If You Could Be Mine (2 page)

Mr. Mehdi is a prominent exporter of pistachios to foreign countries and it is fair to say that he is nuts about nuts. His wife comes from oil money generated during the Shah’s time, though they will never admit it. They were hoping their children would be captains of industry or cancer-curing doctors. But their children had everything handed to them—happy birthdays, nice clothes, and the latest toys—so they had no incentive to try at anything.

Cyrus, the middle one, is hoping to take over his father’s business and isn’t lazy, but he isn’t very bright. Dariush is a free spirit, more interested in learning how to play Cat Stevens songs on his guitar than making a living. Nasrin’s only goal in recent years has been to acquire as many shoes as possible.

To Mr. and Mrs. Mehdi, I am the dream child they always wanted and also the example they set for their children. I study hard, I take care of my father, I cook and clean. I’m polite when Nasrin is sometimes too cavalier. When they compare Nasrin and me it isn’t fair, and sometimes I think Nasrin resents me for it. We don’t ever discuss it. If they knew about the relationship Nasrin and I have, I don’t know if they would be more disappointed with me or their own daughter.

I tuck a strand of hair behind Nasrin’s ear. She smiles and kisses my nose. I hate when she does that. She knows I do, she’s just being tough on me today for all of my wishful thinking. I wonder whether Nasrin would be open about us if we didn’t live in Iran. She might be just as scared but for different reasons. She’s always been the loud one, but she’s scared of stupid things. Things like spiders, the dentist, or not having the latest jacket. She squeezes my hand when she’s scared, and lately my hand feels like it is going through early arthritis.

I lean in and kiss Nasrin on her lips. She returns the kiss with urgency, and I definitely know that no man or woman can ever make me feel the way she does. If that makes me gay, so be it.

Sometimes when Nasrin and I kiss, Ayatollah Khomeini’s and Ayatollah Khamenei’s faces pop into my head. When I was little, I used to think they were the same person, because their names sound the same, they wear the same outfit—a cleric’s robe and a turban—and both with long gray beards. Khomeini, now deceased, became the Supreme Leader after the revolution. I hadn’t even been born then, but apparently Iran was a lot different. There was a king and girls could wear miniskirts, which is all Nasrin cares to know about that era because it sounds glamorous. In school, they teach us that Khomeini brought justice and the will of God to the people and how much better the country is flourishing than under the Shah. I’m not sure how much I believe that.

The ayatollahs’ photos are everywhere. At the shopping mall, in small businesses, restaurants, parks, on the autobahn . . . and when I kiss Nasrin I feel like they are watching me. I don’t know if it’s to give citizens a sense of pride or to scare us from questioning our government. I think Khomeini is my “Angry Grandpa,” and Khamenei, the Supreme Leader of today, is my “Disappointed Grandpa.” Whenever I think of Nasrin in public or at school, I feel their eyes on me. Angry Grandpa is the most judgmental. His brow is furrowed as if to say he knows exactly what I am: a degenerate.

Ayatollah Khomeini has been dead thirty years, but it’s as though he never left. He’s always mentioned in news broadcasts. Khamenei speaks of him with great reverence during his national addresses, and he’s depicted as the father of the country. People typically hold their tongues if they don’t agree with that sentiment. Those who don’t . . . Well, it makes their life a lot harder. There’s a national holiday to commemorate his death. Some people make the pilgrimage from far, far away to visit his tomb and get one free meal given to visitors that day. Most people in Tehran try to get out of town and go visit the Caspian Sea.

Nasrin puts her tongue in my mouth and it makes me forget about Angry Grandpa for a moment. Her fingers run through my tangled hair, and I kiss her neck, making sure I don’t leave a mark. We’re always so careful, and being that way is exhausting, but we don’t know anything else. We hear a knock at the door, and the two of us jump away from each other.

“Yes?” I say in my best calm voice while Nasrin looks into one of her books for the first time all afternoon.

