FICTION

PART 6 (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7)

From: Ms. Firoozeh L.
132567 C…… Avenue
Canoga Park, CA
USA

May 1

To: Mrs. Sedigheh M….
186 Khiabane K…., Plaque B-2
Tehran, IRAN 

Salam Khaleh Joon,

I hope this letter finds you and yours well. I wish I could say Shahab and I are doing fine here but this would be far from the truth. We recently got into a major fight and it was much, much worse than the last time, when he punched the wall. But before you get worried, I am okay. I mean, I am not hurt or anything. Not physically at least. As for my emotional state, that is another story.

It all started when we were invited to Maryam’s house for a party. Remember the last time, I told you about bumping into Maryam, my old friend from Iran. Though she is now better known under her new alias as the latest Persian pop princess in Los Angeles, I just can’t bring myself to call her “Debbie.” It’s just too ridiculous! Anyways, she did call me a few days after I saw her and right away, she invited Shahab and I to a party she was having at her home for the new CD she is launching.

-- ”It’s called Tavvalode Deegar and it’s super cool.” She explained with pride.

-- “Tavvalode Deegar?”, I replied with wonder, “You are singing Forough’songs?”

There was a pause and then she answered:

-- “Forough kieh digeh? Na, Mahyar hasst. He wrote all the lyrics to my album. But when you meet him, just call him “Mim.”

-- “Call him…what?”

-- “Mim. He only likes to go by the first letter of his name.”

Khaleh joon, I will spare you the rest of the conversation but you can imagine how hard it was for me to keep from laughing. I still have not gotten used to Los Angeles, or Tehran-Geles, as I have heard it is called here. Well, naturally, I had to pull tooth and nail to get Shahab to agree to come to the party. He was in such a foul mood the whole day, grumbling that he did not want to go to some whore’s house and hang out with a bunch of criminal, greedy, two-faced Iranians. At 9:45 pm, he was still in his underwear and T-Shirt, watching TV, refusing to get up. It finally took my tears for him to reluctantly put on the clothes I had laid out for him, and get in the car, swearing under his breath all the way.

Maryam’s house was not that far, maybe a half hour drive but boy, we may as well have been living on two different planets rather than the same city. Khaleh joon, chi begam? Che khooneyi, che hayyati, che mehmaniyi! Like a princess in a fairytale, Maryam lived atop a steep hill overlooking the valley below. Her castle, made of marble and gold and crystal and shimmering lights, could rival any of the Pahlavi palaces of the past. The huge chandelier in the main entrance hallway alone probably cost more than the entire building Shahab and I lived in right now. Shahab himself was being very sarcastic, ridiculing what he called the taazeh be doran ressideh, corny décor.

-- "My old house was a thousand times nicer than this! And more chic, for sure." He inisted bitterly. But I didn’t care what he said. The house was gorgeous.

Maryam, dripping in diamonds from head to toe, greeted us warmly and introduced us to her husband, Reza, a not bad looking though much older, white-haired guy sporting very obvious hair plugs. (He should have had this procedure done in Iran, our surgeons’ work is much cleaner than this!) I was so happy I had worn my engagement dress, the only thing I owned that could stand a chance beside Maryam’s ultra glamorous guests, some of whom I recognized from the local Iranian TV stations.

And yes, I even got to meet the infamous “Mim” a sleazy looking guy who wore sunglasses indoors and had no facial hair except for one immensely long strand of hair hanging from his chin, like a goat! (Yuk!) One of those pretty boys I hate so much. Az oon bacheh por-roo-haa ke too Tehroon porreh! Upon meeting me, he immediately asked me to dance, right in front of Shahab. Though I declined several times, Shahab kept insisting I should go ahead and dance with this character. No matter how many murderous looks I threw his way, my own husband literally pushed me onto the dance floor with this unwanted dance partner.

I was so angry, I decided to dance several songs with this stupid Mim. Then, after he excused himself, I continued dancing, changing partners so many times that I lost count. The waiters constantly offered all the partygoers flutes of champagnes, which people were drinking up like they were the last drop of water allotted to them before a journey through the desert. Even though I never drink alcohol, I decided to join them.

All I wanted to do was to annoy Shahab. I know it was very childish of me but he made me so mad. As I drank and danced the night away, I would glance back at him from time to time to gage his reaction. He was standing around with other guests, smiling and acting fine but I knew him well enough to know he was seething. When I was so drunk that my feet felt they were stepping into quicksand and I could dance no more, I reluctantly re-joined him.

