If You Could Be Mine (18 page)

“Sahar, get in! Hurry,” she commands.

I do mean it. She can go to hell. I get in quickly and she rushes in after me. The attendant closes the door and we ascend. The rickety, creaking noise coming from above has me terrified. I look down at the rocks and trees, which are growing smaller as we climb. We’re going to fall, I’m sure of it. This is not how I expected to die. On a rickety ski lift with the girl I love and hate all at once. How will I be remembered? I can just imagine:

“You heard that Sahar Ghazvini died?”

“Who?”

“You know, Nasrin’s puppy dog.”

“Oh yes! The closeted lesbian who chickened out of a sex reassignment surgery, and never wore enough makeup. She was a homely thing, wasn’t she?”

“So where is he taking you for your honeymoon?” I want to know. I want to pretend like I am there.

“Dubai,” she mutters. She looks the antithesis of an excited bride.

“Very fancy. He can afford that, working at the transsexual clinic.” She gazes out at the scenery, her jaw set. “You know how I know that. Don’t pretend like you didn’t know what I was up to.” I’m seething now. I expect her to look at me with those
I-have-no-idea-what-you-mean!
eyes she reserves for when she knows without a doubt she has done something wrong. I never exactly told her what I was doing, but she never asked, either. We lived within our respective delusions for far longer than this whole wedding debacle has existed.

“I didn’t think that you . . . that it was something you were seriously going to do,” she says.

“Does he know about us?” I ask.

“No. He didn’t mention you were at the clinic. He’s very earnest about his job.” Of course he is. He doesn’t want to compromise my patient confidentiality. I feel so embarrassed.

“Damn you, Nasrin!” I scream at her. “Damn you for doing this to me. Why would you let me fall in love with you? You knew you were never going to settle for me. Was I just something to keep you busy? A toy like the ones your parents bought for you? I hate you for leaving me behind. You were all I had after Maman . . .” She puts her arms around me and I cry into her shoulder. No, I won’t let her comfort me. She doesn’t deserve it.

“Sahar, look at me,” she pleads. “Look at me.” I look away and down the mountain. God, we’re so high! I can’t breathe. We are either going to fall, or I am going to hyperventilate. She grabs me, turns my face to hers, and kisses me on the mouth. I rip myself away from her.

“What are you doing?” I look around, in back and in front of us. She steadies my face in her hands, clutching my cheeks, making me feel like a chipmunk.

“I’m kissing you in public. No one can see us up here,”

“Yeah, no one can see us up here. You’re ashamed of me.” She squeezes my cheeks harder.

“I’m being who you want me to be just once, and in public,” she says. I kiss her forcefully. I hope her lips bruise. I hope no lipstick will be able to cover up the marks I leave. She kisses back, no hesitation, no tension or fear. I stop for breath and confirm that we have a few minutes before the next stop up the mountain. The last thing we need is for an attendant to catch us.

She tugs my hair, just like she did when we were little. “You belong to me, Sahar. I just assumed you knew that I belonged to you. I always will.” She kisses me again, and I keep my eyes open to make sure we have enough time before we reach the platform. Her eyes stay closed. She really means it. I back away. I wonder if I should tell her I am thinking of going to Turkey, that I want her to come with me. She would never say yes. It would be too difficult for her to leave her life of luxury.

“I’m not waiting for you anymore, Nasrin. After the wedding we can’t carry on like we have been.” Her mouth gapes open in shock. She’s such a petulant child.

“But just because I’m marrying him doesn’t mean that we can’t . . . that you can’t—”

“Your husband would figure it out eventually. Then what? I won’t sacrifice my life or yours for some high school love affair.” I’m being intentionally cold now. We need to disconnect or she will be the death of me. I sit on my hands so I won’t be tempted to touch her again.

“What is the matter with you, Sahar? Why are you being like this?” We reach a checkpoint and stop.

“Getting off or staying on?” an attendant in blue overalls asks.

