Persian Girls: A Memoir (15 page)

I wrote to Pari, and this time she wrote back promptly.

 

 

“You know that kind of story can get us into trouble,” my father said, after he demanded to read it. “It’s going to be interpreted as a social criticism. Your teacher and the radio station can get into trouble, too. You should have shown it to me before you sent it in. From now on you must show me everything.”

One day my school notebooks were missing.

“Did you take my notebooks?” I asked Manijeh as we were rushing to our rooms from the porch. It was a cold December day, one of the two or three months of the year when temperatures in Ahvaz dropped sometimes to almost freezing. We had space heaters in all the rooms, taking over from the fans.

“Why would I?” she said.

“She took my notes, I know it,” I said to Father, who wandered onto the porch before Manijeh and I reached our rooms.

“Don’t make accusations without any basis,” Mohtaram said, appearing out of nowhere. “Why do you hate your sister so?”

“I know she took them; she wants me to fail.”

“Why don’t we ever have a moment of peace around here?” Father said. “My sons are doing fine; it’s the daughters who are always causing problems.”

I ignored this. “I have exams in two days and my notes have vanished. They were on my desk.” I turned to Manijeh. “I’m going to search your room.”

“Don’t you dare,” she snarled. “I’m not a thief.”

“Now stop this, both of you!” When arguments erupted between Manijeh and me, Father was careful not to take sides.

That evening, I saw the lights on in Father’s office. It was hailing; large hailstones drummed against windows, treetops. I ran over and knocked on his door.

“Come in,” he said. “What is it?” His head snapped up from his work.

I began to cough, the nervous cough that still attacked me at times.

“Stop that. What is it?”

Finally it stopped. “Father, I want to go to college in America like my brothers,” I said.

“You already know the answer. No!”

I suddenly didn’t care what his reaction would be. “You brought me back here, and Mohtaram hates me,” I blurted out.

“You’ve been here all these years and you still call her Mohtaram instead of Mother,” he said, his voice losing its sharp edge. “How do you think that makes her feel?”

“Manijeh hates me, too,” I said, evading his question.

“Don’t you know these things are always two-sided? I have work to do. Go to your room. And remember, don’t ever write stories like that.” He turned back to the thick legal book open on his desk.

A few days later I found my school notes torn up in the cistern under the old-fashioned toilet that had never been renovated, and which we never used.

 

 

 

 

 

Mahmood Ardavani, the writer whose novel was published in part in
Setareh,
was going to be visiting Ahvaz for business purposes. He was seeking advice from Father on legal matters and would stay at our house for one night. He and Father shared a mutual friend from their university years.

“Can I meet him?” I asked Father when he talked about Ardavani at breakfast.

“I suppose it won’t hurt. He isn’t a controversial writer.”

“Can I invite my friend Mahvash?”

“Go ahead.”

At school I looked for Mahvash immediately and told her about Ardavani’s visit. “That’s so exciting,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s actually going to be staying at your house.”

“You’ll be coming over and we’ll meet him together.”

After classes we went to Café du Park to have ice cream. We sat in the shade of a clump of trees to talk about Ardavani. He had just published a new novel and we wondered if it contained some of the themes of the novel we had read segments of in
Setareh.

“We should get a copy each and have him autograph them for us,” Mahvash suggested.

“Yes, we should get them soon, before his visit.”

Several familiar figures came in—the boy who wore a yellow shirt and a black tie and waited at street corners for girls to pass by; another boy, tall and gaunt, who walked up and down in front of our school whenever the people in authority weren’t around to chase him away. The boys had at times followed us from one winding street to another. We turned our backs to them and went on talking about Ardavani.

“I don’t know what I’m going to say to him,” Mahvash said.

“I can’t imagine being face-to-face with him.”

Finally we left the café and went our separate ways. At home I noticed Mohtaram was already preparing for Ardavani’s arrival, which was a week away. With Ali’s help she got the guest room ready for him to sleep in and planned menus for breakfast and dinner. “I don’t understand why we have to entertain him. He could stay in a hotel,” she complained to Ali.

On the day of Ardavani’s arrival, Mahvash and I, before leaving school for my house, took off the gray uniforms we were wearing over our dresses. It was early fall and we both had on printed cotton dresses, mine with designs of bright butterflies, and Mahvash’s with leaves. On the way we stopped at Tabatabai Bookstore and each bought a hardcover copy of Ardavani’s latest novel.

At home we went to my room and waited for Father to call us in to meet Ardavani. Shortly after we arrived Father came to the door.

“Don’t you two ever get tired of chattering?” Father asked. “Come to the salon.”

We followed, carrying the books.

Mahmood Ardavani was sitting alone on the sofa, holding a glass of
arak.
He looked just like the photograph of him on the jacket of his latest book—penetrating dark eyes and wild dark hair. He was wearing a bright yellow shirt with the top buttons open and casual khaki pants, a contrast to Father’s suit. Father introduced us and Ardavani greeted us warmly.

We were silent. I felt a tremor inside from just being in his presence; the air around me felt charged. The words I had prepared to say—“I wish we knew what happened in the novel that was printed in . . .” or, “I’m pleased to be in the presence of a writer”—escaped me and I glanced toward the window.

