Dreaming in English (27 page)

Maryam has quit her job at Macy’s so she can stay off her feet for the baby. The day of our meeting with Ike’s parents, she’d woken from a nap with a stomachache so severe it made her feel like her insides were being pulled out of her by an unknown, evil force. She was sure she was losing the baby, as she had the others. After her doctor examined her, he said it was nothing serious, that the baby was fine and it was only that her ligaments were stretching. This did nothing to calm Maryam, and she’s finding it very hard to feel hopeful about the baby.

I can tell Ardishir is nervous, too, even though he’s acting like Mr. Calm and Reasonable. Already very considerate of Maryam, he’s become even more so—bringing her tea in bed, running virtually every household errand, and calling her every few hours. Within days, he’s begun to drive Maryam crazy.

 

 

 

Deciding on a name for the coffee shop proves very difficult but also very fun. We hold a wine and cheesecake party in Rose’s backyard one night and invite our friends and families to help us come up with a good name.

Ike’s whole family comes, except for Mrs. Hanson, who claims to have a migraine headache. I’m pretty sure it’s the thought of me that causes it. At the party, I’m busy with my camera. I take a picture of Mr. Hanson with Maryam and Ardishir, the three of them talking, laughing, their faces illuminated by a string of lights woven through tree branches. Mr. Hanson holds Camille in his arms, and Camille is entranced by my sister—maybe by her glittery jewelry, or maybe by her beautiful smile. This is a picture I’d like to send my parents, except it would show Maryam’s pregnancy, so I can’t. I take others that I
can
send, such as a shot of my friends from English class with their arms around each other’s shoulders, and another of Ike with his sisters. He and the older girls stand in a line and hold Camille sideways across them, while she giggles her little-girl laugh.

The whole night is filled with laughter, and we have a very good time thinking up names for the coffee shop.

Eva suggests Ass-Kicking Coffee. I could have guessed she’d pick that!

Camille suggests Stinky Coffee Breath. Paige suggests Cozy Coffee. Maryam suggests Coffee, Tea, or Me. Rose suggests the Irish Coffee House and says we could also serve Irish whiskey and Baileys. Our friend Beth suggests Sips, which I like, and also Sip by Sip, which I like even better because it’s like we’re inviting people to take life sip by sip and savor all the good parts.

Our friend Lisa suggests Steamin’ Cup after her favorite coffee shop from when she lived in Wisconsin. I like this but worry about people not wanting to be steaming in Tucson in the summer, and I think the same thing about Carol’s suggestion of Hotter Than Tucson. Several people suggest names with strange letter combinations, such as Kismet Koffee Kafe and Kashmir Kafe, and I worry that people will think I don’t know how to spell. There is also Coffee Oasis, Enchanted Café, Desert Brew, the Desert Spoon. Jitters is suggested, and Carpe Coffee, and Wildcups because we’re near the University of Arizona, whose sports teams are called the Wildcats. I like all of these. It’s so hard to choose! But when our friend Tonia gives her suggestion, Ike and I look at each other and we just know it’s the right name. It speaks to our coming together—not just Ike and me, but what we hope for all the cultures of the world. It speaks to our shared humanity, to our universality.

It speaks to the capturing-freedom photographs that will hang on the walls. It says that we are, all of us, more alike than different.

Our coffee shop will be called . . . drumroll, please . . . Common Grounds.

Ike and I spend the entire week driving around town, going to various government buildings and law offices and banks and accountants’ offices. I had no idea there was so much to do when you’re opening a business! Every day Ike starts by making a list of tasks and puts maybe ten items on it, but those ten really break down into fifty, or maybe one hundred. You need a security system—what kind? Which locksmith? Do you want cameras? Alarms on the doors? To be able to monitor the shop on the Internet when you’re not there? How many sets of keys? What’s your budget? It’s crazy! I’m learning so much from all the conversations Ike and I have with people about the business that it seems my English class isn’t the best way for me to practice my English anymore, and that it’s maybe not needed. Still, I go a few times per week, mostly because I want to see my friends.

 

 

 

Also, I keep working for Ardishir several mornings a week. One day, he bursts out of his inner office into the waiting room, where, thankfully, there are no clients waiting to see him. With his shoes on, he leaps onto his nice black leather couch and, with one hand raised in a fist, shouts, “‘Gentlemen may cry, “Peace, peace”—but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! . . . Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? . . . Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!’”

Tilly, the billing clerk, and I exchange an amused glance. This sort of scene has become increasingly familiar, as Ardishir’s new interest in American history has turned into something of an obsession.

“Who said it? Do you know?” He jumps down from the couch. “If we have a boy, I’m naming him after this great American. Take a guess. Who do you think it was?”

I, of course, have no idea. I don’t know many names from American history, and Tilly, who watches every reality show there is, but not the History Channel, isn’t the type to know either. Ardishir knows this. This is just part of the routine.

“Thomas Paine?” I guess. This was last week’s grand speech—
It is always to be taken for granted, that those who oppose an equality of rights never mean the exclusion should take place on themselves.

“No!” Ardishir comes up to the reception counter and takes a chocolate Hershey’s Kiss from the sweets bowl. “Today’s American is mostly remembered for his rousing speech convincing the Virginia colony, the largest colony, to join in the American Revolution, but his contribution to the cause of freedom went well beyond his give-me-liberty-or-give-me-death speech.”

My brother-in-law, the college professor.

“I still don’t even know who you’re talking about,” I say.

“Patrick Henry!” Ardishir says. “He urged Virginia to oppose the Constitution because he thought it eroded the
very
liberties we fought so hard for. History has proven him quite the prophet! I thank Patrick Henry for the Bill of Rights!” He raises both arms in hurrah. “To Patrick Henry!”