“Off!” I shout, and I get out of the box as fast as I can. Cool air hits my face as I walk out to the overlook. There aren’t too many people milling about, just some children with their parents. It’s dusk and the lights of Tehran glow in the distance. I haven’t seen the city like this since I was a child. Everything seemed so magical then. Now the lights just seem dinky. I feel Nasrin’s breath on the back of my covered neck.

“I love you,” Nasrin whispers. “I will never love him the way I love you. Can’t you understand that?” There is a desperate pleading in her voice, but I’ve heard it before. It sounds like when she was eight and begged for an overpriced dollhouse for her birthday. She had forgotten all about the dollhouse a week later.

“I understand that you want nice things,” I say. “You finally want to make your parents proud of you. I know you want children to love, no matter how smart or beautiful or wretched they are. And because I know you, because I
love
you, I know that all of those things can’t have anything to do with me. No matter how badly I want them to.”

Nasrin starts to cry. I turn around to face her and begin crying as hard as she is. She leans in and hugs me. We cling to each other because there’s nothing else left to do. We never would have reached the top of the mountain anyway.

18

ALI AND BABA STAND
in the living room, their hands cupped and raised to their faces. I’m shocked to see Ali praying. That he even remembers how to do so is a miracle in itself. That my father is praying next to him in our living room makes my jaw drop. Baba hasn’t prayed since Maman died. The prayers quietly leave their lips and reach the ether before the two of them drop to their knees and press their foreheads to the ground. I wait for them to finish before I clear my throat to let them know I’m awake this morning and present.

Ali turns around first and grins. “I’m a bit rusty.” He chuckles and Baba pats his shoulder.

I’ve never been terribly religious. I believe in Allah in the same way I believe Nasrin loves me. Her love is steadfast but not always available.

“So am I,” Baba says as Ali walks toward the kitchen. There’s bread and cheese on the table, and tea is brewing in its pot. I’ve arrived in a parallel universe. Baba and I follow Ali.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Ali is leaving,” Baba says. “Tonight.” I stare at Ali’s profile when he pours tea into three glasses. I sit down at the table; Baba sits across from me. My appetite is nonexistent. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. If I go with Ali, it’s a new start. It will be difficult, but I’ll never have to be unbearably close to Nasrin again. I’ll never have to see her fawn over Reza or have to face temptation any time she’s feeling nostalgic and would like to take me out for a joyride, like a Honda motorcycle long neglected in Dariush’s mechanic shop.

Ali puts glasses in front of Baba and me and sits down at the table. Baba takes a sip, and Ali chomps down on some bread. I inspect them both. Baba looks a little better these days. He hasn’t been catatonic, and he engages in conversation with Ali every so often. Mostly it’s about when Ali is planning on leaving, but even so, it’s better than just watching life go by. Ali has been on his cell phone less and less this past week. I suppose his affairs have all been handled, the best they can be, anyway. They’re both relaxed, leaving me the only one on edge. That’s not fair.

“Why tonight?” I ask. It’s so soon, and he didn’t give me enough warning. I didn’t agree to go, but I didn’t disagree, either. Maybe the offer is rescinded.

“I’ve settled my finances, and I don’t want to wait for Friday,” Ali says in between bites. But traffic is terrible on Thursday nights. People want to get out of the city for a little break, only to spend hours in smog and dust. I’m beginning to think nothing makes sense in this country. I suppose he can’t stand being in Tehran another day. Maybe I should get out. “Have any plans this evening?” Ali asks. So his offer still stands. He’s leaving, never coming back, and he wants me with him. It’s ludicrous, it’s dangerous, and it sounds like the best offer I’m going to get.

“I don’t know yet,” I say. I really don’t. Ali chortles and pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He never smoked before he got in trouble with the law. Now he smokes four cigarettes a day. It reminds me of Maman and I hate that.

“I should go to school,” I say as I stand up.

Baba grabs my arm gently before I can get much farther. “I called the school and told them you were sick,” he murmurs. “You and I have something to do today.” Now I know I am definitely dreaming. Baba is not only pulling me out of school, he’s actually spending time with me. He lets go of my arm and drinks from his glass again. “Eat something. We have a long day ahead of us.”

