Together Tea (20 page)

Bita thumped her body to the beat. “If I were there,” she said, panting, “I'd enjoy every single freedom-dripping moment.”

A short chubby girl in a green leather dress started to dance wildly and soon a group of other dancing guests formed a circle around her. Bodies twisted, stretched, shrank. The guests made themselves into tight balls, lowered themselves to the floor, rose up again, jumped to the beat. They thumped and bounced, lost in the flow. Dirty dancing took over. Mina tried to keep up. Everyone around her knew the moves. The forces outside the apartment were being exorcised. They were sticking it to the Revolutionary Guards. Freedom was available, in short spurts, indoors. A fugitive dance.

The group grooved and thumped, closing in on Mina. The air was sexually charged. Mina began to nudge her way through the sweaty bodies. After pushing her way past elbows and flung arms and moving bottoms, she finally slid out of the cluster of dancers. She scurried to the wall, back near the table of food. It was too loud. It was too much. She was worried that a guard might burst in. She needed water. She went to the kitchen, the music pounding in her ears, black spots appearing in front of her eyes.

MINA FELT RELIEF ONCE INSIDE
the oasis of Suri's well-lit kitchen, with its granite countertops and ceramic roosters. The swinging door closed behind her, and she leaned against it, closing her eyes as the sound of the blasting music diminished slightly. She took a deep breath.

Suddenly, she was flung across the room. She barely caught onto the counter's edge and tried to balance herself. Her flowery dress had ridden up her legs. Dizzy, Mina put her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the fluorescent kitchen lights. She tried to make out the figure standing in the door.

“Are you okay?” a man said.

Mina faltered for a moment and just stared. The man wore a blue dress shirt and khaki slacks. His dark hair was cropped short. He looked vaguely familiar, but she didn't know why. This man was the only other person here who wasn't dressed for a glitzy nightclub. He looked more Friday business casual. And he had spoken in English, with an American accent.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” he said, coming closer. “I didn't know anyone was behind the door. Are you—” He looked at the long flowing dress tangled between her thighs, and then again at her face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Mina felt her face redden. She gripped the hem of her grandma dress and tried to tug it back down, but it was badly tangled and she had to pull hard. “I'm just fine,” she said, trying to look cool and composed as her dress finally fell into place. She looked up. He had a clean-shaven face and huge brown eyes.

“Good. I'm so sorry.”

Mina stood extra tall to show him she was just fine. Even with the black spots still dancing in front of her eyes, she could see how handsome he was.

He pulled up one of the kitchen stools for her and held out his arm. Mina scooped up her long dress and hesitated, but then climbed up on the stool clumsily, holding on to him. He sat on a stool next to her.

“You must be Mina,” he said, smiling. He had perfect teeth.

“How do you know my name?”

“Bita told me that her old friend was visiting from the States.” He smiled at her long puffy dress, gathered near her knees. “That would be you, no?”

“Yes.”

The ceramic roosters in Suri's kitchen looked at them. Muffled beats from outside the kitchen thumped away.

“And, um, where are you from?” She cursed at herself for asking a stupid question. Of course he was Iranian. She could tell from looking at him. But the perfect English. The lack of an accent.

“Connecticut,” he said.

Just the word Connecticut made Mina suddenly homesick for the States. Clean grass, mochaccinos, and newspapers in English. Normality. As opposed to this strange mix of Hollywood/Soho nightlife in the midst of Islamic fundamentalism.

“I'm Ramin, by the way,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you too,” Mina said. When she spoke to him, it felt as if she were falling, sliding off the stool.

He extended his hand for a shake.

“Connecticut?” She shook his hand. It felt big and clean.

“Transplanted to. Iranian-Connectican.”

They both smiled now. Mina felt at ease. Even though he'd thrown her across the room, he had somehow steadied her.

MINA SPENT THE REST OF
Bita's party in the kitchen. Ramin told Mina about Connecticut and his job at an architectural firm. He had moved to America when he was fifteen. He was back in Iran now for just a week, visiting his sick grandmother, who was on the verge of death. He'd had to pay a hefty sum of
toman
to avoid being drafted into the army upon entry. Like many exiles, he hadn't served the mandatory army duty required of all Iranian males.

“You risked a lot by coming back,” Mina said as she sipped the sherbet drink he'd made for her. “They could have drafted you.”

