The Temporary Bride Read online

  He didn’t know that I’d arrived in his country only nine hours earlier. That just a day before I’d been looking at pictures of his city in a guidebook. That only that morning I’d woken up in Mehrabad airport, waiting for the Tupolev plane that would bring me here. Probably he would have laughed if I’d told him my first reaction to Iran had been fear. The wailing call to prayer that had filled the airport had been so shrill I’d instinctively drawn my knees in. That red-faced, man-boy, cry-singing sound, distorting and crackling in the dusty speakers that hung from wires, had closed in on me like a dense fog.

  The thick carpeting in the airport had smelled of damp and the air-conditioning was on too high, causing me to shiver. All around me people—men with blank faces and large, tightly wrapped women—shuffled their way to the designated prayer rooms in the corner clutching overstuffed plastic cases and yellowed traveling pillows. From the corners of their bags poked gold-lettered packages of regional sweets—sticky pistachio nougat from Esfahan, honey and saffron brittle from Qom—gifts that would likely be tipped onto oval serving plates and passed around later that evening with tea.

  The row of seats along the amber-tinted window where I’d sat, packed with businessmen and families just moments before, had emptied. I’d heard the call to prayer many times before—in Istanbul, in Damascus, in the graffiti streets around East London—but never so cold and piercing as that. The cheap tinny echo and the severe, red-faced distortions: I could feel them as if they were vibrating between my teeth.

  I reached up and realized that my scarf had slipped off my head while I’d been sleeping. With a sense of panic, I yanked it sharply back into place and peered around the terminal, expecting reproach. I rubbed my eyes and felt the gritty residue of the mascara I had applied carefully the previous evening—wanting to look nice for my trip, my first-ever trip to Iran—crumble between my fingers.

  A man with sunglasses perched on top of his thick, gelled hair sat facing me on the opposite side of the room. I could feel him staring at me and knew enough not to look up. I didn’t need him to come and sit next to me, to hear dull stories about visiting his cousin in Germany, or to anticipate the moment when he’d misread my lack of inhibition and lean in, perhaps putting his hand on my knee and thinking that it was because of him that I was confident and open, a relaxed kind of girl.

  It made no sense then, that I should have treated him differently, this stranger who now approached me in Yazd, that I nodded when he asked if he could sit down. Perhaps I recognized the same lack of interest I felt toward him, reflected in his indifference and the physical distance he maintained between us. I failed to warm to him when he told me his name was Vahid, that he’d learned English in school, that he had studied to be an engineer. He’d stood with his arms folded across his chest, making me wonder if maybe he was nervous. His long fingers reached down and twisted the loose cords of the rug covering the wooden bench next to mine. Every third sentence he ran his hand through his coarse, dark hair, his voice so flat it came across more like a lecture. He spoke rusty, disjointed English and I supposed I could have tried to make it easier, to anticipate his sentences, help him find the right words, but his gruff, invasive manner stopped me; I preferred to let him struggle.

  He possessed none of the ease in speaking with girls I associated with men who approached tourists in the Middle East. There were no pre-practiced lines, no self-assured script, no leading to an eventual hope of a tryst without consequence. Instead it was as if speaking to me was a breach of his confidence. I suspect he’d been long accustomed to being coddled by the women of his life—his mother and his aunts—where his voice had been loudest and his opinions widely sought, even on matters where he understood little. Perhaps speaking to me as he did then, had forced him onto unfamiliar ground.

  It was only when he was joined by his uncle, an older, smiling version of him, that I began to relax. By the simple fact of living in exile, with one foot planted in the soil of each of our worlds, his uncle’s presence created a bridge between us. His uncle explained how three decades ago he’d left Iran for Pennsylvania at the outbreak of the Iran–Iraq war; and was coming back now for a visit, without his American wife and children who’d refused to accompany him. A “Not without my daughter complex,” he joked.

