IT WAS A YEAR AGO that Kiumars introduced Flecia to us. We were three single men who got together every Friday night at Happy Hours Restaurant, where we enjoyed spending a few hours together. Kiumars had separated from his wife a few months before. I had been living by myself for a year since Mahnaz had left me. Ahmad, too, was living separately from his family, and his wife had filed for divorce. We had sworn not to marry again or have families. We seemed happy and our lives were full. I had my job in government administration and it wasn’t bad compared to Kiumars’s and Ahmad’s. Kiumars was still working as the superintendent in a large apartment building in one of Toronto’s rich neighbourhoods. He claimed they paid him like they would an engineer; actually, he was an engineer. Ahmad was a chief economist and had worked for the government in Iran, but here he drove a taxi and always complained about the nature of his job— dealing with people who had come from all around the world and didn’t know how to speak English properly. Well, I took some computer courses after I arrived in Canada, and even while I was employed, I continued to upgrade my skills. This is what you need to do in this society. Thanks to Mahnaz who worked the night shift in a coffee shop and supported me. Yes, one must improve one’s knowledge and skill in order to integrate into this society and get what one really deserves. If Kiumars and Ahmad fell behind, I believed it was their own fault. Unlike them, their wives learned quickly what to do and got what they were looking for. And perhaps because of that they couldn’t get along with their husbands and chose to go their own way.
For me it was different. I can say for sure it was Mahnaz’s fault. First, she didn’t want children. She wanted to finish her education, then think about whether she wanted to have children or not. If she’d had children, she wouldn’t have bothered me so much: she’d have been busy with one or two children so I could have spent my free time outside the house as I liked. Instead, when we arrived in Canada, she not only found a job in a donut shop, but she also went to school to learn English. Then she was accepted at the university. I said, “What’s the use of going to university? If you had in mind to continue your education, why did you marry me?” She said, “There’s no contradiction between marrying you and continuing my education.”
Anyway, my problem is different from Ahmad and Kiumar’s. They have children and therefore they have responsibilities. Yes, it’s the women’s fault, too. Though the men aren’t flawless. For example, Kiumars’ wife, Soori. She was an obedient, contented woman, and she loved Kiumars for sure. He complained that she didn’t get along with him. But, I believed Soori when she said Kiumars wasn’t an easy man to get along with.
I wondered how and when Kiumars got to know Flecia. One Friday, Kiumars didn’t show up, and he didn’t call either to tell us he wasn’t coming. Ahmad and I waited for him for more than an hour. We drank two bottles of beer and smoked several cigarettes, but there was no sign of him. We had our dinner, paged through the Iranian newspapers, read a few articles, and commented on them. We exchanged community and world news. I asked about Taraneh, Ahmad’s wife, and his children. Ahmad said Taraneh had gotten a full-time job and now he had to pick the children up after school and take them home.
I asked, “Don’t you want to go back to your wife?”
“No,” he said. “Taraneh isn’t the same person anymore. We are like two strangers now.”
“Not even for your children?” I said. “Don’t you think that your children suffer when other children talk about their fathers?”
“Don’t worry about my children. More than half of their classmates have separated parents; this is not unusual.”
“I’m happy that I don’t have children,” I said. “I mean, Mahnaz didn’t want to. She’s going to the university and wants a degree. It’s different here. We can’t understand our women anymore. My sister was pregnant two months after her marriage and she gave birth to three children in four years.”
“I also don’t recognize my own wife anymore,” Ahmad sighed. “She’s changed a lot. I wonder what happened to her. She used to love me dearly. If I didn’t get home till two o’clock in the morning, she wouldn’t have dinner or go to bed. She used to wait up for me. And now she’s somebody else—she’s a stranger to me.”
“It’s because of this society,” I said. “This society gives them too much freedom.”
“But this society is not bad for you,” he said. “You take advantage of your freedom.”
“I am a man,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Well, women probably think the same. Here, women know about their rights and don’t feel they’re less than men.”
“You mean we should give our wives permission to take advantage of the same freedom as we have?” I asked.
“They don’t need permission from us,” he said. “They know their rights better than we do.”
“Taraneh, too?” I asked.
“She has a boyfriend from the Ivory Coast.”
“A boyfriend? I can’t believe it.”
He sighed again and said nothing.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I wondered what I would do if Mahnaz got involved with another man. Well, yes, she had filed for divorce and we will be going to court in three months. But still. It doesn’t feel right to me.
During the week I called her several times and asked her if she was seeing another man. I knew that she was not interested in dating Iranian men. She told me many times that she would flee from Iranian men because she considered them perverts; as soon as a woman says hello, they want to drag that woman to their beds, even if only in their imaginations.
I said, “Do you believe the way these civilized Canadians think or live is better than our way? They go to bed and have sex, even when they’ve only just met each other. At least we Iranians make love in our own minds.”
She interrupted me, “But Iranian men all have a complex and they are difficult to deal with.”