Gamely, Tilly and I raise our fists. “You’re such a nut,” I say.

I’m beginning to think he’s even more of a nut than Haroun!

Speaking of Haroun . . .

It’s a beautiful, perfect, no-care-in-the-world day I’m spending with Eva when we run into him. That’s not exactly correct—we don’t exactly run into him. It’s more like he hunts us down.

It’s a Saturday, and Ike and his father are constructing a wall at the coffee shop, so Eva and I go to the Fourth Avenue Street Fair. I love it; it is very much fun. I’ve never seen such a large crowd in Tucson, walking up and down the street, over and over, looking at all the things the street vendors have for sale, such as tie-dye shirts and handmade jewelry and wind chimes and the like. And the food! We try a little bit of everything—gyros, tamales, bratwurst, and over the course of an hour, we drink two beers each, which is one too many for me.

We’re sitting at a shared picnic table near a stage where rock bands perform, but the band is on break and the other people at the table have just left. Eva, in a slinky green dress that looks more like lingerie than clothing and a pair of midcalf cowboy boots that I love and yet another wig of long red hair, sits across from me. She’s telling me in graphic detail about the lovemaking she heard going on in the apartment next to hers last night, and what she would like to do to the man involved if she had the chance, and I’m staring at her, openmouthed, wondering as usual how she can be so . . . so
Eva
—what would her parents think to hear her?—when he, Haroun, comes straight at us.

“Tamila Soroush.”

Oh,
God.
I never thought I’d have to hear his voice again. There’s something snide about it, too, which apparently Eva does not notice. Before I can say anything, she flips her fake red hair over her shoulder and looks at him seductively. “Ooh, a Persian dude. Have a seat, Persian dude.”

I make big eyes at her to tell her this is a very bad idea, but she’s not looking at me. Haroun, with his perfectly straight white teeth and his sparkling brown, solicitous eyes, both of which could fool a woman—especially a woman who’s had two beers—into thinking he’s handsome, into thinking he’s not dangerous, gives her a charming, Persian-clever smile. “Oooh, you’re a hottie,” she says, sliding over to make space for him on the bench. But he’s
not
a hottie. He’s fastidious and obsessive; this is the reason for his trim look. Each morning in his home gym he does one hundred sit-ups, one hundred chin-ups, and one hundred push-ups, followed by forty-five minutes of cardio exercises (no way would he go to a health club—too many germs) because he has determined this is the best way to maintain health and avoid illness. And sure, he looks healthy, physically. But he’s not healthy in his head.

Eva gives me a mischievous look to let me know she intends to have some fun with him. I shake my head no, but as usual, she ignores me and asks him, “How do you know our Tami?”

“This is Haroun,” I say quickly.

“Oh, dude, you’re the—” To her credit, she stops. But then she says, “You didn’t tell me he was so yummy, Tami.”

“That’s me,” he says. “Yummy. A dessert, a regular fruitcake. Or so I hear.”

My heart freezes in shock. How could he
possibly
know we called him this, along with pistachio nut, macadamia nut, peanut, and any other nut Ardishir could think of? He couldn’t have. It must just be an odd coincidence, same as the fact that we ran into him at all. But if running into him really
was
a coincidence, he could have walked away when he saw me. I certainly would have if I’d seen him! Oh, God, please don’t let him be following me! I do
not
need an obsessive-compulsive stalker in my life!

I give him my friendliest smile. “How are you, Haroun?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” He doesn’t smile back.

“Ooh, there’s a chill in the air!” Eva says. “A chill in the air and it’s ninety-eight degrees. Bring it on, people!”

Unlike me, Eva loves confrontation.

“We should go.” I glance at the wrist my watch would be on if I wore a watch. “It was so nice to see you!”

“You’re not wearing a wedding ring.” Haroun gestures to my still-bare ring finger. “What happened—did you break his heart, too?”

“Zing! Pow!” Eva puts her fists into a punching formation. “Sha-zam!”

“I’m still married. Thanks for asking,” I say.

“Please convey to him my regards.” Haroun gives me that small, self-satisfied smile Iranians use when they’re being disingenuous. And who can blame him for hating me?

“Haroun, I owe you an apology. I’m so very sorry for what happened,” I say. “I’m so sorry I disappointed you.”

“
Disappointed
me?” His eyes bulge. “You used me. You—”

“She fell in love,” Eva says. “Get over it.”

“Love.” Haroun’s upper lip curls into a snarl. “She’s not in love. Her American is just convenient. Marriage of convenience strictly okay—right?”

Eva looks at me. “You’re right, he is cuckoo. Is he making any sense to you?”

I shake my head, but something is jiggling in my brain. I’ve heard that phrase before.

“We should go,” I say again.

“I don’t appreciate being called an obsessive-compulsive neat freak, Tami,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Of course I’d never call you that.” I say this calmly, but my heart is racing.
What does he know, and how does he know it?

“There she goes, lying again.” Haroun looks at me like I’m a dirty dog he’d like to kick.

“Dude, seriously,” Eva says. “Get over yourself.”

Ignoring her, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. From it, he withdraws a carefully folded sheet of computer paper. He smirks at Eva and hands the paper to me. “I don’t appreciate this, Tami. This is
kolah bardari
. A scam, a fraud.”

I unfold it, and when I see what it is, I gasp.

It’s the Internet advertisement that Eva ran on Persian-singles. com when it became clear that Haroun was going to propose to me. She was sure the germ-phobic Haroun would never have sex with me because of the unsanitary nature of the act. She was sure I’d die a virgin, and that was unthinkable to my sex-obsessed German friend. And so without my knowledge, she placed a very blunt advertisement on the matchmaking site . . . which eventually led to my meeting Masoud and breaking off my almost-engagement to Haroun.