If You Could Be Mine (17 page)

“Baba, I made some tea and we have company. Go sit with them until Reza arrives.”

Ali chuckles when he and I are alone. “Do I look tough, though? Boys really like that. You know, like a Clint Eastwood type. I always thought Marlon Brando was better looking. Even when he got fat.” I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Just shut up, Ali. Can you do that for once? Shut up?”

“Sahar, you’re going to get frown lines if you keep looking at me like that. No one wants a girl with frown lines.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

Ali looks at me like a kid who has been asked what he would like for his birthday. He thinks for a long moment, then shrugs. “Run,” he says.

I haven’t asked who has beaten him like this, but whoever it was, they know about Ali. They know what he does, where he does it, who his friends are, which coffee shops are notorious, and when he will be there. They know who he is. He has signed off on his own death sentence. There is no place in Iran for Ali any longer.

The buzzer sounds and Baba answers, greeting Reza at the door. Reza rushes to us, inspecting Ali. He
is
Superman! He puts on latex gloves and gets to work assessing Ali’s wounds. Reza pulls materials from his magic doctor bag and washes all the cuts. He asks Ali where he was hit, if he hurts anywhere else.

Ali admits he was punched several times, in the torso, and kicked in the groin. His hand was smashed under a boot, and he received some lashings on his back.

“Can we go now?” Mother asks Ali coldly from the kitchen. Ali gives her a wink and she rolls her eyes. Daughter comes over to Ali and kisses his hand. She starts crying again.

“Don’t do that,
azizam
. Shhh, I’m fine! I’ll see you soon.” The way Ali says it, I don’t think he will.

Daughter keeps crying, and I stand up, clutch her shoulders, and walk her over to Mother.

“What’s your name?” I whisper in her ear. She stops her tears for a moment and smiles. I don’t think she gets asked that very often.

“Nastaran. My name is Nastaran.”

“That’s a beautiful name. I’m Sahar. You can always come here if you need a place,” I say, not caring about the consequences. She hugs me tight. I think Maman would be proud of me. When Nastaran lets me go, she runs down the stairs to her waiting pimp. I hope I see her again. I really do.

“I think you should still visit a hospital, if you can,” Reza says to Ali. “I’m not sure if you sustained any internal injuries.” Unfortunately, there is no X-ray machine in Reza’s bag of wonders.

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” Ali says. I think that is the best we are going to get out of him tonight. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a crumpled wad of bills. The good doctor politely shakes his head and bids his patient good night.

“Thank you for coming,” I say. “I know this must all seem very strange.”

“It’s none of my business, Sahar,” Reza says pointedly, and I can tell he isn’t just talking about Ali. Does he know why I was going to have the surgery? I can’t tell. “I’m just happy to help,” Reza adds. “He should be fine, but call me anytime if he’s in critical pain.” I should let him know that his wife is no good for him. He can do better. He deserves better.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and it’s all I have to offer him.

17

ALI HAS BEEN STAYING
with us for two weeks now. Farshad, the hulking police officer, finally asked for something Ali wouldn’t give him: Parveen. Not that Ali has any ownership over her, but I know if Ali asked her, she would have entertained the idea. Ali said no.

“Farshad didn’t like my answer,” Ali joked. Farshad and his associates picked Ali up from the park and arrested him for possessing contraband items. Ali says the drugs were planted on him, but I think Ali is arrogant enough to feel like he can get away with anything. The officers gave him hell. They forced Ali to stand for two days, beating him to a pulp afterward.

Baba is nervous, and asks Ali what he plans on doing. It’s his polite way of telling Ali he can’t stay here. Baba’s terrified of the police. Baba’s terrified for
me
.

Parveen runs errands for Ali. She cried when she saw him all bruised and battered. “Stop acting like a baby,” Ali said to her. I wanted to bruise him more after he said that. She secretly brings things he needs from his apartment over to ours. His shoe collection alone fills up most of my bedroom. When I come home from school Ali is always on the phone, arranging his business affairs, trying to sell his apartment, doing all manner of things to get out as fast as he can. Ali has decided to run away to Turkey. He hasn’t told his parents yet. I don’t think he plans on telling them until he has left the country.

