Together Tea (3 page)

Chapter Three

A Puddle of Folders

F
atty,” Darya said. “He was a fatty. He needs to exercise. God knows he has a PhD. You'd think he'd know not to eat so much baklava in one sitting. And what
was
that suit?” She crinkled her nose.

“
Basseh.
Enough. Stop it, Darya,” Baba said.

They were in the kitchen, putting away the lunch dishes. Darya's forehead vein throbbed, the way it always did when she was upset. Mina noticed that her bun was coming undone.

“It's just that . . . well, it didn't work out. And sometimes the information that comes to me from
some
of my sources is a little biased. All I'm saying is . . .”

They had stood in the yard as Mr. Dashti's sleek, silver car had backed out of the driveway and disappeared down the street. The three of them had waved perfunctorily, continuing to move their hands back and forth even after Mr. Dashti's car had gone.

“No matter!” Baba said as he dried a tiny spoon. “Onward!”

“Yes, of course. On . . . with it, or whatever it is you say. You know it's not at all important, right, Mina Joon? He was a fatty.” Darya picked up a frying pan to dry.

“Please stop. Stop with the name-calling. Just stop with all of this. Stop inviting men, stop graphing them. Stop humiliating me. And them. Just. Stop.
Please
,” Mina said.

“What on earth's the matter?” Darya shoved the frying pan into Baba's chest. “Come upstairs with me, Mina. Come on!”

Mina felt as if all this were happening to someone else, in someone else's family. Somebody else's parents invited all these men over, not hers. Not the mother she had known growing up, who had driven them to English classes in Tehran and taught them
ghazal
of Persian poetry, not the father who had calmly tied her shoelaces on mountain hikes and taught her how to count tadpoles in the rain and play chess by a campfire.

Pulled by some invisible rope between her and Darya that she wished she could slice in two, Mina followed her mother upstairs.

The bedroom smelled of green apples and lotion. The bureau was freshly polished and shone. The desk was in perfect order. The only thing out of place was the filing cabinet: it was open, and Mr. Dashti's yellow file stuck out. Darya must have done some last-minute reviewing this morning.

“I really didn't like the way he slurped his tea is all I'm saying, Mina. It was very peasant-like.” She crossed her arms. “Surely you can do better than that!!”

Dear God above, help me, Mina thought. “He was your idea. Remember?” She tried to be calm. She tried to be reasonable and
businesslike.
“Aren't your twenties supposed to be when you take time to figure things out, have fun, find out who you are? Why fast-forward to husband-and-kids. I'm already in business school, aren't I? Crunching those equations that you love?”

“Oh please, Mina, don't give me this garbage. This extended childhood that you Americans glorify . . . ‘finding out who you are'? That's psychobabble. Mumbo.
Jumbo
. You want to know who you are? I'll tell you who you are. You're my daughter!”

Mina plopped onto Darya's bed.

“All this ‘adjusting to the real world' charade that people here talk about. You know what it is?
Laziness!
A way to delay responsibility. It doesn't take a decade to ‘figure things out.' Figure what out? How long do these people expect to remain children?”

Mina stared at the folder. Did Darya think that a man would be the last piece of the Mina math puzzle? The final variable to complete the spreadsheet? Was she after the perfect formula to solve Mina? What did it take to create Darya's ideal of a “whole” Mina? If only Darya would just dump these folders. Mina would then ask her why she'd thrown them all away. Darya would probably say because it's not worth the aggravation I go through to set up these meetings. You don't cooperate. I give up! She'd give her martyr-mother sigh and Mina would be left swimming in her familiar pool of guilt.

“We're done with this setting-up thing, right? It's not worth it anymore, is it, Darya?” Mina asked out loud.

“It's not that it's not worth it,” Darya said quietly. “It's that you are worth more.”

A car drove by on the street below, loud rock and roll blasting through Mina's skull.

“All of this.” Darya's hand waved over the folders and filing cabinet. “It's
here
that there's so little I can do. There, I was in my element. We had dignity. A solid life. We were established. Not foreigners having to scavenge for foreigners. I could have given you everything.”

Mina thought of Darya
in her element.
She couldn't imagine herself in any element she could call her own. That other country, was it a dream? When Mina pressed her face to the plane window that first night when they were about to land in New York and took in the glittering jewellike city lights, did the other country cease to exist? Was Mina a foreigner here? She thought she was an American. Darya always called her one.

The setting sun created pools of light on the Persian rug. Twilight fell. Mina and her brothers had to hold up the fragile web of the new life they'd created and make sure that not one thread got unraveled because they had left a place of horror and this—the secure house, the freedoms, the convenient food markets, the peaceful streets—this is what they had come here for, and they did not need to argue. They did not need to disrupt this safe American life that they had somehow pieced together and built from scratch.

“I'll set the table for dinner.” Mina walked carefully around the filing cabinet and went downstairs.

THEY HAD LEFTOVERS FOR DINNER.
The rice had lost most of its saffron grains and the
tahdeeg,
the crunchy bottom-of-pot rice, was gone. The phone rang.

“It's Yung-Ja,” Baba called out.

