A night in Brooklyn (An Iranian Story)

[Rasputin]

[Rasputin]

Behrang's head tried to process her cryptic remark as Negar's friend came over with a tray of small tea glasses, some shot glasses, and a bottle of vodka. "Hi, Behrang-jan. I'm Shireen; I sent you the email today about the party. I just started my PhD at Columbia in Comparative Literature, and there are some of us from Columbia in the other room, if you want to meet them." Shireen placed the tray on the table in front of Negar and Behrang. She smiled at Behrang and winked at Negar, excused herself and began flirting with Ali, who remained enthroned on the couch.

Behrang took a shot of vodka to be polite and then a cup of tea to occupy his hands. East meets West. Everyone in the room insisted on speaking Farsi, instantly placing him on guard.

Behrang had never been able to take anyone his age that spoke Farsi seriously, because he has always felt it was painfully pretentious. He found when interacting with Iranian kids living in the US, there was no reason to pretend that they all can communicate better in Farsi, or that it fosters some sort of intimacy. Just the opposite.

It was embarrassing because it ultimately revealed that the kids here didn't know how to be funny or clever or poignant-it showed how little they know of the language. Usually, young Iranians couldn't speak Farsi for more than a few sentences anyway, and those conversations had about a fifth-grade subject ceiling. The few times those conversations would occur with Iranians in undergrad, Behrang would ultimately shut down because he found trying to express himself in Farsi with other Iranian kids felt as natural as donning a feathered cape.

It wasn't that he was unsure of himself in the language--Behrang spoke well for having lived in the US all his life, but he was aware of his linguistic limits. He wanted to use words in Farsi in a way that he did English-without fear of judgment and with a joyful sense of I-don't-give-a-****, but had never learned how to do so or had seen anyone else do it in a way he wished to emulate.

The tea was already cold, so Behrang set it down and got up in search of something else to do. He made his way to the small and crowded kitchen to find a larger glass and ice cubes to make a proper drink. There was a bag of ice in the sink ripped open from the side, with a small teaspoon Behrang guessed was placed there to avoid touching the ice with one's hands. He slid past the four women chatting in the middle of the kitchen to reach the sink. He took a glass from the drawer above the sink, stared at the ice for a moment and compromised by scooping it with his glass and was promptly told by one of the stylish thirty-something women in the kitchen that there was a spoon he could use for the ice.

Behrang used the spoon to finish up and mumbled an apology and before making his way out of the kitchen towards the alcohol. He busied himself making a strong gin and tonic, but sensed the eyes of the Ice-Nazi following his steps and studying his cocktail selection process. She trailed after him toward the drinks, a near empty glass of white wine dangling from her right hand. Behrang couldn't tell if she was actually beautiful or just a master of make up. She was pretty in an unadventurous way, he decided. She wore white pants and a tight blue cashmere sweater pulled below one of her shoulders, exposing a band tattoo of Persian calligraphy around her upper right arm. A massive diamond solitaire on her left middle finger and Movado watch on her wrist completed the outfit.

"That is a nice tattoo" he said in English. "What does it say?"

She continued looking at him silently for a moment, then flashed a smile. "It's Hafez." she said in Farsi. "Can you read it?"

He was ready this time, and becoming familiar with the vibe of the evening. He was being tested again and he didn't like it. But he was better prepared with drink in hand and took a large swallow. "I don't read calligraphy very well, but it is really well done aesthetically. I'm Behrang, by the way."

He casually extended his hand, and she held her glass out to him in return, waiting for him to fill it. Behrang looked at her quizzically, and grabbed the first bottle of white he saw, a Pinot Grigio, and poured her a hefty glass.

"Merci. I'm Sahar, Shireen's friend. Her former professor, actually." She looked back at her friends in the kitchen for a moment, switched to English, and lowered her voice. "You are at Columbia, right? What are you studying?"

Behrang took another healthy sip from his gin and tonic. "I am working toward a PhD in political science, on political liberalism in the Middle East. What about yourself?"

