Dreaming in English (10 page)

“These flowers are
lovely
, Haroun.” To be polite, I sniff them. “It’s very kind of you to bring them.”

His Persian brown eyes shine brightly. “Are you all packed?”

“I am.” I neglect to add that I’m packed to move to Rose’s guesthouse, not back to Iran.

“Tami . . . ?” He peers at me, trying, I think, to be serious, but a smile slips through. “I’ve been thinking.”

Haroun thinking. This can’t be good. “About?”

Suddenly, there’s a charge to the air, like something important is about to happen. I’ve felt this several times recently—when Masoud showed up on the morning of our wedding day and insisted we talk about the terms of our marriage. When Ike appeared at my hotel room in Las Vegas. When he dropped to one knee and . . . oh, God.

In front of me, Haroun drops to one knee.

“Haroun,” I say urgently, panicked. I look around the room, hoping beyond hope that Ardishir or Maryam or someone—
anyone—
will save me from this moment. Eva would tell him to get the hell up and get the hell out. Where is she when I need her? “What are you
doing
?”

“I told you,” he says. “I’ve been thinking.”

“The floor’s dirty, Haroun. It hasn’t been vacuumed in several days.”

If anything will get him off his knees, this will, as he’s obsessed with germs.

“I don’t care,” he says, although his neck veins tighten. I notice, too, that he didn’t try to take my hand, although maybe it’s because I’m holding the flowers. The flowers!

“Let me get a vase.” I start to step away. “Why don’t you have a seat on the couch while I do?”

“No, please!” He grabs my hand.

“Haroun! What are you doing?”

“Forgive my forwardness,” he says. “Do you mind?”

“No, but the germs!”

“I’m going to change, Tami,” he says. “I want to change my life. Embrace it fully. I can’t let—” He grips my hand harder. “I have to get better. I have to
be
better. Life is so fragile. It can be lost in an instant, and because it’s so fragile we must . . . kiss every moment with laughter and joy.”

Kiss every moment with laughter and joy?
Is this the same man who just weeks ago told me I might get mad cow disease from eating a rare steak?

“Are you all right, Haroun?”

“I’m wonderful, Tami.” He adds meaningfully, “And so are you.”

“Haroun, have you, um, talked to Dr. Haji about these changes you’re experiencing?”

“I have,” he says. “We adjusted my medication, and I feel better every day. The world is so beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Haroun. It is.”

“The greens are so green and the blues are so blue and the reds are so red and the yellows—”

“Are so yellow. I get it, Haroun.” I wonder if perhaps Dr. Haji didn’t
over
medicate him.

“But why are we talking about doctors and medicine at a time like this?” he says. “I’m
here
, Tami. And I
will
marry you. I’ll save you from a lifetime of repression in Iran and I’ll treasure you every day for the rest of my life. I’ll—”

Ike’s voice bursts from the doorway as he bolts toward Haroun.
“Or I’ll kick your ass so bad you won’t—”

“Ike!” I get between them and press my hand against Ike’s chest as Haroun scrambles to his feet and backs hurriedly away. “Don’t! What are you doing?”

“This is the guy, isn’t it?” Ike glowers at me. “The guy you were supposed to marry? The asshole who tried to force you to sign that contract?”

He means Masoud. I haven’t exactly told Ike about Haroun yet.

“No-o-o-o-o-o-o.” I draw out my breath as I say it. “This is Haroun. He’s . . . actually . . . very nice.”

“Who are
you
?” Haroun demands, a little braver now that he has me as a buffer.

“I’m her
husband
.”

Shocked, Haroun stares first at Ike and then at me. I stare back with my mouth dropped open, as if it’s news to me, too.

“Her
what
?”

“Her
husband.
” Ike brushes my hand off his chest and starts to go around me. “You got a problem with that?”

“Ike, please.”

“Ike please
what
?” he says to me.

“Don’t talk to her that way,” Haroun says.

Ike pokes Haroun in the chest. “You
don’t
tell me what to do.”

“Ike, no. Please, listen,” I say. “Haroun is—” Oh, God. What is Haroun?

