I looked at the kitchen clock. It was just before ten. Mother and Alice would certainly turn up within half an hour. I’ll wait, I thought, so we can have coffee together, and took the pack of cigarettes out of the fridge. Where had I heard that cigarettes would not go stale if kept in the fridge?
I didn’t smoke much, but when the house was empty, I liked to sit by the window in the green leather armchair, lean back, puff, and think. In these rare moments of solitude, I tried not to think about daily chores like fixing dinner, getting Armen to study, Artoush’s forgetfulness and indifference.
I would reminisce about things I usually didn’t have time to think about. Like our house in Tehran – its little yard and big rooms, its long hallway that was dark even in the middle of the day. My father used to come home at noon, wash his hands and face, sit down at the table and eat a big lunch. He ate whatever Mother had prepared that day with great enthusiasm, listening attentively to her recount the morning’s events in minute detail: how the watermelon she had purchased proved pale and unripe once cut open. About the rising price of pinto beans. About the fights between me and Alice, which were a daily occurrence. Father would mutter things under his breath that we could not quite make out, or if we could, we would not remember. Then he would get up from the table, thank Mother for lunch, and head down to his room, at the end of the somber hallway. It was a small room with brown velvet curtains, always drawn, and cluttered with stuff that Mother would constantly complain about, saying, ‘Why do you keep this junk?!’
After the forty-day commemoration of his death, Mother went into Father’s room with Alice and me, and she cried. ‘God only knows why he kept all this junk.’ The floor-to-ceiling shelves were stuffed with books and newspaper clippings and magazines and half-finished crossword puzzles. There were letters from people none of us knew, not I, nor Mother, nor Alice. There were group pictures of my father with his friends when he was young – friends that none of us had ever seen. Alice choked up and Mother wept. ‘For all these years! Why did he hang on to all this junk?’ I opened the books and closed them. I examined the broken wrist-watches, recalling, as I turned them over, how Mother always complained of Father’s lack of punctuality. In an old shoebox I saw rusty razor blades and in a wood crate, a whole assortment of empty aftershave bottles. As far back as I could remember, Father had a bushy beard and he never used aftershave.
In that little room at the end of the hallway Alice found nothing worth keeping. I took the books, and Mother dried her tears, opened the brown velvet curtains and threw out everything she could put her hands on. With the little room at the end of the hallway emptied, Mother felt her principal duty had been accomplished, and with an uncluttered mind, she sat down to mourn for Father. Since then, the phrase, ‘If your late father were alive...’ had become her litany.
Little by little we forgot that nothing would have been any different, even if Father were still alive. Father would read his books, solve his crossword puzzles, and eat fatty foods. He would not share his opinion about anything, or, when he did, we would not hear it, or would not remember it. We would get on with our own lives. I would come to Abadan with Artoush and raise my children. Alice would go to England for a few years, ostensibly to study nursing, but secretly hoping to find an English husband. Mother would wash the kitchen floor twice a day, backbite about the sort of women who stored Persian melons and watermelons in the fridge without washing them first, and find some reason to worry every day.
With my head sunk deep in the green chair, I thought of the Simonians. The son’s elegant hands, the mother’s rhinestone-embroidered shoes, and Emily, who had yet to speak a word to me. I thought about what kind of woman Emily’s mother must have been. Mother had said, ‘She went crazy and turned up in Namagerd.’ I wondered how old I had been the year we went to Namagerd. Eight? Maybe eleven? Or perhaps about the same age as my twins were now.
I heard the gate squeak and craned my neck to see Mother and Alice coming. In the sharp sunlight, with her flappy yellow dress, my sister looked like a big sunflower among the trees and the hedgerows. Mother, wearing a black dress, looked thin and hunched, like a stick of wood. Armen used to say, ‘When Aunt Alice and Nana walk side by side, they look like Laurel and Hardy.’ My sister was carrying a big cardboard box. I knew what it was without looking. Alice observed her Friday visits to the Mahtab Bakery to buy cream puffs more religiously than her Sunday visits to church.
10
Mother complained about the heat, Alice caught her breath, and then both took their seats at the kitchen table. ‘Well?’ my sister asked.
