Together Tea (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Scheduling Conflicts

D
arya watched Mina fidget at lunch later that day. They were hosting the meal for their relatives, and Darya noticed Mina smile far too widely at people she didn't remember. Watched her tune out and stand mesmerized in front of Aunt Firoozeh. Darya sighed. So much of youth was attractive, agreeable, and made her long for it once it was gone. She saw Mina flip her hair and giggle at nothing for no good reason. But then again, much of the time, the young were so damn annoying. Darya poured herself another glass of tea. Mina was exhibiting all the signs of young love: the spaciness, the giggling, the la-la-land expressions. Let her live, she told herself. Let Mina have this.
To taste what I myself have had
. Isn't that what Darya had told her daughter?
To have a fraction of what I had in this life.
And to think Mina seemed smitten with Mr. Dashti's younger brother! How Darya had missed Ramin in her U.S. research was beyond her. Her sources had kept the younger brother all to themselves and shoved the older one on her.

But now that Mina was finally falling for someone halfway decent and feeling so happy, Darya felt as if she didn't want her daughter to slip away. Didn't want to let her go. After all those spreadsheets and all those calculations, she suddenly didn't want to lose her.

“When can I see him?” Mina asked after the last of the lunch guests had left. “We're always so scheduled here!”

“My God, Mina, you just saw him this morning.”

“I know, but the next few days are all booked up. When can I just have some free time?”

“We are here to see family. That's why we came. To see family in Tehran and, later, to sightsee in the other cities. We can't just . . .”

“I get it,” Mina said.

Darya sighed. “Let me see what I can do. Maybe we can carve out some time and invite him over to tea . . .”

“Can I see him alone?”

“Alone where? Any place you meet him would be filled with relatives who either live there or come to visit you. There is no ‘alone' here.” Darya sniffed. “Not to mention that it would be inappropriate.”

“Can we go out alone?”

“It's risky here, Mina. Nikki told me the guards have started a new round of crackdowns to rein in ‘immoral' behavior. They're out on the streets in full force these days. They're even stopping opposite sex couples and asking them to produce a marriage certificate! You could get fined or even arrested if you're out together.”

“We can't just walk in a park?”

“No, it's risky right now. Not to mention that we are booked solid.”

It was true, they were snatched up for breakfast, lunch, and dinner by relatives who wanted to host them, feed them, see them again. The relatives spoiled them with fried eggplant and tomato
khoresh
, rice with fresh
sabzi
and fish, lasagna with béchamel sauce, fancy salads, and the very best kabobs. For dessert there was saffron rice pudding, rosewater ice cream, all sorts of cakes and pastries, and homemade apple pies. The relatives had spent their
toman
on the biggest and best fruit for them, kneaded dough and fried meat cutlets, dusted living rooms and beat Persian rugs for their arrival. Darya knew how much they were going out of their way for them and appreciated it. From the looks of it, Mina certainly appreciated it too, or at least the food. Every time Darya looked at her, Mina was eating. Rice dripping with butter, rice holding lima beans tight within it, rice with rich, fragrant hot
khoresh
.

“We're fattening up,” Darya said. “All this food!”

“Can we just have one unscheduled morning?”

Darya sighed. “Fine. Monday morning after breakfast and before lunch at Aunt Nikki's.”

Mina ran to the phone.

“There's no guarantee he'll be available!” Darya called out. “He's here to see his grandmother, remember?”

Mina came back a few minutes later, her cheeks flushed red. “He said yes. He can slip out on Monday at ten thirty, after an early breakfast with his grandmother and a few of her friends and before lunch at his father's oldest brother's house. He said to meet at the People's Park, by a big tree near the main gate.”

“Okay, then.” Darya felt her stomach sink. The crackdowns were getting worse each day. She didn't want Mina to risk it. But Mina looked so happy. Didn't her daughter deserve to experience a little old-fashioned courtship in this land? Why did the authorities have to make that so difficult? Why did they have to sap the joy out of everything? “I know the spot well,” Darya said. She had spent her youth at that park. It was one of her favorite places in the whole city. “I can tell you how to get there, but you must be careful. You'll have to pretend you're a brother and sister going for a walk. No contact, absolutely no touching.”