The desperation on Ike’s face borders on betrayal and simply breaks my heart. “Is he . . .” He stops to swallow hard. “Is he your
boyfriend
or something?”

“No!” I say. “God, no!”

“But I am,” Haroun says.

“No, you’re not!” I say, and then, to Ike, “He’s not!”

Haroun asks Ike, “What do you mean you’re her husband?”

Ike snarls, “What do you think I mean, dumb-ass?”

Fruitcake
, I think.
He’s a fruitcake, not a dumb-ass.

“You were supposed to marry a Persian,” Haroun says, confused. “Ardishir told me. I distinctly remember.”

“This is someone different,” I say.

Now it’s Haroun who looks betrayed as he fumbles about, wiping his hands on his pants and brushing off the knees of his trousers. He’s reverting, the poor man. “But . . . how? Where’d you find him?”

Where did I find him?

“At Starbucks.”

This is a truly stupid thing to say. I realize it as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

“What, you just . . . picked him out of a crowd and somehow convinced him to marry you?”

“Haroun, please, it’s not like that.”

“What am I supposed to think, Tami?” His voice catches on my name. “That
anyone
, just some random stranger off the street, is better than me?”

“Of course not, Haroun,” I say. “Ike is—”

“
Not
a random stranger,” Ike says, seething.

“I thought we had something special,” Haroun says, giving me a look that asks,
Didn’t we?

Ike raises an eyebrow and waits for my response.

“You were . . . a good friend to me,” I say.

“We were more than that,” Haroun says.

I shake my head. “No, Haroun.”

His look darkens. “Then you used me.”

“Used you? What are you
talking
about?”

“To get your citizenship,” he says. “You used me.”

“You knew about my situation,” I say. “You knew the whole time. Of course that was part of the deal. I wouldn’t have agreed to an arranged marriage otherwise. I mean, I hoped we’d grow to love each other over time, but—”
But you see imaginary bugs and suffer imaginary bites and refuse to fly in airplanes because of all the germs in the recycled air.
“But neither of us was in love.”

The hurt look he gives me tells me I’m wrong about that.

“Haroun?”

It’s the strangest thing. He doesn’t physically move, but his eyes develop black circles underneath them and his face turns gaunt. It’s as if a sickness on the inside is manifesting itself on the outside. He doesn’t even look like himself anymore. He looks mean. Like a stranger. Like a very mean stranger.

“You used me.” His voice is perfectly flat.

“I didn’t.” I shake my head, at him and then at Ike. “That’s not how it was.”

“You led me on and then you dumped me when someone better came along. Then you dumped him when
this
guy came along.”

“That’s not true! That’s not what happened. I’ve, I—”
I loved Ike from the moment I met him. Even before that. He was already in my heart the first time we met.
“I knew Ike all along.”

There is an abyss of blackness in Haroun’s eyes. “What did you say?” When I freeze up, he asks Ike, “How long have you known her?”

“The whole time she’s been here.” Ike seems to say this more in defiance of Haroun than in support of me. I don’t like this—how either one is acting. It feels off. Wrong. Bad.

“You knew him while you were dating me?” Haroun says.

“You and I were not exactly dating,” I say.

“We were deciding to get married,” Haroun says. “I’d call that dating.”

“And Ike and I were definitely not dating,” I say, looking to Ike both in apology and for confirmation.

“No,” he says grimly. “We were falling in love.”

Our eyes lock on this undeniable truth and for a moment, we’re alone in the room, alone in the world, alone, together, in our love. Our love is the easy, indisputable part. It’s everything else that’s complicated.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Haroun warns Ike. “She used to look at me that same way, too.”

I laugh. This is almost funny.

“I never did,” I assure Ike.

“She’s going to do the same thing to you that she did to me,” Haroun says.

“What same thing?” Ike asks.

“Please don’t ask him anything,” I say. “Don’t talk to him. His view of things is . . . not quite normal.”

“She’ll dump you,” Haroun says. “As soon as you’re not useful to her anymore. As soon as you’ve served your purpose.”