Sahar looked at her three friends in the kitchen again, who were now eying the two of them. Behrang asked her if she wanted to invite them over.

"No no no, it's ok, I am just waiting to see when my friend is getting ready to leave. Did you ask me something?"

Behrang did a little looking of his own, this time to the living room where he noticed Ali staring at him and Sahar very intently. "Is that your friend?" He swung his drink in the general direction of Ali.

Her eyes followed the arc of his hand and looked away when she saw Ali looking at them. She smiled back at him. "Ali is wonderful."

Half of Behrang's drink was gone and so was his initial discomfort. It was good gin too--he could hardly taste it. "I don't think I have met either of you before. So, are you at Columbia as well? What do you do?"

"I am an adjunct professor at Barnard, in women's studies. I finished my PhD at Harvard last spring and traveled to Iran for a few months and I really like New York but want a job closer to Cambridge, because of all the amenities really... "

She sensed fresh meat, he thought. He nodded politely and made frequent but brief eye contact while she orally unpacked her resume. In the living room, someone changed the music to reggae and almost instantly the scent of marijuana circulated around the apartment, overpowering the incense and shisheh. Behrang heard Shireen asking people to please smoke the joint out on the fire escape. Negar was frantically opening windows, obviously upset with the introduction of drugs in her apartment, but insisted that it was fine and not a problem for people to have fun.

Sahar continued without missing a beat. "... which is why, though Columbia is fantastic school, it can't really hold a candle to Harvard, you know?"

[Rasputin]

[Rasputin]

[Rasputin]

Hamid-Jamshid's hand dipped into a nearby bowl of cashews while he casually listened to their exchange. Behrang noted he was losing the battle against baldness in an awful way. Hamid-Jamshid picked that moment to enter the conversation. He spoke to Behrang in English. "Persians are always extremely self-conscious. It's a part of the culture to always worry what others think about you." He turned to Sahar, satisfied with his answer and popped some cashews in his mouth.

Behrang felt a sharp pang of hunger in his stomach and located the bowl of cashews on the table. He took a handful and sat back. Sahar leaned forward and spoke to Hamid-Jamshid. "Persians wouldn't be in the mess they are in today if they stopped caring so much what others thought and just busied themselves with the task of enjoying their own lives. Who cares what anyone else thinks anyway? If you want to drink, drink. If you want to be religious, go pray. If you want to have sex, then have sex."

Ali, who was standing over by Shireen and Negar, suddenly perked up. "Professor Sahar certainly knows about all that! She is teaching us history again, everyone please listen." This drew laughter from Shireen and Negar, but nothing from Sahar.

He walked halfway over, and stood over Behrang. "Sahar, you are an only child in a wealthy family from North Tehran who sent you to the US when you were five. You have never questioned your ability to live as you choose because no one has ever said "no" to you. You were never part of traditional Persian culture."

"For that I am glad. And you, Ali? You still live off your parents' money in New York, unemployed, passive, and pretending to an artist, so forgive me if your views of correct Persian culture do not inspire me. I have at least set and achieved my own goals, and live my life as I see fit, despite what you think my culture preaches."

Behrang marveled at the display of unresolved interpersonal history unfolding before him in the living room. He looked over to Negar and Shireen. Negar looked embarrassed but fascinated by the conversation that was emerging in front of her, and Shireen had clearly moved closer to avoid missing any of the drama. The conversation between Sahar and Ali dragged on. Ali finished another drink.

Neither argument was particularly lucid or compelling. Hamid-Jamshid again tried to insert himself in the conversation. "She's right, Ali. I mean, even though you are correct too, Persians are much more tolerant than any other Islamic country, because of their ancient history. It's even written in books here that Cyrus the Great gave the world human rights."

Ali stared at Hamid-Jamshid icily. "What the **** are you talking about? That has nothing to do with our conversation."

Behrang sniggered inadvertently and ate more cashews to calm down. He spoke to them in Farsi. "Excuse me guys, but what exactly is your conversation about?"

