Things We Left Unsaid (23 page)

‘For that kind of thing, we have to drop over to the Gardeners’ Club store.’ He took the packages out of my hands and asked, ‘Where is that?’

We hailed a taxi and I told the driver, ‘Alfi Plaza.’

On the sidewalk in front of the Gardeners’ Club store there was a peddler selling olives, fresh pickles, and grape leaves. I thought olives and fresh pickles would be good for Thursday
night, and bought some. Emile came out of the store with a gardener’s trowel and gloves, and a few packets of seeds. ‘I bought seeds for sweet peas.’ He saw the peddler’s
cart and said, ‘I love grape-leaf dolma. God knows how long it’s been since I had some.’ I bought grape leaves.

We caught the bus for Bawarda. We talked all the way home and I don’t know how many times we repeated, ‘How interesting, me too!’

In front of our house he handed me back the packages and said, ‘Believe me, I’m not just saying this. I have no one I can talk to like this, on and on.’

It was night time before I finished preparing the dolma stuffing. I asked Artoush, ‘Will you take the kids for
fish and chips
?’ The kids jumped up and down
and Artoush probably thought I was making a peace offering. I put the dolma stuffing in the refrigerator, explaining that I had a lot of work to do for Thursday night. I lingered before closing the
refrigerator door so as to avoid looking any of them in the eye.

I opened the door for the twins, who walked out with their hands over their mouths to keep me from seeing the red Kool Aid on their lips. After they passed me I said, ‘What pretty
lipstick.’ They let their hands drop to their sides and laughed. As I was closing the door behind them, I said, ‘Take your time.’ All four of them turned around in the middle of
the path to give me a quizzical look.

I stood in front of the living room window. The lights of G-4 were on and I wondered, ‘What is he doing? Maybe talking with his mother or reading a book. Or maybe...’

I quickly closed the drapes, went to the kitchen, put the bowl of grape leaves on the table and got the stuffing out of the fridge.

As I wrapped the first dolma and set it in the pot, the two sides of my mind waged a tug-of-war:

‘You’re a real fool.’

‘Why? Where’s the harm in two people sharing common interests?’

‘No harm at all, but...’

‘So, because one is a woman and the other a man, they shouldn’t talk to each other?’

‘Are they just talking?’

‘Of course they’re just talking.’

‘...’

‘He’s the only person who understands what I’m talking about.’

‘...’

‘I talk to myself so much, it’s driving me crazy.’

‘...’

‘I do things for others so much, it’s worn me out.’

‘...’

‘And here’s my answer: My boy thinks I am a critical nag. My husband is not willing to exchange a single word with me. My mother and sister only ridicule me, and Nina, who is
supposed to be my friend, only gives me more work to do. Like what I’m doing right now. Yeah, like right now, when I have to make food for people I don’t even feel like being
around.’

‘You don’t feel like being around any of them?’

‘...’

‘Why are you making dolma?’

‘...’

‘Who are you making it for?’

‘...’

‘You’re a real fool.’

I put the last dolma in the pot and stared at the sweet peas on the ledge.

On Thursday night the guests vied with one another to see who could arrive earliest.

The twins and Sophie were out in the yard, sitting on the swing seat, under the willow tree. Every time the swing seat went up, all three of them reached up, laughing and screaming, trying to
grab one of the thin green branches. The willow hanging over our swing seat, like all willows, put me in mind of the Armenian poem ‘Parvana’ by Hovhaness Toumanian, which I had read so
often as I child that I had virtually memorized it. I stood facing the kitchen window and the willow tree, chopping cucumbers and tomatoes, and reciting my favorite lines from the poem, practically
at the top of my voice:

A rustle of clothing and the sound of breathing made me look back over my shoulder. The twins and Sophie were standing in the kitchen doorway.

‘What a lovely poem, Auntie,’ said Sophie.

‘Tell it to us from the beginning,’ said Armineh.

‘Yes, recite the poem!’ said Arsineh.

I laughed, ‘But I don’t remember all of it.’

‘Well, then, tell us how the story goes,’ said Armineh.

‘Please, tell us,’ said Arsineh.

I dumped the cucumber rinds in the trash. ‘I’ve read it to you from the book a hundred times.’