I look at Ali, who shrugs. Even he doesn’t know what Baba is up to. I spread some feta cheese crumbles on my bread and take a bite only because Baba is watching me. One bite is all I can stomach.

In the cab I figure out where we are going, after we drive past Angry Grandpa’s tomb. It’s a huge mosque that’s bigger than the Shah’s mansion, which is now a museum. The parking lot for the tomb is mostly empty, except for a cheaply made tour bus with words in Pashto written on the side. The people in the bus don’t look Iranian. They’re probably from Pakistan. I hate to think that this is their version of Disneyland, but everyone has a dream vacation, I guess. The cab driver takes his hands off the wheel to pray for a moment as we pass the tomb, and I hope Allah is with him so we don’t crash. The driver puts his hands on the wheel again when we near the exit.

“Why are you taking me here?” I ask Baba. We haven’t been here since Maman’s funeral. I didn’t think we’d ever come back.

“We could use some guidance,” Baba says as we enter Behesht Zahra Cemetery. Large, colorful poster art of the martyrs of the Iraq war greet us. The martyrs have a huge portion of the cemetery for themselves. The place is huge because this is where all of Tehran’s dead go. It’s as large as several football stadiums and just as well kept. Baba tells the driver what numbered section Maman’s grave is in, and the driver follows the signs. The dusty roads are lined with trees as far as the eye can see. I remember thinking that on the day of the funeral, too.

Baba tells the driver to stop and pays him. The driver says a little prayer again; it’s becoming tiresome. I get out of the car and think about all the cab fare Baba has wasted to get us here. We could have saved that money for something important. There’s a little girl, no more than six or seven, selling flowers out of a small bucket. Baba walks to her and buys one flower for each of us. He also buys a bottle of water from her to wash the grave. It has probably gathered a lot of dirt.

We both begin walking onto the field of graves. All the tiles, the graves, are squeezed so close together that it’s impossible not to walk on some of them. Some graves have photographs of the dead on top of the tombstones. I remember Maman’s is near one that has a photograph of a fat mustached man wearing a hat. He looks so confused in the photograph. I can’t imagine it’s the best photograph that his family could find to commemorate him. When I finally see it, my throat tightens, and I can hear Baba doing his best not to cry, too.

We look down at Maman’s grave. Baba unscrews the bottle of water and washes away the dust on the headstone, revealing curved, engraved words in Farsi telling the world that she was a beloved wife and mother. We both just stare at the script. I wish we had had more money to make the calligraphy slightly fancier. Isn’t that a strange thing to think?

Baba crouches down and puts one hand on the grave. He looks up at me and expects me to do the same. I don’t know why. Praying isn’t going to make her rest any easier, but it’s a custom, and so I crouch down until my palm lays flat and heavy on the word
mother.
Baba whispers the prayer, and I stay silent. She wouldn’t like that I skipped school to do this. She would tell me that studying her grave isn’t going to get me into university and then groan at Baba’s maudlin behavior. Then she’d probably hold his hand and tell him not to worry me so much. Baba stands back up and I follow suit. We place the pink carnations on her grave.

“
Salam,
Hayedeh,” Baba says. “I apologize for not coming sooner. It was difficult to . . . well, I wasn’t ready.” This is just too strange. “Look at our daughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Baba, stop,” I plead with him. “She can’t hear you.” He nods and takes a deep breath. I don’t think he was buying it, either. It was a valiant try, though. He looks me square in the eyes, and I see him as he was before Maman died.

“She would be proud of you, your work at school and taking care of me. You’ve turned into a wonderful young woman. I don’t know how much credit I can take for that, but you have, and I’m so grateful to her spirit for watching over you.” Don’t cry, Sahar. Be strong for him, otherwise he is going to start bawling. “She’d also want you to be happy. She’d want both of us to be happy. And we haven’t been, have we?” I could lie. We have had happy moments. Separate from each other and not nearly as many as we used to, but we’re not so sad are we? We’re not so terribly tragic that he looks like an old man and I tried to become a man . . .