read it,” she said.

 

 

“Were you?” I asked Pari.

“No, they never told me about his mother coming over. I was despairing thinking he had changed his mind,” Pari said, suddenly looking perturbed. “I’ll have to talk to them.”

At home, Pari put the rose in a patch of sunlight on the terrace to dry, so that later she could put it in her bureau among her clothes, as she had done with the flowers in the bouquet.

“Wear your dress, I want to see it on you again,” she said when we were in her room. “You look grown up. Soon many boys will go after you and you’ll fall in love, too, if you let yourself.”

We promised each other that we would marry only for love. Arranged marriage was a disaster, we decided. Look at Mohtaram and Father; they were more like father and daughter than husband and wife. Look at all the girls at school, engaged to men they hardly knew and had to share a life with. We didn’t want to be links in that long chain of tradition that went back to our ancestors. Pari and I had to break the pattern.

 

 

 

 

 

“Where did you get those foolish ideas, love, love? American movies!” Father shouted at Pari on the porch.

“Many families in northern Tehran approve of their daughters going on dates and getting to know a man before marrying him,” Pari retorted.

“Ahvaz isn’t north Tehran. And nobody in Tehran is so foolish as to leave such decisions to a girl,” Father said.

“Romance doesn’t fill empty stomachs,” Mohtaram offered. “Why would you marry a teacher who won’t be able to provide well for you and your children?”

“I want to marry for love,” Pari insisted.

“Your head is in the clouds! You don’t know what’s good for you,” Father shouted. In a burst of rage he took hold of Pari’s arm and dragged her across the porch, then threw her into her room and slammed the door. He walked away briskly to his office.

I ran to Pari.

“I feel this ache in my heart from the way they talk. It hurts when I breathe,” Pari said, her voice shaky. “Mother should be on my side. She should understand her daughters. Instead she always takes Father’s side.”

“Father knows so much about world history and politics. He speaks French. His office is filled with all those leather-bound books, and those dictionaries. But when it comes to Mother and us, he’s a dictator,” I said.

I thought of the two framed tapestries that Mohtaram had made and a few days ago hung in the salon, where they entertained guests. They both depicted ponds with ducks floating on them. In the upper right-hand corners were suns. The ponds shimmered in spangled sunlight.

“Did you see those tapestries Mohtaram made?”

“That’s where she’s allowed to express herself,” Pari replied.

“Do you think she ever felt for Father the way you feel about Majid?”

“How could she? She was just a child when she was forced to marry.” Pari was lost in thought. “But she may have felt that way about another man,” she said after a pause.

“What?” I gasped. “Who?”

“I still remember years ago, when Father traveled a lot, there was a handsome man, the owner of a jewelry store on Pahlavi Avenue. Mother kept going to the store all the time. I saw her once when she came out; her face was glowing as if inflamed, the way I feel when I see Majid.”

After I left Pari’s room, I came across Mohtaram standing in front of the tall mirror next to the gauzy white curtains in her bedroom, studying her appearance. She had her hair in a flattering permanent wave, had red lipstick on. With the wistful, soft expression on her face, she was so different from the woman who was trying to put practical sense into Pari’s head.

What Pari and I had talked about tantalized me. Unable to sleep that night, I sat in bed and constructed how an affair could have happened between Mohtaram and the jeweler.

At first, when they passed each other on the streets, she and the man exchanged glances. Then she began to visit his jewelry store on one pretext or another. Finally, he begged her to meet him somewhere. At first she resisted the idea. One day, she went to the balcony and saw him standing in the square, looking up as if hoping she would come out. Mohtaram remained on the balcony, her eyes locked with the man’s, until one of her children started crying and calling her from inside the house.

Finally, when Father was away on a business trip, she succumbed to temptation and met the man, maybe in a quiet corner of a park. She felt faint with desire just being near him. Maybe she had a moment of panic and began to walk away from him. But he went after her and said, “How can you walk away from me? Don’t you see how I follow you everywhere just to get a glimpse of you, hear your voice?”