When Darya took the phone, she mumbled “yes,” “no,” and “well, you know my spreadsheets do have a margin of error.”

Mina knew she should go back to her apartment in Manhattan. She had a huge finance case to prepare for the morning. But she felt stuck. Imbalanced.

She crept up to Darya's bedroom after dinner. How could a person spend so much time trying to find a mate for someone else? Did Darya really worry so much about Mina's spending her life alone? Or did she just get a thrill out of the charts and graphs?

Mina pulled out folder after folder containing data on accomplished men. She spread the résumés on the floor. Darya's handwriting was all over the CVs. “Mother forgot to give his brother the polio vaccine, brother got polio,” Darya had scribbled in the margin of Jahanfard's résumé. Then in an angry red she'd written the word “CARELESS!!” In another manila folder Mina found notes about a thirty-three-year-old banker who, according to Darya's handwriting, “smoked for ten years but has now quit.” Next to that note, in red, Darya had scribbled, “Check on this. Make sure.”

When Darya appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, her bun had completely fallen apart. Even in the tailored suit, she looked defeated. She stepped over the folders that Mina had strewn on the floor. She said nothing, but just slid down and sat on the floor across from Mina. Darya drew her panty-hosed knees to her chest and blew her red hair away from her eyes, and for a moment she looked young again. In that minute, she looked like the mother Mina remembered from prerevolutionary Iran. The mother who would laugh at the idea of suitors being graphed and who had more important things to do with her time than drawing charts of potential husbands. That old young mother.

Mina thought again of Mr. Dashti. He was actually a nice enough man, but the day felt as if it had revolved around a monster.

“I used to laugh at people who set up meetings with suitors. Did you know that?” Darya lowered her head onto her knees, surrounded by the puddle of folders. “I used to laugh.”

When Darya bent her head, Mina could see the gray roots.

“Have you prepared your finance case, Mina? Don't you have a big assignment coming up? You shouldn't be wasting your time on suitors, you know that, right?” Darya's muffled voice spoke into her knees.

Chapter Four

Pillow Talk and Adult Education

D
arya couldn't wait for the day to be over. Her heart beat too fast against her drawn-up knees. Lately nothing worked out. And “lately” meant since the revolution. For fifteen years, her life had been on hold. For fifteen years, she'd been waiting for the regime in Iran to change. So she could go back to her normal life. To her green house in Tehran, just a few blocks away from where her father and mother had lived before her mother was killed. To go back to that life where it didn't matter what an MBA stood for or where Atlanta was. But here she was. The kids were getting older. Sassier. Sometimes, she was convinced, even stupider. The lunch with Mr. Dashti hadn't been all that different from the lunches and teas with other men. But there was something about his shiny face and perfect teeth and calm demeanor that made Darya feel embarrassed for having him over. It was as if he had telegraphed with his white smile the folly of the whole experiment. Darya felt done in. As if she'd had the last straw with this one. For what? What the hell was she doing typing up résumés and making graphs on some two-cent men who didn't even deserve her daughter?

Things had happened the way they happened. The revolution had changed her world. What is done cannot be undone.

Parviz walked in then. Parviz now had on his sweatshirt and jeans, no more suit and turtle tie. Though he still smelled of Old Spice. Ever since they had moved to America, he'd smelled of that cologne. He hadn't stopped splashing it on since the day he brought her to this country with its candy canes and carousels and carefree attitude about everything and anything.

“Darya Joon, I'll drive her home,” Parviz said.

“You don't need to drive me. I took the subway today. I can take it back,” Mina said.

“It's late,” Parviz said.

“I'll be fine.”

“Okay then, just to the station.”

“Go with your father. Let him take you to the station.” Darya lifted her head. “Off you go, then. Off you go.” Mina, sulky and sullen, waved, and Darya wished her daughter had more oomph. More confidence. Where had Mina's confidence gone? And her gratitude. Say thank you to your father for driving you, for goodness' sakes. Hadn't she taught her anything?

Once she heard her husband and daughter back out the driveway, Darya sank onto the floor. She stretched out her body and closed her eyes. In Iran, the ceilings of their home had been so high. Making them feel freer inside. Here, in this “cape” style house as Parviz called it, she always felt as if the walls were closing in on her. Her sons could barely stand up straight in this room. Even she felt as if she could bump her head if she stood on her nyloned tippy toes.

She thought of her mother's garden: the fat crimson flowers, the lemon trees, the smell of the leaves and the dust after her father watered the bushes, the sound of the beet seller's wagon going by.

“
Khoobi?
You okay?” Parviz reappeared in the doorway as if by magic. The ride to the subway had been so short. Or maybe she'd lost track of time.

His familiar, warm hand folded over hers as he slid onto the floor and lay down next to her. The first time she'd touched his hand, back when Mamani presided over their courtship, she'd been surprised at the thick strong veins on the back of it. Now she loved those veins. They lay side by side on their backs, staring up at the ceiling.