Our arguments always reach a dead end. She usually says that I am taking advantage of the freedom I have here, and will go to bed with any women who is available. Her proof is the time she found out about my affair with one of my colleagues. We had a big fight about that and she left me soon afterward.
To tell you the truth, I was fed up with Mahnaz. It’s true that a married man has more prestige in the community and is accepted among his peers better than a single man, but family life should have some rules. My wife didn’t get home till late at night. Whenever I asked her where she’d been, she said she was either in the library or that she’d been in a class. I asked her why she couldn’t study at home. She said she couldn’t concentrate at home, what with the housekeeping, cooking, cleaning, and then me, and the damn TV. These things would not let her focus on her reading. Well, think about it: I had a wife but she either wasn’t home and, when she was, her head was in a book. So when she said, “We’d better separate,” I agreed without any hesitation, even though it was hard for me to learn to deal with the chores. I mean, although my wife had to go to school, I always had a hot meal, my clothes were washed and ironed, my bed was made, and the apartment was clean and everything was in order. I can’t deny it—she looked after our home well. You should come and see what a mess it is now.
“What about your girlfriend?” Ahmad asked. “Doesn’t she help you with housekeeping?”
“Are you kidding me? My girlfriend won’t bother herself to clean my place. And if it isn’t in tidy when she visits, she makes fun of me.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“No girlfriend for me. I am not in a mood to have a girlfriend.”
“Let’s see…” I teased, “you’re waiting for Taraneh.”
“Don’t talk about Taraneh anymore. She’s finished for me.”
Well, it was hard for him that his wife was friendly with another man. It was hard for me, too.
The next week Flecia joined our group. We weren’t supposed to invite our girlfriends to our Friday night gatherings, but Kiumars brought her, explaining that she wanted to get to know his friends. She was one of those rare persons who radiate love. To get to know us, she asked simple questions: Do you like Canada? What do you do for living? Do you have family here? And after a short while, it was as if we had all known each other for years. The conversation flowed and familiarity warmed up our words. When she found out Ahmad and I were also separated from our families, her eyes filled with sympathy and compassion. Whenever she looked at us, she made us hot with love. The talk changed quickly to topics such as racism, culture, history, the environment, the economy, and politics. Flecia had such broad knowledge of these subjects that the three of us felt ignorant compared to her. Of course, when we still lived in our homeland, we considered ourselves political and social justice activists, and we claimed we were challenging our government to provide a better life for our all people. But when we found out we were in danger, we preferred to flee rather than to stay and continue our efforts.
Flecia spoke to us like an economist, a society and cultural specialist, and an environmentalist. She bewitched us with her original ideas, her natural beauty, and her unique character. I was fascinated by her. When I noticed Kiumars looking at me with threatening, warning eyes, I remembered that I had to be careful with my behaviour. Iranian men do not tolerate other men paying too much attention to, or flirting with, their mothers, sisters, wives, daughters or girlfriends. But I was captivated by Flecia and I had to work hard at controlling my enthusiasm in her presence.
When Flecia asked us about our origins, we boasted about how as Iranians we were from a “pure” race, by which we meant Aryan. She laughed loudly, as if she had heard the funniest joke, and said, “I don’t believe that at the threshold of the twenty-first century, at the beginning of the third millennium, there’s one person on the whole earth who’s racially ‘pure’. I think to find such a person you’d have to go to the depths of Brazil’s or Australia’s forests.”
The three of us looked at her bewildered. Frankly, her words were insulting. I couldn’t bear a woman like Flecia humiliating us in front of her boyfriend, who was Iranian like we were. I asked, “Well, what about you? You don’t look like you are from a pure race.”
She laughed again, seductively. Her white teeth were like pearls. Her red tongue touched the tip of her mouth, her big, dark eyes, which were not black nor brown nor even grey or blue or green, but a mixture of all colours, were wet with tears of laughter. Her exquisite eyes were wild with surprise and her cheeks glittered with freshness. Her hair reminded us that one of her ancestors, perhaps long ago, had been black. It was like a forest that no human being had touched; it didn’t fall on her shoulders, but stood up on her head like a crown of golden-brown curls. And it seemed that Flecia did nothing to tame it. Her hair was the first thing that attracted the eyes; it was like a halo around her beautiful face.
“Me?” she replied mischeviously. “You won’t believe me, and you may think I’m boasting, but I am a mixture of all races.”
Kiumars looked at Ahmad and me and beamed with pride. He had his arms around Flecia’s shoulders, and every now and then he kissed her. He was ensuring that both of us were well aware that she belonged to him.
Ahmad asked, “How do you know that?”
Flecia laughed again. Her laughter was like a spring rain that pours down suddenly after a long drought and fills you with joy.
“How do I know?” she said. “I have a family tree. A very long family tree that goes back seven generations.”
“Really?” I said. There was doubt in my voice that Flecia quickly grasped.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But I have the blood of all races in my veins. And because of that I’m familiar with all people of the world.”