“We were very close, my grandmother and I,” he said quietly. “During the revolution, she lived with us. I knew it was risky to come, but I couldn't let her die without seeing her. My parents sent my brother and me to the States when I was a teenager because of the revolution. And that was the last time I saw my grandmother, and we never really got to say good-bye. We stayed with my uncle in California and thought we'd be back by the end of the summer. But sixteen years passed. So this time, I had to come.”

He got up and took Mina's empty glass from her hand. He made them more sherbet drinks, using the cherry syrup bottle that Suri had left on the counter. Mina watched his strong hands swirl the syrup into the water as the dark red cloud rose higher in the glass. As Ramin sat next to her again, the music in the other room was momentarily muted, the dancing bodies outside that door temporarily forgotten.

Suddenly, the door swung open and Bita flew into the kitchen. Her hair was now puffed up like the mane of a lion. Her glittery makeup sparkled on her face.

“Mina? Mina!” Her voice was wobbly with too much wine. “There you are!” She stopped when she saw them. Mina and Ramin were perched on the kitchen stools, cherry sherbet glasses in their hands, talking with their heads close.

“Oh,” Bita said. “Oh. You're fine. I see that you're fine.” She seemed amused. She smiled as she walked out backward, tottering on her heels, twirling when she reached the door.

Ramin looked at Mina without saying anything for a minute.

“Seems like you're fine,” he said, not taking his eyes off her.

Mina felt her face burn under the fluorescent kitchen light.

“Seems like I am.” She raised her glass. Ramin raised his too. And there under the supervision of the ceramic roosters their glasses touched. And when they clinked, something scattered in front of Mina's eyes. In the tiny diamond of space where their glasses joined, the black spots in front of her eyes burst and split and finally broke away. With that
clink,
they were gone.

And she could see just fine.

DAWN SPREAD INTO THE GRAY
night sky and aroused prayer callers. The guests quietly donned their Islamic uniforms, headscarves, and coats and got ready to tiptoe outside. The colorful, laughing, dancing scantily clad girls all became veiled women, like a row of crows, marching on, driving on back home. The boys straightened themselves out and walked away from the girls they had been holding, touching, loving. They would walk or drive home separately. Mina watched as Cinderellas turned to paupers, as the magic coach turned back into a pumpkin. It was that kind of hour. It was that kind of transformation.

Later, when Mina and Bita sank into the pillows of Bita's bed, the necessary reflecting on the night began. Darya had liked the idea of Mina spending the night at Bita's and not having to worry about the hassles of returning home late. Now Bita updated Mina on new alliances forged through the party. She mentioned with awe the best dancers of the night. Mina tried to listen but all she could think about was the man from Connecticut. She kept replaying their evening in her head. As he had reached to take his coat from the hook in the foyer, he had thanked Bita and turned to Mina.

“Good night.”

Mina had pointed to the slowly emerging dawn outside the window. “Morning.”

They had stood awkwardly in the foyer. He put on his coat while Mina waited by the door. He had looked into her eyes one more time, and there was a pull, an energy that was almost tangible. And Mina felt herself falling again, falling down, down, down.

“Good morning, then,” he'd said. And then she'd watched him walk out onto the corridor and into the elevator.

“So?” Bita nudged Mina.

“What?”

“Seems like you liked him?”

“Liked who?” It was a throwback to their school days, only now they weren't talking about the crown prince and John Travolta.

“You know.” Bita playfully hit Mina with a pillow. “The guy you sat with and talked to in the kitchen for the
entire
party.”

“Yes, very nice, he was quite nice really.”

Bita giggled into her duvet cover.

“He's not bad looking either! He's my friend Toofan's old classmate. Toofan asked if he could come along tonight.” Bita snuggled under the covers. “A bit serious, though.” She paused. “How come you guys who live in the States are so serious?”

Mina shrugged. She had no answer.

“I've already invited a huge group of my friends back for a breakfast get-together on Friday morning. I can ask Toofan to make sure to bring Mr. Dashti too.”

“What?” Mina was suddenly sitting up in the bed, her staticky hair forming temporary antennas around her head. How on earth did Bita know about Mr. Dashti? “What did you say?”

“Mr. Dashti,” Bita repeated. “You know, Mr. All-Night-Talking-in-the-Kitchen. Mr. Dashti.”