“I’m so happy to meet you after reading your work,” I finally managed to say.

“Thank you. I’m very flattered,” he said. He looked at Mahvash.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Mahvash said, blushing.

I noticed they looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

“You two are classmates?” Ardavani asked.

“Yes. We’ve always admired your work,” I said.

“I am so pleased to know that lovely girls like you are my readers.”

Mahvash raised the book she was holding so that he could see it.

He smiled. “I see you have a copy of the same book,” he said to me. “Shall I autograph them for you?”

Mahvash and I nodded.

He took the books and thought for a moment. He wrote something in one book and then the other. He gave the books back to us. “Do me a favor. Don’t read what I wrote for you now. Save them for later.”

Mahvash and I nodded.

“Sit down. Tell me what other things you read.”

We sat down.

“We read Hafiz and Saadi for school,” Mahvash said.

“And we read the
Ahvaz Monthly
and
Setareh,
” I said.

“Very good. I had no idea lovely girls like you have an interest in reading.”

Father looked impatient. “Mr. Ardavani and I have business to discuss,” he said. “I’m sorry to say we won’t be eating here tonight. We have to meet someone.”

Mahvash and I stood.

“I’m happy to have had the pleasure of meeting you,” Ardavani said, smiling.

We watched them leave, then raced back to my room to read the inscriptions.

For me he had written:

 

 

For Mahvash he had written:

 

 

“He liked you better than me,” Mahvash said.

“Yours sounds better to me, more grand.”

“It’s so impersonal.”

“He kept his eyes on you almost the whole time,” I said.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and finally got out of bed. I walked to the window. The night air was crisp and clear, the sky crowded with innumerable stars. I could see the light was on in Ardavani’s room. I wondered if he was reading or had fallen asleep with the lamp on. I pondered tiptoeing over to his room, talking to him, having him all to myself.

At school the next morning, Mahvash was cool and distant. All day she kept to herself. Her eyes seemed focused on a view that I could no longer see.

Two weeks passed without the two of us speaking. Then I came across her standing on the Karoon River bridge, staring down at the water. She was wearing the dress she had on when we met Mahmood Ardavani. I walked over and stood next to her.

“Oh, you!” She grabbed my hand and then let go.

“Tell me, why have you been avoiding me?” I asked.

“Oh, no reason.”

“Please tell me.”

“You must know,” Mahvash said after a long pause. “It was what happened with Ardavani, what he wrote for you coming spontaneously from him. I envied you so much for it. I just had to avoid you until the feelings passed.” Her voice sounded hollow and far away. I felt a chill listening to a voice that was almost unrecognizable.

“Oh, that’s so silly,” I managed to say.

“When we were in the room with him, I wished so much for you to be out of the room—you and your father. I wanted so badly to be alone with Ardavani,” Mahvash went on.

I thought how I had had similar feelings. “All that is in the past,” I said.

The confession helped us resume our friendship. We never saw Ardavani again.

J
avad Golestani lived in Abadan, an oil refinery town about two hours away from Ahvaz by car. He was a doctor, came from a good family—some of whom lived in Ahvaz and were the ones who had first noticed Manijeh—and he was handsome. He was tall, with olive skin and unusual purple-green eyes, as well as a hooked nose that actually enhanced his appearance.

Manijeh would have gone along with any man our parents approved of, having absolute trust in their judgment, but as it was she was in love with Javad from afar. And it wasn’t just his good looks. Though she herself had never been studious, she admired him for being educated and for his erudite way of talking.

“He has everything,” she told Mohtaram. “Good looks, education.” Now, preoccupied with her impending marriage, she flunked all her courses at midyear exams. She was in her final year in high school but decided to drop out instead of repeating the exams. Father and Mohtaram thought she should finish now that she was so close to graduating, but Manijeh didn’t see the point of it. She didn’t like studying and her friends were dropping out one by one to get married. Manijeh now spent much of her time preening in front of the mirror.

But then I became aware of tension surrounding the marriage proposal. I overheard Mohtaram say to Father, “Javad’s mother keeps changing the date of the engagement. She says one thing and then something else.” I didn’t hear Father’s response. But on the same day Mohtaram told Father, “Manijeh is going to be so upset if Javad backs out.”

There was tension in the air every time Javad’s or his mother’s name came up.

The thought of Manijeh getting married and being out of the house gave me a feeling of relief but at the same time of dread. I was next in line.

Again, I tried to talk to Father about sending me to America, telling him how well I had done at midterm and reminding him I had come in first in my class the year before. But he brushed me off.

I wrote more letters to Parviz, begging him to try to persuade Father to send me to America. I received no replies.

 

 

 

 

 

I was standing on the riverbank by myself when a male voice shook me out of my reverie.
“Salaam, halet chetoreh.”

It was a boy I often saw on the way to school. Our eyes sometimes locked as we passed. He had blue eyes and was clearly at least half foreign.

“Will you go on a boat ride with me?” he asked.

I accepted, not giving myself time to think beyond the moment, to allow the fear of doing something forbidden to take over me. He told me his name was James.