There was no need for me to ask, ‘Well, what?’ On the rare occasions I was invited somewhere without Alice, the next day she would make me recount everything that happened from start to finish, in minute detail, and even then she wasn’t satisfied. Her face would wear a doubtful expression that accused me of withholding information.
I stood by the stove, watching to make sure the coffeepot did not boil over. ‘Well, we had to go,’ I said. ‘They’re our neighbors, after all.’
Alice laughed out loud. ‘You mean it was that bad? Your Professor must have complained up a storm.’ Mother laughed as well. I poured the coffee, set it on the table, and sat myself down.
My sister untied the string around the cardboard pastry box and removed the lid. ‘I waited for this for half an hour. It’s fresh out of the oven. Mr. Mousavi insisted that I get some other pastry instead, but I wouldn’t give in. I told him, “You pour three pounds of rosewater into your other pastries.” I left out that his cream puffs, on the other hand, are to die for – I didn’t want it to go to his head.’ She picked up a cream puff between thumb and forefinger, bit in, and closed her eyes. ‘Mmm.’ That meant it was good. Then she slid the box toward me and Mother, and with a mouth full of cream puff, said, ‘Mmm, mmm, mmm!’ That meant we should try some. Mother took one out, but I shook my head.
‘I just ate breakfast with the kids.’
‘The kids are not home? Uh huh! They were going to the cinema. Where is Artoush? Uh huh. He’s gone to drop off the kids. Is he coming back? Nope! I bet he’s gone to drop in on Shahandeh again.’ After her little question-and-answer soliloquy, Mother bit into the cream puff, chewed, and swallowed. ‘I’ve said a hundred times he shouldn’t hang around that “brazen hussy.” ’ (Shahandeh had long white hair that he wore in a ponytail, and Mother disapproved.) ‘Selling hunting equipment is just a cover.’ (Shahandeh had a hunting equipment store near the Kuwaiti Bazaar.) ‘What shopkeeper opens on a Friday?’ (The vast majority of Iranian stores were closed on Fridays, the Muslim sabbath, but not Shahandeh, who was always open on Fridays, and would only open – ‘raise his shutters’, as he put it – one or two other days a week.) ‘With that giant body and those bushy whiskers, isn’t he embarrassed to dress like a twenty-year-old?’ (Shahandeh wore loose-fitting bold-colored Hawaiian shirts.) When I gave Mother no answer, she continued. ‘I’m telling you, your late father’s politicking caused me no end of troubles, and now it’s my son-in-law! Out of the frying pan, into the fire.’ As far as I could remember, my father’s ‘politicking’ entailed nothing more than a couple of trips to the Iran–Soviet Friendship Society (and that, only at Artoush’s insistence), and loyal listening to the Radio Armenia broadcasts.
Alice tasted her coffee and her face curdled. ‘Blech! Bitter as poison.’ I slid the sugar shaker in front of her, thinking that the fiasco of the Doctor’s marriage might be all but forgotten.
Mother was livid. ‘Acho!’ Whenever Mother called Alice by this childhood nickname – which my sister detested – it meant she was in high dudgeon. ‘There you go again, dipping in the sugar vat?’ Apparently the fiasco was long put to rest, if Mother felt emboldened to gripe at Alice about her sweet-tooth.
Alice poured two heaping spoonfuls of sugar in her coffee cup and stirred. She took another cream puff and turned to me, ignoring Mother. ‘So tell me about it. What was the son like? Did his mother wear any new je
welry?’
Mother pressed her lips together and turned her face to the ceiling. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God. Here she goes again.’
I wondered how to describe Emile Simonian. What I remembered most was that he seemed to look at you from a great distance and that all of his movements – sitting, walking, eating – were smooth, easy. But that was not what my sister wanted to hear.
‘He was tall, well-dressed and...handsome.’ As the words came out of my mouth, I regretted saying it.
The third cream puff hung in the air between the cardboard box and Alice’s mouth. ‘How old?’
I placed my coffee cup back in the saucer and shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Forty, I suppose.’ Mother closed the lid on the cream puffs, slid the box over to me and gestured toward the fridge. Alice was looking out the window, paying no attention to us.