“I understand.”

“I'm sorry, it's just the way it is. These are the rules and we have to abide by them. I don't want you raising suspicion. Remember, what is done cannot be undone.”

ON THE MORNING THAT MINA
was to meet Ramin at the People's Park, Darya watched her daughter try on several different outfits, even though whatever she wore would be covered by her
roopoosh.
She watched Mina style her hair carefully, the same hair that would soon be covered by a headdress. Mina insisted on wearing a green headscarf, she wanted some color around her face. There was a different energy about her; she seemed excited but strangely composed. Darya felt again the bittersweet knowledge that her daughter was beginning a new stage and that each new stage brought a greater distance from her. She closed her eyes and prayed to any God that Mina would remain safe. She'd wanted something like this for Mina, hadn't she? She was happy for her, of course she was happy.

Have fun, she said. Be careful, she said. Say hello to Ramin from us. Watch out for the Revolutionary Guards.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Under the Sycamore Tree

M
ina left at ten o'clock. As she walked, she thought of Ramin standing in the doorway of Bita's apartment the night of the party, his arms crossed, looking as if he could both save the world and not give a damn about it.

She had seen her college classmates' architectural drafts on long sheets of paper. Ramin must make dozens of those designs. He probably used only blue or black ink, and Mina had spent her childhood dreaming of painting the world in color. But she was impressed by an architect's skills with a pen and paper. She wanted to ask Ramin more about his drawings. Even though she was on her way to a job on Wall Street, something about meeting him made her feel as if she could touch colors again. Touch them and taste them and maybe even create them.

As Mina approached the park, she remembered how he had risked his career, his whole future, to come to Iran and visit his sick old grandmother. He had faced the authorities at the airport and stood his ground. He might have been drafted, detained, arrested. He could have lost everything he had worked for in America.

Mina looked to her right and to her left, took a deep breath, and entered the park.

HE WAS STANDING BY THE TREE,
as promised, with a single flower in his hand. When she was near him, he gave it to her. A crimson rose. The exchange was quick, but she was painfully aware that neither of them was as adept as the regular citizens at navigating the threat of watchful guards. As instructed, they walked in parallel, about six feet apart, as though they were walking on invisible railroad tracks. Never too close. And never, ever touching.

Two children walked side by side, sucking on orange Popsicles. A boy and a girl. Mina remembered those Popsicles. She could almost taste the tangy sweetness as melted orange drops slid down the girl's chin. The girl and the boy skipped past them, arms now linked. They had not yet entered the danger age where their changing bodies rendered their connection unholy.

“It's good to see you again,” Ramin said, just loud enough for Mina to hear him across the divide.

“Same here.” She glanced quickly at him. He was wearing jeans and a light brown coat. His face was flushed. It was getting colder now. It had been a mild winter, but today she felt the chill.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No. Thank you for the flower. It's beautiful.”

“My pleasure,” he said quietly. “I figured I'd be like the poets. Oh, let us drink some wine for there is no tomorrow and give thy friend from the U.S. a rose? Is that what Khayyam says?”

She burst out laughing.

“You have a great laugh.”

“Thanks.”

Was he blushing? She wished she could look at him long enough to tell. Instead, she looked down. All she could see from her peripheral vision were his legs from the knees down. His shins under the denim cloth. His feet moving in rhythm with hers.

“You know, Mina, I had such a great time at Bita's breakfast. And at the party the other night.”

The sound of his deep voice soothed her. It made her feel as if she were all alone in the world with him, sitting close to him, even though they walked in a public park, trying to be unseen.

“Bita's a great hostess,” Mina said. She crossed her arms to shield against the wind, the rose against her chest.

“She is, but that's not why. I mean, the reason is because, well, it felt serendipitous, but it was because we . . .”

They heard a car motor and a loud screeching of brakes. Ramin stopped in midsentence. They looked to their right. A green jeep had driven up to the edge of the park. Five or six bearded men in fatigues holding guns sat in the back. Mina halted.

