The Practical Navigator (9 page)

He calls and they arrange to go to dinner. She dresses carefully, changing outfits several times. She likes clothes and knows she has a tendency to overdress. He doesn't seem the formal type. She settles on dark slim pants and a cashmere blazer, what to her is a casual look. A good thing because he arrives wearing jeans, flip-flops, and a garish Hawaiian shirt. She has never been in a pickup truck before.

Michael takes her to a place she's never heard of and wishes she'd known about, a French bistro, only moderately expensive and very authentic. He is a contractor, a builder of houses, he says. A laborer, she thinks. He once surfed professionally, he says. She hadn't known one could do such a thing. She tries not to be taken aback when he tells her he's never been to college. He seems bright enough. He tells her he grew up locally, that he is divorced, and that he has a son who lives with him. He asks about her family. She tells him they are still in Iran, that her father is—
was
—a professor of political science and her mother, a published poet. If he's curious as to why she isn't with them, he doesn't inquire. Instead, he asks what brought her to California. She tells him that Southern California has one of the largest Iranian populations outside of Iran, that in fact Los Angeles is known as “Tehrangeles” because, like the capital of Iran, it is a mountain-ringed, traffic-plagued, smog-filled bowl. That's the long answer. The short answer is she received her doctorate in psychology at UCLA and did her clinical training in Orange County.

When he orders a second glass of wine, she hesitates but then joins him. The waiter leaves the bottle.

She decides to be honest up front and tells him that she is married and that her husband, like her family, is back in Iran. Must be tough, he says, long distance. She shrugs. She quickly changes the subject.

Her sole amandine is delicious. Michael shares the
pommes frites
that come with his steak au poivre. Afterward she asks for a cappuccino. Michael orders coffee. They split a piece of flourless chocolate cake. The wine bottle is empty. “I could go for one more glass,” he says. They end up splitting another bottle. Much to her annoyance he has paid the entire bill when she returns from the ladies' room.

One moment he is opening the passenger door of his truck so she can get in, the next they are up against the cab, glued together as if they haven't had enough food for dinner. It is the wine, she vaguely thinks as he touches her belly, her breasts, blame it on the wine. With his hand resting on her thigh, she feels as if she's on the verge of orgasm all the way home. They fuck in the entryway, barely over the threshold, not even taking the time to get their clothes off, Michael's pants around his ankles, she still in one leg of her designer slacks. She comes, crying out, before he does. A whore, she thinks, a whore. Somehow they make it to the bedroom before beginning again.

*   *   *

Tonight Michael takes her to a movie. He, of course, likes action movies. Superheroes and sci-fi. Raging, giant Tinkertoys in 3-D. The more flying bullets the better. But he knows that she finds them all the same, sometimes tolerable but rarely thrilling, that she likes the independent and foreign films, the ones where the characters actually talk to one another. And so they trade off. Tonight it's her turn.

This one is about a family, made by a famous Iranian director living in exile. All Michael knows is that it is subtitled and serious, not bad enough to want to leave but not good enough yet to ignore the popcorn. “Is that really what they're saying?” he asks. On-screen, a man with burning eyes is whispering intensely and at length to a homely woman in a burka. The subtitles seem to only cover a third of the conversation.

“Shush,” says Fari.

“You have a large bottom and are in need of a shave.”

“Sshh!”
Fari hisses again. But she smiles despite herself. She would never tell him but she likes his sense of humor. She likes the fact that he isn't afraid to be silly, that he will make himself the butt of his own jokes. Laughter is medicine for the soul, she tells patients. She is suddenly impatient for the movie to be over. When they get back to her house, they will make love. For it is lovemaking now. She is finally able to
look
at Michael. In the beginning, embarrassed for him to see her face, she would want to be taken from behind. Now she likes to be on top, looking down at him. Fuck me, Michael, she whispers to him in Farsi, safe because he doesn't understand. I love your cock. I love your finger in my ass. A whore, she thinks. A whore. But at least one who cooks.

*   *   *

“What are you looking at?” Fari asks, knowing he is looking at her, trying not to be pleased that he is. They are in the kitchen. A mix of ground lamb and vegetables fills a frying pan. She pushes at it with a fork, making sure it doesn't burn. It will be served over rice. She feels relaxed and content. Sated. Sometimes she forgets herself.

“You,” says Michael. “You're something.”

He is sitting at the kitchen table, watching her. Has been for a while now. Fari wears a green velvet dressing gown, beautiful against her dark skin. Michael is shirtless. She never thought she would find a man's body so attractive. He sips his wine. It's a white Sancerre that she's introduced him to, telling him it was first cultivated by the Romans in the first century AD. Amazing the things she knows.

“The movie was good.”

“You seemed bored.”

“Only at first. It picked up halfway through.”

“Next time we'll go see something you want.”

She fills two plates and brings them to the table. It is already set. She sits. They begin to eat.

“Is it really like that? Like in the movie?”

“We had a house similar to that one. Relatives would come over. My parents liked to entertain and had many friends. People in this country don't realize that those that are different from them can also be happy.”

“Heard from'm lately?”

Meaning her family. He asks this often and is always surprised that she hasn't. There is something naïve about it. Something American. As if the definition of family is constant contact. Fari shakes her head. “They call my sister, not me.” Her sister is in London, married to an English-Iranian businessman whose family got out with the fall of the shah. Michael knows this.

“So what about your husband?”

It seems to come out of nowhere. It is something they almost never talk about and now they are.

“What about him?”

“Heard from
him
?”

“Why would I?”

“He's your husband.”

“Michael, let's just eat, shall we?”

“No, really, I'd like to know.”

Fari hesitates. The truth or not the truth. Why not both? “He is unsettled by what I've become.”

“What have you become?”

“Michael, really, this isn't the time or place.”