‘Well, tell it to Sophie,’ said Arsineh.

‘She probably hasn’t heard the story,’ added Armineh.

They asked her in tandem, ‘Have you heard it?’ Sophie shook her head no.

I put the olive oil and the lemon juice on the table and began to mix the salad dressing as I told the story.

At the top of a tall mountain lived a king who had a beautiful daughter. When the daughter was all grown up and it was time for her to wed, from the four corners of the Earth many princes came
to ask for her hand. The king gave his daughter a golden apple and said, ‘When you have made your choice which prince will be your husband, throw this apple to him.’

The girls were sitting around the table, chins propped on their hands, all looking expectantly at me. For the first time I realized how interesting it was that the girl got to choose her
husband, and not the other way around. I wiped my oily hands on my apron. ‘The princes vowed to bring the daughter of the king whatever her heart desired. Gold, jewels, even the moon and the
stars up in the sky.’

‘What a lucky princess!’ said Sophie. ‘If it were me, I would ask for the moon and for all the jewels and chocolate in the world.’ The twins both shushed her.

I stirred the salad dressing. ‘The king’s daughter said, “What good will gold, jewels, and the moon and the stars up in the sky do me? I only want one thing from my partner in
life: the fire of true love.” ’

The twins looked at Sophie, who was staring at me, slack-jawed.

I shook some salt and pepper into the dressing. ‘When the suitors heard the word “Fire,” they all imagined she wanted real fire, and without waiting to hear the rest of her
request, they galloped off in search of fire. The princess waited for them.’

I slapped Armineh’s hand as she snatched a piece of lettuce from the salad bowl. ‘And the princess waited years and years. She waited and waited until finally she lost all hope, and
with downcast head, she cried and cried. Her tears made a pond that grew deeper and deeper until the whole castle was under water.’

All three of them watched me, rapt, their heads cocked to the side. I set the salad on the counter. ‘When you see a willow tree, it’s the king’s daughter standing there to this
very day, head downcast, weeping. And when you see moths at night circling about the lights, it’s those princes, seeking fire for their princess.’

A sparrow ran into the window screen, gave a squawk and flew off.

‘The poor willow tree,’ said Armineh.

‘The poor moths,’ said Arsineh.

Sophie was still staring at me, mouth agape.

Alice sat next to Joop, tittering and batting her Rimmel-extended eyelashes, which fluttered just like Rapunzel’s when the children would tip the doll this way and that.
Mother, in the chair opposite, might have been watching a ping-pong match, her gaze shifting back and forth between Alice and Joop. Artoush and Emile were playing chess. Emily sat next to her
father, feet together, elbows on her knees and chin in her hands, staring at the carpet. Armen, wearing his new pants, stood next to Artoush. On the other side of the room, Violette was flipping
through the pages of our wedding album, after insisting on seeing the pictures of me and Artoush getting married. Garnik and Nina spoke now and then with Alice and Joop, now and then with Mother,
and most of the time between themselves. Every few minutes they found an excuse to laugh.

Violette asked, ‘Why don’t you frame one of your wedding pictures and hang it on the wall?’ As I was trying to think how to answer that, Emily slapped her cheeks with both
hands.

‘Oh no! The flower from my shoe is missing!’ We all looked down at Emily’s jade green shoes. One had a white flower above the toe; the other did not.

Armen stepped forward. ‘It must have fallen around here somewhere. Let’s look, we’ll find it.’

Emily looked at her father, her head cocked to the side.

Emile smiled. ‘Go and look. Maybe it will turn up.’

Emily got up slowly, smoothed out her tight black skirt and left the room with Armen. Violette came over, album in hand, to take Emily’s place. Artoush told Emile, ‘Check!
You’re not paying attention tonight.’ Violette closed the album.

I went to the kitchen on the pretext of fetching the drinks. I was certain that when Emily had come in, both her shoes had a flower. I was quite certain, because I had thought to myself,
‘I bought the same shoes a few weeks ago. Did I buy children’s shoes, or did this girl buy women’s shoes?’