Ali turned and smiled his truce to Sahar. "Listen to this guy. Can you believe he has never been to Iran? Most Persian kids here speak Farsi so poorly and usually with an Armenian accent. Behrang, you speak Farsi very well for being American."

Hamid-Jamshid, undeterred by his earlier tongue lashing, nodded in surprise. "I didn't think he was a Persian," he said. "He dresses like he is black!"

Behrang never understood when some Iranian who had probably moved to America when he was 2 years old magnanimously endorsed his ability to speak the language. That was the second time Ali had pulled that shit with him tonight. Prick, he thought. He still wasn't sure he had heard the other guy, the Hamid-Jamshid, right. Did he say I dress 'black?' Behrang looked at both of them in disgust. "Ali, you speak great Farsi too."

Ali looked somewhat surprised. "Why wouldn't I, Behrang? I lived in Iran, you didn't. It's normal for someone like me to speak the language, but I mean, it should be a compliment to you."

"Well, I don't feel all that complimented. I have met many Iranians living here who were born in Iran who don't speak either English or Farsi particularly well, Ali. It's a compliment to you too."

Ali rolled his eyes. "Baba relax, don't be too sensitive. I was just trying to be nice."

Shireen gazed at Behrang and asked, "So, were did you grow up Behrang? Are you from California?"

Behrang shook his head. "I grew up in Madison, Wisconsin. My parents came to UW to study in the 1970s. What about you?"

Sahar's eyes lit up. "Oh my! Wisconsin. So, you were on a farm as a child?"

Shireen politely acknowledged Sahar's thought by arching her eyebrow up in curiosity. "I grew up in Southern California, right by LA. I moved to America when I was six. My parents are doctors, same as all Persians, so it seems."

Sahar smiled. "Some of us ARE actually from regular families! My parents were professors in Iran, at Tehran University, and my dad still teaches engineering at Rutgers. My mom sits at home all day, watching TV and calling her sisters and brothers in Europe."

Behrang sat listening to them, breaking a cashew with his fingers before putting the pieces in his mouth.

Hamid-Jamshid put in his two cents. "It's funny how life outside Iran has changed so many families. My grandfather was a founding member of the Tudeh party, and he would roll in his grave if he knew I was a corporate attorney. Also, my parents were broken-hearted when I told them I wasn't going to continue the medical tradition in our family; they think lawyers are charlatans!"

"Some of our parents weren't so accomplished and came from the bazaar in Iran to become crass businessmen in the US," Ali laughed. "My dad is a used car salesman in New Jersey."

Sahar rolled her eyes. "Your dad owns one of the largest car dealerships in the entire tri-state area, so your family isn't doing so bad, Ali. Plus, he was an engineer during the Shah's time, and your grandfather helped build the trans-Iranian railway, right?"

Ali nodded proudly, while pouring another glassful of vodka. Sahar turned back to Behrang. So, is your family still in Wisconsin?"

"Yes." Behrang tossed another broken cashew in his mouth.

"Are they professors there?" Shireen asked, encouragingly.

Behrang shook his head. "They own a convenience store right by campus."

Shireen's smile faltered. "Oh, that's nice, right?"

[Rasputin]

Behrang shrugged, but his insides felt hot. "Sure," he said. He knew they had all heard these stories before and simply wanted information about his own life to weigh and evaluate against their own. Fresh meat.

Ali kept pushing. "So, are they happy there, or are they trying to leave Wisconsin? I mean, what is there to do there?"

Shireen playfully slapped his hands. "What kind of a question is that, Ali? Behrang, you don't have to answer that, if you don't want to," she said.

Behrang's high had disappeared and his beer was empty. His temple started to throb, the preview of a hangover. He looked at the food table, and saw only the liquor was left, with some cranberry juice. Ali was doing serious damage to the bottle of vodka on the coffee table. Oh well, he thought.

"It's just where they live, man. It's how they make their living. It's not so easy for them to move. My parents are educated. They just didn't have the fortune to be from a rich family. Things got tough."

Negar reappeared from the kitchen, and brought Behrang a Corona, holding another in her hand. "Here Behrang, this is from our private collection in the refrigerator."

