Mina constantly checked that her scarves were safely tucked into her carry-on. She’d brought several in case one got lost or misplaced. Darya pushed up against her as they stood at the departure gate: bags crammed with gifts, headscarves, and raincoats. Darya held in her hand the same leather cosmetic case that she’d held when they left Iran. They had picked out their soghati souvenir gifts carefully. “I love NY” T-shirts and wallets for the nieces and nephews. Snow globes and gloves with different-colored fingers. Statue of Liberty figurines and American face creams. They made their way through security, waving to Baba and Hooman and Kayvon. Kayvon cheerfully blew them a kiss, but Hooman looked worried sick. Baba puffed out his chest and bravely made a thumbs-up sign. He was going to let the universe unfold as it should, he’d finally said. But even from a distance Mina could see he was sweating.
IN AMSTERDAM, THEY HURRIED ACROSS the airport to catch their connecting flight. Groups of women in headscarves and raincoats ate hot dogs and drank beer by the boarding gate for the Tehran flight.
“Getting in their pork and alcohol while they still can,” said a plump old woman sitting by the gate. She smiled at Mina. “You may want to get out your headscarf. Once you board that plane, you’re considered to be on Iranian soil.”
Mina took out her raincoat and put it on. It was the closest thing she had to an official Islamic roopoosh. She got out her headscarf and tied it tight, wondering how many other first-timers would be on the plane. Exiles like her who hadn’t gone back since the early days of the war.
After Darya put on her own headscarf and raincoat, they stood in line to board. Inside the plane, muffled voices mingled with classical music wafting from speakers. Female flight attendants in headscarves smiled politely.
“Well, look who I get to sit next to!” The old woman from the boarding gate waddled up to Mina and Darya’s row. “Let the young one”—she pointed to Mina—“sit by the window. You”—she patted Darya—“sit in the middle. I must sit on the aisle. Swollen feet. Oh, but my bag is heavy. I am Badri Khanom, by the way.” Mina helped put her Mary Poppins–looking carpetbag in the overhead compartment.
“Look at you all, so young and pretty!” Badri Khanom whooped out as a flight attendant passed by. “Remember when it was a job requirement for them all to be so young and pretty, even on the foreign airlines?” she bellowed as if taking a poll from the rest of the passengers.
“I remember, Khanom!” an older man’s voice called out.
A few people laughed.
One of the young and pretty flight attendants flashed a smile. “Sweet?” She held out a basket filled with candy. Mina leaned over and chose a bonbon with a picture of a tiny lemon on its wrapper.
A squat male flight attendant in a crisp uniform strode down the aisle, standing on his toes to bang the overhead bins shut. Golden tassels dangled from his shoulders.
Badri Khanom covered her ears with each bang. “He thinks he’s a general!” she said, looking straight at him. “Look at him. Thinks he’s a general!”
“If he’s a general, he’s Napoleon!” a man shouted from somewhere behind.
“Yes, my uncle Napoleon!” someone else called out.
Mina caught Darya smiling.
“What?” she’d asked.
Darya shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s just . . . I missed this.”
“You missed complete strangers lobbing insults at one another?” Mina asked.
“I missed this . . .” Darya paused. “Banter. No, that’s not the word. It’s the communal conversation. That’s what I missed.” Darya pulled out a magazine from the seat pocket in front of her and flipped through it. In a few minutes, she was giggling.
“What’s so funny?” Mina asked.
Darya showed her the cartoon she was reading and pointed to the thought bubble. “See? The politician’s the donkey! Get it?” She chuckled into her hand.
Mina studied the cartoon in the Iranian magazine. She didn’t get it.
Badri Khanom took the magazine from Darya and looked at the cartoon. She let out a big guffaw.
“He’s the donkey! Vay, my God!” She laughed even harder when Darya showed her the caption under it and pretty soon she was dabbing at her eyes with the ends of her headscarf. Mina saw her mother touch Badri Khanom’s hand. Badri Khanom was about Mamani’s age. Or rather, the age she would’ve been now, Mina thought.
As Darya and Badri Khanom flipped through the pages, Mina caught glimpses of the ads. For detergent. Popcorn. Chewing gum. One for toothpaste featured kids in knit sweaters, smiling with superwhite teeth.
“So many ads!” Mina said quietly.
“What did you think? That we wouldn’t have ads in our magazines? We are a capitalistic country despite it all, don’t you know!” Badri Khanom responded.
“No, I just meant . . .”
Darya quickly changed the subject and began to name all of the places she wanted to visit on their trip. Each location elicited sharp, judgmental responses from Badri Khanom.
Mina looked out the window. What would it be like to be back there without Mamani? The government couldn’t have changed everything. The smell of morning had to be the same. They couldn’t remove all the roses and jasmine. Could they?
BADRI KHANOM SNORED LOUDLY FOR the last two hours of the flight. When the plane was about to land, Mina peered back out the window. In the midst of the brightly lit city below, she saw the curved winglike ivory pillars of the Shahyad, now known as the Azadi, monument. Suddenly, the memories washed over her: dancing with Bita around her room as they listened to music. The feel of the red vinyl seats and metal frames of Mamani’s kitchen chairs, the clang of the pots and pans as Mamani worked her way from stove to sink, the smell of sautéed onions simmering in turmeric and salt and pepper. The beat of music from the stereo in the living room, the guests pouring into the house on the night of her tenth birthday party. The greengrocer’s wife had a chador that was white with a pattern of small green and yellow flowers; their gardening water can was a shiny copper color; and the sky after the nightly good-night kiss from Darya melted from pomegranate red to a deep charcoal. Against the backdrop of those white pillars they had had their childhood. Thousands had then bled and died on the street, and the colors of their clothes had been struck to black and gray in one swift move.
The plane zoomed down and seemed to hover for a moment above Azadi Square. Mina’s stomach did a somersault.
“In this place we once lived,” Darya whispered as she leaned over Mina’s shoulder and they both looked at the glimmering city below.