RedWine
09-15-2006, 12:38 PM
From Nahid Rachlin's latest novel, "Persian Girls" (2006 Tarcher/Penguin). Rachlin, born in Iran, came to the United States to attend college and stayed on. She has been writing and publishing novels and short stories, in English. See NahidRachlin.com.
Chapter 6
Weeks went by and I didn’t get any letters from Maryam, even though I wrote to her weekly, sometimes daily. The only news I had about her was through bits and pieces I heard exchanged between Mohtaram and Father. Maryam’s depression wove like a dark thread through their conversation.
I was lying on my bed crying when Pari knocked on the door and came in.
“Come with me, I want to show you my room,” she said, putting her arm around me. I dried my eyes and followed her. Her room was between mine and Manijeh’s, along a row that included our brothers’ and parents’ bedrooms.
“I still remember when Aziz took you away,” she said. “I was almost five then but the memory stayed with me because I missed you. Poor Aunt Maryam to have lost you, but I’m happy to have gained you back.”
Pari opened an album with a red leather cover. “American movie stars,” she said. She pointed to each photograph and identified the star. “Elizabeth Taylor, Paul Newman, Marilyn Monroe, Kim Novak, Ava Gardner, Montgomery Clift.” Then she pointed to a poster on the wall and said, “That’s Judy Garland, she’s my favorite.”
Pari was wearing a white dress with yellow and red flowers on it, and a white ribbon held her hair back. It struck me that she looked like a younger version of the actress in the poster, with the same lively and expressive face.
“I want to be an actress, if they let me,” she said with excitement.
She began to tell me about some of the American movies she had seen. One was called A Place in the Sun; the photographs of Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift in her album were from that movie. “It’s mainly a doomed love triangle,” she said. “A man and woman from different classes fall in love. A simple, plain woman in love with him pays the price.”
I had never gone to a movie. The stories Pari was telling me were so entirely different from the passion plays Maryam took me to—dramatic reenactments of the battle that led to the murder of Prophet Mohammad’s grandson, Hussein. The last one I saw was in the yard of a boys’ school, not far from where we lived. For the occasion I had to wear the chador, otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed to go in. The same rule applied to mosques, even for girls as young as eight years old, as I was then. The production was elaborate, with live camels and a good imitation of a battlefield scene. They set fire to an effigy of Umar, made of tissue paper. They condemned Yazid, who had ordered the assassination of Hussein, as a drunkard who disobeyed the rules of Islam.
Through dialogue the actors told the story of how Mohammad became a prophet. Mohammad was born around 570 ad (no one knew the exact date). He was raised by his grandfather and uncle, as he had lost his parents at a young age. He frequently went to a cave in the desert, three miles from Mecca, and meditated. He was sleeping on Mount Hira when the angel Gabriel descended from heaven to give him a message. It contained only one word, “Recite.” Mohammad asked, “What shall I recite?” Gabriel said, “Recite in the name of the Lord who created all things, who created man from clots of blood.” Mohammad was thus filled with divine majesty. What was revealed to him was recorded and became the text of the holy Koran. The Koran was a direct revelation of God. When Mohammad informed his wife, Khadijeh, of his vision, she said, “You never utter a word that isn’t true.” Khadijeh was his first disciple and the first follower of Islam. Mohammad delivered public sermons on his faith. He converted people through his compassionate personality, charming demeanor, and force of divine virtue.
I was brought back to the present by Pari’s voice. “I will have to ask Mohtaram to take us to an American movie. Father wouldn’t want us to go alone.”
***
One afternoon Pari picked me up from school and took me to the Karoon River, which ran through the center of Ahvaz. We took our shoes off and walked barefoot on the moist sand. As we walked we could hear the singing of the Arab boys who owned and rented out rowboats. Their voices mingled with the flap flop sound of the waves. We passed mud and straw houses, where mostly poor fishermen lived, rows of palm trees so tall that they seemed to be touching the sky. The water was streaked with black from petroleum deposits, but the sky above was a cloudless deep blue. Shells were strewn on the sand. We picked up a few bright orange and pink ones, washed them, and waited for them to dry before putting them in our schoolbags.