But he's not to be dissuaded. “No, look, I'm serious. If he's, what—so
unsettled
—why would he wait for you? Why wouldn't he just move on? Why don't you?”

Fari looks at Michael. His face so heartfelt and earnest. He should know better than this. Or should he? She has never told him that it was an arranged marriage. She was called home from London. It was strongly suggested that Reza Shahpour, the son of a prominent cleric, would make a good husband for her. He was a man, it was implied, looking for the respectable label of marriage, but not the responsibilities. Nothing would change. Her life would go on. Still, she remembers looking at her father through tears of disappointment. The man who had sent her out into the world, the man who insisted on the importance of education, was now sentencing her to something else. Only later, well after she'd gone through with the marriage and then quickly fled, did she consider the pressure he was under, struggling to hold on to his job at the university, his livelihood, his very identity.

“I do not move on because he is my husband” is what she says to Michael. “And he doesn't, because I am his wife. Nothing can change that.”

“Yeah,” says Michael. “Funny how that works.”

“Meaning what?” She feels annoyed now, angry that he's ruining the evening.

“Meaning mine's come home.”

The kitchen suddenly seems very small to her. “You told me you were divorced, Michael.” He is no longer looking at her. She wishes he would.

“We are. Just not on paper yet.”

“I don't understand.”

“We were together for nine years. We got married just before Jamie was born. I came home one day, she'd dropped him off at my mother's. Left a note saying she needed some time to get things straight in her head. That was almost seven years ago.”

Fari feels oddly offended that a wife and mother could do such a thing. Ridiculous and unprofessional. She has spent years studying that people are capable of anything. “Never in touch?”

“A couple of those phone calls late at night. You answer, no one says anything. You hear breathing on the other end. I'm pretty sure it was her.”

He seems so matter-of-fact about it.

You're dissembling, Michael. How do you really feel?

“So both of us are married,” Fari says. As if needing to confirm it to herself.

“Mmm,” says Michael. “Convenient, isn't it.”

*   *   *

He feels tense and agitated on the ride home. What should have been an opportunity for communication turned into one long lapsed conversation.

“I'm sure you have a busy day tomorrow.”

“I can stay longer if you'd like.”

“No. You should probably get going.”

He has never once spent the entire night in her bed. Has never been invited, has never asked to.

“Next week then.”

“If you find a sitter.”

We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Well, they haven't. And given the opportunity tonight, they didn't. Maybe because there is no bridge to cross. Maybe there never was and never will be. They're different people. Different backgrounds, different tastes, different expectations. She leans toward the formal, he toward casual. On more than one occasion he has felt stupid in her presence, has wondered if she wasn't quietly analyzing him, judging him and finding him lacking. She doesn't seem to realize that he's traveled the world, has surfed on eight continents, knows beaches and airports intimately … and yes, okay, knows next to nothing of other countries and other cultures. Which, hey, makes him a standard, run-of-the-mill American.

Which should be good enough.

Other than in their lovemaking, she holds herself at a distance. Keeps secrets. But then so does he.

Since her, there has only been you.

Michael is on the verge of turning and going back when he is aware of the siren behind him. He looks in the rearview mirror and sees the flashing lights. He pulls to the side of the deserted boulevard and the fire truck flies past, heading south. The sound of the siren fades. The lights diminish in the distance. And in that moment, Michael
knows.
He pushes the pedal to the floor. Within a quarter of a mile, the fire truck is in his sights again. He slows just slightly, praying it won't turn, and of course it does.

Left.

His mother's neighborhood.

 

16

The house is burning.

Michael drives up the hill as far as he can and then abandons the truck and sprints the rest of the way. It's worse than he could have ever imagined. Flames have burst through the windows and are eating their way upward into the shake roof. The inside of the house is an inferno. Neighbors stand in clustered groups, stunned and watching as the firemen leap out of the truck and into action. “Back!” one shouts. “Back! We need everyone back!” He turns, looking hardly older than a teenager, as Michael pushes his way through the spectators.

“This is my mother's house,” Michael shouts. “My mother and my son are in there!”

The fireman turns and shouts toward the burning house, to whom Michael isn't even sure.

“This guy says we have two people! Two people are in there!”

Present tense. Not were.
Are.

The fireman turns back to Michael. “Sir,” he says, as if reading Michael's mind. “Stay here. The only way to help us is to let us do our jobs.” He waits a moment to see that Michael understands and then moves quickly away to join his fellow firefighters. Men are already on a heavy hose. Where the fog of water hits flame, steam hisses and billows. The cone of water moves and the flames crackle up again. They might as well be spitting on it.

“Jamie!” Michael screams. “Jamie!”

No. Got to go in, I've got to
—

He jerks away from the sudden touch on his arm. He turns, vaguely recognizes the face. An older man, from down the hill, yes, that's it.

“Over there,” the man says. He turns, pointing.

Across the street, surrounded by neighbors, a dazed-looking Penelope is sitting on the ground with a blanket around her. The dog Abigail lies panting at her side. Jamie is behind her, walking back and forth, head turned away, hands agitated and flapping. Penelope weakly raises an arm.

“Michael—”

He runs to them. Not fast enough. His legs aren't moving right. He stumbles crossing the asphalt, barely regains his balance. And then he's there, at last, falling to the grass, to hug her, rising to pull Jamie to him, trembling.

“It's okay,” he mumbles. “It's okay, I'm here.”

Across the street, the firemen spray water and foam to no avail. Inside the house something crashes as it gives way and the flames leap toward the sky.

“Mowgli,”
says Jamie. “Mowgli lit the fire. And everything burned.”

 

Four distinct phases define the navigation process. The navigator must choose methods appropriate to each situation. Each method has advantages and disadvantages. None is effective in all situations.