“Is that his last name? We never even mentioned last names.” Mina stared at her, shocked.

“Very American of you. Well, his name is Mr. Dashti. He has an architectural degree. Lives in Connecticut, as you know. Apparently his older brother is some hotshot with Kodak or something in Atlanta.”

Mina plopped back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling, then slid down under the covers. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

“What is it? You okay?”

Mina poked her head out from the duvet and nodded yes.

“You're all pale! I think you really like him!” Bita tucked the duvet around Mina. “Now go to sleep. You can see him again at the breakfast in two days.” As she closed her eyes, Bita murmured, “He had the nicest teeth, don't you think?”

“Yes,” Mina said as she prepared to lie awake. “The nicest teeth.”

MINA DIDN'T SLEEP. SHE SAT
upright in bed, as Bita snoozed peacefully beside her. Without her makeup, Bita's face looked more familiar. Mina thought of Ramin. She found herself smiling involuntarily, like a crazy person, remembering when she'd made him laugh. She felt a surge of energy every time she remembered her successful, witty comments. And she cringed at the moments when she'd been awkward or flat or silly. But still.
Still
. There had been more good moments, and their conversation had been so easy, and he had been so sweet. The thoughts raced round and round in her head, keeping her up, keeping her alert, keeping her busy. Then she remembered that he was a Mr. Dashti. What were the chances of her coming all the way to Iran and meeting Mr. Dashti's brother? How on earth could she not have noticed some resemblance? (The teeth! The teeth were exactly like his!) Did he even know she had met his older brother for tea at her parents' house? The questions swirled in her head as Bita snored on. Eventually, Mina made herself lie down and shut her eyes. But her mind was still humming. On top of all the other questions, one question stood paramount. With all her experience, her networks and research collated with Excel graphs, how on earth did Darya miss this bachelor sitting right next door in Connecticut? How could her mother, who had located attractive, intelligent men all over the U.S. of A. and beyond, have missed this quiet architect, with his blue shirt and khaki slacks, sketching away at a drafting table in Connecticut?
Oh, Maman,
Mina thought, as she finally started to give in to sleep.
If you only knew.

Chapter Thirty-One

Breakfast by the Koi Pond

T
wo days later, Bita and Mina carried the samovar out to the garden. Bita had insisted that the breakfast be held outdoors, since it was an unusually mild day for December. Mina had come early to help Bita prepare.

“Mr. Dashti should be here soon, but Toofan said they might be a bit late,” Bita said, then launched into background information. “Toofan said Dashti grew up in America. He didn't go there with his parents. He and his older brother stayed with their uncle in California at first. He works in Connecticut now, and his older brother . . .”

“I've met his older brother.”

“In New York?”

“Yes, in New York.”

“You know him?”

“We've met.”

“I see.” Bita's expression implied that she'd ask a lot more questions later.

They put the samovar on a folding table. Mina arranged the fresh
lavash, barbari,
and
sangak
breads on a tray. She cut the feta cheese into thick slices. The jams were Suri's own—fig, quince, and sour cherry. Mina remembered the sour-cherry jam Mamani used to make, her cotton apron stretched around her thick middle, her sleeves rolled up in the summer heat, part of her hair stuck to her forehead as she stirred the contents of the copper pot on the stove. Mina would stand on her tiptoes and watch the cherries start to bubble. Darya had not met, did not even know, this younger brother. This younger brother with his kind brown eyes and perfect teeth.

Bita's parents' apartment complex had a small manicured garden in its courtyard. A blue-tiled koi pond complete with lily pads and goldfish was its centerpiece. The walls surrounding the courtyard were high and made of cement. This meant the garden was safe from outside view.

Soon, Bita's friends arrived for the breakfast get-together. Mina recognized some of them from the party. The guys wore casual jackets and jeans this time, and the girls wore jeans and brightly colored
roopoosh
. Some of the girls, including Mina and Bita, even pulled off their scarves, feeling safe enough in the courtyard from the eyes of the Revolutionary Guards. Apparently, there was an unspoken agreement among the apartment complex residents to not rat on one another. But they kept their scarves around their necks, ready to pull them on if necessary. Mina felt as if they could be in the States except she would probably not be hanging out with so many good-looking, fun young people in the States. This was the in crowd.