  They’d spent the afternoon together scouring the bazaar for souvenirs, pieces of jade jewelry to please his teenage daughters. To Vahid’s disappointment, his uncle could no longer tolerate the intense heat and the dust, leading him to remember the place where I too had stopped to rest, having grown weary of exploring his city on foot. The café of my hotel was where he first approached me, a converted merchant’s house that had once sheltered a family of twenty. I’d ordered tea and sought out a quiet table in the courtyard where I could sit undisturbed, a sail-like canopy billowing overhead. I don’t recall which I’d found more beautiful: the turquoise-tiled fountains and amber stained glass of my surroundings or the assortment of sugar that arrived on the silver tea tray. The yellow rock sugar that looked like amethysts, the jagged white lump sugar dusted with sediment, which he’d later show me was chiseled from a torpedo-shaped hunk using tools resembling ice picks. The two men kicked off pairs of sturdy leather shoes and stretched out on the wooden daybed beside mine, expertly placing two lumps of sugar on their tongues. Biting down with just the right pressure, they raised glasses of tea to their mouths, sipping it through the sugar, sweetening the tea as it passed through their lips.

  Observing them I quickly saw the difference between the Iranians in Iran and those who had emigrated. Vahid’s questions were direct and intrusive while his uncle’s were gentler and more discreet. It was a distinction I’d first become aware of at Heathrow, on joining the check-in queue with my one small bag, stepping in among the luggage trolleys piled with suitcases coated in plastic film. The gathering of people had already attained the semblance of Iran, adopted its clear and unspoken rules. Old came before young, parents before children, elaborate Persian greetings before brief English ones. Suitcases were stuffed with presents, strangers greeted with handshakes; conversations lingered on the latest round of sanctions and its effects on the price of bread and petrol. Young children were hoisted into the air.

  For some the check-in had seemed routine, even blasé, as they fished their maroon passports out of purses and pockets, carefully separating them from the black, navy or green ones from their adopted countries. Others appeared more tense, less sure. It was the little things—the inability to hold eye contact, the chewing of gum, the affected, disinterested stances—that suggested a vulnerable footing between East and West. I imagine these are the Iranians who might cover their faces when protesting at the embassy, or use false names in their Facebook accounts; who may have experienced their first taste of physical intimacy abroad, liberated from worrying about their reputations. I imagine how a return to Iran would cause them to chafe and feel agitated, how everything that could be counted as a milestone could be turned against them. They wore their best clothes purchased from Lacoste and Benetton to go home in, even knowing they would be compelled to give their coats and jackets away, to the cousins who would envy them and pay them compliments.

  Vahid had been surprised to learn I had come alone, that it had been my second attempt at getting a visa, that I was already thirty-one, older than him. He saw the Persian cookbook open next to me and I began to tell him about my life in London, three and a half thousand miles away. He’d seemed intrigued that I ran my own business, was independent, I think it was the first time I saw him smile. Having just completed two years of military service, he seemed to find it incredible that someone could exert such a degree of control over their life. “Tell me all the countries you have been to,” he’d asked. Slowly one by one I recited a list, pausing while he tried to remember the Persian names for Ethiopia, Mozambique, small islands in the Caribbean. Sometimes we drew maps with our fingers on the carpets we sat on, tracing the outlines of continents to help him locate the places
I mentioned. I could feel him glance at me for longer periods and his face became relaxed, almost handsome.

  Encouraged by his attention I told him of my reason for coming to Iran, of the things I was excited to cook and taste.

  I expected him to be impressed with my knowledge, that I knew the foods his city was famous for. I looked for him to smile when I mentioned shooli, a soup of beetroot and vinegar thickened with flour, and tiny Yazdi cakes made with ground rice and pistachios.

  “My mother is a good cook,” was all he said.

  “Would she be willing to spend time with me and let me watch her?” I ventured finally.

  “Well, we’ll have you ask her,” he’d replied, his voice betraying an irritation that surprised me. His expression again became cool and uninterested, and I didn’t know what to make of him. The momentary kindness disappeared and he seemed to tense up, a scowl returning to his face.