After leaving the riverbank we went to the shop on Pahlavi Avenue that carried actors’ and actresses’ photographs, for Pari to buy more to add to her album.
“There isn’t really much in this town, just the river, the park, Pahlavi Avenue with its few shops and restaurants. There’s the nightclub, too, but that’s for men. They drink and watch belly dancers. Father goes and sometimes Cyrus and Parviz, too. Our brothers can stay out late, do what they want.”
“They’re never home.”
“I’m grateful to have one cinema that shows American movies with subtitles. The other one shows only Iranian action movies, poor imitations of American ones. I wish we didn’t always have to go to the movies with Mother.”
“In Tehran there are so many things to do. But truthfully I rarely left our neighborhood. Pari, I’m miserable. I miss Maryam terribly.”
She put her arm around my waist. “You can rely on me anytime. I know how sad it is for you and Maryam to be pulled apart like that.” She came to a stop by a shop. “Let me buy you something. I want to.” We went inside. The shop had a variety of accessories. She asked me what I wanted. I pointed to a tortoiseshell comb and she bought it for me.
Then she took me to Café du Park inside the Melli Park. We sat at a table in the shade of a tree and she treated me to lemonade and pastry.
We walked back through the cooler backstreets lined with brick houses and palm-filled gardens. It was dark by the time we got home.
“Pari, Nahid, don’t you know you should be home before dark?” Father said when we walked in. “This is the last time I want to see you returning home late.”
http://images.amazon.com/images/P/1585425206.01._SS500_SCLZZZZZZZ_V64055268_.jpg
***
Father had recently resigned from his judgeship and was now in private practice as a lawyer. He did some of his work at home now, in his office, one of two salons in the house, both near the bedrooms. He emerged from his office periodically to supervise, to ask Mohtaram about domestic affairs, and to discipline us. He commanded and criticized.
“Mohtaram joon, when are you going to learn to run the household well?” he’d say. “Look at the way you shop. We either don’t have enough fruit or we have too much of it; the porch is full of pigeon droppings, and can’t you at least tell Ali to clean it? Or get Fatemeh to come and help out? You’re a grown woman now, not that little girl I married.” Then his tone would soften and he’d add, “Remember, on our wedding night I had to pick you off the ground and put you into the carriage transporting us to our hotel?”
Chapter 6
Weeks went by and I didn’t get any letters from Maryam, even though I wrote to her weekly, sometimes daily. The only news I had about her was through bits and pieces I heard exchanged between Mohtaram and Father. Maryam’s depression wove like a dark thread through their conversation.
I was lying on my bed crying when Pari knocked on the door and came in.
“Come with me, I want to show you my room,” she said, putting her arm around me. I dried my eyes and followed her. Her room was between mine and Manijeh’s, along a row that included our brothers’ and parents’ bedrooms.
“I still remember when Aziz took you away,” she said. “I was almost five then but the memory stayed with me because I missed you. Poor Aunt Maryam to have lost you, but I’m happy to have gained you back.”
Pari opened an album with a red leather cover. “American movie stars,” she said. She pointed to each photograph and identified the star. “Elizabeth Taylor, Paul Newman, Marilyn Monroe, Kim Novak, Ava Gardner, Montgomery Clift.” Then she pointed to a poster on the wall and said, “That’s Judy Garland, she’s my favorite.”
Pari was wearing a white dress with yellow and red flowers on it, and a white ribbon held her hair back. It struck me that she looked like a younger version of the actress in the poster, with the same lively and expressive face.
“I want to be an actress, if they let me,” she said with excitement.
She began to tell me about some of the American movies she had seen. One was called A Place in the Sun; the photographs of Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift in her album were from that movie. “It’s mainly a doomed love triangle,” she said. “A man and woman from different classes fall in love. A simple, plain woman in love with him pays the price.”
I had never gone to a movie. The stories Pari was telling me were so entirely different from the passion plays Maryam took me to—dramatic reenactments of the battle that led to the murder of Prophet Mohammad’s grandson, Hussein. The last one I saw was in the yard of a boys’ school, not far from where we lived. For the occasion I had to wear the chador, otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed to go in. The same rule applied to mosques, even for girls as young as eight years old, as I was then. The production was elaborate, with live camels and a good imitation of a battlefield scene. They set fire to an effigy of Umar, made of tissue paper. They condemned Yazid, who had ordered the assassination of Hussein, as a drunkard who disobeyed the rules of Islam.