Mother said, ‘He must be just about that age.’ Then she stared at Alice. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
Alice, her face still toward the window, ran her hand through her hair. ‘I have a hairdresser’s appointment tomorrow.’ Then she looked at me. ‘Do you think I should cut my hair short?’
Mother looked at me and shook her head. We both knew by heart the sequence of events that would next transpire. Whenever an unmarried man turned up, Alice first got a new hair-do and then she went on a diet, for a few days or few weeks, depending upon how long the infatuation lasted. And, according to what she told us more than what our eyes could verify, she would lose weight. I got up and took the fruit bowl out of the fridge, telling myself, ‘Don’t argue, now.’
Alice said, ‘Yoo hoo, I’m talking to you. I asked if you think short hair looks good or—’
I began clearing away the coffee cups and hurriedly offered, ‘Sure. Why not?’
We heard the brakes of Artoush’s Chevy screech, and moments later the twins ran in. ‘Hello, Nanny. Hello, Auntie.’
Mother hugged Armineh. ‘Again with the hellos in English? We’re not English. Are we? Say it in Armenian: Barev!’
Alice hugged Arsineh. ‘Are you on the children’s case again? Is there anyone left in Abadan who does not say Hello? You yourself spout English words left and right.’
Mother glared. ‘Me? Never!’
Alice glared back. ‘You? All the time!’ She cocked her head to the right and mimicked Mother. ‘The kitchen fan is broken.’ She cocked her head to the left. ‘Alice has gone to the hospital.’ Again to the right. ‘The store had no twist bread, so I bought rolls.’ Again to the left. ‘Kids, be careful you don’t fall off your bicycles.’ She stared right at Mother, ‘Armen’s tenni shoes are worn out. And by the way, it’s tennis shoes, not tenni shoes.’
The children laughed, and Mother gave Alice a dirty look. Alice went on, ‘Yesterday one of the doctors told a funny story.’
Armineh sat facing Alice. ‘Auntie, you tell it to us and then we’ll...’
Arsineh sat by Armineh’s side. ‘...then we’ll tell you about the movie.’
Alice asked Mother, ‘What happened to the cream puffs? Did you sneak them back to the fridge again?’
‘Auntie, tell us,’ said Armineh.
‘Tell us, Auntie,’ said Arsineh.
I grabbed Armen’s arm, whose hand was headed for the refrigerator door. I wagged my finger at him, warning, no cream puffs for you.
‘One of the English engineers went on a site supervision call to I don’t remember where exactly,’ began Alice. ‘The foreman was supposed to act as his interpreter and translate what the engineer said for the workers. So the engineer says in English, “Tell them to bend the pipes,” and the foreman turns around and shouts to the workers, “Attention, guys! He says to bend the pipes.” ’
We all laughed, except Mother, who glowered at us and said, ‘It wasn’t funny at all.’
Armineh said, ‘But the film was really funny.’
Arsineh said, ‘But Cinema Taj was like a refridgerator’
‘That’s how cold it was.’
‘Mommy, what about permission for Emily to come for lunch?’
‘Did you ask?’
‘Call her.’
‘No, go to their house.’
‘No, Auntie. We don’t want chocolate. It will spoil our lunch.’
‘Mommy, please. Go get permission for Emily. Please.’
I put my hand on my head. ‘Goodness gracious, already. I’m going.’ And I got up. As I left the kitchen, Armineh and Arsineh were sitting on their auntie’s and grandma’s knees respectively, taking turns retelling the plot of the film.
As I crossed the street, I thought to myself, ‘I hope my sister will not try out her usual scheme on Emile.’ Normally I would tell myself, ‘Maybe this is the one...’ But this time I entertained no illusions whatsoever. I was sure this one was in no way, shape or form good for Alice.
My nose was assaulted by the smell of sludge in the gutter.
The door opened before I could lift my finger from the doorbell, as if they had been waiting for someone. Without returning my greeting, Mrs. Simonian said, ‘No. There’s just no way. Restaurant food does not agree with Emily. She has to have a rest now.’ Through the cracked-open door I could see Emily’s tearful face.
On the way back home, my critical streak lashed out at me: ‘Serves you right! You just have to dance to whatever tune the children fiddle, don’t you?’ I answered back, ‘I’ll never subject myself to that again!’
