If You Could Be Mine (5 page)

For a while I actually don’t feel so out of place, and other than a few men dressed as women, the party is fairly “normal.” Well, aside from the water pipe full of opium that three gaunt men are smoking in the corner. They all sit on a rug on the floor, and I wonder if Ali is going to be livid when they spill ashes on it.

Parveen is dancing in my periphery, and soon we are having a dance-off. When her shoulders come forward, mine shrug back. I look around at my surroundings and notice no one cares how anyone looks, dances, or what they are able to do with their hips one way or another. Parveen shakes her hips like a belly dancer, and that’s when I know she’s won. We laugh, and I resign in a comic bow of defeat while Parveen continues to dance.

Ali joins me and walks me over to the makeshift bar, an out-of-place circular, plastic picnic table. He pours me orange juice. Whatever liquor was intended for my drink he pours into his own. We tap our plastic cups together and survey the wonderful mess that is his apartment.

“How do you get away with it? I mean, don’t you worry about the police?” I ask. He makes a farting noise with his mouth.

“We have an arrangement. Besides whatever guards do show up, we pay them off. Everyone has a price.” He nods in Farshad’s direction and whispers in my ear, “He’s on the police force. I throw him a pretty young man every once in a while. Don’t worry yourself about these things, Sahar. Just have fun.”

I preferred Ali when he was nerdy, with glasses. He wasn’t so smug then. I look around the room, and though I am sure about some, I can’t tell about others—can’t tell if they’re like me.

“Is everyone here, um . . . you know?” I ask.

“Does it matter?”

No. It doesn’t. I notice Parveen on the dance floor having a great time. She isn’t gay. Of this I am sure. “Parveen likes you a lot. Too bad she isn’t your type.” I kid Ali, but wouldn’t it be easier if he just married her? They wouldn’t have to hide all the time. He isn’t looking for the great love of his life, and this way he wouldn’t be lonely. She’s a nice girl and she cares about him. Maybe she can cook. It could work, couldn’t it?

“No, she’s not my type. Though I guess when she was Ahmad, we would have had a shot.”

“Sorry?”

“Parveen. She used to be Ahmad.” I still don’t get it. I blink at Ali a few times. “Don’t be so square, Sahar. Parveen’s a transsexual.”

I look over at Parveen again and try to find anything remotely masculine about her. Ali notices my staring.

“Look at her hands. It’s the one thing he left her.”

I see now that they are larger than I thought when she held my hand in hers. Her knuckles are broad and her thumbs are thick.

“But she’s . . . I mean, how—”

“Sahar, it’s okay. She helps other people like her. They aren’t doing anything wrong. Besides, if the great Islamic Republic says it’s a legal medical condition, then by Allah they must be right.” Ali punctuates his sarcasm with a dramatic salute. Trying my best not to stare at Parveen, I take a long sip of my orange juice.

“So, everybody knows? Is she going to get in trouble?” Ali shakes his head.

“Like I said, it’s legal. The government even helps pay for the surgery.”

“But why?”

“Because they are trying to fix us.” He says it with indifference, but I cringe.

Fix us.
That includes
me
.

I’m starting to feel sick. This whole party was a terrible idea.

“I have to go home. It’s getting late,” I say. Ali raises his eyebrows.

“I’ll have a car here for you in no time.” He pulls out his mobile and walks to the bathroom, the only quiet part of the apartment.

Parveen makes her way over to me. I try my best not to act differently from when I first met her.

“You stopped dancing!” she says. “You were doing so well.”

“Yeah, I’m not feeling too great. I asked Ali to call me a taxi. This isn’t my usual Friday night.” It’s the most honest thing I have said all evening. She puts her arm around me and my shoulders stiffen.
Please don’t notice.

“Ali’s parties can be a little much. This was actually pretty tame compared to the others. He attracts some odd company, heroin addicts and that kind of thing.” Ali knows some real winners.

“Oh,” I manage to reply. Parveen’s arm loosens, and I hope it isn’t because she knows how uncomfortable I am.

