Finally, I arrived, it was fifteen past five in the afternoon, Masoomeh had been waiting for me for fifteen minutes. I saw her from afar. She was dressed in her usual style, a tight manteau that revealed her curvature, a colorful scarf loosely worn leaving her long. Finally, I arrived, but it was fifteen past 5 in the afternoon. I am fifteen minutes late. Masoomeh is waiting for me. I am happy that I am not too late. There she is. I can always see her from afar. She always wears a tight manteau, revealing her curvature. Her scarves are colorful, leaving her long bangs reaching her long eyelashes with black mascara.
It has been one of those crazy drives. My bright yellow car is an old Ford, a real beater. In its heyday, it might have been flashy, but by the time I inherited it from my God-blessed father, it was anything but. On the busy streets of Tehran, it is a car no one wants to be near. This is a street where most of the drivers are respectable women. My car has nothing to lose, another scratch, another bump, who cares? I am free to zig-zag through traffic and cut off luxury cars to get ahead. And indeed, I need to cut off many cars and speeds during rush hours. It is early autumn and the city has not yet adjusted itself to schools. I have to swerve and cut off just about anybody and everybody. I am always rushing— from home to daycare, from daycare to university, then shopping, children’s piano lessons, and photocopying library books on three-hour loans.
Masoomeh runs to my car because I have double-parked.
“Salam Roksana joon.” (joon here means dear)
“Salam Massy joon. So sorry “
“Oh who cares? You are here now.”
“Be careful, Oh, I brought very ripe medlars for you.”
“They are not with the rest of the shopping.” Medlars are Massy’s favorite fruit, and it is hard to find them ripe. I had to give extra money to my fruit store manager and told him that I want them ripe and sweet. When my husband is away, I have time for all this. I had put them on the passenger seat, and Massy moves them to the back seat where she can easily reach them.
It is a long drive to my house and there is more traffic. Massy laughs at my driving and my zig-zag style. She cheers me on, as though I need more cheering! She rolls down the car window and shows her finger to cars that try to cut me off. I ask her not to do that,
Massy tells me about classes that she hates and says she mocked the teacher. She said that the teacher must be an old spinster because she is so strict. ”Everyone loves the way I copy her voice,” she brags.
I tell her that she has to behave herself and try to learn as many skills as she can.
“ I hate sewing,” she says. I tell her that maybe this could be a stepping step to getting an office job. An office job would be better, but the war had made it hard for small businesses.
Massy picks up two medlars and starts eating them.
“No, you can’t. they are not washed,” I say.
As soon as I say this, we both laugh. It has become almost a joke between the two of us. I am driving, but I can just imagine the look she gives me from the corner of her eye. " Hey, you are doing it again, You are not my mother!” She never has to say this, but her looks say it all. And we both laugh at the same time with the same volume and velocity. I am only a few years older than her in my mid-20s. For some reason, she is like a sister from a parent we had lost together.
From Persian cuisine, she likes fesenjoon—the only dish that I do not know how to cook. But no worries, the Rosa Montazemi cookbook is for all middle-class women who have gone into DIY. Every independent woman has a copy of Rosa Montazemi to quickly look up and to cook Persian or Parisian for a dinner party.
I bought walnuts and pomegranate sauce and asked Azam, my babysitter, to turn off the chicken once it was done. I know nobody makes fesenjan with chicken if they can help it, but where am I going to find turkey, and how do I find the time to make it?
We finally arrive and carry all the bags to my apartment. My babysitter helps me put the shopping away. I sit the children in front of the TV and open Rosa’s cookbook. “Grind the walnuts. Then put them in the saucepan and saute them.” Massy reads from the book.and I follow the recipe. Finally, the food is ready. I have to emphasize that everyone washes their hands before we eat, and that includes our guest.
“Mom, what is this?” my older daughter asks.
“This is fesenjoon, and you will like it because this is Massy’s favorite food, and she is our guest.”
My older daughter, who is a picky eater, does not want to eat it at all. My older son politely eats all the food on his plate. Luckily, I have saved some cooked chicken aside for my daughter to eat with rice. I must admit it does not taste how it is supposed to taste. The other two children have their own food, and Azam feeds them.
“Merci Roksana joon, this is delicious.”
Massy reassures me.
I am thinking guests are treated like God’s friends, but as Persian mores dictate, guests should be polite and grateful for what the host/ess can offer. And that is that.
“Mom, will you read to us tonight?” asks my daughter.
“Tonight I can’t, but tomorrow night after I take Massy back, I will.”
We clear the table, and I make some tea and serve cookies from Kermanshah province. Massy's choice, they are famous for being made with ghee. Each time you open the box they fill the room with their aroma, ghee, rosewater, and cardamom. Maybe she is from Kermanshah? I do not ask questions about her past. My children don’t like traditional Persian cookies, and since I do not buy soda or chips, they have no choice but to eat fruit.
Later, I put the children to bed, I ask Massy if she likes to read. She always declines. She likes poetry, and I read her one or two. I have many books to choose from and I let her choose.
She chooses a different book every week she comes.
“Oh, I love this too.”
I always applaud her choice.
But it is very true I love all my books, and there are many. I pick a couple of my favorites from the books she picks, which I sense are random, and recite them. I am very proud of my poetry recitation (so much for being modest.) But after one or two, Massy politely retreats from passionate poetry recitation and says that she has had a long day and wants to go to bed.
I always prepare beds with freshly washed sheets. The guest bedspread is for her. I put a couple of poetry books by her bed, just in case, a jar of water and a glass. I even manage to put a box of paper handkerchiefs even though because of the war they are scarce. But she is my guest.