The children were disappointed that Emily wouldn’t be joining us. ‘I don’t feel like going to the Club,’ Armen said.
‘Great,’ I responded. ‘Stay home and study.’ And with that encouragement, he piled into the car ahead of everyone else.
I sat with Mother and Alice in the back of the Chevy. Armineh sat in Alice’s lap, and Arsineh, after making Armen swear to ‘No teasing, I mean it!’ sat up front, between Artoush and Armen.
The twins frowned from north Bawarda all the way to Braim without saying a word. Armen was taking driving pointers from Artoush. Alice and Mother were arguing about the date of the Lenten fast. In the end, Alice said, ‘Eastertime is so far away now, and anyhow, I for one am not going to fast. I fasted this year, and it was enough for seven generations!’
‘You have to fast,’ said Mother.
‘I’m not going to,’ said Alice.
‘What the hell do you mean, “I’m not going to?” You have to.’
‘I’m not going to.’
Mother hissed just like an angry cat and pinched Alice’s forearm hard. ‘Ouuuch!’ cried Alice. The twins cracked up laughing and their frowns melted away. Mother and Alice’s fights, real or pretend, were the best way to make the twins laugh.
11
At the door to the Club, Alice whispered in my ear, ‘Invite them over, please.’
I drew a deep breath and returned the greetings of Mr. Saadat, the manager of the Golestan Club, and asked after his wife, who had just given birth to their fourth child two weeks earlier. Artoush always shook hands with Mr. Saadat, and it always pleased me. I rarely saw other members of the Club shake hands with the manager.
The twins yelled out, ‘Hey! Mimi!’ and ran off in the direction of a classmate of theirs, a very delicate girl whose name was Marguerita, though her mother insisted on calling her Mimi. Up until a few months ago, Mimi, or Marguerita, lived in north Bawarda. When the kids were little, they were frightened of Marguerita’s father, a tall, very rotund man who sported a thick beard. They called him ‘Golirra.’ I had heard from Artoush that the rank, or as the Abadanis would put it, the Grade of the ‘Gorilla’ had been raised, and he got himself a house in Braim. When they lived in Bawarda, Marguerita had many times come home from school with the twins and stayed at our house quite late, until finally her mother would arrive to pick her up with a wishy-washy apology. ‘Sorry. It’s so late. I got caught up.’ It was well known to all the Armenians in Abadan what caught up Marguerita’s mother: gambling and lounging about the Milk Bar, a new café that had recently opened.
r /> Alice took my hand and headed off. ‘Come along.’
No need to ask where we were going. Whenever we went out, the first thing Alice did was find a mirror and make sure her hair was not mussed up and her lipstick not wiped away. And no need to ask why I should tag along, either. Alice could not possibly contemplate going to the ladies’ room alone.
Marguerita’s mother was in the restroom teasing her hair. Her name was Juliette, but she insisted people call her Zhou Zhou. On the sink next to her purse stood a small aerosol can of Taft hairspray. The last time we had seen one another, in a ball at the Boat Club, she was a brunette. Now she was a redhead. Same color as her lipstick.
She saw us in the mirror, and turned around to give us a lukewarm greeting. ‘Well, well!’ she said. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ The humanitarian aim of this sentence was to ask what we low-Grade residents of Bawarda were doing in the Golestan Club, which she considered the exclusive preserve of the high-Grade residents of Braim.
Alice drew a deep breath and puffed up her chest. I realized she was about to – in her words – ‘run Marguerita’s mother through the wringer and hang her out to dry.’ Alice glanced at herself in the mirror, and once assured that her hair was in place and her lipstick fresh, she turned to Marguerita’s mother. Before I could do anything about it, she asked, ‘Excuse me, Juliette. What Grade did you say your husband holds?’
Marguerita’s mother arched her eyebrows into virtual half crescents. ‘It’s Zhou Zhou. Fifteen. Why?’
Alice smiled. ‘How interesting. So he still has three Grades to go before he reaches my brother-in-law.’ Then she threaded her arm in mine and said, ‘Phew! The smell of hairspray’s about knocked me unconscious. Come on, Clarice.’
Outside the restroom, I protested. ‘Why do you tell her such fibs? Her husband and Artoush are at the same Grade.’