June 1965
In a wedding dress of my dreams that tapered at the waist and puffed at the shoulders with pearly beads running down the sleeves, I sat next to Mehrdad on a low bench under a canopy of silk. The silky white cloth above our heads was held by Mehrdad’s mother on one end and his aunt on the other. My mother ground gauze-wrapped cones of sugar onto the cloth so the grains rained sweetness for the bride and groom. A clergyman in an aba cloak and turban stood nearby and spoke about honor, marital bliss, and purity.
Laid out on a sofreh aghd cloth on the floor, Mother had placed the traditional Iranian wedding objects symbolizing important elements for a marriage. In a mirror lit by candelabra I could see only Mehrdad’s reflection, and from his seat he could see only mine. Among the many items, my favorites were a bowl of decorated eggs to symbolize fertility, bowls of sugar-coated almonds for a life of sweetness, and a tray of esfand Persian incense to ward off the evil eye.
After our vows were exchanged, Mehrdad called a meeting in the corner of our living room with the main stakeholders in my deflowering theater: the closest female relatives. Mastering the confidence and authority of a man on the threshold of a prestigious career in a patriarchal society and being practically worshipped by all for it, Mehrdad calmly explained that he would not be partaking in the handkerchief tradition. He did not want to receive a white handkerchief so he could hand it back bloodstained later that night to female relatives excited for proof that he’d consummated marriage to a virgin.
Mehrdad’s mom, gracious and calm as ever, agreed that we should be left alone and forgo the old-fashioned handkerchief hoopla surrounding the marriage night. With the mother of the groom decreeing it, the rest of the close female relatives—even my social-climbing mother—gave in. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t be forced to prove that Mehrdad was my first in every way. He was, of course, but the entire “proof” theater felt so demeaning. I was happy to skip it.
After the ceremony, the guests were invited into the garden. It looked magical with fairy lights strewn in the branches of the trees, dinner tables laden with flowers and clay jugs of wine, and a band set up on a makeshift stage. Mother had envisioned the idyllic setting and hired an army of servants to organize it. Uncle Massoud played the role of proud uncle/father.
I remember a bite of the traditional wedding jeweled rice with its rich, tart barberries tucked in, the bitterness of the slivered orange rind a great complement to the plump raisins. This medley of sweet and sour and bitter—perhaps a symbol for married life. And I had a morsel of a baby chicken drumstick marinated in yogurt and saffron for so long that the meat practically slipped off the bone. But barely any of the other dozen dishes brought in for my wedding can I recall. I do remember biting into a tiny toast spread with Iranian caviar and squeezed over with lemon.
The hired band played as guests danced in a blur.
At the age of twenty-two, I was the perfect bride, happy, standing next to her intelligent, accomplished, and handsome groom, the man I loved most of all because he was kind.
Cheers rose as I twirled in my wedding dress in front of Mehrdad. My new husband spun me in the air in his strong arms and I was grateful. I was grateful for the transitory gifts of youth and good health, for the privilege of the pomp and circumstance, for the abundance of food and ambrosial drinks and effusive good wishes, for the cicadas accompanying the live band, and for every tiny light in the branches of the trees.
It was a perfect summer night, the kind where in the quiet of the dark, buds release their most tender scent into the garden, where peals of laughter ring out and travel above the walls, the kind of night where relatives pinch the cheeks of kids weaving among the tables in a spontaneous game of tag, begging for more ice cream laden with saffron and rose water and small frozen chunks of heavy cream tucked inside the mounds of vanilla. The kind of summer night where glasses of wine—and glasses of sharbat for those too religious or too young or too disinterested to drink alcohol—are raised.
Cheers all around. Cheers to us.
When Mehrdad fed me a piece of the towering cake, icing almost oozed onto my dress. His deft hand caught the sugary bit just in time so as not to create a spot of demarcation on that pure white silk.
The relatives who had lost touch when we’d lived downtown now stood around dressed up—ready to celebrate my new union, then no doubt go home and gossip. I heard one guest at the dessert table say that the rice had been a tad too sticky and Mehrdad was good-looking and apparently studious but, well, “a little like yogurt”—as she reached for another plate of zoolbiah bahmieh, her chin already glistening from the syrup of the last few fried dough pastries she’d consumed.
As I hugged each guest, including many I barely recognized, I bowed my head in thanks for their compliments and their presence. But I could not help but harbor heartbreak over those who were not there. My father. More and more a ghost to me with each passing year. Lost to me at age seven, and yet. How would it have felt were he there in the garden? To have lain my head on his shoulder, heard his advice in my ear? I conjured up a phantom of the man I wished I’d known. How I longed for him as the anchor to the evening and my life!
And Sousan was also not there. She and I stopped talking after we met in the park shortly after Homa’s arrest. I couldn’t forgive her for staying with a spy, whose deception had led to Homa’s arrest. And she couldn’t forgive me for being stupid enough to out Homa to her beloved Colonel.
I didn’t taste the ice cream that summer night. I didn’t have the heart to partake in the saffron and rosewater flavor, the taste unforgettable since the day I had sat with my friend in a courtyard at the end of the bazaar, our legs swinging as we bit into the ice cream sandwiches and exchanged plans for the future. A friend whose absence was the real presence that night. Whose laughter would have echoed off the high stone walls of our garden, whose joy for life would have dwarfed the dancing moves of the swaying, rocking relatives, whose happiness for me—I knew—would have rung through the rooftops of the city.
That was the person I missed most, far more than the father I never knew. But she was not invited that night. Too much time had passed, and I had kept my promise. And how could she have come with her baby in tow, her husband no one knew about, her dreams interrupted, her university attendance truncated, her future altered, her ambitions thwarted, all because of a night when I shared too much and made her suffer in ways I never intended, never wanted, never imagined?
As we stood together in the garden, a look of concern crossed my husband’s face. He leaned in and took my face in both his hands. In a whisper that only I could hear, he said, “I know you miss her. Jaash khaleeyeh. Her place is empty. She would have danced the most for us, Ellie Joon. She would have brought the house down with her antics.”
Amid the music and madness, I studied him. This was why I loved this man. He had the decency and compassion to acknowledge the friend I missed. He knew what I had done and still loved me. He knew the fate I had created for Homa with my mistake and still he forgave me. He understood that I missed her, missed her, missed her.
“She would have made fun of every single bit of this wedding,” I said, practically sobbing. “She would have said the caviar was ridiculous and the lights in the trees…”
“Can you imagine what she would have said about this band?” Mehrdad held me close and nuzzled into me. “I can just hear her calling them ‘absurd’!” He kissed the top of my head, right where the veil was held in place by a tiara Mother had ordered. “You know what?” Mehrdad whispered into my hair. “I miss her too.”
And in that sweet moment, I knew that he loved Homa in his own way, that over the years she had become his friend as well.
It was then that Mother shouted at the top of her lungs, “Stare up at the heavens!”
For Mother had even organized fireworks. A small amount that burst into the air a little anticlimactically. Still the guests clapped and insisted it was the best show they’d ever seen.
I stood there, my face tilted to the sky, Mehrdad by my side, tears streaming down my face.
“Look at her,” all the guests said. “Look at the bride; she is so overcome with emotion. May they live a long and healthy life together. May they grow old together. May they have many, many children together. May their children be raised under the long shadow of protection and guidance of both their parents. May they never see blackened days.”
Those wishes of the wedding guests proved as effective as the lackluster fireworks. They traveled into the night sky with alacrity and speed, only to burst into shreds and then into nothingness. For only a fraction of them could come true.
But not in the way the guests intended.
Not at all.