The following Sunday, Mina took the subway to her parents’ house because her car needed repair. She rang the doorbell as though she were a guest. Baba opened the door, freshly showered and dressed in his best three-piece suit. He had on his Metropolitan Museum of Art turtle tie. His Old Spice was overpowering. Darya ran to the door in the tailored bright skirt-suit that made her hazel eyes look green. Her hair was in a perfect bun, her lips glossy. She frowned at the sight of Mina’s jeans and white shirt with the lavender cardigan tied around her waist, but she didn’t say a word. Mina registered the scent of steaming basmati rice and fragrant ghormeh sabzi herb stew coming from the kitchen. Tea with Mr. Dashti had changed to lunch.
At exactly 1:15 p.m., the doorbell rang again, and Darya dropped her ladle into the sink and rushed to the door. She took a few deep breaths and patted her bun into place before swinging the door open. On the doorstep stood a short, chubby man holding a bouquet of pink and white flowers. He wore a beige suit and a brown tie. He was clean shaven and had almond-shaped eyes. His few strands of hair were strategically combed across his head but suddenly blew straight up with a strong gust of wind.
“Mr. Dashti! My goodness!” Darya exclaimed in Farsi, as if completely taken by surprise to see him there. “Well, well . . . welcome! Please come in, come in!”
Mr. Dashti bowed deeply. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rezayi. It is truly my joy. Please excuse my boldness and impudence in making myself such a nuisance to you. I have inconvenienced you. I am a burden to you and your home. You must forgive me.”
“Oh, Mr. Dashti, how could you say such a thing? Please, you have made us so very happy. You have brightened our day. You have lit up our eyes! You have embarrassed us with your generosity. Please come in—you who are filled with so much grace!” Darya bowed her head expertly with her reply. They were playing the Persian game of tarof, a verbal tradition stressing exaggerated politeness and formality in interactions, a ritual filled with flowery flattery, endless displays of respect for the other, dramatic self-effacement, and indirect answers to unnecessary questions. Darya and Baba relished this communicative art, though Mina had spent years resisting it.
“. . . you have truly bestowed upon us a great pleasure,” Darya continued. “Please, please come in.”
With that Mr. Dashti entered the house and looked nervously around. When he saw Mina, he looked away, at the stairs, then the wall, then his shoes until he was saved by Baba’s booming voice from behind the front door, which was still wide open.
“Mr. Dashti, sir, I am very happy to meet you.” Baba stepped into view. “You are most welcome in our home.” He extended his hand and pumped Mr. Dashti’s vigorously as Mr. Dashti expressed his rapture at meeting Baba.
Darya closed the front door, turned around to face Mina, looked confused, and then cried, “Well, my goodness, Mr. Dashti! Please! This is our daughter, Mina!”
Baba turned around too, and both Darya and he stared at Mina and then at Mr. Dashti as if it was indeed so strange that their daughter, Mina, should be standing there in the living room on such a day when good Mr. Dashti had come by for a visit. What a coincidence!
Mr. Dashti pivoted in Mina’s direction but didn’t look directly at her. Slowly, from the bottom of his neck, a deep pink blush crept up to the top of his bald head. He bowed. “I am fortunate to meet you,” he said to his shoes.
Mina looked desperately at Darya, then at Baba. They prodded her on with their eyes until Darya’s slight jerk of the head forced Mina to answer.
“Me too,” Mina said as Baba motioned to the sofa. Mr. Dashti waddled his way across the rug and sat down with a heavy plop, underestimating the height of the seat. Darya offered Mr. Dashti some nuts and dried chickpeas, and Baba started chatting. Mina noticed tiny bubbles of perspiration on Mr. Dashti’s forehead and chin. Baba asked about his trip, whether his flight was comfortable, how he found New York, how he liked Atlanta, how his family was, and commented cheerfully on New York weather and the immense ineptitude of taxi drivers in the city.
“Well, they’re all immigrants now, aren’t they?” Darya chimed in as if she herself were a descendant of the Mayflower cluster. Mina didn’t say anything, just sat there, waiting for lunch. We’ll eat, then we’ll have the requisite tea, then he’ll go home. She had accounting notes to review. She had a finance case to prepare. As Mr. Dashti folded and unfolded his legs, Mina saw that his beige suit was far too tight for him. He was much heavier than Darya’s charts had indicated. Mina could picture long straggly hairs on his toes. He most likely wanted a baby within a year and a boy at that. He seemed like the kind of man she could never talk to in the middle of the night. He’d ask Mina to write to his parents in Iran once a week, in Farsi, with a fountain pen and only in blue. He probably liked his stews served steaming hot and wanted their son to do surgery on brain neuromas or become a famous engineer in Maryland where he’d live with his wife, Mina’s daughter-in-law, who would go to aerobics classes while Mina watched the grandkids.
Mina didn’t want to watch the grandkids. She didn’t even like Maryland.