“Keep moving,” Ramin whispered.

Mina stared at her feet.

“Don't stop, Mina. Look straight ahead and keep going.”

The jeep veered onto a lane and parked abruptly.
Run, Ramin,
Mina wanted to shout.
Run before they come to us.

The guards tumbled out just a few feet away. Mina felt their eyes on every inch of her. She wished suddenly that she could turn back time, rewind the tape and be small again, have Ramin and herself shrink to childhood, where their stroll together would not be criminal. What was the offending age? Ten? Twelve?

One of the guards called out. “
Beeyan cigar een posht!”

His voice was rough and startled Mina. He'd asked the other guards to join him for a smoke at the back of the jeep. Mina couldn't tell if he really wanted a smoke, or if he'd noticed Mina and Ramin and was saving them by distracting the other guards. Maybe he was empathetic to their parallel-line walk. Maybe he had his own girlfriend somewhere. Maybe he was just lazy and didn't feel like dealing with them right now. Mina wanted to think that the guard was helping them out. She wanted to believe that somehow she had an ally in that group, a young guard who knew that two people should just be able to walk together in peace.

Whatever the reason, the guards now stood in a cluster by the jeep. Out of the corner of her eye, Mina saw the flicker of a lighter, the burning of a cigarette.

Ramin motioned toward a tree nearby, a huge sycamore tree with branches reaching out to the sky and a trunk two feet wide.

“Behind it, stand behind it,” Ramin whispered.

She scurried around the tree and stood behind its huge trunk. Her heart was beating so fast that she was sweating now despite the cold. Still gripping the rose, she suddenly realized how foolish it was to hold it. It gave them away. She let the flower drop to the ground and covered it with her foot but not before a few of its petals flew off, scattering around her like drops of blood.

Ramin leaned against the opposite side of the tree. She could hear his breathing. Mina remained hidden from the guards' view. All they would be able to see from where they stood was Ramin's lanky figure, just a young man relaxing under a tree.

“You okay?” Ramin's whisper was bold, concerned.

“Yes, fine.” The dry December air filled her lungs as she took in a deep breath. “Are they watching?”

“Yes, they're looking right at me.”

“Oh, God.”

“It's okay, Mina.” His voice had a slight quiver. He was, she knew, just as frightened as she was, but he was attempting to be calm for her sake. She wished she could just see his face. She wanted to comfort and be comforted by him at the same time.

“Don't speak, Ramin. They'll know you're talking to someone.”

“They can't see you. And even if they see my lips moving, let them think I'm just another crazy guy talking to himself. God knows I'd have enough reason to be nuts here with all these rules they have.”

She couldn't help but laugh, though she stifled it immediately.

“Did I already tell you that you have the best laugh?” he asked. His voice was more relaxed now.

“You did.” They stood for a moment in silence.

“Do you like it here?” he asked softly.

“Well, I did until the guards showed up.” Her heart still pounded. She rubbed her clammy hands against her
roopoosh
. She hated that the guards had this effect on her. But they always had and probably always would. Their presence had made the very air around the tree electric with danger.

“No, I mean,
here
.”

She realized then that he was asking not about the park, but about the country.

“I do and I don't. From the minute I arrived, I haven't stopped thinking about leaving. Sometimes it's all too . . .”

“Different?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But I don't mean different from home, from the U.S. I mean . . .”

“Of course,” he interrupted. “You mean different from before.”

His deep voice carried understanding. With him, she didn't have to explain. With American men, 1979 was just another year. But Ramin knew. As with Leila and Bita, for him the year of the revolution was when the world was cleaved into Before and After. And even though the men who came over to tea knew that too, it never felt easy to talk to them. Like Baba, those suitors had worked so hard at “owning” their new lives in America that Mina sometimes felt they were afraid to even admit what they had lost, the price they had paid. But Ramin was different. From that very first time in the kitchen at Bita's party, he had had no problem cutting to the truth. With Ramin, she felt free to acknowledge the melancholy of loss. His wise, calm voice relaxed her even now as she hid under a tree in a Tehran park with the Revolutionary Guards' morality police nearby.