The folding tables were now covered with small gifts the guests had brought: baskets of fruit, a pink orchid in a pot, nougat candy. Sweet black chai steamed from small glasses. Frothy cappuccino spurted from Bita's dad's machine.

When Ramin arrived, he handed Bita's mom a bouquet of flowers, then came to greet Bita and Mina. Suddenly Bita remembered that she needed to go and do something and left Mina and Ramin alone. Ramin poured two glasses of orange juice and sat next to Mina on one of the lawn chairs. Mina told him about Professor Van Heusen and the time he called on her when she hadn't read the case. She told him about her decision to visit Iran. Ramin sipped on his juice and listened. Time slowed down. Other guests came and went in the background, carrying food, bringing back plates, throwing away used napkins, poring over newly developed photos from the party. Mina and Ramin stayed seated and talked. Black hair, dark eyes, light skin, bright clothing—two people pulled together. And, years from now, years and years from now, could they be sitting on two lawn chairs, their hair gray, their eyes faded with cataracts, their skin wrinkled—but still together, chatting away?

A few of the pigeons grew bolder and descended from the garden wall onto the ground near their chairs. An old couple. Old friends. Mina could see it. She downed her tea. She must be going nuts. Having all these Darya-esque thoughts, seeing into the future and imagining their hair growing light with age. It was just a breakfast. He was just an architect from Connecticut, visiting his grandmother. He was Mr. Dashti's younger brother, for goodness' sakes. He was not her future husband!

“He loves chemistry,” Ramin was saying. “But business school opened a lot of doors for him, and Kodak was the perfect job. I missed him the last time he was in New York. He was there only recently, but I was away in the Midwest at a conference. I haven't seen him in a while.” Ramin balanced his glass on the arm of the lawn chair. “So, that's my brother! Anyway, you have two older brothers? Are they in New . . .”

“I've met your brother . . .” Mina said abruptly.

She felt as if the pigeons had stopped and stared. Mina went on and recounted the day the older Mr. Dashti came to visit.

Ramin listened to the whole story, eyes twinkling. Mina was surprised at her own lack of self-censorship.

“And then he said thank you and drove away, and my parents and I put away the dishes,” Mina finished. “So you see, I've met your older brother.”

Ramin was quiet for a moment, his chin cupped in his hand. He grinned. Then he chuckled. He looked at Mina sideways and started to laugh. Mina bit her lip and started to snort and giggle. Soon they were both laughing.

“We have such beautiful traditions, don't you think?” Ramin said.

“Oh yes,” Mina said. “Amazing ones that aren't embarrassing
at all
!”

Ramin laughed. “You've got to hand it to your mom, though. She does her research well.”

“Not that well,” Mina said shyly. “She somehow missed finding you all this time.”

“Aha!” A crimson blush rose from Ramin's neck to his ears. “Well, I'm not that easy to pin down,” he said. “My statistics are unlisted. I don't own too many suits. I don't drink much tea. And I'm not one for putting down roots.”

The pigeons were at their toes now, nibbling on crumbs from their
naan
. A plane roared above. A piece of bark from one of the trees fell into the koi pond, and the water rippled in front of them.

“Did he wear his beige suit?” Ramin asked.

Mina looked at the pond and nodded. “He did.”

“He loves that suit,” Ramin said.

WHEN SHE REACHED AGHA JAN'S
front door, Mina wasn't sure if she had actually walked up the steps just behind her. All the songs were true. Yes, believe it or not, I
am
walking on air. I swear, I know, I've never loved this way before. Yes, you
are
so beautiful to me. It
is
a wonderful world. Every campy lyric flew into her head and made sense. No wonder. No wonder those lyricists wrote those words, no wonder that man built the Taj Mahal (“for a
Persian
woman, he built it!” Baba always said), no wonder kings abdicated thrones. Was this the feeling? Because the world had just changed from black and white to Technicolor, the colors were colors she could taste, touch,
draw
. She jumped up the steps. She couldn't wait to see him again.

Darya opened the door, a glass of tea in her hand. “Mina, you look flushed. How was the breakfast? Are you all right?”

Mina kissed Darya forcefully on the cheek. She squeezed her tight. Her headscarf slid off before she was even inside the house. “It was so wonderfully wonderful, Maman Joon. You would never believe it! I had the best time with Mr. Dashti!”

She ran to the bedroom, having only enough time to see Darya's mouth in the shape of a perfect zero.