Pillow Talk and Adult Education
Darya couldn’t wait for the day to be over. Her heart beat too fast against her drawn-up knees. Lately nothing worked out. And “lately” meant since the revolution. For fifteen years, her life had been on hold. For fifteen years, she’d been waiting for the regime in Iran to change. So she could go back to her normal life. To her green house in Tehran, just a few blocks away from where her father and mother had lived before her mother was killed. To go back to that life where it didn’t matter what an MBA stood for or where Atlanta was. But here she was. The kids were getting older. Sassier. Sometimes, she was convinced, even stupider. The lunch with Mr. Dashti hadn’t been all that different from the lunches and teas with other men. But there was something about his shiny face and perfect teeth and calm demeanor that made Darya feel embarrassed for having him over. It was as if he had telegraphed with his white smile the folly of the whole experiment. Darya felt done in. As if she’d had the last straw with this one. For what? What the hell was she doing typing up résumés and making graphs on some two-cent men who didn’t even deserve her daughter?
Things had happened the way they happened. The revolution had changed her world. What is done cannot be undone.
Parviz walked in then. Parviz now had on his sweatshirt and jeans, no more suit and turtle tie. Though he still smelled of Old Spice. Ever since they had moved to America, he’d smelled of that cologne. He hadn’t stopped splashing it on since the day he brought her to this country with its candy canes and carousels and carefree attitude about everything and anything.
“Darya Joon, I’ll drive her home,” Parviz said.
“You don’t need to drive me. I took the subway today. I can take it back,” Mina said.
“It’s late,” Parviz said.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay then, just to the station.”
“Go with your father. Let him take you to the station.” Darya lifted her head. “Off you go, then. Off you go.” Mina, sulky and sullen, waved, and Darya wished her daughter had more oomph. More confidence. Where had Mina’s confidence gone? And her gratitude. Say thank you to your father for driving you, for goodness’ sakes. Hadn’t she taught her anything?
Once she heard her husband and daughter back out the driveway, Darya sank onto the floor. She stretched out her body and closed her eyes. In Iran, the ceilings of their home had been so high. Making them feel freer inside. Here, in this “cape” style house as Parviz called it, she always felt as if the walls were closing in on her. Her sons could barely stand up straight in this room. Even she felt as if she could bump her head if she stood on her nyloned tippy toes.
She thought of her mother’s garden: the fat crimson flowers, the lemon trees, the smell of the leaves and the dust after her father watered the bushes, the sound of the beet seller’s wagon going by.
“Khoobi? You okay?” Parviz reappeared in the doorway as if by magic. The ride to the subway had been so short. Or maybe she’d lost track of time.
His familiar, warm hand folded over hers as he slid onto the floor and lay down next to her. The first time she’d touched his hand, back when Mamani presided over their courtship, she’d been surprised at the thick strong veins on the back of it. Now she loved those veins. They lay side by side on their backs, staring up at the ceiling.
“Khoobam, I’m fine,” Darya said. Darya closed her eyes again and thought of their old life in Tehran. There it hadn’t been just Darya, Parviz, Hooman, Kayvon, and Mina. There had been Mamani, and Darya’s father, Agha Jan, Darya’s sister, Nikki, her children, Parviz’s parents, his four siblings, their children, Mamani’s five sisters, their children, all the cousins and aunts and uncles and the extended family that stretched from Tehran to Mazandaran by the Caspian Sea. Darya had loved that connected life. She would throw birthday parties, and about a hundred people would show with gifts and kisses and kind words and gossip. There were friends too, the friends that Darya and Parviz had made at the university: a rowdy, jovial group who might as well have been family. She missed them all so much.
Parviz grunted. Was he sniffling? Maybe he was missing their old life too, missing that stability that had vanished once the revolution and then war blowtorched their country and tore them all apart. Maybe he was remembering the day of that awful bombing that killed Mamani.
Darya opened her eyes and looked at her husband.
“Oh my God, Parviz, are you doing ab crunches? Is there ever a time when you’re not trying to optimize the moment? We’re . . . I thought we were talking!”
