to be able to ask for things. I want to ask and not have to worry that I'm asking for too much.
Bitsy said, Oh, Mom, and bent to lay her cheek on top of her mother's head. Connie's poor hair was so thin that it felt warm. Of course I'll help, she said.
Thank you, dear.
Bitsy knew she should feel grateful to Maryam, but instead a wall of resentment rose up within her. It seemed that some belonging of hers had been taken away from her. Or some plan of hers had been foiled; that would be more accurate. Although in fact she had not had any plan, and it should have been a huge relief that someone else had come forward with one.
The children were laughing and tumbling, and the men were trading technical specifications, and Mr. Hakimi was apparently telling Mrs. Hakimi something instructive, although he was speaking in Farsi and Bitsy couldn't understand his words. She had to guess at his meaning just from his tone, as if she were a foreigner in an unfamiliar country.
Sami had a sort of performance piece that he liked to put on for the relatives. He was known for it. They would be sitting around the living room with their afternoon tea a few of Ziba's brothers and sisters-in-law visiting from L . A ., or maybe a couple of aunts or the cousins who'd settled in Texas and one of them would say, almost slyly, These Americans: can you figure them out? Then this person would offer some anecdote to start things rolling. For instance: Our hostess asked where we were from and I told her Iran. 'Oh!' she said. 'Persia!' 'No,' I said, 'Iran. Persia is only a British invention. From the start, it was always Iran.' 'Well, I prefer Persia,' she told me. 'Persia sounds much more beautiful.'
People would cluck and nod, having been through such exchanges many times themselves, and then they would gaze expectantly at Sami. Sami would roll his eyes. Ah, yes, he would say, the Persia Passion. I know it well. Sometimes that alone was enough to start them grinning; they were so ready for what came next.
What you should have told her is, 'Oh, then! In that case! Please don't let a mere twenty-five hundred years of history stand in your way, madam.' (The madam came out of nowhere. He tended to slip into a fusty, overstarched style of speech on these occasions.) You can be certain she'll argue. 'No, no,' she'll insist, 'Iran is a newfangled name. They announced the change in the thirties.' 'They announced what their real name was in the thirties,' you tell her, and she'll say, ' Well, anyhow. I myself plan to keep calling it Persia.'
Or he would get going on the American craze for logic. Logic's why they're always suing each other. They believe that for every event there has to be a cause. Surely somebody is to blame! they say. Stumble in the street when you're not looking and break your leg? Sue the city! Sue the store where you bought your glasses and the doctor who prescribed them! Fall down the stairs, bang your head on a cabinet, slip on the bathroom tiles? Sue your landlord! And don't just sue for medical bills; sue for pain, emotional trauma, public humiliation, lowered self-esteem!
Ooh, low self-esteem, a relative might murmur, and everyone would laugh.
They feel personally outraged by bad luck, Sami would go on. They have been lucky all their lives and they can't imagine that any misfortune should have the right to befall them. There must be some mistake! they say. They've always been so careful! They've paid the closest attention to every safety instruction the DANGER tag on the hair dryer saying Unplug after every use, and the print on the plastic bag saying This is not a toy, and the recycling pamphlet saying Warning: Before stepping on milk jugs to flatten them, please take firm hold of a reliable source of support.
Or he would embark upon a little riff about the Americans' fond belief that they were of breathtaking interest to everyone else in the world. Imagine this: A friend of my father's, a famous poet, wa s invited here on some
Bitsy said, Oh, Mom, and bent to lay her cheek on top of her mother's head. Connie's poor hair was so thin that it felt warm. Of course I'll help, she said.
Thank you, dear.
Bitsy knew she should feel grateful to Maryam, but instead a wall of resentment rose up within her. It seemed that some belonging of hers had been taken away from her. Or some plan of hers had been foiled; that would be more accurate. Although in fact she had not had any plan, and it should have been a huge relief that someone else had come forward with one.
The children were laughing and tumbling, and the men were trading technical specifications, and Mr. Hakimi was apparently telling Mrs. Hakimi something instructive, although he was speaking in Farsi and Bitsy couldn't understand his words. She had to guess at his meaning just from his tone, as if she were a foreigner in an unfamiliar country.
Sami had a sort of performance piece that he liked to put on for the relatives. He was known for it. They would be sitting around the living room with their afternoon tea a few of Ziba's brothers and sisters-in-law visiting from L . A ., or maybe a couple of aunts or the cousins who'd settled in Texas and one of them would say, almost slyly, These Americans: can you figure them out? Then this person would offer some anecdote to start things rolling. For instance: Our hostess asked where we were from and I told her Iran. 'Oh!' she said. 'Persia!' 'No,' I said, 'Iran. Persia is only a British invention. From the start, it was always Iran.' 'Well, I prefer Persia,' she told me. 'Persia sounds much more beautiful.'
People would cluck and nod, having been through such exchanges many times themselves, and then they would gaze expectantly at Sami. Sami would roll his eyes. Ah, yes, he would say, the Persia Passion. I know it well. Sometimes that alone was enough to start them grinning; they were so ready for what came next.
What you should have told her is, 'Oh, then! In that case! Please don't let a mere twenty-five hundred years of history stand in your way, madam.' (The madam came out of nowhere. He tended to slip into a fusty, overstarched style of speech on these occasions.) You can be certain she'll argue. 'No, no,' she'll insist, 'Iran is a newfangled name. They announced the change in the thirties.' 'They announced what their real name was in the thirties,' you tell her, and she'll say, ' Well, anyhow. I myself plan to keep calling it Persia.'
Or he would get going on the American craze for logic. Logic's why they're always suing each other. They believe that for every event there has to be a cause. Surely somebody is to blame! they say. Stumble in the street when you're not looking and break your leg? Sue the city! Sue the store where you bought your glasses and the doctor who prescribed them! Fall down the stairs, bang your head on a cabinet, slip on the bathroom tiles? Sue your landlord! And don't just sue for medical bills; sue for pain, emotional trauma, public humiliation, lowered self-esteem!
Ooh, low self-esteem, a relative might murmur, and everyone would laugh.
They feel personally outraged by bad luck, Sami would go on. They have been lucky all their lives and they can't imagine that any misfortune should have the right to befall them. There must be some mistake! they say. They've always been so careful! They've paid the closest attention to every safety instruction the DANGER tag on the hair dryer saying Unplug after every use, and the print on the plastic bag saying This is not a toy, and the recycling pamphlet saying Warning: Before stepping on milk jugs to flatten them, please take firm hold of a reliable source of support.
Or he would embark upon a little riff about the Americans' fond belief that they were of breathtaking interest to everyone else in the world. Imagine this: A friend of my father's, a famous poet, wa s invited here on some
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