Ali has hooked our apartment up to the neighbor’s illegal satellite. Now he watches all the music videos he wants. Jennifer Lopez is his favorite. He mimics shaking his skinny butt like she does, with a cigarette dangling from his scabbed lips.

“You’re really going to leave?” I ask as he jiggles his hips with his arms spread wide open. With the scars on his face, it makes him look like a gay Jesus.

“Yes, Sahar. Or have you been oblivious to this past week?” He’s being a, pardon my language, asshole. I suppose losing everything in your sad little empire will do that to a person. I sit down in Baba’s armchair. The next music video is a Persian singer from Los Angeles. He isn’t very attractive and his voice sounds like crap. I imagine he was studying to be an engineer, failed his exams, and decided to become a singer instead. I imagine people have the luxury of doing that kind of thing in the West.

“How are you going to get there?” I ask. Ali sighs. I think it’s a fair question.

“Mother is going to drive me as far as Karaj. I will stay with an old friend there, who will take me to Tabriz. I’ll say good-bye to my parents, maybe stay there a few days, and then it’s off to the border.” I bet he doesn’t make it. He doesn’t do well with hardship. “Do you want to come with me?” I just blink at him. I must have not heard him correctly.

“What?”

“Do. You. Want. To. Come with me?” he says as he sits down on the sofa. He’s crazy. Go with him? Leave Iran forever like some fugitive in the night? He rolls his eyes. “What are your reasons to stay, Sahar?”

“I—I have school, and—”

“Right, but what if you don’t do well on the university entrance exam? There’s always that possibility. They’ll decide what future you should have. Maybe you’ll end up being an accountant, a fate worse than death.” He shudders. I haven’t been focused on my studies lately. That’s partially Ali’s fault.

“I couldn’t leave Baba.” As soon as I say it, Ali chuckles cruelly.

“You’re staying to be his maid? Do you plan on cooking for him for the rest of your life?” But Baba needs me. I’m all he has left. Then again, I can’t look after him forever. Maman wouldn’t like that.

“I don’t speak much Turkish,” I say, and Ali knows I’m stalling now.

“You’re clever. We’d pick up the local slang in no time. We can go dancing! You wouldn’t have to wear all those rags on your head in this scorching heat. You can drink in the open. No one can tell you what to do or how to think. There are even gay nightclubs! You could find a nice girlfriend with big breasts! We can be free. Can you imagine?”

“I can’t leave Nasrin.” That is the truth of my existence. I could never leave Nasrin. Even if she’s leaving me, I can’t leave her. Ali just takes a slow drag of his cigarette before putting it out in an ashtray with Saddam Hussein’s face inside. The kind of merchandise Ali had been selling.

“You’re sad, you know that? You obsess over that spoiled girl because you don’t know anything else. Do you think she’d miss you if you left tomorrow? All you are to her is a stray cat following her around. She just needs to pet you a few times and you’re satisfied.” It’s not true. She loves me. I know she does. He knows she does. “She’s marrying the good doctor and she doesn’t want you to stop her. Don’t you understand? She is leaving you behind and she’s happy to be rid of you.”

I leap onto Ali from the chair and beat my fists on his chest.

“You
ahmag
! Just because you don’t know how to love anyone, you have to make me feel like dirt.” I start hitting his face and he squeals like a little girl. He pulls my hair and I keep lunging, smacking his already bruised face. He pushes me off and I land on the floor, breathless and sweaty. Ali leans over me and grabs the collar of my shirt. “I’m just trying to let you see things as they are, Sahar. If she doesn’t want you, I could use a travel companion. I want you in my life, even if no one else does.” He lets go and leaves me on the ground. I hear him open the refrigerator door, probably getting ice for his face. I don’t get up to look. My cell phone rings in my jeans pocket. It’s Nasrin’s ring tone. What does she want now?

“Answer it,” Ali says. “Your precious, spoiled brat is calling you.” I run to my room. Foolish girl that I am, I answer the phone.

“Come downstairs!” Nasrin coos.