DELICATE ROWS OF SAFFRON-SOAKED RICE adorned their plates at lunch. The ghormeh sabzi khoresh was a perfect blend of lamb and red kidney beans mixed with the sabzi of parsley, coriander, scallions, and fenugreek. Mina bit on a dried Persian lime and a rush of tartness filled her mouth. By the time lunch was finished, Mr. Dashti, Baba, and Darya had talked about politicians (they’re all charlatans), the weather (the sun gives light but not enough warmth in this part of America), business (it matters), medicine (it really matters), chemistry (they knew the same genius organics professor), immigrants (they’re ruining Queens), cable TV (it’s a massive commercialized wasteland), and especially the Food Network (it’s a fine concept, but the cooks really should clean their utensils more often and not cut up vegetables on dirty counters). Mina had said a few words, like “good” in response to how is school, “interesting” in response to how she found her studies, and “yes” to would she like more rice. All of the above questions were asked by her parents in their attempt to get her to talk. Mr. Dashti was tongue-tied every time he looked in her direction. Dark spots of perspiration spread in the underarm areas of his beige suit, and he continuously wiped his forehead with a scrunched-up napkin held in his doughy hand.
Finally, Darya and Baba got up to clear the table, and Mina jumped to help. But Darya said through a tight smile that Mina must sit, and no, they didn’t need assistance in the kitchen. It was clear then that Mina couldn’t escape the dreaded time alone with Mr. Dashti. She sat in silence across from him, as Darya and Baba clattered about in the kitchen. The grandfather clock ticked loudly by the banister.
“Miss Mina,” Mr. Dashti said finally. “Um, how is it going?”
Mina looked up, surprised. So far, everyone had spoken Farsi. His accent was not the familiar singsong her brother Kayvon could imitate so well when he did his “Irooni” accent. It was quite American.
“It’s going,” she said in English. Mr. Dashti’s smooth forehead gleamed under a strip of sunlight from the window. “I mean, it’s going well, thank you.”
He nodded. The dishwasher turned on in the kitchen. Mina could imagine her father washing the copper pots by hand while Darya prepared fresh tea.
Mr. Dashti bit his lip and studied the Persian miniatures on the wall. For the first time in all the husband-setting-up meetings, it occurred to Mina that he was just as uncomfortable as she was.
“So, how did you like getting an MBA?” she asked.
His eyes lit up, and he smiled. Well, one thing was right about what Darya said. He did have good teeth.
“My MBA? Yes, well, I liked it, Miss Mina. It was a good program and very useful for me. I enjoyed it.” He looked in her eyes for the first time. “It’s a lot of work, but in the end, it is all worth it.”
“Yes,” Mina said. She nodded unnecessarily. Something about the way he talked made her feel she should help him along instead of childishly making it more difficult for him. After all, who knew what kind of Darya he had back home? Who knew what busybody relative of his had talked him into getting on that plane and coming to Queens for lunch? They were both victims of the same curse. Mina knew they’d never see each other again, so she decided to try and make the remainder of their time together at least relatively pleasant. Poor guy. Wearing that beige suit and everything.
“It’s quite a program!” Mina said, a little too loudly. “I’m learning loads!”
“It’s true. You learn . . . heaps,” Mr. Dashti said.
He nodded and looked again at the Persian miniatures on the wall. Mina studied the tablecloth.
“Here is tea!” Darya bounced in holding a tray with four estekan, small hourglass-shaped glasses, filled with dark tea. Baba carried a silver bowl of sugar cubes in one hand and a platter of baklava cut into diamonds in the other.
“May your hands not ache, Mrs. Rezayi,” Mr. Dashti said. “I apologize so much for the trouble I have given you.”
“Oh, it was no trouble at all,” Darya said.
“This baklava is divine,” Mr. Dashti said. “I am embarrassed at the trouble I’ve given you.”
“Well, you see, the secret lies in the consistency of the almond paste.” Baba rubbed his fingers together to demonstrate how to achieve that consistency. “It’s all in the kneading, sir. All in the kneading.”
Mr. Dashti leaned in and listened to Baba’s recipe. Mina knew that Mr. Dashti deserved someone decent and sweet. She wished him well and felt a small twinge of guilt that she couldn’t be that someone. Baba continued to talk about soaking almonds. And then, in a sliver of a moment—when Mr. Dashti broke his baklava in two and Baba’s glasses fogged up from a sip of tea—Mina exchanged a glance with Darya. She knew her mother could read her face, and instantly Darya registered that Mina would not be trying on bridal dresses anytime soon. There would be no sofreh bridal silk cloth laid out for a wedding.
It was over.
The tea glasses were empty now. Darya gave out a long sigh and folded her napkin into smaller and smaller squares on her lap. Mr. Dashti thanked everyone again for the wonderful food and the lunch and the tea and the baklava.
“It was no trouble at all, Mr. Dashti. We hope you’ve enjoyed New York,” Darya said tersely.
Now everyone at the table knew that Mina and Mr. Dashti would not be getting married.
“We hope your trip back to Atlanta is comfortable and without hassles,” Baba said. And with this it was clear that Mr. Dashti would not be coming back. Darya raised her tea glass. “We wish nothing but the best for you, Mr. Dashti. God willing, you will find nothing but continued success in the future.”
And they all sipped their tea and sucked on sugar cubes as the afternoon fell and sank around them. Mr. Dashti’s head was low and his shoulders drooped but he repeatedly thanked Darya and Baba for the delicious lunch and the tea. Mina noticed that his face was not so damp with perspiration anymore, even though he’d been drinking steaming tea. As Mina reached for the baklava, so did Mr. Dashti, and their eyes locked for a moment. Mina saw the expression on his face quite clearly. He politely withdrew his hand and smiled, showing his perfect teeth.
When Mina got up to take the tea glasses to the kitchen, she knew that the expression she had seen on Mr. Dashti’s face was not one of dejection or rejection, but actually one of exasperated, glorious relief.