The Alley of Love and Yellow Jasmines (17 page)

Mr. K invited me to Milan and then to Greece, to the beautiful island of Mykonos. I gladly accepted.

He told me one night that he had a business idea for the both of us. Milan produces the best lingerie in the world, and he wanted to import Italian lingerie to London. Would I be willing to start a business together? With his experience and my salesmanship, we would be a great team—I thought.

This time I spent all my lunch hours, evenings, and weekends at a variety of stores. From luxurious, expensive places like Harrods to mass producers like Marks & Spencer, I examined every piece of lingerie and took careful notes. Mr. K had made me a chart to record the color, size, quality, and price of every item. He believed that one should always study the market first. His plan was to import a line of lingerie that would have the look of an expensive one but cost a lot less, something he said the present market was lacking. Our survey had proved to us that there was a huge price gap between cheap cotton pants and silk ones, and there was nothing in the middle that could serve the emerging middle class.

My parents came to visit my brother and me for a few weeks. I had already made plans with Mr. K for the holidays but would be gone only ten days. Mr. K asked me to invite my family to his home before we left. I got there early to see if he needed any help. He was thankful and asked me to help with grocery shopping. I opened the refrigerator, and it was completely empty except for a bottle of mineral water. The two of us headed to the nearest grocery store.

While I was picking out fruits, he kept asking me the price of every item. It was weird; a man who was willing to pay a couple of thousand pounds for furniture was looking for bargains at the grocery store. But maybe that was how he had managed to make such a lavish life for himself at such a young age. He economized whenever and wherever he could.

My parents loved him. My mother thought he was polite and charming, and my father was quite taken by his education and relentless efforts to become such a successful businessman in Britain.

Mr. K and I left the day after. Milan was magnificent, and so was the magical world of the fashion industry. We went to a lingerie fashion show for three days, starting at eleven o’clock in the morning and ending at four o’clock in the afternoon. It was located in a thirty-thousand-square-foot, three-story industrial building. Tall and gorgeous Italian models were scattered among the crowd on each floor, walking around in their underwear and revealing bras. For shopping purposes, buyers could touch the materials but not the models, nor could they talk to them. Mr. K and I touched as many underwear as we could for two days and ordered dozens of samples.

We went sightseeing in the early evening and dined at a variety of restaurants. Mr. K liked shopping around for food. He read the restaurants’ menus (and, I assumed, their prices) displayed on their windows thoroughly.

We flew to Athens next and stayed with a relative of his in a beautiful villa in the suburbs. We flew to Mykonos a day later.

Mr. K was a regular visitor to the island. He rented a certain bungalow from a short, heavy, and talkative Greek woman named Helen who took care of a colony of bungalows by the beach. Mr. K had asked her to provide us with some fruit and a bottle of wine, which we shared with her.

Later on we dined at a restaurant with a great view of the island and strolled through the alleys, watching tourists dancing to the familiar melody from
Zorba the Greek
, or singing their own favorite songs in outdoor cafés.

The moon was full and the cobalt blue sea was calm. Drunken young lovers were everywhere.

Suddenly, I was having a change of heart over Mr. K and some of his peculiar ways. He knew I wanted to follow my dream of acting, but he did not care enough to talk about it. And now he wanted to start a business with me, a rather active business that required a lot of time and supervision. Who was this person? What if I needed to go on the road again? I kept asking myself all sorts of questions as I went to sleep that night.

The next morning, I woke up late. Mr. K was already up and about and talking to Helen. They stopped when I got closer. Helen hugged me and congratulated me. Mr. K had told her we were getting married, and she suggested we do it on the island. She had gone to the only church in town to register us. I was speechless and told him that my parents would be upset. Since it was my second marriage, they did not expect a huge wedding, only a formal wedding party. Mr. K said we would throw the party in London, and we went to buy the rings. But all of this was moving a little fast for me.

Those who have been to Mykonos know that the island is famous for its restaurants, bars, and jewelry shops. Brand names like Cartier and Boucheron and Rolex, Greek designers like Zolotas and Lalaounis, and tons of small jewelry shops located close together. We walked for a while, skipping the brand names, and stepped into a shop literally eight-by-ten feet in size.

Mr. K had decided that Russian rings were the best and asked the shopkeeper to show us some. Mr. K took a long look and picked the tiniest of them all. He asked the seller to engrave our names and the date in our rings.

The witty Greek jeweler smirked and said: “Would you like me to add your love story to it?” Mr. K replied, “It’s not necessary.”

Mr. K then asked the price, and the jeweler said that the rings and the engraving cost $400.

“How about three hundred and fifty?” asked Mr. K.

“I do not bargain with my craft, sir. Take it or leave it,” said the jeweler.

Mr. K was embarrassed and agreed to pay the full price.

When we went back to our bungalow to change for dinner, Helen was waiting for us. She said that in order to be able to marry on the island we needed to convert to the Greek Orthodox religion first.

“What is the procedure like?” I asked.

“It is very easy,” explained Helen. “You follow the priest’s prayers and say a few words, and then they will stamp your passports. It will not take more than an hour, and then you can get married at the church.” Mr. K was happy to do it and asked Helen to wake us up at ten the following morning.

We went to dinner, and I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I am a people person and love socializing. But there is one kind of person I cannot stand: stingy ones. I despise those who bargain with poor vendors. Life is much too short for that.

