The Alley of Love and Yellow Jasmines (19 page)

“Ice cream?” I said. “At this time of the night? At a gas station?”

‘This is America, Shohreh, anything is possible. You can have ice cream anytime you feel like it. And I happen to love their machine-produced vanilla ice cream.”

I said I would have one. When he got back to the car he offered me the cone through the window. But as I extended my hand, he asked me a question.

“Will you marry me?” he said.

I paused then said, “Yes.”

“When would you like to get married?” he asked.

“Anytime,” I replied.

“How about now?”

“Now? At this time of night? How is it possible?”

“This is America, Shohreh, anything is possible, just say yes and you will see how easy it is.”

“What are we waiting for?” I said.

He jumped in the car, drove to a liquor store, and asked me what my favorite drink was.

“Grand Marnier,” I said.

He asked me to wait in the car. As I was sitting there in the dark, watching the store, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I loved being with him. His presence gave me a certain kind of happiness and peacefulness that I had once shared with Aydin.

He returned to the car after a few minutes with the smallest bottle of Grand Marnier I had ever seen in my life, and then started driving again.

Years later, he told me that he could not remember the name of my favorite, fancy drink at the gas station.

“Can I have a Grand Mareee . . . ?” Houshang asked the cashier.

“You mean Grand Marnier?” replied the cashier.

“Oh, yes, Grand . . . whatever it is,” said Houshang.

“Did the lady ask for it?” the cashier inquired.

“Yes, she did,” said Houshang, embarrassed.

“The lady has class,” said the cashier.

We drove to the airport, intent on flying to Las Vegas and finding a chapel to make our love official.

26

High Rollers

T
he number of night travelers at LAX, Los Angeles’s main airport, was astonishing. But when we arrived in Las Vegas, it was even more alive and exciting. It was as though everyone came out at night. Some were glued to the slot machines, which were also installed at the Las Vegas airport. I simply couldn’t believe that—gambling at the airport! At the casinos, others anxiously watched their friends or relatives, fearing the worst with each roll of the dice. Yet they all coexisted in harmony, dancing to the tune of the night and the never-ending ring of the slot machines.

Houshang asked the cabdriver to take us to a chapel where we could get married. He took us to a beautiful white and pink miniature chapel on Las Vegas Boulevard. Its chamber was covered in white lace and white baskets of pink flowers on tall white stands against the walls. The priest’s Russian-American assistant put our name down on the list. We stood in a long line of people who were also about to get married.

When we were finally standing in the presence of the priest, we were asked if we had any witnesses. We said we did not. The young priest called for Jack and Jill, the chapel’s house witnesses, to come forward. I wished I was dressed more appropriately for my wedding. I was in my jeans and an argyle shirt. We were then sworn to love each other for all eternity, for better or worse, till death do us part. Houshang was asked to kiss the bride. Being the shy man that he is, he kissed me on the cheeks and whispered in my ears that he would kiss me more affectionately when we were not in public.

We spent the night at the Caesars Palace on the Strip, Las Vegas’s version of ancient Rome, in paradise—Nevada, U.S.A. We walked through its ornate lobby, admiring its classical architecture, polished marble floors, and exquisite lamp reproductions, all theatrically lit. We strolled down the plush carpet leading to the casino. Houshang loved to play roulette. I asked him how much he wanted to risk, and he replied, “A hundred dollars.”

My lucky number has always been nineteen since I won a fortune for a dear friend in Monaco during my time as a student in London. A couple of my fellow students, rich kids, had decided to visit the South of France and took me with them. We were in the classic Monte Carlo Casino, and my friends kept losing their pocket money. By around two in the morning, they had lost all the cash they had brought with them except for a few hundred francs, about $250. It seemed like we would have to shorten the trip and head back to London, so I asked them to allow me to put all their cash on one number. They did and I randomly chose number 19, as it had been the best year of my life. Before the night was over we’d won a couple of thousand dollars.

What I was hoping for now was to win on my lucky number in Vegas, too. But before we knew it, the little marble was sitting on number 9. Well, I was half right!

My new husband looked at me in despair and said that he had hoped to play for at least an hour with the hundred. I told him he did not have to waste a minute if Lady Luck was on his side. “Put it all on one number and get it over with,” I said. We went back to our rather tacky faux Roman room and made passionate love not only for the first time but also as husband and wife. I was so happy for this new beginning.

The Grand Marnier took its toll the following morning. I woke up with a horrible headache and to the loud sound of young tourists splashing and laughing in the large pool. The sun was shining at its fullest, penetrating the loose seams of the closed curtains. I did a double take when I woke up. I turned to my left first and saw Houshang waking up next to me. Then I turned to my right and saw a piece of paper, neatly rolled in a pink ribbon and a bow. It looked very much like a diploma handed out on graduation day. It was our marriage certificate issued at the chapel. Realizing I was actually married to my best friend, whom I dearly loved, I decided I was blessed to have found a partner who had similar dreams to my own. We both aspired to become successful and make our lives meaningful by doing something significant. We admired the arts, loved poetry, and lived for the theater. Houshang was not only a great artist; he was also a handsome, kindhearted man. And of course the sexual tension between us was palpable.

Obviously the plain ceremony at the chapel had nothing in common with my first wedding, so elaborately celebrated back in Iran. I loved the straightforwardness of it all, and its simplicity.

