Chapter 22
Vivian and Shireen had never been out together. Certainly not to a restaurant, just the two of them, sitting across a white linen tablecloth from each other. There had, of course, been office-related weddings and funerals and parties they’d both attended, but this tête-à-tête felt as strange as wearing their shoes on the wrong feet. They were each aware of how they must look to others, olive-skinned Shireen dressed fastidiously in her dark suit and pink-skinned Vivian in a floral dress with a Peter Pan collar. One thing they had in common: the short haircut, because of course Shireen had gone to Vivian’s stylist.
The waitress placed a fried calamari appetizer between them. “I am glad, Wivian,” said Shireen, “that you agreed to share the es-quid. I do not know if I will like it. It will be difficult to ignore the antennas. We Iranians are not used to this kind of ugly fish, you know.”
“You mean the tentacles, Mrs. J. That’s what they’re called. Ten-ta-cles. And I don’t mind at all.”
“Tentacles. Yes, thank you.” Shireen went to stroke her hair back, caught herself and daintily scratched the point of her nose. “Anahita used to love the es-quid, but I would never try.”
Vivian smiled. “I’m sure she’s pleased.”
“Yes,” said Shireen, nodding gratefully. It was so nice to be with someone who did not question the afterlife.
“I must say that your new hairstyle looks very cute on you.”
Shireen curled her fingers around her ear and blushed. “Thank you. My husband is very angry about it.”
I bet he is, thought Vivian with satisfaction. She still hadn’t gotten over Mr. J’s firing Nezam two days ago and was in no mood to empathize with him. The truth was, she was sad to see Mrs. J in the severe cut; what beautiful hair the woman had had! With it twisted elegantly on the back of her head, she’d looked quite regal.
“Lemon?” asked Vivian, grasping the fruit in her palm.
Shireen nodded. “Thank you.”
Squeezing the juice out with her strong, slender fingers, Vivian gestured to the plate. “The white sauce here is tasty, better than the cocktail sauce, or you can mix the two.”
Shireen was trying not to gag at the look of the stiff batter-encrusted tentacles. Not being a shellfish, squid was not technically against Islamic law, but such slender appendages reminded Shireen of lobster, an animal that most Iranians of her generation had been conditioned to think of as vomitous. She persevered, however, remembering her recent resolution to try new things, especially things that disturbed her.
“Eat the round pieces,” Vivian said, and Shireen took her advice. Indeed, the squid was tasty, familiarly fish, yet delightfully chewy.
Shireen nodded. “I like,” she said.
Vivian smiled. Mrs. J was a strange mixture of pluck and passivity. A woman who could organize a party down to the finest detail, ordering a staff of non-English speakers to perform uncommon tasks such as flipping a pot of Persian rice to look like a crusty cake on a platter or paring radishes and tomatoes to resemble flowers in a salad bowl. A woman who could coordinate all the necessary particulars relating to a foreign student’s arrival in the US—school documents, transportation, living quarters, wardrobe—and then handle frantic bouts of homesickness, cultural confusions, academic meltdowns, and near-scandals involving alcohol, drugs, sex, and plain old foolhardy antics. Vivian didn’t know how Shireen handled these issues in her weak English, but she did. She would’ve made a great manager. And yet, she was also a woman who capitulated to her husband’s every edict. Vivian had seen her transform—in body language, facial expression, and tone of voice—in the space of seconds after Mr. J walked into a room. From self-possession to self-surrender. But maybe Mrs. J was leaning more in the direction of courage these days. Vivian never thought she’d see it.
Shireen drank from her ice water, blotted her lips, and said, “Wivian, I know you think it is strange I ask you to lunch. I will be honest with you. I want to ask a favor. Please excuse me.”
It was endearing the way Mrs. J always pre-apologized. There were some leftover customs from the old countries that were worth spreading around. “I’m happy to do anything I can, Mrs. J,” Vivian said.
“First, I want tell you how much I appreciate you all these years working for our family.”
“It’s been my pleasure, Mrs. J.”
“Well, I know my husband is a difficult person.”
Vivian dismissed the notion with a slight wave of her hand, but it was hard not to show her astonishment at this first-ever acknowledgment. Mrs. J had had many opportunities to recognize her husband’s transgressions openly—specifically the way he tauntingly criticized others publicly, often moving people to tears and then calling them sissies for not being able to take a ribbing. Vivian would not have tolerated that kind of behavior from Tom, but Mrs. J would simply cast her eyes downward or find a way to leave the vicinity.
Shireen continued. “I want to tell you that I am leaving my husband.”
Their eyes met, the brown pair casting a tinge of appeal—please do not disapprove—and the blue pair clearly stunned. At that moment, the waitress delivered their entrées and asked if they would like fresh pepper, which elicited no response from either woman. She backed away, and Vivian croaked, “Divorce?”