Out of breath and slightly sweating, Parviz let out a puff. “Just a few pelvic . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Darya got up. Her panty hose was cutting into her ever-expanding middle. What was the use? Parviz was happy to be here. He didn’t miss anything about Iran. He was always seizing the bloody moment.
Darya couldn’t wait to rip off her tight panty hose. Couldn’t wait to just put on her pajamas and collapse into bed.
“And fifty!” Parviz let out a triumphant exhale and bounded up.
LATER THAT NIGHT, AS PARVIZ SNORED peacefully, Darya lay awake next to him.
Parviz let out a long, satisfied snore. Darya turned toward him. How could he not ever want to go back? How could he not miss his parents’ home in downtown Tehran, where the bathroom was outdoors and Persian cats roamed by the pond in their garden?
Darya nudged her husband gently. He made one loud snore, then startled awake.
“Are you sleeping?” Darya whispered.
“No, just doing scissor jumping jacks, dear. Of course I’m sleeping! What is it, Darya? Just forget about that Dashti fellow. Just let it go. Go to sleep.”
“Parviz, do you ever miss your parents’ house in downtown Tehran where the bathroom was outdoors and Persian cats roamed by the pond in the garden?”
“What?” Parviz mumbled.
“Do you miss it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it was in downtown Tehran and the bathroom was outdoors and cats roamed in the garden. That’s why! Darya, are we replaying the ‘I miss my homeland’ record? You know you have to live in the present. You know you can’t go back to the past . . .”
“Oh please, no self-help rubbish right now, okay?” Darya turned her back to him.
“You wanted to talk!”
“I just get homesick, that’s all. I never thought I would be graphing men’s grade point averages for Mina. I thought . . . I thought it would be different when I was middle-aged. That I’d be accomplished.”
“You are accomplished, Darya. You have three beautiful children. You have re-created a life and a home in a brand-new country. Hooman is a doctor. Kayvon is a lawyer. Mina is in business school. We got out of Iran. We’re Americans. You’re even working as a bank teller now. What more could you possibly want?”
Darya sighed. “Good night, Parviz.”
Within a few minutes, Parviz was snoring again. Even his sleeping was efficient. He was right. The kids had turned out well. That was most important. She was indeed a bank teller, which was far better than the dry cleaner’s seamstress she’d been when they first moved here. Darya thought back to her university days. Back then, unlike now, not too many girls had attended university in Iran. Female enrollment in universities had actually increased after the Islamic Revolution. But before the revolution, she’d been one of five girls in her whole class. How the men had vied for her attention! The flirting. The drives to the cinema. The proposals. Darya had tried so hard to concentrate on her grades. The math classes were the most fascinating, the most challenging, the best. The numbers in her mind had felt like numbers she could hold—squeeze between her fingers, roll around, even toss up in the air, and rearrange in perfect new order. The satisfaction when she slotted those numbers into place. Nothing felt like that. Well, maybe some things.
Those Iranian men of her youth had driven her around in convertibles and taken her on hikes in the mountains. In a Tehran that felt new and modern and on the brink of excellence. They were modernizing, the king had said. They were improving. They were onto something great. Once upon a time. Darya remembered the possibilities that had stared her in the face at every turn. Parviz had been only an afterthought then. All spindly arms and awkwardness, acne scars on his cheeks. His bass voice was all he had going for him. And his kindness. He’d held her hand and helped her as they hiked in the mountains. She had never thought she would marry him. But Mamani had insisted.
Darya watched her husband’s nostrils flare with each snore. She pulled the comforter over his vibrating belly. Mamani had seen something in Parviz that she’d liked from the very beginning.
And that had been that. What is done cannot be undone.
Three kids later, here they were.