Shireen's alarm was undisguised. "Negar--What are you doing?"

Negar took a sip. "Having a beer, Shireen. It's just for tonight. Stop picking on this poor boy."

She brought a wooden milk crate over from the window, and sat down on Behrang's right. He accepted the beer and thanked her with a smile. "So, what do you think about this Persian club Shireen has been talking about? Still wanna join?"

Shireen was still upset at Negar. "Negar, please. I don't want to talk about that right now." She turned away from Negar and the expression on her face transformed from mild derision to polite enjoyment. "So Behrang, did you have fun tonight? I hope you weren't bored. Every time I saw you, you were at the bar or smoking; are you nervous? I didn't see you dance at all."

Ali put his fingers in Shireen's hair by her neck and gently tugged on a handful. "Let's leave him alone. Behrang has lived here all his life, and probably doesn't like that kind of music, or hang out with too many Persians anyway, right?" He looked at Behrang and laughed while again filling his glass up with the bottle of vodka that was now between his legs.

Behrang was stung by the fact that Shireen had sensed his discomfort while everyone was dancing. He also became aware that the conversation was rapidly losing steam and that he was now the object of their boredom and analysis; it seemed they were just speaking to pass time. Ali was having a fine time with the vodka and Shireen sitting next to him.

Still, they looked at him waiting for an answer.

"I don't know if it has anything to do with that", he said in English finally. "I mean, there are a lot of things I love about Iranian culture, but the whole Southern California 'Persian Mafia' scene, everyone traveling in packs and talking shit about everyone else, isn't one of them."

Behrang looked right at Sahar and continued. "Neither are the people who wear $2000 outfits just to come to a party to feel better than all the other people there. L.A. pop music is not one of them, either. I don't like it because it sounds shitty and cheap, not because it's Iranian or Persian. I also don't call myself 'Persian.' That's not the name of the country my family is from, and I think it's ****ing lame when people do that." That comment drew several disapproving glances. Good, he thought. Behrang was high, drunk, and tired of being polite. Only Ali pretended to clap theatrically and nodded. Bravo, he said. The conversation drifted to other topics.

Ali stood up and whispered into Shireen's ear while Sahar finally relented and began speaking to Hamid-Jamshid. Ali went to the kitchen and returned with a new glass of ice which he had apparently stashed in the freezer. He uncapped the vodka and took a dramatic swig from the bottle before pouring himself a tall glass. He was now visibly drunk. Behrang cracked his neck and glanced over at Negar, who was wincing at the popping sounds emitted from his neck.

"That can't be good for you" she said.

"Neither are these" Behrang said as he reached for his jacket and put a cigarette behind his ear. "I'm pretty tired. I think I should get going soon."

Sahar looked up from her conversation from Hamid-Jamshid. "Behrang, you smoke too much, it's really bad for you, and you should think about quitting."

Shireen laughed and looked over at her. "Sahar! Don't tell people what to do! Behrang, are you sure you have to leave? You can still stay if you want."

"Yeah, Behrang, the party is still getting started."

Ali slowly and theatrically rose to his feet, and said, "Guys, I think we upset him. That's no good." Behrang appeared to ignore him, and continued pulling on his coat. Ali moved towards him, slightly off-balance, leering at him like a dirty old man in the street. He stopped next to Behrang and looked him up and down as he was putting on his coat. Ali's face was inches from Behrang's. The alcohol on his breath enveloped Behrang's head and made him nauseous.

"I'm fine, Ali. Relax."

Ali slightly stumbled and wheeled around with his arms extended to look at the crowd in the living room, whose attention was inevitably converging on the scene between the two. He dropped his hands and laughed.

C'mon man... you can't leave just because people said something you didn't like. We're all friends--it's ok if you grew up here, at least you have a real reason for why you don't want to be Persian--no need to be the same, right? If you are going to leave, someone at least fill up a glass of water for him." He looked imploringly around the room and put his hand on Behrang's collar, which was now securely around his neck.