I sallied back and forth between the kitchen and the living room. When was this imposed party going to end? I promised myself that after everyone had gone, and I had washed the dishes and tidied
up, I would sit back and relax in the green leather chair and find out what the man in Sardo’s story decides in the end.

I reflected on my visit that morning to Mrs. Simonian to invite her once again to come over for the party. This time no one had obliged me to go; I did so because I wanted to.

When she opened the door, I thought she was ill. Her eyes were sunken and she looked pale. She was wearing a loose dress, long and white. We went into the living room and when I asked after her
health, she replied, ‘I did not sleep well last night.’ When I brought up the party, she refused with such vehemence that I did not dare insist. Anyway, the party did not matter that
much to me. What I wanted was for her to talk – about the green-eyed man, about Emile, about Emile’s wife. I had to know the whole story; having seen the trailer, as it were, I was
hooked and had to see the film. But my neighbor seemed in no mood to talk. She stared silently at the Persian carpet on the floor until I felt I should get up to say goodbye. She did not insist I
stay. She acted cold, a different woman from the one who had recounted the most personal details of her life for me a few nights before.

I set the food I had cooked for dinner on the stove to warm it up. Rice and Fesenjan, grape-leaf dolma and Ikra, an appetizer that I quite liked myself and which, in anticipation of the presence
of Mrs. Simonian, I had made spicier than usual. I was getting the bowl of fresh herbs out of the refrigerator – sweet basil, parsley, radishes, spring onions – and the bowl of pickled
vegetable Torshi, when I heard Emile say, ‘We’ve put you to a lot of trouble.’

I turned around. He was standing near the kitchen table. ‘No trouble,’ I told him, ‘As long as you are having fun.’ My critical streak chided me: ‘Now you’ve
done it!’ I quickly added, ‘I mean, if everyone is having fun.’

He took the bowls of pickles and herbs from my hands and put them on the tray, next to the salad bowl. ‘Clarice. We should talk. When do you have a moment?’ His neck chain was
spilling out over his shirt. My heart was beating fast.

Nina came in. ‘What can I do? Shall I take these and set them on the table?’ I only nodded, but my voice would not come out. Nina left the kitchen, tray in hand.

Emile said, ‘Monday afternoon?’ I began to scoop the rice onto the serving platter and the thought shot through my mind that on Monday the kids would be getting home from school
late, because of the rehearsal for the end-of-year ceremonies. And Artoush was going to Khorramshahr that morning, to return late that night. And Alice was on the overnight shift, and Mother was
invited somewhere. I nodded yes.

Nina called Emile from the living room and as he left the kitchen, he bumped into Mother and said, ‘Pardon me.’ They squeezed sideways past one another through the doorway.

Mother did not reply. She came over to the table and said in my ear, ‘Well, call us both an ass! We were worried for no reason. You should see how solicitous he is of Alice! It must be
destiny. True, he’s not Armenian, but so what? Why have you spilled half the rice on the table?’

I carried the platter of rice from the kitchen. ‘Kids, dinner!’ I called three times before Emily and Armen came to the table. The twins and Sophie wanted to eat their dinner on the
swing seat. I was about to say no when Sophie put her arm around my waist. ‘Auntie, will you let us eat dinner next to the Princess?’

Nina asked, ‘What? Which princess?’

Sophie said, ‘The willow tree is the daughter of the king who...’

Nina interrupted her to tell me, ‘You sit, please. I’ll serve the kids.’

‘Looks delicious!’ said Garnik, as he heaped rice on his plate, and Violette asked Emile, ‘Do you like dolma?’

I looked at the dinner spread to make sure there was nothing missing and wondered, since when do Violette and Emile use the familiar ‘you’ with each other? I went to turn up the air
conditioning. Mother told Alice, who was piling rice onto Joop’s plate, ‘That’s not enough rice, and give him a bigger portion of meat.’

There was no plate for me. Whenever I set the table for a dinner party, I always forgot to count myself. I headed for the kitchen and called out, ‘Go ahead and start; I’m
coming.’ Nobody had waited for this offer; they were all busy eating, except for Emile and Violette, who sat side by side, talking. Nina caught my eye, nodded toward the two of them, and
winked at me. As I left the room, I saw Emily staring at Violette with pressed lips. Had she seen Nina wink?