There was no way I was going to marry Mr. K. Culturally I was too shy to break my promise. Fortunately, I have always been able to think quickly on my feet.

“Are you not worried about your trips to Iran?” I asked at dinner.

“What about Iran?” he said.

I said that the Greek Orthodox stamps in his passport may prevent him from visiting Iran.

“You would be considered a minority in Iran if nothing else,” I said. “Why take such a risk when we can easily get married at home in London?”

I told him that, personally, I would not mind converting, for I am interested in all religions, like my grandmother. I am fascinated by Jesus, too, but I was not the one who was going to travel to Iran. “I will never go back to Iran until it is free,” I told Mr. K.

While cleaning his now steamy glasses, he said that he had not thought about that. I knew I had hit the right button, so I kept on talking about all the ramifications of marrying on the island.

We spent the next day sunbathing and reading—rather than getting married. I planned on breaking up with him upon our return to London.

25

The Princess and the Shop

I
came back from Mykonos and ran to Browns, knowing that I needed to keep working until I could find the right path—and the right man—for me.

It was during this time at Browns that I had the pleasure of seeing Princess Diana in person. Our boss, Mr. Bernstein, called the shop in advance and instructed us to wait for her arrival. He asked us not to bother her with the frequently asked question “Can I help you.”

“She will ask for help, if she needs any,” said Mr. Bernstein.

Being familiar with the Iranian monarchy, I was expecting a herd of secret service to pour in first. But she came with only two bodyguards, who stayed at the door. The shop was not closed to the public for her visit, upon her own request.

She came in, and although I was trying not to look at her and to let her feel free, I could not help myself. She was not only beautiful and fragile, with her lovely British porcelain skin, but she also had an amazing presence and the most charming shy smile I have ever seen in my life. I had watched her getting married to her Prince Charming on television not long before and had wished her a long and happy marriage.

She went through the racks and looked at a variety of evening gowns and dresses. She then turned around and thanked us. Her visit did not take more than twenty minutes, but she knew exactly what she wanted, and that item was going to be delivered to the palace later.

I HAD MANAGED
to save some money from the tour in the U.S.A. and was thinking it might be a good idea to go back to university and get my master’s degree in political science.

I had applied to a couple of universities and was waiting to hear back when Massud Assadolahi, another Iranian actor-director, called and told me about his play titled
The Mirror.
This was the story of a writer and his wife who are robbed by human smugglers. Marooned in Pakistan without any money, they manage to obtain refugee visas to England. Having lost everything, including their identities, brings them to the point of no return. Once again I was being tested. Perhaps my destiny was being offered on a silver platter.

Out of sheer coincidence, I had read an article concerning Iranians fleeing Iran, and how they were often the victims of human smugglers. Some were even murdered for their money.

I agreed to do the play, knowing it would take me back to America. It managed to attract a Farsi-speaking audience again and the recent Iranian immigrants who looked forward to watching a play starring their favorite actors in exile. This time I decided to research the possibility of living in Los Angeles.

I had met a young woman at a friend’s party on my first trip to Los Angeles and had quite liked her. Her nickname was Mimi. She was in her late twenties, tall and beautiful. She had told me I could always move in with her if I ever decided to return to L.A. Mimi was working at a shoe boutique on Sunset and was also being helped financially by her brother in Europe. She was about to leave her partner of a year and needed to move out. We found a beautiful two-bedroom apartment off of Westwood Boulevard. I had to sign the lease alone, because her credit score was poor.

I was alarmed that her credit was so bad but decided to go ahead and move in with her anyway. I visited a couple of boutiques on the Sunset Strip in search of employment, and they were all more than happy to hire me, especially when I told them that I had a letter of recommendation from Browns. It gave me confidence to know that if acting didn’t work out, I could have a job at a nice store.

I kept exploring my options while Mimi was at work and partied with her in the evening. She loved drinking at night and found an excuse to celebrate any occasion. I drank, too, but was not very fond of alcohol. Mimi would come home and tell me that her brother had expanded his business in France and that it called for a celebration. She would dash out and return with a small bottle of booze—brandy, vodka, or tequila, depending on her financial situation. I did not mind drinking wine occasionally, but after a week or two I realized that Mimi was an alcoholic.

IT WAS 1986,
and I knew becoming an actor in Hollywood was more than wishful thinking. With my accent and my jet-black hair, I was not exactly the girl next door. So, what else could I do to guarantee a regular income? I had to make sure that I would not end up living on the street when my savings ran out.

My grandmother told bedtime stories, mostly based on Persian fairy tales and fables. Regrettably I could not understand the meaningful messages hidden in those bedtime stories at the time, or at least not until I started living on my own and gaining life experience. One of my favorites, still, is the story of “The Prince and the Rug.”

ONCE UPON A
time, there was a handsome, courageous prince, the only heir to the throne. He lived in a castle in a magical land, overlooking a valley of clouds. The castle was made of a fine multitude of colored marbles gathered from all over the world, covered by turquoise domes laid on golden pillars.

His father, the king, wanted him to become a warrior, and his mother, the queen, insisted that the prince should also learn the art of rug weaving in his spare time. Everyone at the court was astonished at the queen’s demand, for weaving rugs was far beneath the royal prince.

“Only village girls weave rugs,” the poor prince cried. But after all he had to obey the queen and learned the craft.

The prince even designed a rug for his mother. It was a royal-size saffron-colored rug with a huge paisley in the center, surrounded by green leaves, and the prince’s signature woven into it.