“Sahar
joon,
would you and Nasrin like some
chai
?” my father asks from the other side of the door. This is his way of asking for tea for himself, but it’s sweet that he thinks to offer, even though we both know I’m the best at brewing it to a rich, dark color. He puts in too many leaves or not enough. Baba is a terrible cook but a good man.

“I’ll come and make some, Baba!” Nasrin is packing up her purse. I hate when she leaves. It feels like a wrestler is squeezing my lungs. “Do you have to go?” I know the answer.

“I have to go home sometime. Don’t worry. I might come back,
if
I feel like it,” she says with a mischievous smile. I worry that one day she might not feel like coming back. It’s the thing I fear most. More than prison, more than the police, more than Baba kicking me out, and more than not getting into medical school. If I lost Nasrin, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. She puts on her head scarf, loose and stylish like she has no respect for the law, and kisses me on the cheek.

“Why aren’t you a man, Sahar?” she asks seriously. I shrug, and she turns to leave. I look in my mirror to make sure my cheeks aren’t too flushed before I go to serve Baba dinner. He never notices, but one can never be too careful. I’m always careful.

In the kitchen Baba sits at the table and watches me with a vacant expression as I put the kettle on and fill a plate with leftovers. I put the food in the oven and sit in front of Baba, waiting for everything to heat up. He smiles at me, but it’s always the same sad expression. I remind him of Maman, and his heart breaks over and over and over. He says that I have the same big, expressive eyes that Maman had.

“When did you get so big, Sahar?” Baba asks quietly.

I want to say, “While you were sleeping through life,” but I don’t. My father is a carpenter and works on construction sites, mostly making furniture. When Maman was alive, he made the most beautiful pieces. Hope chests for a bride on her wedding day, chairs and tables that the well-to-do would commission. His pieces always have some imperfection now.

“I’m not so big, Baba. You’re still taller than I am.”

Baba smiles and runs his hand through his gray hair. He got old so fast. Mr. Mehdi looks like he hasn’t aged since Nasrin and I were little, but Baba looks like he could be my grandfather.

“You’re studying very hard?” He knows I am. It’s just that we don’t have much else to talk about.

“Yes. I wish the test would just come already so I would know my future,” I say, already nervous about the math portion that waits for me in June.

His knowing look makes me suddenly shy. “No one knows the future,” Baba says. “Anyone who thinks they do is mistaken. Remember that, my love.”

We sit in silence for a minute before I decide to set the table. Sometimes I feel like I should set a place for Maman, because her presence is everywhere.

I feel guilty that I wish it wasn’t.

2

MRS. MEHDI INVITED MY
father and me to dinner, and when I asked Nasrin all week what that was about, she wouldn’t say. She changed the topic immediately. It’s impossible to get Nasrin to share anything when she doesn’t want to. She’s hiding something from me. She’s never done that before.

Baba has on his best suit. He looks handsome for an old man. I’ve asked him to talk to Mr. Mehdi about sports, since Mr. Mehdi hates any mention of politics. Baba doesn’t really talk about anything, but I make sure he will stick with sports exclusively.

I’m wearing my hot pink dress under my manteau, a thin frock that makes sure my bare arms are covered and that my ankles don’t show. The pink dress is Nasrin’s favorite, so I don’t mind, but I hate wearing high heels. I don’t know who invented high heels, but that person should be maimed with goat shears in the square. It was probably a man. My dress has a V-neck showing enough of my chest that I’m not so stuffy but not so much that I’m perceived as a loose woman. The plunging necklines on Nasrin’s dresses can make her seem loose, which makes me uncomfortable. A bad reputation can be deadly.

When I ring the doorbell, it doesn’t take long for Mrs. Mehdi to open the gate and welcome us with open arms. “Nasrin! Our favorites are here!” she yells, and hugs me. She’s squeezing really tight, which means she’s excited. I bought Mrs. Mehdi apricot-colored alstroemeria, symbolizing friendship and devotion, but the flowers look like they are starting to wilt.

“
Salam, Mehdi khanum,
” Baba says with the utmost formality.