  I had to admit to myself it was easier to go out accompanied by him. When I’d first arrived, I’d been fit for little more than sleep. I’d collapsed exhausted on the hard bed in my room, after briefly taking in its low ceilings and dark, stained-glass windows, and dropping my bags onto the patchwork of carpets strewn across the floor. I’d been intimidated later emerging into the blinding sunlight. The streets around the bazaar were narrow, amplifying the sound of mopeds roaring past. At least three times teenage boys pretended to trip in an excuse to brush up against me. Unsure of how to begin, I started walking, guided by glances at a map I’d torn from my guidebook. I stopped to buy ice cream in a paper cup with carrot juice poured over, gesturing to a cardboard menu written in black marker in English. It was the first thing I tasted in his country. It reminded me of the orange Creamsicles my sister and I devoured as children, the carrot juice sweet and vibrant instead of bitter and watery like it was at home.

  I followed a group of chattering schoolchildren onto the rooftop of a mosque and gazed out over the straight roads, the narrow strips of grass where small groups of young men and families sprawled on blankets, the woodsmoke of their makeshift barbecues rising up to the sky.

  I looked out and watched the women who hurried along the pavements in his city, wearing severe, black cloaks pulled forward to their eyebrows, with children scurrying close behind. I remembered what I’d read about the place he came from, that despite living in a city known for the sensuous curves of its adobe passages and romantically named alleyways, the occupants of Yazd—the Yazdi—were famous for being conservative and financially shrewd. That the men dressed in peasant clothes and cheap plastic sandals but were secretly rich, renowned for their furious bargaining skills. That transactions at the market, at the rice seller, in the narrow archways of the gold bazaar, were belabored exchanges of tuts and hisses, whispered offers with lowered eyes, counteroffers protested while patting empty wallets in pockets. That upon agreeing a suitable price, buyer and seller would shake hands three times, and reach into stashes of tightly rolled banknotes tucked into nylon socks or secret compartments hand-sewn into underpants.

  It had raised eyebrows on the plane when I stated it as my first destination. “Yazd?!” The couple who’d sat in front of me on the flight had looked at me as if it were the moon. Like most of my fellow passengers they shunned the provinces, preferring the tree-lined suburbs of northern Tehran. They were joined by four or five others who laughed, taking turns imitating the dialect and excessive courtesies spoken by the inhabitants of his city, the showering of ta’arof phrases used to conduct business or exchange pleasantries. “I am your servant,” “May your hand not ache,” “I sacrifice myself for you!” they’d mimicked in clipped Yazdi accents.

  Even the weddings of the Yazdi were famous within Iran, they’d insisted. I’d heard how when Yazdi marry, the wedding guests follow the newly married couple in their walk to their new home while a family friend or relative reads out the list of wedding presents. The aunt of the bride has bought the couple a new washing machine! The Zahedi family have given a new rug! With the announcement of each gift, the wedding spectators would clap and cheer loudly and it was the couple’s job to blush their unworthiness. The Yazdi women, meanwhile, made careful observations and scribbled down a quiet tally of the new bounty in little black books. In Yazd, the economics of gift-giving were taken very seriously, with any imbalances painstakingly noted and redressed at future occasions, down to the nearest Rial.

  I wanted to tell him about my plane journey, where I’d first learned the folklore of his city, and how I’d been shocked to find I was the only non-Iranian on board. I wanted to describe the voracious appetites of the other passengers, consuming copious glasses of wine and miniature bottles of vodka, supplementing the meager quantities of food with foil-wrapped pouches of bread and nets of oranges, apples eaten straight through including the cores. I wanted to tell him about the young man next to me who had spilled dozens of photographs into my lap, snapshots of available cousins for him to consider for marriage. How I’d felt faintly repulsed by their complexions thickly covered in white foundation and overplucked eyebrows replaced with crayon-like streaks of eyeliner. Their photos circulated several rows ahead and behind us, with everyone offering advice on who seemed the best choice.

  I wanted to tell him of the discarded sunflower seeds and peanut shells that had rained down onto the carpet, that it had been the most fun I’d had on a plane in my life. How I’d felt a thrilling anxiety when the plane began its descent to Khomeini airport and the pilot announced that all ladies’ clothing must conform to the dress code of the Islamic Republic of Iran before disembarking. I wanted to describe for him the eerie choreography of the women reaching en masse into their purses and handbags for scarves and draping them over their heads. I wanted to tell him how later, once we’d arrived in the terminal, I’d stood and watched my fellow passengers be swallowed up by the crowd pressed against the viewing glass, a swollen mass of black cloaks and dark eyes, and had felt terrified of finding myself alone here, beneath the enormous, lifelike painting of Ayatollahs Khomeini and Khamenei with their unsmiling faces and long, white beards.