Behrang shifted his shoulders, trying to dislodge Ali's grasp. Ali's grip grew tighter. He was stronger than Behrang had initially thought he would be. He tottered on his feet, while the other conversations momentarily died down. His smile was gone. "Just wait a second" he ordered Behrang.

Sahar stared at them, a smile of anticipation on her lips. Behrang was tempted to wipe away the faint sheen of sweat glistened on the blondish micro-hairs of her upper lip. Shireen's good mood was soured and she tried to take control of the situation. "Ali, stop it, you are acting like a fool. Stop it."

Ali picked up the bottle of vodka again, slurring his words. Not until Behrang sits down, and relaxes, Shhhireen. It isn't right for a guest to leave upset. We have to sit down and make sure he is ok and likes us before he leaves. We have to get the water ready... "

Hamid-Jamshid stood up with his hands on his hips. "Ali, you need to... "

"Hamid needs to shut up (Behrang felt an instant of relief as the name confusion was finally clarified). "It's not right he can't leave yet. Is everyone here that ****ing ignorant? A guest has to be happy, or he won't come back. He's got his coat on, and you guys don't even have a glass of water ready." Ali toppled backward onto the leather couch, still clutching the bottle but knocking a glass to the floor.

He was the only person who laughed when it broke, and raised his head to look at Behrang. "That one will have to do. See, when a guest leaves an Iranian home, traditionally we pour water behind them so that they come back to visit soon. Only these people are rude, they're ****ing *******s, and don't know any better." Ali massaged his temples with his left hand, raised his (right) middle finger to the living room and stayed put on the couch. The apartment filled with low level chatter.

"Behold our little painter... Did he drink all that vodka by himself?"

"Someone should get him some tea."

"Maybe he should keep lying down if he isn't feeling well, that is what happened to Soroush last year."

"God, what an *******."

"Who, Soroush or Ali?"

The two guys on Behrang's left giggled loudly, and their laughter broke the tension in the living room. Hamid-Jamshid stood over Ali, barely able to disguise his satisfaction. "Shireen, maybe you should let Ali spend the night here. I will keep his car key. Sahar-jan, I can drop you and your friends in Manhattan, whenever you are ready."

Ali rolled over face down on to the couch, and used his toes to take off his socks. Negar came over and took Behrang aside. "Behrang, don't listen to him, forgive him, he has had too much to drink. He does this kind of shit all the time when he gets drunk-you know how it is. Ali doesn't care what anyone thinks. He's kind of like you, he's an intellectual. He's not a bad guy."

Behrang looked back at Ali and tried to reach a verdict. "He's definitely interesting."

Shireen was still visibly upset by Ali's episode. "Ok, Behrang. You're leaving? It's good that you made it out. Sorry about tonight I hope you had a little fun, at least." She said goodbye, and walked back toward the couch without waiting for his response.

Behrang turned back to Negar. "She's pretty upset."

Negar shrugged.

Behrang winked at her. "I guess no one is going to pour the water behind me when I leave."

She smiled and gently pushed his shoulder. "I think you made quite an impression. See you around?"

Behrang shook his head and zipped up his coat. "I'm not sure-maybe. Probably not like this again. It was great meeting you tonight, Negar."

[Rasputin]

Behrang stuck out his hand, not sure if they were going to leave it at 'goodbye' or more. They settled on a stiff embrace with a quick air kiss. Behrang checked all his pockets and took a quick glance around the apartment-no one seemed to realize or care he was heading out. Sahar and her friends were back in the kitchen were Behrang first found them, conspiring once again while Hamid the designated driver started saying his round of goodbyes. The bulk of the party had gravitated toward the kitchen and dining room, and a new round of smokers stood on the fire escape. Negar was on the phone and Shireen was picking up plates and cups in the now-nearly empty living room.

Behrang reached the apartment door, took a last look at Ali sprawled out on the couch. His once proud black curls were matted by the couch, and his white pants now bore witness to the various food and drink he had enjoyed. Ali looked at Behrang, and Behrang held his gaze before looking away. He waved at him before he bounced down the stairs.