“What? I can’t, I have homework and—”

“I miss you. Come down.” I think about what Ali has said. How I mean nothing to her. Maybe I should leave with him. This afternoon might help me decide.

“I can’t be out too long,” I say. I definitely hear her chuckle. We both know it isn’t up to me what time I get home.

“Just come down, Sahar
joon
. And slap your idiot cousin upside the head before you leave,” she says before she hangs up.

I don’t even check how I look in the mirror before I exit my room. My idiot cousin—he does foolish things, but he’s not stupid. He sees things as they are. No, she loves me. Yes. She has to after all this time. But it’s ending; the wedding is happening in a week, and she didn’t even try. She didn’t even mention stopping it. Not once. Ali sits on the couch, watching the unfortunate pop singer from Los Angeles.

“When are you leaving?’ I ask him.

He smiles. “Right before her wedding. I think that’s as good a time as any.”

“It is.” I nod and put on my head scarf and coat.

“You aren’t going to keep her waiting?” Ali says, and my anger dissipates. He just doesn’t want to see me be a fool, as I have been.

“This is the last time,” I say. “She’ll belong to someone else soon enough.” I love her, but it’s all too dangerous now. Adultery and homosexuality are two things the law won’t abide. I don’t want to hang like those boys in the square, and I don’t want that for Nasrin.

This can be our good-bye.

When I exit the apartment building, she’s waiting for me in a taxicab. Gazing through the window, I see she looks as beautiful as ever, her hair cascading out of her scarf and those lips that curve to the side when she is deep in thought. I enter the taxi and she smiles at me, like she knows some secret that I will never figure out. I probably never will. Nasrin puts her hand on mine.

“Where are we going?” I ask her.

“To a memory,” she says, and I’m a little frustrated. We have so many memories. The cab driver almost runs over two children who are trying to cross the street. He needs to make his fare, can’t afford to stop. He has a George Michael CD on. I recognize it only because Ali loves George Michael. It’s the song with the saxophone, the one where he sounds so guilty. I don’t really understand what he’s saying. He sounds like he’s pleading, and I hate that it’s the song that’s playing right now. Nasrin has a smile on her face while her hand stays on top of mine. She keeps her hand on mine while we sit in traffic. It feels cold. When we finally reach a parking lot, Nasrin pays the driver.

“Oh no . . .” I say as I recognize where we are. Mount Tochal. We came here with our mothers when we were five. We rode up the mountain in a rickety
télécabine,
and I clutched my mother’s leg the whole time while Nasrin squealed in delight next to me. They could fit four of us inside one car because Nasrin and I were so small. I remember looking out the glass for only a moment. We were so high! In the winter the
télécabine
serves as a ski lift. In other seasons people ride just because it gives them something to do.

“Don’t be scared, Sahar,” Nasrin says as we walk into the park area. “They’ve really made great improvements. Nobody’s died here in a long time.” Orange juice vendors and men with gray beards tending ice-cream stations watch Nasrin as she passes by. We hop onto the shuttle with three little children with their mother. Usually the mountain is populated with couples, especially during the winter ski season. Women wear long coats and head scarves that fit snugly over their faces and hair, with goggles usually holding the scarves in place.

“Why are we doing this?” I ask. I hate heights. Nasrin knows this. She looks so relaxed as the shuttle bus ascends the mountain. She takes my hand in hers. Holding hands is a luxury couples aren’t allowed in public, but we are just a pair of friends.

“The wedding is next week,” she says, as though I didn’t know that. As though I haven’t been counting down the days and making myself sick over it.

“Is this my parting gift?” She tightens her grip on my hand. It means, “Shut up, we’re in public.” We don’t talk again until we exit the shuttle bus and Nasrin buys two tickets to ride the
télécabine
up to the top of the mountain. The attendant in a blue jumpsuit looks at her strangely because that’s a lot of money for a teenager to have for the expensive joy ride. She doesn’t pay any attention as she drags me into the
télécabine
by the hand. I’m too angry to be stuck in an enclosed space with her. She doesn’t give me a choice as she waits for me to enter the
télécabine.
This is the last time I will see her. I’m going to leave with Ali, and I’m not going to tell her. To hell with her . . . I don’t mean that.