  But instead of sharing these details I told him nothing of my first movements in his country. I told him nothing and he didn’t seem to care.

  His uncle stood up and asked if I’d like to join them on their evening’s sightseeing and Vahid looked neither pleased nor disappointed when I accepted. “Iran is very safe, safer than America” was the only thing he said to acknowledge my decision, digging his hands into his pockets.

  I don’t know why I agreed to accompany them. Perhaps it was the lure of speaking after uttering no more than a handful of sentences the entire afternoon. Probably because I felt safer, adjusting to Iran in their presence. I wondered whether perhaps Vahid had pitied for me, if he’d found it sad to see me there all alone. I detested the idea that he should feel sorry for me or feel obligated to take me on as a charity project.

  As we walked toward his father’s car he stepped in front of me to lead the way, across roads with little traffic, through junctions with only a handful of people. He crossed the street with the traffic always to his left, shunting me to his right, making himself into a shield. His father’s car; he’d insisted on reversing and turning toward the direction of traffic before stepping out and ushering me inside. Though his chivalry was excessive, I went along with it, digging a space for myself among the jackets and Kleenex boxes strewn across the backseat.

  As he drove he spoke in English so as not to exclude me. He addressed his uncle as “Uncle,” which to me sounded strangely aristocratic. Possibly even to him it felt odd and imprecise, compared to dayii, the term he would normally have used, making it clear even to strangers that this was his mother’s brother. He was a good driver, confident and relaxed, and even when he took his eyes off the road temporarily to reach for a CD I felt unconcerned. Without realizing it he gave me my first taste of joy, reuniting me with the textures of the Middle East, the structure of traffic I loved where three lanes became five, w
here cars veered up alongside each other. I was so close I could almost touch the men whose hands clenched around the steering wheels, the women who hunched in the back with babies in their arms, the tassels that swayed from the rolls of gilded, laminated fabric tacked across the tops of dashboards. Occasionally he drove up on the pavement, his wing mirrors only millimeters away from scraping along buildings, and I found it thrilling to watch pedestrians rush from his path. Cars blasted their horns at regular intervals, a kind of sonar to warn each other of their approach.

  He parked outside a mosque lit up for the evening prayers and I heard the last notes of the azoon crackling through speakers. Men and women streamed through the turquoise and indigo arches carrying their shoes, striding across the tiled inner courtyard. By now Vahid had switched into speaking in Farsi, walking with his uncle, their arms around each other. I was happiest simply retreating behind them. They took turns glancing back at me, checking to see whether I’d fallen behind, pausing for me when I’d stopped to watch people washing their feet under brass taps, patting dampened hands to their heads, smoothing their hair. At the entrance to the mosque men stepped gingerly onto the patterned carpet, reaching for prayer mats, while the women scurried past a thick green curtain. It billowed softly each time a female figure rushed past, anchored by the soft folds of material bunched together on the floor.

  I was mortified when Vahid offered me a chador from a musty pile near the doorway, encouraging me to join the women inside. But my confidence was still thrown after my shaky arrival and I was convinced I would make a fool of myself.

  “It’s okay,” he’d said. “They’ll be happy to see you.” But I shook my head, backing away. He shrugged his shoulders and tossed the robe into the pile, again turning his back to me.

  When afterward he dropped me at my hotel he’d insisted on walking me to the door. His uncle waited in the car, leaving us for a second time alone together. We retraced the two hundred yards in relative silence, still strangers to one another, pausing only at the approach of mopeds where he insisted I stand behind him. For reasons I can’t explain I wasn’t hugely curious about him. He was bossy and aloof. I suspected he might be an only child. I’d been surprised later to learn that he had a sister, but equally unsurprised to discover he was the only son. His vigilance and jostling made me feel frustrated with him—struck me as at odds with what I’d told him about myself; to the point where once I’d purposely ignored him and walked in another direction, leaving him calling after me.