Mina leaned into the tree and let the bark dig into her back. Knowing that Ramin was on the other side made the trunk feel solid and reassuring.

“But I also love it at the same time,” she said. “The food . . .”

“I know. I've eaten more in the past few days than I do in weeks back home! And the trouble everyone goes to for you . . .”

She smiled. Even as the cold air chilled her hands and face, Mina was beginning to feel better. Talking to him lifted her fear and filled her with warmth. “They go to so much trouble that sometimes it's overwhelming. Every meal is like a feast. But . . .”

“It's all so good,” he finished the sentence for her. “It does feel good to be spoiled.”

Mina looked up at the leaves in the branches of the tree. They were pale yellow, deep red, some still green, a few orange. “The other thing I've been struck by,” she said, “is all the color here.” At her feet lay a coppery carpet dotted by her crimson rose petals and a few other flame-colored leaves. She thought of the sparkling mosaics on the buildings in south Tehran, the turquoise-blue koi ponds all over the city, the intricately woven colorful rugs in homes and shops. The mounds of saffron, turmeric, and sumac in the bazaar and the kaleidoscopic designs of flower beds in the parks. “Nobody tells you about the colors.”

“I know. Since I left it's as if I always remembered my life here in black and white. But there is so much color here. I'd forgotten just how much I missed it.”

Exactly, Mina thought. She imagined him leaning against the tree, looking up at the same flame-colored leaves. She leaned more heavily against the tree trunk, as though it could bring her closer to him. The timbre of his voice, the sound of his words made her feel safe. Her heart had stopped pounding now, the adrenaline that had fueled her when she first saw the guards was ebbing. Even though she knew the guards were watching, even though they held guns, she found that as long as he was on the other side of that tree, talking to her, she did not want to be anywhere else. She ran her hands against the peeling bark. The air was dry and cold, but the trunk of the tree seemed to emanate warmth. That morning, she had bathed with rosewater soap. She had carefully washed and dried her hair. He could not see her hair, could not smell its fragrance. He could not know how much she wanted to be next to him.

“Sometimes, I wish I never had to leave,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I suppose we have to get back to our lives.”

Our lives.
Even as she said the words, she imagined racing through the hallways of the business school. She thought of taking her exams and graduating and hanging on to a strap in a New York City subway car on her way to work. She had things to do. Goals to accomplish. He had meetings to attend, projects to finish, deadlines to meet.
Our lives.

“What I wanted to say was that when I saw you in the kitchen at Bita's, I . . . well, what I'm saying is that I think it would be good for us to . . . I just thought that . . . what if we could keep in touch?” he finally asked.

A few crimson and yellow leaves floated past Mina's face in the breeze. “Of course,” she said with relief. “We'll keep in touch.” She stared at the rose on the ground. “I wish we had more time. I wish this hadn't all been so rushed.”

“We'll have an even better time back home.”

She could hear his feet on the dry leaves, adjusting his position. The air smelled of damp leaves and roasted nuts. Suddenly, she felt suspended, just the two of them, under that tree, and the rest fell away. She was free of both the past and the future. They were here now, together. As each moment ticked by, as each delicious lazy forever moment stretched out under that tree—it could not be undone. It was theirs.

“When do you go back?” he asked, bringing her back to reality.

“In a week. I can't believe I'm already halfway through my trip. We're going to visit a few other cities.”

“Let me guess, Shiraz and Isfahan?”

“Yes.”

“I have great memories of Shiraz. The land of the poets. What is it they call it? The ‘Land of Love'! You have to visit Persepolis while you're there.”

“That's the plan. And you? When do you go back?”

“Tomorrow.”

The wind made the branches shake, and a few more leaves fell to the ground. She wanted to stop time and make this moment last. Despite the danger, she longed to reach around the tree and touch him. The guards were watching. She had spent most of her life balancing between cultures, never really quite at home. But with him, right here, under this vast, beautiful tree, she was home. With him, she felt she finally belonged.