pudgy gaze of her lumbering, oversolicitous cousin Kasem, who seems to have arrived via the back door. As she brings a hot cup to her lips, Saba hears more of Mullah Ali’s wisdom. It seems that the mullah has had too much of the pipe, maybe even a drink. Usually he refuses alcohol, except when he is alone with Agha Hafezi or when he is given the drink “accidentally,” without his consent. Who’s hiding the bottle this time? Saba glances around. There is something hard under Khanom Omidi’s skirt. When she tries to touch it, the old woman slaps her hand. The mullah is shaking his head at her father. “I’m not talking about their baby-age. What I’m talking about is their minds.” He taps his head with his finger. “It is a well-known fact that women who are not otherwise occupied . . . physically . . . get unhealthy notions. It’s well documented . . . and then, even if you do marry them off, they never respect their husbands. They question and nag . . .”
Khanom Basir sighs dramatically. “For God’s sake.”
“What about Kasem?” Mullah Ali hums and pats Kasem’s thick neck, as if expecting everyone to have followed his thoughts. “A fine boy. Saba should marry him.”
Saba sits up. She blurts out, “But he’s my cousin.” Beside the mullah, Kasem looks down and smiles through a deep, feminine shade of red.
Vomit!
Kasem is shorter than Saba and strangely proportioned. He isn’t overweight, but he has a surprisingly protuberant backside. He looks soft—in his physique, in his face; Saba imagines he is a bit soft even in his bones.
“Let the men talk, child.” Mullah Ali closes his eyes and addresses Saba with a hushed, almost weary voice, as if he is tired of repeating himself.
“You’re lucky your daughter hasn’t been to England or America,” the other mullah interjects. “You escaped a curse. America would have corrupted her.”
Saba imagines again Mahtab’s life in America, a less compliant coming-of-age. Is she happy there? Is she in love with an exuberant American? At the very least she would have a much larger pool of men to choose from. In Cheshmeh, though talk of marriage is a constant pastime, the war with Iraq has left few men her age—and none like Reza.
“He’s her cousin,” her father says, with finality. “She can’t marry her cousin.”
“The boy is my student. A fine choice. And you know cousins are a match ordained by God and the heavens.” Mullah Ali sits up, offended, determined to win.
Saba sees that her father is annoyed, that he wants to say something about genetics and chromosomes. Like the educated Westerners he admires, he holds his tongue. She knows that he won’t insult his nephew, who has been faithful to the family, kept their secrets, and spoken well of them to Mullah Ali.
Her father clears his throat. “In any case, they’re too young.” He waves away the topic like a lone mosquito, too small to merit much effort, too bothersome to ignore.
Victory, Saba thinks in English, silently congratulating her father.
“You know who is a good choice for Saba?” says Khanom Basir. “Agha Abbas. Yes, he’s old, but he is rich and kind.”
Saba begins to object. Agha Abbas is the oldest bachelor they know, a widower even older than her father. “Saba and I will decide this later.” Agha Hafezi is quick to preempt.
She leans on a cushion and observes her father’s kind eyes, the way he doesn’t share food with the villagers and waves away their rural wisdom. Should she show him that she is thankful? No, he won’t understand what she means by it. He will probably pity her. She eyes the snaking blue lines on Mullah Ali’s ankles as he leans across the sofreh .
Varicose veins , she thinks they are called.
She watches the clerics, and she waits for the darkest early hours when matchmaking will be safely out of every mind and an unmarried girl with too much spirit might have a moment of pleasure.
AIJB
Since Mahtab left, Saba and her friends have hidden in
Khanom Basir sighs dramatically. “For God’s sake.”
“What about Kasem?” Mullah Ali hums and pats Kasem’s thick neck, as if expecting everyone to have followed his thoughts. “A fine boy. Saba should marry him.”
Saba sits up. She blurts out, “But he’s my cousin.” Beside the mullah, Kasem looks down and smiles through a deep, feminine shade of red.
Vomit!
Kasem is shorter than Saba and strangely proportioned. He isn’t overweight, but he has a surprisingly protuberant backside. He looks soft—in his physique, in his face; Saba imagines he is a bit soft even in his bones.
“Let the men talk, child.” Mullah Ali closes his eyes and addresses Saba with a hushed, almost weary voice, as if he is tired of repeating himself.
“You’re lucky your daughter hasn’t been to England or America,” the other mullah interjects. “You escaped a curse. America would have corrupted her.”
Saba imagines again Mahtab’s life in America, a less compliant coming-of-age. Is she happy there? Is she in love with an exuberant American? At the very least she would have a much larger pool of men to choose from. In Cheshmeh, though talk of marriage is a constant pastime, the war with Iraq has left few men her age—and none like Reza.
“He’s her cousin,” her father says, with finality. “She can’t marry her cousin.”
“The boy is my student. A fine choice. And you know cousins are a match ordained by God and the heavens.” Mullah Ali sits up, offended, determined to win.
Saba sees that her father is annoyed, that he wants to say something about genetics and chromosomes. Like the educated Westerners he admires, he holds his tongue. She knows that he won’t insult his nephew, who has been faithful to the family, kept their secrets, and spoken well of them to Mullah Ali.
Her father clears his throat. “In any case, they’re too young.” He waves away the topic like a lone mosquito, too small to merit much effort, too bothersome to ignore.
Victory, Saba thinks in English, silently congratulating her father.
“You know who is a good choice for Saba?” says Khanom Basir. “Agha Abbas. Yes, he’s old, but he is rich and kind.”
Saba begins to object. Agha Abbas is the oldest bachelor they know, a widower even older than her father. “Saba and I will decide this later.” Agha Hafezi is quick to preempt.
She leans on a cushion and observes her father’s kind eyes, the way he doesn’t share food with the villagers and waves away their rural wisdom. Should she show him that she is thankful? No, he won’t understand what she means by it. He will probably pity her. She eyes the snaking blue lines on Mullah Ali’s ankles as he leans across the sofreh .
Varicose veins , she thinks they are called.
She watches the clerics, and she waits for the darkest early hours when matchmaking will be safely out of every mind and an unmarried girl with too much spirit might have a moment of pleasure.
AIJB
Since Mahtab left, Saba and her friends have hidden in
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