“Oh!” Shireen jumped. “No, no. I am going to Mitra for a while.”
Vivian swallowed, somewhat relieved. “I think that’s a fine idea, Mrs. J.”
“But of course you know he will think of me as traitor wife.”
“Yes.”
“He will try hurt me.”
“Yes.”
“Wivian?”
“Yes?”
“Do I have money under my own name?”
Vivian closed her eyes briefly. “Well,” she said, her pulse quickening, “you have your joint checking account, the one you use for household expenses. I make a check out to you for that every month.” Mr. J made her write “salary” on the memo line.
“Nothing more than that?” Shireen asked in a small voice.
Vivian’s mouth went dry. “There are several large life insurance policies.”
“What does this mean?”
Vivian cleared her throat. “It means that when Mr. J dies, you’ll be a very rich woman.”
Shireen placed her palm on her chest. “God forbids!” Guilt and fear infused her face and darting eyes. “This is not what I mean, Wivian,” she whispered. “He has been a difficult man to live with, but I do not want him to die.”
“I know.” She took a sip of water, tried to keep from showing the tremble in her hand as she replaced the glass on the table. “Of course, you can use your credit cards.”
“He will cancel them, I’m sure.”
“Probably.”
Shireen rested her chin on her knuckles and gazed out the window into the parking lot. The afternoon sun picked up gold flecks in her irises. This was a good woman, Vivian thought. Almost too good. A prisoner to her goodness. “Eat your pasta, Mrs. J. It’s getting cold. We’ll figure something out.”
Did she mean that? She was being asked to make a choice here: between her employer and his wife—soon-to-be-estranged wife. Loyalty was very important to Vivian. In that, she and her boss were alike. She couldn’t tolerate disloyalty. Could she help Mrs. J and still look Mr. J in the eye? She was surprised to realize that she didn’t know the answer to this question. It was simple enough. Or perhaps it wasn’t.
Each woman picked at her food in an attempt to assure the other that the meal was being enjoyed. Finally, Shireen placed her knife and fork side by side on her still-full plate and dabbed at her lips. “I apologize. I am not hungry, Wivian. It is not your fault, but I am upset. I do not know what to do now. Maybe I will stay after all. It was es-tupid idea. I am not smart enough to think of all obstacles.”
Vivian felt struck. No one she cared about dared call themselves stupid in her presence. It infuriated her. If she hadn’t believed in her own intelligence, and in cultivating it on her own, she wouldn’t have been able to surpass her wealthier or younger counterparts with their college educations and vocational training. She’d watched her own mother—to Vivian’s mind a mathematical genius—wither away as a homemaker because she accepted her husband’s proclamation that she wasn’t smart enough to survive in the working world. She dropped her utensils and leaned forward over the table, looked straight into Shireen’s eyes. “Nothing stupid about you, Mrs. J. Nothing. You go on and pack your bags. I’ll see what I can do. And I know Mitra won’t think twice about taking care of you financially. It’s one of the things good children do for their parents. That doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to half of what your husband has. I can’t promise that, but I can try my best to help. Then, later, if you want to pursue a divorce, Mitra will get you a good lawyer.”
“I don’t want to think about divorce. So embarrassing.”
“Well, I understand what you’re saying, but in some cases, not divorcing is the embarrassment.”
Shireen’s eyes were full now. She dabbed at the corners with her maroon-polished fingertips. “I don’t know how to thank you, Wivian.”
“No thanks necessary.” Vivian gestured to the waitress and directed her to remove their entrées and bring them the dessert menu. “Now, Mrs. J, let’s talk about something else, shall we? What have you heard from Olga?”
Shireen smiled. “She’s very good. I spoke with her yesterday. This remind me that I promised her to seek some advice from your brother.”
Vivian frowned. “Mrs. J, you know there’s nothing Peter or anyone at the INS can do about Olga’s expired green card. Believe me, if anything had changed in the rules, Peter would’ve told me. He was very fond of Olga.”
Mrs. J shook her head, rested her hand on Vivian’s forearm. “No, no. I understand that is not possible. This about another person, a young girl of Olga, a friend who needs to get out. Olga would not ask such a thing unless there was much danger for this person. I think it is the asylum that she wants to know about. I just . . . if it’s okay with you . . . I would like to talk to Peter. Just talk . . . for information.”
Vivian readied herself to remind Mrs. J that Peter was retired, that he couldn’t do any favors—the usual lie—but she hesitated. Here was a good woman trying to assert herself for the first time in her life. The least Vivian could do was respect her enough to set her apart from her privilege-seeking husband. She leaned back in her chair and said, “I don’t see why not.”
* * *
“Golnaz-joon, I’ve come to tell you that I’m going to visit Mitra for a while.”
Golnaz hesitated, suppressed her surprise, and smiled broadly. “I’m glad for you, my sister.” She rubbed Shireen’s hand with her own.