When Mrs. Mehdi lets go of me, she leads us into her home. Most people in Tehran live in newer apartment buildings, but the Mehdis have this old house. It’s very Persian, with large columns and a pointed doorway like you would see in a mosque, but the inside is very Western, with all modern furniture. The Mehdis even have a pool, surrounded by a few cherry trees. I would never leave this house.

When we enter the living room, everyone stands up, and I smile at Dariush and Cyrus. I look for Nasrin but can’t find her. Mr. Mehdi nods warmly at me. Many of Nasrin’s uncles, cousins, and extended family are here. There are others I don’t recognize, but I am sure they are friends of Mr. Mehdi.

Soraya, the Mehdis’ servant, takes the flowers I brought and offers tea to my father and me. There’s alcohol on a nearby table, Efes beer from Turkey and vodka. The Mehdis have always smuggled alcohol in, but I have never asked Nasrin how. My father and I decline the tea, but I smile at Soraya in appreciation. She is now in her sixties, and her daughter, Sima, who is about Dariush’s age, goes to Tehran University, much to the Mehdis’ chagrin. Sima was raised on the same estate as their children but was expected to grow up to be a servant, like her mother. I always admired Sima and her studying, and we got along. Nasrin used to get jealous, which on some strange level pleased me.

Soraya and Sima are from Afghanistan, and Soraya has an accent that people sometimes make fun of at parties, but I never do. My dad has a slight Turkish accent since he’s from Tabriz, and it doesn’t embarrass me even though kids sometimes make fun of the Tabrizi accent. I say hello to Soraya, and she smiles broadly. Even though three of her teeth are missing, it’s one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve seen, not counting Nasrin’s.

Mr. Mehdi is acting hyper and looking for something. “Where is that girl?” he asks his wife.

“She’s still getting ready. Sahar, can you get her from the bathroom?” Mrs. Mehdi asks me, and I nod in compliance.

I go directly to the bathroom and knock on the door. “Nasrin? It’s me.” She doesn’t answer, and I jiggle the handle.

“I’m sorry,” she says weakly.

“Sorry for what? Let me in.” I’m starting to worry. After what feels like an eternity, Nasrin opens the door. She is biting her lower lip, and she reaches for me, to squeeze my hands. Whatever is worrying her, it must be bad. She turns on her blow dryer, for the noise. We’re in for a private conversation.

“Sahar . . . You’ll always love me, right?”

“Of course. I always have, why should that change?”

“Everything is going to change. Tonight.” I look at her with curiosity, and she wipes at her eyes. “I don’t love him. Know that.”

Don’t love him.
Him
.

Who is she talking about? Why would everything change? The way she’s looking at me, so sad and hopeless. There’s a ring on her finger. Why is there a . . . Oh no. Oh no, no, no. My face crumples, and I fall to my knees, putting my arms around her waist.

“But you’re too young! You haven’t finished high school yet!” I sob and feel her fingers in my hair.

“It’s been decided.” She tries to lift me up, but I am not leaving the ground. If I stand up, if I can stand up, it makes everything real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. “Sahar, get up. We have to get out there.”

“We were supposed to have more time! You were supposed to give me more time . . .” She tries to pull me up again, and I let her. Everyone at the party will wonder where we are. She wipes my eyes and turns us both to the mirror. We wash our faces, and she carefully dabs at her eyes so she won’t spoil her makeup—but everyone will be able to tell we were both crying. We will have to pretend that they are tears of joy. That will be hard for me. Nasrin has always been the better actress. We stare at each other in the mirror. When the bride and groom get married, they sit in front of a mirror, looking at each other as a couple. This is the closest we will get to doing that.

“He’s a good man. I trust him. He makes sense.” What she doesn’t say is: “We don’t make sense.”

“I can’t do this,” I say.

“You have to. You’re my best friend. You have to look happy.”

I know what she means. I have to act my part. Otherwise, it will look suspicious.

“How long have you known about this? How could you agree to it?”

“Stop! I don’t have time for this now. Please.”