“It’s just most of the people here, we don’t have many opportunities to express ourselves. It can be hard, hiding all the time.” Yes. It can be. She beams at me, and I do my best to smile back. She’s been so nice all evening. I hate that I keep looking for clues that she was once a man.

“Here, Sahar, give me your mobile.” I hand it over, and she types in her number. I don’t know why. I doubt I will call her. Especially after I have embarrassed myself. “It was great meeting you,” Parveen says. “My number, if you want to hang out again. Something nice, like coffee. No crazy stuff.” Our thumbs brush when she hands me my phone, and there he is. I take the mobile back and thank him.

Her
. I thank
her
. Damn it.

Ali comes over and whisks me away. Farshad hands me my coat and head scarf. I put both of them on quickly, giving Parveen one last glance. She smiles and I feel terrible.

“Did you have fun?” Ali asks when we descend in the elevator.

“It was different.” I never felt more uncomfortable in my life, you look messy, and I don’t think I know you like I thought I did if you throw wild parties with a cop as your doorman. But other than that, it was a fantastic evening.

Ali and I exit the building to find a Mercedes-Benz parked in the driveway out front. He saunters over to the driver’s window and taps on the glass. The window lowers and reveals two women with Louis Vuitton head scarves. Glamorous.

“Hello, Mom, Daughter,” Ali says. The woman behind the wheel looks to be in her late thirties. The girl in the passenger seat looks younger than I do. The girl extends her hand, which Ali kisses. I look around to see if anyone notices. Not that Ali cares. Public affection between the sexes is forbidden. So are Facebook, dancing in public, and women in football stadiums.

“Is this the package?” The older woman asks. I really wish everyone would stop referring to me as that. Probably just Ali wanting to pretend he’s a gangster.

“Sahar is my cousin and very important. Now, no stops until she gets home. You promise?”

“Of course, Ali. A ladies’ agreement.”

“Cute.” Ali smirks and opens the back door for me. “You did pretty well, kid. You still have to loosen up a little more.” I roll my eyes and he laughs. I enter the car and the door closes.

Ali leans into the window to address the girl in the passenger seat.

“Britney Spears for you,
khanum
.” He hands her a bootleg CD, and her eyes double in size.

“Merci, Ali Agha!” Agha?
Since when do people call him “Sir”? Ali winks at her and taps the car. He is done with us. The older woman closes the window and drives out of the driveway. The girl turns around in her seat to talk to me. If I thought I had hooker makeup on earlier, this girl makes me look like a mullah’s wife.

“
Salam!
Do you like Britney Spears?”

“Um, sure,” I say, and she puts the CD in the player. Daughter says some words from the song, but they sound funny coming from her mouth. Even though she’s speaking in English, you can tell she’s from Iran. Mom in the driver’s seat is focused on the road, her mouth drawn tight and her eyes darting to the side window every so often. Her daughter bounces happily to the music, and I do my best to keep quiet. Something about Mom’s focus makes me nervous. What is she looking for?

Daughter turns around to me again. “What grade are you in?” she asks.

“Last year of high school,” I say. “What grade are you in?”

“I don’t go to school anymore,” she says with a sad smile.

“Listen to your music,” Mom says in a stern tone. Daughter shrugs and turns around to face the front. I should have stayed at the party. When we reach a red light, Mom makes eye contact with a man about forty in a Peugeot next to us. She lowers her window. The man tosses a crumpled piece of paper into the car, and Mom immediately closes the window. She hands the crumpled paper to Daughter, and Daughter takes out her mobile, unfolds the paper, and dials the number scrawled on it.

We continue driving and stop again at another red light. Mom takes the phone from Daughter.

“Baleh?”
Mom asks in a sweet voice. I look to the right and see Peugeot man leer directly at us. Something about this feels very, very wrong. Daughter lowers the volume, her spirits dwindling along with it.

“No, the one in the back isn’t mine. Just the one in the front,” Mom continues. This can’t be happening. “Seven hundred thousand toman. That’s the price, take it or leave it.” When the light turns green, Mom hangs up the phone and curses under her breath. Daughter tries to hide how pleased she is. Sweat forms at my hairline, and I wish I could take off this damned head scarf. Daughter turns up the volume on her music, and Mom deftly maneuvers around other cars. Almost home, almost home, I’m almost home.