We hurriedly left the hotel to get back in time for our evening rehearsal in Los Angeles. We jumped into a cab and were heading to the airport when I realized I had left my jewelry from Iran back at the hotel. I was distraught. Houshang looked at me as if to say “I told you so.” Then he told me he’d packed it for me. To this day, he still searches our hotel rooms thoroughly before we check out.

I ASKED HOUSHANG
to move in with me, now that I had my own apartment. He was living with his brother at the time and gladly accepted the offer. But we did not tell a soul that we were married, not even our families. We had a show to put on and did not want our marriage to take center stage.

I would go to the flower shop every morning, rehearse in the afternoons, and share my American dreams with Houshang at night: dreams of children, owning a home together, and living and working in a peaceful environment.

To our dismay the Iranian American magazine
Javanan
had found out about our elopement to Las Vegas through their sources and published the news. Our colleagues wondered if it was true. We told them the magazine had it wrong but that we would get married in due time and invite all of them to our wedding.

“We must concentrate on the play first,” said Houshang.

EARLY ONE MORNING,
not long after our return from Vegas, I woke up to the piercing sound of the telephone next to our bed. It was my friend and former host Ian, calling from London. He was going to Aspen with his siblings and was wondering if I would like to join them the following weekend. I gladly accepted and hung up, still sleepy with my eyes closed.

I did not ski. Ashur, my favorite stage director, once told me, “A serious actor does not get herself involved with a sport that may cause serious injuries.”

But I was in need of a vacation. It would be nice to take three days off from all the stress of rehearsing the play and breathing life into the penniless flower shop.

Then I heard Houshang’s voice. He asked me who I was talking to. I opened my eyes and turned around and told him who it was and that I needed a short break. He immediately jumped out of bed. He was furious with me for accepting the invitation. He said I should have asked him first, not only as my husband but also as my director. He said I needed his permission to leave.

I could not believe my ears! I said, “But I will come back refreshed and will be even more useful.”

He said no, and I became angry.

I got up and went to my desk. I picked up our marriage certificate and tore it into pieces. I told him that he was out of his mind if he thought he could take away my freedom with a piece of paper issued in Vegas.

He was speechless. I put on a dress and dashed out of our apartment. He followed me all the way to the flower shop. Misha was already there. Houshang hesitated at the door and then left. He called me a couple of hours later and asked me to let him explain himself.

I did. When I got home, I saw him with the pieces of our marriage certificate glued back together. We laughed, and he told me how sorry he was. He said I had hurt his feelings by ignoring him and not inviting him to go with me. He said I could have discussed it with him first and that he was hurt because he, too, needed a short break.

Still, what else could I do? He had not been invited, and I had not even told my friend I was married. I was dead asleep when Ian called and all I had heard was the word
vacation
. I apologized for my behavior and told Houshang I had decided not to go to Aspen. I would not have enjoyed the trip knowing he would be hurt.

IN SEPTEMBER 1987,
the play
Café Nostalgia
ran for four consecutive nights at the Lincoln Auditorium in Santa Monica. Its premiere was more than promising. All six hundred tickets were sold out. Iranian stores on Westwood and in Santa Monica displayed our posters and sold our tickets.

I went to the stores to collect the money and brought back several thousand dollars in cash in my shoulder bag. I could not wait to get home and pour the entire sack of cash on the bed, just like they do in the movies. I’d always wanted to do it and see how it would feel. I stretched my hands as high up as possible and poured all the money on the bed in slow motion. The bills floated out of the bag and danced in the air as they landed on the bed one by one.

Houshang was watching me, smiling. “You had to do it, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, throwing the empty bag aside.

We stood there in each other’s arms, in our tiny studio apartment, watching our American Dream coming true, realizing we had a built-in audience who enjoyed our work and would come to see us wherever we performed. It was this core audience’s unflinching support that would eventually bring me to the Oscars.

HOUSHANG ASKED ME
to marry him again—now that I had torn apart our marriage certificate. I agreed.

We went to City Hall a couple of days later and again waited in a long line. It was time to invite our close friends to a nice restaurant and celebrate our new official marriage.

I called my parents in Tehran. By now both my parents were in their late fifties. My father had retired from the Ministry of Health as managing director. I also phoned Shahram in London and invited him to our party. My middle brother, Shahriar, was still in Tehran practicing medicine, and Shahrokh, who believed in being an ordinary citizen, was an engineer. Unfortunately, the ones in Iran would have faced difficulties obtaining quick visas to America. But everyone was thrilled to hear the news. They wished me a long and happy marriage. I begged them to come and visit us as soon as they could. My mother promised me she would come over and that she would bring my father if I gave them a grandchild. They already had two by my brother Shahriar, but they wanted to see my children.

Houshang called his parents and was surprised to discover that they were coming to visit their sons in America. I did not know Houshang’s parents but had heard a lot about them. Houshang loved his mother and had told me how she had devoted her life to raising him and his five siblings. His father, on the other hand, was a man of leisure, an incredibly good-looking rich man who had lost a fortune partying and gambling when he was young, but was still loved by his wife.

Houshang’s mother cried on the phone and told him that she wanted us to have a real wedding. But we could barely get by financially, let alone throw a big wedding party—especially an Iranian wedding party with the traditional five-course meal, tons of sweets and fruits, flowers, live band, a wedding dress, and an expensive suit. Neither of us had a permanent job. Wasting our savings on a wedding like that sounded overly indulgent. I was at a loss for words when Houshang told me about his mom’s wish. How could I not agree with her? She was an Iranian mother and had every right to ask for an Iranian wedding. But how could we fulfill her wish?