Khaleh, remember in Iran, whenever Shahab spoke, he would instantly become the center of attention. People were hanging onto his every word like he was some sort of prophet. This ability of his, to speak so eloquently and elegantly on a range of subjects, that is what initially attracted me to him. Looking back, I don’t know why every word he said seemed so fantastically witty and intellectual.

Was it the fact that he came from abroad? That he dressed impeccably? That he boasted of his fortune? Or was it that the other people beside me oohed and aahed over him like they had never met a more dazzling man and I lazily adopted their stance without thinking for myself? I don’t know anymore. All I can say that, placed in this new context, surrounded by people who actually live the millionaire life that he has always bragged about, Shahab suddenly looked like a sad, pathetic little man.

When I heard him tell, for the 900th time, the same story of how he allegedly met Donald Trump when he was a young student at NYU and how Trump tipped him a thousand dollars, or the one about him dismissing a job offer from Rafsanjani himself because he would “never betray the honour of my family and my nation by helping those who are bent on destroying its core”, I felt nothing but embarrassed for him. I thought to myself, is that all he is? Just a bunch of tired old stories, recycled over and over? And not very good ones at that, to judge from the snide looks and knowing smiles the party guests were giving each other. Some of them even openly snickered and walked away.

After he had droned on for another fifteen minutes straight without letting anyone put a word in, I gently tapped him on the arm, telling him that it was time to go home. He replied mockingly that they had not given out the dance trophies out yet, and I should go back to the dance floor. After a dozen more sarcastic remarks like that, I finally managed to convince him to leave. In my haste, I did not even say goodbye to Maryam.

On our way home, I ended up being really sick. Shahab had to stop the car several times so I could vomit. Instead of helping me, he started swearing at me, louder and angrier each time. He told me I looked disgusting, just like one of those dokhtaraye kharabe khiabooni. He spat that he was ashamed to have me as his wife, at the way I behaved, dancing like a slut in front of everyone and drinking like a cheap whore, only to end up almost sprawled on the asphalt, not even tough enough to handle my alcohol. He added that it was no wonder that I associated with “jendehs” like this Maryam, that I was one and the same. He had been fooled back in Iran when he had believed in the promise that he would be getting a pure, chaste girl from a good family. “For all the trouble I went through to get you”, He cruelly told me, “I could have gotten a beautiful, fresh fourteen year old!”

Even in the state of drunkenness and sickness I found myself in, I was outraged by his horrible words. He was talking about me, his wife, like I was a slab of meat he had purchased at the butcher’s only to come home and realize, piff piff, this meat is not up to par. What kind of monster was this man? Finally, I could not take it anymore. I started screaming at him to leave me alone, that I would rather sleep on the streets, just like those dokhtaraye khiabooni he seemed to be so well acquainted with, rather than to tolerate his smug face one more second.

I didn’t even know where we were but I got out of the car and started furiously walking away. Shahab drove after me, yelling even more profanities at me and at the same time both pleading and threatening me so that I would get back inside. After a couple of blocks, feeling sick again, I doubled over and threw up all over the sidewalk. Shahab stopped the car and came towards me. After I was done, he handed me some tissue to clean my face and helped me back into the car. The rest of the drive, I moved the farthest away possible on the passenger seat, towards the window. I cried and cried without Shahab saying a word. I eventually cried myself to sleep, right there in the car, before we got home. He must have carried me inside because I don’t remember how I got to bed.

Well, ever since, he has been giving me the silent treatment. Or rather, we have been giving it to each other. I don’t want to look at him, let alone talk to him. Khaleh joon, do all husbands and wives argue like this? How can there be peace and harmony in a marriage when the line of respect and dignity has been crossed so violently? I don’t remember Papa joon and Mahrokh Khanoom ever having a cross word for each other. Same for you and Amir Khan. What is going on here? Have I made a horrible mistake? Am I at fault here? How did things escalate to this point?

Just a few weeks ago, I was confident that we would make something out of our shabby little life, that we could support each other and become good life partners through all the adversities we faced together. What can I do to repair this damage? What is to become of us? There are so many questions I have and you are so far away. I need you so much to help me and to advise me on what to do. Please say a prayer for your loving niece, so that I find a way out of this predicament. I kiss you very tenderly, and send all my love to you and to yours.

Firoozeh >>> part 7

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7)