Daughter turns around again. “You look kind of sick,” she says. Mom smirks.

“I’m fine. Thank you,” I answer brightly. Let’s pretend I didn’t see or hear anything. Daughter touches my hand and I look up at her eyes.

“What’s your favorite subject at school?” she asks in a way that gives me the impression people don’t speak with her often.

“Science. Do you like science?”

“No. But I always liked literature. I was pretty good.”

“You’re very smart! Literature is my worst subject.” It isn’t really, but she looks so elated, I am willing to lie as much as she needs me to. She turns to Mom.

“See, Boss? I’m smart!” I do my best not to throw myself out of the moving car. Almost home, almost home. I’m almost home.

“Yes, child, you’re smart,” Mom says, her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowly focused. We reach my apartment building, and I fling myself out of the car the moment Mom stops. I slam the door in my haste, and Mom lowers the window.

“Thank you both. Very much,” I say with as much restraint and calm as I can. Daughter waves with enthusiasm, and I wave back. Mom nods and raises the window. When the silver Mercedes drives away, I rush into the apartment building. I run all the way up the stairs and unlock the apartment door. Baba sits on a couch watching the news.

“Fun evening?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did Nasrin go with you?” That’s when it occurs to me. I haven’t thought about her in the past twenty minutes. I will have to call and thank Ali in the morning.

“No. She didn’t.”

5

IT IS TIME I
face the music. If I don’t show up to see Nasrin, people will start to talk. Baba will ask questions. But being here doesn’t mean I have to like it. Soraya opens the door to the Mehdis’ home. She bows her head slightly. I should be bowing to her—she’s my elder, after all. Instead I forgo formality altogether and kiss Soraya on both cheeks. She looks so happy and surprised that I think I should have started doing this a long time ago, in place of our formal nods.

I take off my coat and head scarf and hang them on a nearby coatrack. I’ve tried my best to look attractive. I don’t know if it will work. Maybe if Nasrin sees me look my best, she will call off the wedding. The possibility of that happening is about the same as a chance of a mullah’s admitting to watching
Baywatch
via illegal satellite.

I walk into the living room, where Dariush strums his guitar, legs up on the couch like he’s the king of the castle. I clear my throat to make my presence known, but he continues to strum without looking up at me.

“Hi, Sahar.” He chuckles, still strumming. “The ladies of the palace aren’t home yet.” I sit down on a chair and listen to him play. “Do you know this song?” he asks.

“No.”

“Cat Stevens.” He starts singing in broken English, and I wish he would just play without the added vocals. He sounds so stupid. My grin is waning. I should probably go and come back later. Dariush stops warbling and plays with smooth strokes, not making any eye contact with me, very much in his own world. The Mehdis’ talk of our getting together is pure wishful thinking. Dariush is no more interested than I am.

“Can you believe this wedding is happening?” he asks. No, I can’t. It makes me nauseous and I want to punch Nasrin’s fiancé in the face with an audience of men dressed as women rooting for me.

“I’m happy for Nasrin,” I say. I have been rehearsing that line in my bathroom for two weeks, checking the mirror to make sure that I look sincere when I recite it.

“I don’t see her as a wife,” Dariush says. “She’ll probably take Soraya with her to cook Reza’s meals and sew buttons on his shirts.”

“I am sure she will be a good wife.” I do mean that. Nasrin loves attention, but I think Reza will dote on her and she in turn will be good to him. Reza seems the type to be bossed around . . . the lucky horse’s ass.

“Marriage is a farce,” Dariush says with a determined tone. Who knows how long he’s been reciting
that
in a mirror? I remember when he would talk to Nasrin and me about the girl he was going to propose to. He always went on and on about how gorgeous she was, an angel among mortals . . . blah, blah, blah. Once the girl’s father denied Dariush’s proposal, he went on about how she wasn’t even that pretty, a devil clouding his better judgment. Dariush, like Nasrin, inherited the spoiled rotten gene.