Kiumars encouraged her: “Tell them about your ancestors. Don’t worry if they don’t believe you.”
“I believe everything you say,” I responded in an apologetic tone.
“Well, in brief,” she said, “my seventh ancestor was a black man who was stolen from Africa, chained and beaten, kept hungry, and taken to the America as a slave. He was the father of the father of the mother of the father of the father of the mother of my mother.”
I was confused and I wanted to ask Flecia to explain this more clearly, but she was so absorbed by her ancestors’ story that I forced myself to listen and not interrupt with questions.
She continued, “That pure black African married a woman who had been the child of a black girl who had been raped by a white man. My sixth ancestor, who considered himself a black man even though he was of mixed race, raped a white woman and was lynched.”
She looked at us, her eyes wide, and asked, “Do you know what ‘lynch’ means?” And without waiting for us to reply, she gave us a long lecture about how black people were hung from trees by white mobs.
Again, she didn’t give us a chance to open our mouths. She continued, “That white woman found out she was pregnant, fled to an Aboriginal community, and gave birth to my fifth ancestor. My fifth ancestor married an Indian man. Their son, my fourth ancestor, married a white woman, and their son was my third ancestor. He married a Chinese woman. Their daughter was my second ancestor, who was my grandmother, and she married a European. Their daughter married a man from India and I am their child.” Cool and relaxed she added, “You see, this is me, made of seven different ingredients.” And again she laughed.
“You see,” Kiumars said, “Flecia is the symbol of all races and now she’s going to mix with someone of the Aryan race.”
“Aryan race? I haven’t heard of such a thing,” Flecia said, surprised. “Did you invent such a race?”
“How haven’t you heard about the Aryan race?” Ahmad said. “Hitler, in Germany, claimed it was the superior race.”
Flecia’s eyes widened with disbelief. “And he was responsible for the most heinous acts! Are you sure you want to say that you are from the Aryan race?”
“We are indeed Aryan,” I said. “Hitler’s concept of the Aryan race was quite different…. Our Aryan roots derive from our ancient Indo-Iranian origins.”
Flecia nodded and then we debated history, the intermingling of races, cultures, and societies for many hours on many evenings. We enjoyed Flecia’s cascading laughter and intimate manner, which was like spring sunshine that warmed and delighted us. We always had wonderful and memorable evenings when Flecia joined us.
A few months passed and Flecia broke up with Kiumars. She told me he expected too much from her. We talked on the phone a few times, and then one day she said she wanted to visit me at my place. She stayed for the night.
Kiumars stopped talking to me; Ahmad too. They said I had double-crossed them. But it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t refuse Flecia’s friendship and send her back to Kiumars. He wasn’t worthy of her. Flecia was an exceptional woman, warm and full of love and compassion. Knowing her was a privilege for me; she helped me to understand women better. I learned a lot from her about the secrets of womanhood. She even helped me to reconsider my relationship with Mahnaz. Through Flecia, I realized that Mahnaz had been a devoted wife, a wife who loved me, but she was also keen to learn and grow as a person, and I had ignored her.
Flecia used to say, “I’m like the earth, accepting and giving.” And she really was. Her ideas about race, about life, thrilled me and made me rethink my own notions about the mixing of races and about our expectations of women. I was close to falling in love with her when she left me.
I called Kiumars and told him, “Flecia left me. Don’t be angry with me. Let’s be friends again.”
“You deserved that,” he said. “When you steal your friend’s girlfriend, you should be punished the same way.”
“I didn’t steal her,” I said. “She came to me.”
“Why didn’t she go to Ahmad?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Several weeks passed and the coldness between us began to fade. I called Kiumars and Ahmad and asked if we could resume our Friday night get-togethers. It was the second or third week when Flecia joined us again, this time with Ahmad. Neither Kiumars nor I were surprised. We welcomed Flecia enthusiastically. As usual, she warmed our gathering with her laughter and her discussion of whatever was the topic of the day. Being with Flecia seemed to eliminate any animosity among us.
After a few months, Flecia left Ahmad, too, and the three of us never got together again on Friday nights.
Later, I learned Kiumars had gone back to his wife. There was no news from Ahmad. I went to Happy Hours two or three times, but I never saw him there. I called him once to see how he was and he told me he needed to spend more time with his children. I asked if Taraneh had remarried.
“No. That man was only a friend, a colleague,” he said. Then he added, “I’m actually thinking of going back to my family.”
I felt lonely. I called Mahnaz and asked her how she was doing. A few months had passed since the appointment regarding our divorce. I had completely forgotten about it and so had Mahnaz. Another time was set and we arranged a meeting to decide how to divide our belongings. On my way there, I never imagined that I would go back to my wife, but I did.
Now, Kiumars, Ahmed and I occasionally get together with our families and sometimes we talk about Flecia. Incredulous, our wives listen to us talking and ask, “Are you sure you aren’t dreaming? Did such a woman really exist?”
And we ask ourselves, “Did she?”