When she is here, I sleep with my children on a mattress on the floor. Azam sleeps on the couch that turns into a bed at night. We are all safe. Something warms my heart and settles me inside. Everything is under control. Everyone is fed and well looked after and I can now go to sleep reassured and confident.
As it is our routine. In the mornings, I ask my babysitter to stay even for the weekend so that I can take Massy out. Every week I have to remind her that when we go to the park, she should not wear bright lipstick and thick eyeliner, and look like Cleopatra. We are only going to a park and not to an evening party. It is important that she gets fresh air and does some exercise. We do fast walking together and go around the park a few times. Fresh air, and some oxygen. Trees are shedding and from behind, I gather leaves and throw them on Massy. We laugh. A little later she surprises me with the same. We laugh.
In the park, we get some cooked beetroot, my favorite, and eat it by the food stand. We then head to the juice stand, I drink carrot juice, and she has some orange juice. And we have this theater play. Each time I buy her something; she reaches into her bag to pay.
-Oh, no, no, you are my guest.
-Yes, but I should pay
-Please cut it out, I am older than you. I must pay.
We both know that in her purse there is not much but an old lipstick, eyeliner, foundation, and a toothbrush.
I have noticed that men bother her. When they say something to her, I give them the look they do not want to see. On one of the park-going days, I saw her getting something from one of the boys who hung out in the park. One of those who seem to have nothing in his life other than chasing women. As soon as they see me, Massy leaves, and I ask what he gave her.
“Nothing, nothing,” She says.
I have warned her not to mix and mingle with these men if I am not by her side and she is not allowed to attract their attention.
I cook, clean, and wash the dishes and clothes, and most do not allow her to help and encourage her to read or watch her favorite shows on TV.
Once all the work is done. We sit next to each other in front of the large windows of the living room, the guest room we call it. I make her mint tea, and we sip and watch the sun in the afternoon just before it is about to set. It is part of our ritual. And I think to myself, that happiness does not have to come in big packages. It can be very simple, like sipping tea, in front of a window, watching the sunset, savoring rice cookies made with rose water.
In silence, just the two of us, while in the background TV plays the children's favorite animation to give a sense of reassurance instead of disturbance. One can underestimate how easy it is to feel satisfied in the moment, and how priceless those moments are. But also just as how easily they become available to us, they can quickly and easily disappear.
I never ask any questions from Massy. Zarrin, who is responsible for Massy, and her assigned social worker, who has briefed me on how to behave around her. Zarrin and I have both finished our degrees in sociology. She got herself a job as a social worker, but I wanted to continue into graduate school. We are updated on the latest feminist literature. I have shared Angela Davis’s work who is my heroine.
Since the red district was dismantled after the 1979 revolution, sex workers were distributed in various rehabilitation centers. Zarrin had talked me into becoming a volunteer at one of the centers. She knew that my marriage was a disaster, but she was unaware of the gravity of my situation. I did not want to talk about it. It was embarrassing to have to live with a man with whom I had nothing in common. A man my mother had hand-picked for me, a man who beat me up from time to time. But no one knew that. And I had a secret, a secret plan to one day disappear with my children, leaving that man robbed of his most precious item-his punching bag. One day, he would come home, and I would not be there. That would be a punch back. Meanwhile, it was wonderful that he was away often. While he was away I was free as a butterfly. And, that included helping sex workers. Deep inside I felt I had something intimately in common with them. Living with a man I detest, I feel like I am selling my own body as well. It gave me a sense of contentment when I could provide Massy with something a little special.
After the weekend, I take Massy back to the center like other times. A few days later my husband calls to let me know he would return soon. I am always prepared. There is always plenty of tin food. I am an expert in making them look freshly homemade. In no time, the fridge is full of vegetables he likes. His favorite dish with vodka, fried eggplant, and dolma is decorated and covered on the table. All of the children’s toys and books and my university papers quickly get shoved underneath the beds. I love my small apartment, easily organized.
He arrives in a seemingly agreeable mood. Yet after dinner, he says that we need to talk. The look has changed. I know that look too well. I can hear my heart beating.
“Tell me. My friends ask me why is your wife walking around with a well-known prostitute?”
“She is not a prostitute anymore. She is going through a rehabilitation program. She has changed herself.”
“Yes, that is what you think, isn’t it? Miss save all women of the world,”
The room gets blazing hot, and all my blood rushes to my face. How did he know I was hosting a sex worker? We only went to the park nearby. How did he find out? Is she that well-known?
The next morning, I skip university and take my old yellow car. I do not zig-zag anymore. There is no rush. I am only driving to my hangout coffee shop where I go to patch myself and write poetry. This one starts with:
In consoling pain in others
We take refugees from those
of our won
The next morning, I skipped university and drove my old yellow car. I did not zig-zag anymore. There was no rush. I was only driving to my hangout coffee shop where I go to patch myself by reading and writing poetry. I reached out to my favorite Persian poet Jallauddin Rumi for his words of Sufi wisdom.
“When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.”
Now that my river of joy had dried up, I knew words and only writing would help me heal, as I picked the coffee cup to finish the last sip I wrote:
In consoling pain in others,
We take refuge from those of our own.
The world is not of our making,
To be humble and accept what we can not change
Is our wisdom
To surrender is our source of courage and strength
As we must walk forward
In my heart I entrusted Massy in the hands of God. It was time to wipe my face of tears. I put my journal back in my bag and decided not to miss the entire day of classes at Tehran University.
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