hoped she would try to get out of marrying this man. But close to the end of that year, when Pari was about to graduate from high school, she got engaged. They put off the wedding date until September, when the house Taheri was setting up for them in Tehran would be ready. The house was in a modern, bustling section of central Tehran, he said.
The engagement party was a small affair, with only the immediate family present. The big celebration was saved for the wedding itself.
After Taheri and Behjat arrived in the afternoon, we all sat on the porch at small tables set out by Ali. We were dressed up for the occasion. Pari wore a blue dress with designs of shiny, darker blue flowers in a thicker fabric. Her shoes were white and she was wearing white gold flower-shaped earrings studded with diamonds. Everything she was wearing, including the expensive earrings, were presents from Taheri. He was dressed in a wine-colored jacket, light gray pants, and a pink-and-gray-striped shirt. He could have been good-looking, had it not been for the extreme intensity about him that practically contorted his face. In the large space, Mohtaram, Manijeh, Behjat, Father, and I receded as Taheri focused almost entirely on Pari.
He was ten years older than Pari, not as significant an age gap as between many couples, but he spoke to her the way an experienced man would speak to a child.
“Pari, you aren’t old enough to know what I have learned in life, such as the value of stability, a husband who provides well for you,” I was startled to hear him say.
“I’m not a child,” Pari said, as directly.
“I’ll teach you many things when we get to our home in Tehran.” Taheri took from his jacket pocket a box containing a diamond ring. He put the ring on Pari’s finger.
“I wish you a long and happy future together,” Behjat said.
“May your union be blessed,” Mohtaram said.
We all began to clap. Pari was blushing, and I sensed she was uncomfortable with the formality of the remarks.
Ali brought over a tray of tea and passed it around. From a table set in the corner, Mohtaram picked up a large platter containing sweets, bamieh, zulbia, and other pastries and served them.
“Would you like some arak ?” Father asked only Taheri, as alcoholic drinks were proper only for men, even among the modernized Iranians. Father drank arak (vodka) only with his male friends.
“I don’t drink, I’m a good Muslim,” Taheri said. “But don’t get me wrong, I like many aspects of Western culture. I like my wife to look modern and speak well.” He turned to Pari and stared at her face, as if he couldn’t have enough of her.
Pari was namzad, an engaged girl. Father told her and Taheri they could be alone for a while in the salon.
In a few moments I went to the keyhole. The expression on Pari’s face was conflicted. Taheri’s was possessive, almost tortured. He made me uneasy. I watched as he tried to kiss Pari and she gently pushed him away. This was the accepted way for a girl to behave, to save herself until the wedding night. But I knew, of course, that Pari wasn’t just playing a role.
Now Taheri was allowed to come and see Pari once a week and be alone with her for a short time in the salon during each visit. Whenever I could get away with it I spied on them. Every time Taheri tried to kiss Pari, she said, “Not until we’re married.”
“He keeps saying how I’m the only person he has ever wanted to marry,” Pari told me. “That no one has ever stirred him to exaltation the way I do. He has promised to let me pursue acting. He said he wants me to be free and do what matters to me.”
“Pari, is it wonderful to be so adored?”
“You know, Nahid, sometimes he frightens me, he’s so intense.”
I couldn’t understand how Pari was going to tolerate Taheri day after day, live with him, share his bed. Neither could I see myself in the same situation, marrying someone I hardly knew or even liked. Resistance was only
The engagement party was a small affair, with only the immediate family present. The big celebration was saved for the wedding itself.
After Taheri and Behjat arrived in the afternoon, we all sat on the porch at small tables set out by Ali. We were dressed up for the occasion. Pari wore a blue dress with designs of shiny, darker blue flowers in a thicker fabric. Her shoes were white and she was wearing white gold flower-shaped earrings studded with diamonds. Everything she was wearing, including the expensive earrings, were presents from Taheri. He was dressed in a wine-colored jacket, light gray pants, and a pink-and-gray-striped shirt. He could have been good-looking, had it not been for the extreme intensity about him that practically contorted his face. In the large space, Mohtaram, Manijeh, Behjat, Father, and I receded as Taheri focused almost entirely on Pari.
He was ten years older than Pari, not as significant an age gap as between many couples, but he spoke to her the way an experienced man would speak to a child.
“Pari, you aren’t old enough to know what I have learned in life, such as the value of stability, a husband who provides well for you,” I was startled to hear him say.
“I’m not a child,” Pari said, as directly.
“I’ll teach you many things when we get to our home in Tehran.” Taheri took from his jacket pocket a box containing a diamond ring. He put the ring on Pari’s finger.
“I wish you a long and happy future together,” Behjat said.
“May your union be blessed,” Mohtaram said.
We all began to clap. Pari was blushing, and I sensed she was uncomfortable with the formality of the remarks.
Ali brought over a tray of tea and passed it around. From a table set in the corner, Mohtaram picked up a large platter containing sweets, bamieh, zulbia, and other pastries and served them.
“Would you like some arak ?” Father asked only Taheri, as alcoholic drinks were proper only for men, even among the modernized Iranians. Father drank arak (vodka) only with his male friends.
“I don’t drink, I’m a good Muslim,” Taheri said. “But don’t get me wrong, I like many aspects of Western culture. I like my wife to look modern and speak well.” He turned to Pari and stared at her face, as if he couldn’t have enough of her.
Pari was namzad, an engaged girl. Father told her and Taheri they could be alone for a while in the salon.
In a few moments I went to the keyhole. The expression on Pari’s face was conflicted. Taheri’s was possessive, almost tortured. He made me uneasy. I watched as he tried to kiss Pari and she gently pushed him away. This was the accepted way for a girl to behave, to save herself until the wedding night. But I knew, of course, that Pari wasn’t just playing a role.
Now Taheri was allowed to come and see Pari once a week and be alone with her for a short time in the salon during each visit. Whenever I could get away with it I spied on them. Every time Taheri tried to kiss Pari, she said, “Not until we’re married.”
“He keeps saying how I’m the only person he has ever wanted to marry,” Pari told me. “That no one has ever stirred him to exaltation the way I do. He has promised to let me pursue acting. He said he wants me to be free and do what matters to me.”
“Pari, is it wonderful to be so adored?”
“You know, Nahid, sometimes he frightens me, he’s so intense.”
I couldn’t understand how Pari was going to tolerate Taheri day after day, live with him, share his bed. Neither could I see myself in the same situation, marrying someone I hardly knew or even liked. Resistance was only
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