“I don’t know how long I’ll stay. I don’t have a return ticket yet.”
Golnaz’s pulse quickened. Was this the change she’d sensed in her sister earlier as she walked down the hallway from the elevator, almost a stranger with her short hair, and without the deep frown between her brows that she’d had since Yusef unveiled that cursed painting? Making her voice light, she said, “You should stay for as long as you feel like it, azizam. Have fun! You deserve it.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll miss you.”
“Crazy girl! Since when do we see one another more than once a week anyway? You rarely come to the city, and I can’t bear to visit that village you live in.”
Shireen laughed.
“We’ll talk by phone, as usual. It will be as if you’re still here. Will Yusef join you at all?”
Shireen looked at her lap. Golnaz squeezed her arm. “What is it, my sister?”
“Goli-joon, I once believed that it was a woman’s natural disposition to be the strength of the men in her life, that it was a woman’s pride to give this strength without revealing that it was a gift.” She paused, but Golnaz remained silent. “Olga tried to live without a man, and she succeeded for some years. But then she failed. I felt sorry for her. I thought, well, a woman gets older and needs a husband to share her life with, to have a home with, to be protected by. Olga seemed so lonely. But then she had us. If not for Yusef, she would still have us. And Goli, if not for Yusef, I would still have Olga. And more important, Mitra.”
Golnaz still didn’t reply; she could see that her sister was figuring things out as she spoke.
“How is a woman successful, Goli? Is she successful when she spends a lifetime allowing her husband to subjugate her? This is what we were taught.”
“Yes, Shireen-joon, it’s what we were taught, but I gave it up a long time ago. Long before the Revolution.”
“I know this, but how? We were raised in the same household. There are not five years between us. Yes, you have always been more outgoing than me, but you were not rebellious.”
“No. That’s true. I think you moving to America was a disadvantage in this regard.”
“A disadvantage? America was the modern place, Goli-joon. It was Iran that was trying so hard to become modern.”
“Exactly, Shireen. Remember when you and Yusef visited Iran that summer when the girls were small? I think Anahita and Nezam were about eight and five.”
Shireen nodded. “It was a strange trip. So much had changed. I felt out of place in my own country.”
“This is what I’m explaining, Shireen. You came to America, and while you were here, Iran moved forward. After the Kennedys invited the Shah and Farah to visit America, the rush to reform was on. Not only did the landscape change—the buildings and roads and modern conveniences—but also the people, the culture. Even the traditional families couldn’t ignore the excitement of it—the opportunities for prosperity, for technology, for resistance against Soviet influence. How else would I have been allowed to go to university, to meet Parviz there, to actually marry someone our parents hadn’t chosen for me?” Golnaz regretted this example as soon as it left her mouth; the last thing she wanted was Shireen’s envy. Quickly, she added, “And of course, once The Beatles’ music arrived, there was no going back.”
Shireen smiled. “Yes, I was shocked that you already had the new records I’d packed in my suitcase.”
“Forgive me, joonam, but I remember thinking that you seemed behind the times. I don’t mean this in a bad way. I think Yusef influenced you, of course. He was so much older and conservative. And he left Iran long before as well.”
“It’s true. He was very irritable during our trip, complaining about how people were imitating European-style promiscuity in the way they dressed and spent the nights in cabarets and discotheques drinking and dancing. Oh! And I remember being shocked at the TV programs. I thought they were wonderful, but surprising in their bawdiness and the loud, American-like music. I think I would’ve gotten used to it, but Yusef was upset. He kept shaking his head and wondering what had happened to the quiet, pious lifestyle of our people.”
Golnaz threw her head back and laughed. “I think Yusef is selective in his memory. Our people have always been as corrupt or pious as any other people. This is a problem that happens with immigrants, Shireen-joon. I have studied it since I became an immigrant myself. I am sure when I visit Iran now, I will be as behind as you were when you visited.”
“Oh, but Goli-joon, Iran has gone back to the Stone Age!”
Golnaz poked her sister gently. “I don’t think so. That’s what we believe as outsiders. Sure, the government has gone backwards in their philosophy, but we both know from friends that life behind closed doors is keeping pace with life in the West. Bah! Iranians are less religious now than ever; this is what a theocracy will do. Anyway, soon you will know for sure because I will tell you.”
It took Shireen a moment to digest what her sister had just said. “What?”
“Parviz and I are going. Just for a couple of months.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Calm down, my sister. Things are better with this new president Khatami. Lots of people are visiting. Some are even managing to get some of their property back from the government thieves.”
“What if you get stuck there? Golnaz, this is a terrible idea! Please don’t. So many people have been forbidden from leaving once they go.”