When her sons were little, Darya was bewildered by their manic energy. As they wrestled each other on the living room floor, destroying the khatam boxes and nut bowls that she’d so carefully arranged, she’d dream of having a daughter one day. In her fantasy, she saw herself as an older, wiser woman eating chelo kabob at a restaurant with a young lady who was her grown daughter. They’d chat and eat, gossip and share. Darya would listen and advise as her daughter confided in her. They’d burst out laughing at silly little things. After lunch, they’d shop for silk together, then go home and swap dress patterns. Darya would guide her daughter’s hand along bolts of fabric, teach her how to cut just right, instill in her the sense of strength and inner confidence that her own mother had given her. On her daughter’s wedding day, Darya would watch her dance, feeling pride in a job well done. That was how she had imagined it when she was a young mother of two sons who fought at her feet. Then it had happened. After hours of pushing and a pain that felt as if it could blind her, a wet, purple kitten-like baby had been placed in her arms. A girl. And Darya felt the joy infused with terror that only comes when a long-held dream is finally realized.
And sometimes she still felt that joy infused with terror, the pain that could blind her.
Some dreams had come true. Others had not.
Darya closed her eyes. She should let Parviz sleep. But she managed to somehow throw her hand across his face. Managed to because she wanted to wake him.
“What? What is it?” Parviz shook awake again.
“Parviz, did I wake you?”
“Um . . . yes. Did you just slap me?” Parviz rubbed his cheek.
“No, sorry. Look, I just can’t sleep. I just . . .”
“Darya, forget about the men. I told you. Just go to sleep.” Parviz nestled into his pillow.
“Do you think I made an error in inputting the data? Is that why Mr. Dashti didn’t turn out as planned? I thought I was doing everything right. But maybe I’m not . . .”
Parviz sat up. “That’s it! You want to improve your skills! And I know just the thing. I saw something the other day . . .” He was awake now all right. Within seconds, the comforter was thrown off. I’ve done it, Darya thought. He’s in his Let’s Solve This Problem by Taking Action NOW! Mode.
“Let’s grab life by the throat, Darya Joon! Let’s take care of this right now!”
Parviz walked over to the bedroom desk and started rifling through a pile of mail and papers. He held up a booklet.
“Look, it’s 1996, okay? The solution to every problem can be found. You just give me a minute, my lady. You just give me one minute.”
Darya watched as Parviz flipped through the pages of the booklet. He was now fully in his hyperactive mode. She lay back on her pillow and pulled the covers over her. This was not what she had been looking for.
“Ah-ha! Perfecto! See what I found for you, Darya Joon? Would you look at this? Huh? Come on! And it’s perfect timing. Just come over and look at this!”
Darya flung the covers back and got out of bed. She went and stood behind Parviz in her pajamas. He was holding the Adult Education Community booklet that had arrived in the mail earlier in the month. He had opened to the Queens Public Library page. She squinted to read the fine print.
“Would you look at that! A class, my dear. A class that will take care of your yearning for more knowledge and know-how and will better your ability to manipulate percentage probabilities. Look at that, Darya Joon. It’s made for you!”
Darya’s eyes followed Parviz’s hand on the page.
“Forest Hills Adult Education Fall Class Schedule.” Parviz’s huge forefinger glided down the page to “Spreading Spreadsheet Specs. Intermediate/Advanced class on all things spreadsheet.”
“Oh,” Darya said.
“That’s what I’m saying! Oh! indeed. It’s like it was meant to be. What do you say? Let’s get this done!” Sounding just like his go-getter guru, he ripped out the registration form at the end of the booklet and started filling it out with a pen. He quickly wrote in her name, their address, their credit card number and expiration date. “In the mail tomorrow morning, I promise. Your first class starts next week. This will help you. Done! Now, let’s get some sleep!”
With an excitement and zeal that only Parviz could muster for the simple act of having filled out a registration form for an adult education class that Darya didn’t even want to take, he jumped back into bed, snuggled in, and, before long, was snoring again.
Darya stood there staring at the filled-out form. The air around the desk still smelled of Old Spice. The scent clogged her brain. Spreading Spreadsheet Specs. Had she said she wanted to take a class? Is that what she had said? No. But that’s what he thought would make her feel better.
Well, the solution was simple. She’d get rid of the form before he could send it in. She simply wouldn’t go. Silly class in some library at night taught by who-knows-who. Who said she had to go?