Through dialogue the actors told the story of how Mohammad became a prophet. Mohammad was born around 570 ad (no one knew the exact date). He was raised by his grandfather and uncle, as he had lost his parents at a young age. He frequently went to a cave in the desert, three miles from Mecca, and meditated. He was sleeping on Mount Hira when the angel Gabriel descended from heaven to give him a message. It contained only one word, “Recite.” Mohammad asked, “What shall I recite?” Gabriel said, “Recite in the name of the Lord who created all things, who created man from clots of blood.” Mohammad was thus filled with divine majesty. What was revealed to him was recorded and became the text of the holy Koran. The Koran was a direct revelation of God. When Mohammad informed his wife, Khadijeh, of his vision, she said, “You never utter a word that isn’t true.” Khadijeh was his first disciple and the first follower of Islam. Mohammad delivered public sermons on his faith. He converted people through his compassionate personality, charming demeanor, and force of divine virtue.
I was brought back to the present by Pari’s voice. “I will have to ask Mohtaram to take us to an American movie. Father wouldn’t want us to go alone.”
***
One afternoon Pari picked me up from school and took me to the Karoon River, which ran through the center of Ahvaz. We took our shoes off and walked barefoot on the moist sand. As we walked we could hear the singing of the Arab boys who owned and rented out rowboats. Their voices mingled with the flap flop sound of the waves. We passed mud and straw houses, where mostly poor fishermen lived, rows of palm trees so tall that they seemed to be touching the sky. The water was streaked with black from petroleum deposits, but the sky above was a cloudless deep blue. Shells were strewn on the sand. We picked up a few bright orange and pink ones, washed them, and waited for them to dry before putting them in our schoolbags.
After leaving the riverbank we went to the shop on Pahlavi Avenue that carried actors’ and actresses’ photographs, for Pari to buy more to add to her album.
“There isn’t really much in this town, just the river, the park, Pahlavi Avenue with its few shops and restaurants. There’s the nightclub, too, but that’s for men. They drink and watch belly dancers. Father goes and sometimes Cyrus and Parviz, too. Our brothers can stay out late, do what they want.”
“They’re never home.”
“I’m grateful to have one cinema that shows American movies with subtitles. The other one shows only Iranian action movies, poor imitations of American ones. I wish we didn’t always have to go to the movies with Mother.”
“In Tehran there are so many things to do. But truthfully I rarely left our neighborhood. Pari, I’m miserable. I miss Maryam terribly.”
She put her arm around my waist. “You can rely on me anytime. I know how sad it is for you and Maryam to be pulled apart like that.” She came to a stop by a shop. “Let me buy you something. I want to.” We went inside. The shop had a variety of accessories. She asked me what I wanted. I pointed to a tortoiseshell comb and she bought it for me.
Then she took me to Café du Park inside the Melli Park. We sat at a table in the shade of a tree and she treated me to lemonade and pastry.
We walked back through the cooler backstreets lined with brick houses and palm-filled gardens. It was dark by the time we got home.
“Pari, Nahid, don’t you know you should be home before dark?” Father said when we walked in. “This is the last time I want to see you returning home late.”
http://images.amazon.com/images/P/1585425206.01._SS500_SCLZZZZZZZ_V64055268_.jpg
***
Father had recently resigned from his judgeship and was now in private practice as a lawyer. He did some of his work at home now, in his office, one of two salons in the house, both near the bedrooms. He emerged from his office periodically to supervise, to ask Mohtaram about domestic affairs, and to discipline us. He commanded and criticized.
“Mohtaram joon, when are you going to learn to run the household well?” he’d say. “Look at the way you shop. We either don’t have enough fruit or we have too much of it; the porch is full of pigeon droppings, and can’t you at least tell Ali to clean it? Or get Fatemeh to come and help out? You’re a grown woman now, not that little girl I married.” Then his tone would soften and he’d add, “Remember, on our wedding night I had to pick you off the ground and put you into the carriage transporting us to our hotel?”