Persian Girls: A Memoir by Nahid Rachlin

received from Majid. And here she was, pressured into being viewed by a suitor, perhaps soon pressured into considering him. Someone she had absolutely no interest in. How ridiculous and unfair it all was.
    After the visitors left, I heard angry voices on the porch.
    “I don’t want to marry him,” Pari said.
    “Come to your senses,” Father boomed. “Taheri is one of the richest men in Ahvaz. He has a share in the Dorang Petrochemical Company. He makes one million tooman s a year from his carpet shops in Ahvaz and Tehran. And he’ll inherit a fortune from his elderly father, who has a thriving business in Tehran. And he’s educated, a graduate of the Finance Academy in Tehran.”
    “He values you so much he’s offering a large sum for your mehrieh ,” Mohtaram said. “You can’t throw that away.”
    “You’re trying to sell me.”
    “Pari, don’t be so foolish,” Father said.
    “Let him marry Manijeh instead,” Pari said defiantly.
    “You know very well that as the oldest you have to marry first,” Father said.
    “You aren’t thinking of me at all!” Seconds later Pari was in her room.
    “What happened?” I asked her.
    “I’m not going to give in to them,” she said.
    But Taheri was persistent. Since his parents lived in Tehran, his oldest sister, Behjat, was the one who mainly dealt with our parents. She was a widow and lived with her brother. He planned to sell the shop in Ahvaz and live in Tehran to be near their elderly parents.
    Behjat was a little more old-fashioned than our parents, from what we could see. She didn’t wear a chador, but she wore a head scarf and conservative clothes and no makeup. One afternoon when she was sitting with Mohtaram in the salon, Pari and I went to the big keyhole again, looking in and listening.
    “My brother is an open-minded man,” she was telling Mohtaram. “He doesn’t want a chadori wife. He doesn’t even like me to wear this head scarf. I’m an old woman now, I didn’t wear it when I was young. He wants a wife who can dress well, like your daughter. When he first saw your daughter on the way to school, he knew immediately she is the one for him.”
    Mohtaram came to Pari after Behjat left and they had the same argument as before, with Pari refusing to give in to the marriage proposal. “They keep at me,” she said. “But I can’t imagine sharing a life with that man.”
    Behjat visited a few days later and Pari and I again took our spot by the keyhole. This time Father was there with Behjat and Mohtaram.
    “My brother is threatening suicide,” Behjat said urgently. “He said if your daughter doesn’t consent, he’d rather be dead. Taheri has a romantic soul.”
    “I admit my daughter is headstrong,” Father said. “Bear with her, she’ll come to her senses.”
    Later that day Mohtaram came to Pari’s room and gave her a letter, which she had already opened. She left and Pari and I turned to the letter immediately.
     
     
    With all respect, Pari khanoon, the daughter of a distinguished father and respected mother, I can’t imagine a life without you as my wife. I’d rather die than see you marry someone else. I have a plan to kill myself. . . .
     
     
    Pari grimaced. “This is just blackmail. He doesn’t know me even slightly. We haven’t spoken to each other once.”
    I felt anxiety in the bottom of my stomach from all the tension building up around Pari.
    “I confess to you, I saw Majid,” Pari said, holding the letter in her lap. “We went to his apartment near the river this time. We kissed. He stopped before going further. He isn’t a selfish man. In fact, he told me we should stop seeing each other unless we can get married. He had actually heard about Taheri’s interest; he said he hoped nothing would come of it. Majid is going to wait until Taheri finally gives up and then send his mother over again.”
    We sank into a contemplative silence.
    “Pari,” Father called from behind the door.
    After Pari left, I