takes Saba’s hand and pulls her close like a confidante, while Saba struggles not to crave her approval. “We have full view of your ankles. Go and fix yourself. Find a chador in the bundle, my good girl.”
“But I have my scarf.” Saba straightens her headscarf and smooths her skirt. She doesn’t want to drape herself like an old woman. She glances at Reza, her lifelong friend, wishing that he would listen and help her in these underhanded moments with his mother.
There is a knock. “Reza, go and get the door,” Khanom Basir orders. “Do you think it’s Ponneh? Now, there is a girl who doesn’t need to show skin to be beautiful. No fancy bazi . No trouble to her mother.” Khanom Basir sighs at Ponneh’s endless virtue, looks at her son for a reaction, and mumbles, “If only she was allowed to marry.”
Reza gets up and follows Saba out of the living room and down a few steps. One of the mullahs shouts behind him, “Watch out, don’t knock your head on the ceiling.”
In the hallway, Saba is afraid to look back at him, afraid to smile . She wonders if he too knows the things her father claims everyone knows. She walks down the hall feeling his presence behind her, unable to turn until he takes her hand.
“Stop rushing off, Saba Khanom,” he almost whispers, in his beautiful rural way. He interlaces two fingers with two of hers and she feels a heat bursting from her chest and crawling up through her blouse, creeping past her shoulders to her temples. It scorches her layers of fabric and leaves her naked. She tries to focus on his imperfections, his village accent and the awkward way he calls her Miss Saba. His voice is far too smooth and throaty, a ruttish eighteen-yearold who has learned to woo women from Western television he half understands. Saba knows this and she wants him more—because of this stupid attempt at touching her and because of the warm sweat on his hand and because of the way he’s trying to mask his height by stooping just a little.
They are standing a few feet from the door now and Saba tries to think of something to say. But before she can respond, she hears the demure clearing of a familiar throat, and Ponneh, having let herself in, stands watching them, the heart shape of her face outlined in a baby blue scarf knotted like a flower behind her neck, her almond eyes fixed on their fingers, which are intertwined for only a second more.
AIJB
Reza drops Saba’s hand and shrugs, as if he knows what Ponneh is thinking. After a moment Saba mutters, “Are we going in?”
“Nice hostessing job,” says Ponneh, hanging her outer jacket on a nail by the door. “I had to let myself in. Oh no, no. Don’t kill so many sheep on my account.”
Saba waves her hand at Ponneh’s remark. “Don’t start the guest bazi ,” she says. “I have no patience for it today.” Ponneh laughs and takes Saba’s arm, because she loves being reminded that she needs no welcome here. For years she has let herself in, has even sneaked into windows at night and raided the kitchen with Saba.
Reza, looking embarrassed and annoyed, wanders back into the living room. Likely he has already forgotten whatever impulse she ignited in him.
“What was that about?” Ponneh whispers, her lips almost touching Saba’s ear.
“I don’t know. What?” Saba shrugs. “Guess what? I got us some Neutrogena.” Ponneh gets American products only when they are offered by Saba, not just because she is poor but also because of her mother, the widow, who seems to enjoy suffering. Khanom Alborz has always been pleasant to Saba. But she is methodical, traditional in the bizarrest ways. She battles her fear of the unknown with arbitrary rules that she imposes on her five daughters, including the sick, bedridden one. If she found Ponneh with an unearned luxury, she would give it to her oldest daughter.
Back at the sofreh Saba leans her head on Khanom Omidi’s shoulder and the old woman pulls her close. She tries to avoid the
“But I have my scarf.” Saba straightens her headscarf and smooths her skirt. She doesn’t want to drape herself like an old woman. She glances at Reza, her lifelong friend, wishing that he would listen and help her in these underhanded moments with his mother.
There is a knock. “Reza, go and get the door,” Khanom Basir orders. “Do you think it’s Ponneh? Now, there is a girl who doesn’t need to show skin to be beautiful. No fancy bazi . No trouble to her mother.” Khanom Basir sighs at Ponneh’s endless virtue, looks at her son for a reaction, and mumbles, “If only she was allowed to marry.”
Reza gets up and follows Saba out of the living room and down a few steps. One of the mullahs shouts behind him, “Watch out, don’t knock your head on the ceiling.”
In the hallway, Saba is afraid to look back at him, afraid to smile . She wonders if he too knows the things her father claims everyone knows. She walks down the hall feeling his presence behind her, unable to turn until he takes her hand.
“Stop rushing off, Saba Khanom,” he almost whispers, in his beautiful rural way. He interlaces two fingers with two of hers and she feels a heat bursting from her chest and crawling up through her blouse, creeping past her shoulders to her temples. It scorches her layers of fabric and leaves her naked. She tries to focus on his imperfections, his village accent and the awkward way he calls her Miss Saba. His voice is far too smooth and throaty, a ruttish eighteen-yearold who has learned to woo women from Western television he half understands. Saba knows this and she wants him more—because of this stupid attempt at touching her and because of the warm sweat on his hand and because of the way he’s trying to mask his height by stooping just a little.
They are standing a few feet from the door now and Saba tries to think of something to say. But before she can respond, she hears the demure clearing of a familiar throat, and Ponneh, having let herself in, stands watching them, the heart shape of her face outlined in a baby blue scarf knotted like a flower behind her neck, her almond eyes fixed on their fingers, which are intertwined for only a second more.
AIJB
Reza drops Saba’s hand and shrugs, as if he knows what Ponneh is thinking. After a moment Saba mutters, “Are we going in?”
“Nice hostessing job,” says Ponneh, hanging her outer jacket on a nail by the door. “I had to let myself in. Oh no, no. Don’t kill so many sheep on my account.”
Saba waves her hand at Ponneh’s remark. “Don’t start the guest bazi ,” she says. “I have no patience for it today.” Ponneh laughs and takes Saba’s arm, because she loves being reminded that she needs no welcome here. For years she has let herself in, has even sneaked into windows at night and raided the kitchen with Saba.
Reza, looking embarrassed and annoyed, wanders back into the living room. Likely he has already forgotten whatever impulse she ignited in him.
“What was that about?” Ponneh whispers, her lips almost touching Saba’s ear.
“I don’t know. What?” Saba shrugs. “Guess what? I got us some Neutrogena.” Ponneh gets American products only when they are offered by Saba, not just because she is poor but also because of her mother, the widow, who seems to enjoy suffering. Khanom Alborz has always been pleasant to Saba. But she is methodical, traditional in the bizarrest ways. She battles her fear of the unknown with arbitrary rules that she imposes on her five daughters, including the sick, bedridden one. If she found Ponneh with an unearned luxury, she would give it to her oldest daughter.
Back at the sofreh Saba leans her head on Khanom Omidi’s shoulder and the old woman pulls her close. She tries to avoid the
Similar Books