Ike, already pale, loses his coloring completely. I’m sure he’s hearing echoes of his mother:
This marriage is the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.

“It’s not like that,” I say desperately. “Ike, you know this isn’t true.”

He says nothing.

“Ike.” I put my hand on his arm. “I love you! You know this!”

“Another lie from the mouth of the beautiful Tamila Soroush,” Haroun says. “Don’t believe it. She doesn’t love anyone but herself.”

“Please be quiet,” I snap. “I’ve had enough of you.”

“
You
can give me back my flowers.”

“Oh, my God. Take them.” I practically throw them at him. “Now go. Please! Would you just go?”

“Gladly.” Haroun bumps shoulders with Ike as he passes and then brushes away Ike’s invisible germs. At the doorway, he turns to me with bitter eyes. “You can’t do this,” he says. “You can’t treat people this way and expect to get away with it.”

“I’m only trying to live my life, Haroun.”

He glares at me. “So am I, Tami. SO AM I!”

I close the security door behind him and watch as he takes a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit, lifts the lid of the green garbage Dumpster at the end of the driveway, and tosses the bouquet of flowers into it. He gets into his black late-model Mercedes, and as he drives away in his squeaky-clean car, I wonder,
Did this really just happen?

From the look on Ike’s face when I turn back to him, I have my answer: Yes, it did, and he’s none too pleased about it.

“S
hit, Tami,” Ike says. “What was
that
all about?”

I laugh. I can’t help it. Nerves, probably.

“It’s not funny,” he says. “Who the hell
was
that guy?”

“He’s just . . . well . . .” I twist my hands nervously and try to find the right words. How do I explain Haroun, a nice man, a willing an . . . and yet, not one I loved. “It was supposed to be an . . . arranged marriage kind of thing.”

Ike nods slowly a few times, digesting this, and doesn’t say anything for a long, long, too long moment.

“I would have told you about him,” I say. “I meant to. It’s just . . . Haroun was never my official fiancé like Masoud was. He was more of a . . . maybe-fiancé.”

Ike presses his palms against his eyes, grimacing like he has the world’s worst headache. “
Gah!
You talk about these guys like they’re items you’re ordering from a menu.
I think I’ll have the halibut today, not the ravioli.
This is too much.
Too much.
”

I’d move to him, put my hands on his wrists, pull his hands away from his eyes so he can look into mine and see
me
again instead of the horrible person Haroun has made me out to be. Only I can’t, because what does he mean by
this is too much?
Does he mean our two-day-old marriage is too much?

“Ike?”

He gets his composure soon enough and drops his hands from his face. “It’s just—God. I spent the whole friggin’ night last night trying to convince my parents that I know what I’m doing with you, and then—” He pauses to laugh at himself like what an idiot he’s been. “And then there’s this guy, who I know nothing about, on his knees proposing to you, and he knows nothing about anything, either. And he gives me basically the exact same warning as my parents. It’s just a little hard to process. You know? It’s too much, too fast, too soon. All of it. Too much. This isn’t how my life is supposed to be. I like simple. Uncomplicated. I can’t even think straight at the moment.”

I take his hand. “Can we sit down?”

He nods, and when we get to the couch, we sit close and hold each other—tightly, preciously, with abandon. When we separate, he says, “This is how I know it’s right. This feeling can’t be faked.”

“I’d rather leave the U.S. forever than have you doubt my love,” I tell him. “And
that’s
why I didn’t tell you about my situation, because I didn’t want you to think exactly what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t doubt your feelings. I just . . .” He sighs. “I don’t like surprises, I guess. That guy was quite the surprise.” He peers at me. “When did all this happen? When did things with him fall apart? How recently were you supposed to marry him?”

Bad questions. Bad, bad questions.

“Recently,” I say.

“How recently?”

“Very,” I say.

“Like . . . last week?”

“Well . . .” I calculate back. It was, in fact, about ten days ago, even though it already feels like another lifetime. “That’s about right.”

“So in the span of, let’s see, about a week, you were engaged to three different men?”