“We aren’t on any blacklist, Shireen. Parviz has checked into everything. All we have to do is show immigration that we have US green cards and they allow us to enter and leave. We are older people; they don’t care about us. We were never involved with any political groups.” She took Shireen’s hand in hers. “You mustn’t have such anxiety. This is why I didn’t tell you sooner. I am very excited, my sister, and eager to reclaim my house. Please be excited for me too.”
“When are you going?”
“Next week. We’ll return for the Christmas holidays. You’ll be back from San Francisco by then, I’m sure.”
Shireen looked down, said nothing.
Golnaz said, “What is it?”
Shireen looked up, her eyes glistening. “I haven’t purchased my return ticket.”
“Yes, you said that, but—”
“And I don’t know if I will at all.” She allowed this to sink in and continued when Golnaz’s brow furrowed. “I am . . . I have . . .” She cleared her throat. “Yusef and I had a very bad argument. I can’t . . . I—”
“What are you saying?” Golnaz’s voice turned raspy. “He is making you leave?”
“No! No! It is my choice, sister. But I am not leaving with his blessing. I am leaving with his disdain. Which means I may be leaving him for good.” She looked away, then quickly spoke before Golnaz could respond. “I’m sorry if my action embarrasses you. Of course, I will keep up appearances; no one outside of us will know that my marriage is anything but normal.” Golnaz seemed speechless, her eyes wide and searching Shireen’s face. “My sister, if you prefer that I not go to San—”
Suddenly, Golnaz grabbed Shireen’s arms and pulled her into an embrace. In English, she said, “I don’t give a shit.” And she kissed her cheek. “People can think or say what they want. I don’t care about people.”
For a moment, they allowed themselves to laugh and cry at the same time. Then Shireen said, “You will be able to see Olga! Ach, Golnaz, will you visit her for me? Or she will come to you; I’m sure she would love that. You won’t mind, please?”
“Shireen, sssh. I had already thought of it. We’ll be staying in Marjan’s house in Shemran; I was planning on asking Olga to visit us.”
“Oh! So good of you! Thank you.”
“I’m not doing it just for you, dear sister. You forget that I hired Olga myself.”
They tittered at the long-ago memory. Golnaz said, “I’m glad I finally got it right with Olga. And Ensi, of course—such a doll. After that married couple I sent you, I thought Yusef would never give me another chance. But you convinced him, Shireen-joon, with your sweetness.”
The married couple had been a disaster, though Golnaz had been certain a married couple was the perfect answer to the problem of the pretty and useless maids that Jafar was sending. Yes, it meant that they had to use one of the guest rooms, but Golnaz was sure they’d work out so well that the young maids would all be sent back and then the couple would occupy the basement room. The woman would do the housework, and the manservant would take care of the cooking (he was a trained cook, according to his papers) and the gardening, which would please Yusef. But the couple had lasted only two months because one evening Yusef had found the thick end of a toenail in his soup. Golnaz had lost face completely. Yusef still found a way to bring up the toenail whenever they were together, even if it was to make a joke about it.
Golnaz said, “Olga and I still occasionally exchange holiday cards, you know.”
“Really? I didn’t know. What does she say? We only speak on the phone, and I feel as if there is a great deal that I don’t know about her life.”
“Letters are even more difficult than the phone. Not much a person can say when you know the officials can open and read anything they wish. At least by phone you can sense certain things, and sometimes you can use a combination of uninteresting words to suggest something complicated. That’s how we found out that the government had confiscated Parviz’s brother’s business. And also that his niece was moving to Dubai—well, we didn’t know it was Dubai until she called us from there, but we knew she was leaving Iran for good just in the way my brother-in-law’s voice sounded when he said she was going on vacation to the Caspian; she hated the beach. You don’t realize how often you use a kind of code with family and close friends until you can’t speak freely, and then it becomes natural.”
“Yes,” Shireen said with a preoccupied look. “This is true.”
“What are you thinking, my sister?”
Shireen’s gaze sharpened. “Goli-joon, this is exactly what happened when I last spoke with Olga. She asked for my help about a young girl she knows, an orphan. Not the usual request for me to send clothing or medicine, but a big request to help the girl come to America. I was so involved in my problems with Yusef that I did not think deeply about it; I simply asked Wivian if I could speak to her brother about the possibilities.”
“And what did Peter say?”
“He explained the asylum rules to me. The girl can apply once she is out of Iran. Before that, he can do nothing.”
“Did you tell Olga?”
Shireen shook her head ruefully. “I’ve been putting it off. Olga would not have burdened me with such an appeal unless she was desperate, unless this girl is extra important to her or in true danger. I guess I hoped an idea would come to me . . .” Shireen leaned forward, eyes suddenly wide. “And it has, Goli-joon.” Golnaz lifted one eyebrow. “Perhaps, little sister, it is fate that you are going to Iran. If anyone can help Olga with this girl, it is you.”