“
Khoobam,
I'm fine,” Darya said. Darya closed her eyes again and thought of their old life in Tehran. There it hadn't been just Darya, Parviz, Hooman, Kayvon, and Mina. There had been Mamani, and Darya's father, Agha Jan, Darya's sister, Nikki, her children, Parviz's parents, his four siblings, their children, Mamani's five sisters, their children, all the cousins and aunts and uncles and the extended family that stretched from Tehran to Mazandaran by the Caspian Sea. Darya had loved that connected life. She would throw birthday parties, and about a hundred people would show with gifts and kisses and kind words and gossip. There were friends too, the friends that Darya and Parviz had made at the university: a rowdy, jovial group who might as well have been family. She missed them all so much.

Parviz grunted. Was he sniffling? Maybe he was missing their old life too, missing that stability that had vanished once the revolution and then war blowtorched their country and tore them all apart. Maybe he was remembering the day of that awful bombing that killed Mamani.

Darya opened her eyes and looked at her husband.

“Oh my God, Parviz, are you doing
ab crunches
? Is there ever a time when you're not trying to optimize the moment? We're . . . I thought we were talking!”

Out of breath and slightly sweating, Parviz let out a puff. “Just a few pelvic . . .”

“Oh, for God's sake!” Darya got up. Her panty hose was cutting into her ever-expanding middle. What was the use? Parviz was happy to be here. He didn't miss anything about Iran. He was always seizing the bloody moment.

Darya couldn't wait to rip off her tight panty hose. Couldn't wait to just put on her pajamas and collapse into bed.

“And fifty!” Parviz let out a triumphant exhale and bounded up.

LATER THAT NIGHT, AS PARVIZ SNORED
peacefully, Darya lay awake next to him.

Parviz let out a long, satisfied snore. Darya turned toward him. How could he not ever want to go back? How could he not miss his parents' home in downtown Tehran, where the bathroom was outdoors and Persian cats roamed by the pond in their garden?

Darya nudged her husband gently. He made one loud snore, then startled awake.

“Are you sleeping?” Darya whispered.

“No, just doing scissor jumping jacks, dear. Of course I'm sleeping! What
is
it, Darya? Just forget about that Dashti fellow. Just let it go. Go to sleep.”

“Parviz, do you ever miss your parents' house in downtown Tehran where the bathroom was outdoors and Persian cats roamed by the pond in the garden?”

“What?”
Parviz mumbled.

“Do you miss it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it was in downtown Tehran and the bathroom was outdoors and cats roamed in the garden. That's why! Darya, are we replaying the ‘I miss my homeland' record? You know you have to live in the present. You know you can't go back to the past . . .”

“Oh please, no self-help rubbish right now, okay?” Darya turned her back to him.

“You wanted to talk!”

“I just get homesick, that's all. I never thought I would be graphing men's grade point averages for Mina. I thought . . . I thought it would be different when I was middle-aged. That I'd be accomplished.”

“You
are
accomplished, Darya. You have three beautiful children. You have re-created a life and a home in a brand-new country. Hooman is a doctor. Kayvon is a lawyer. Mina is in business school. We got out of Iran. We're Americans. You're even working as a bank teller now. What more could you possibly want?”

Darya sighed. “Good night, Parviz.”

Within a few minutes, Parviz was snoring again. Even his sleeping was efficient. He was right. The kids had turned out well. That was most important. She was indeed a bank teller, which was far better than the dry cleaner's seamstress she'd been when they first moved here. Darya thought back to her university days. Back then, unlike now, not too many girls had attended university in Iran. Female enrollment in universities had actually increased
after
the Islamic Revolution. But before the revolution, she'd been one of five girls in her whole class. How the men had vied for her attention! The flirting. The drives to the cinema. The
proposals
. Darya had tried so hard to concentrate on her grades. The math classes were the most fascinating, the most challenging, the best. The numbers in her mind had felt like numbers she could hold—squeeze between her fingers, roll around, even toss up in the air, and rearrange in perfect new order. The satisfaction when she slotted those numbers into place. Nothing felt like that. Well, maybe some things.

Those Iranian men of her youth had driven her around in convertibles and taken her on hikes in the mountains. In a Tehran that felt new and modern and on the brink of excellence. They were modernizing, the king had said. They were improving. They were onto something great. Once upon a time. Darya remembered the
possibilities
that had stared her in the face at every turn. Parviz had been only an afterthought then. All spindly arms and awkwardness, acne scars on his cheeks. His bass voice was all he had going for him. And his kindness. He'd held her hand and helped her as they hiked in the mountains. She had never thought she would marry him. But Mamani had insisted.

Darya watched her husband's nostrils flare with each snore. She pulled the comforter over his vibrating belly. Mamani had seen something in Parviz that she'd liked from the very beginning.

And that had been that. What is done cannot be undone.

Three kids later, here they were.

When her sons were little, Darya was bewildered by their manic energy. As they wrestled each other on the living room floor, destroying the
khatam
boxes and nut bowls that she'd so carefully arranged, she'd dream of having a daughter one day. In her fantasy, she saw herself as an older, wiser woman eating
chelo kabob
at a restaurant with a young lady who was her grown daughter. They'd chat and eat, gossip and share. Darya would listen and advise as her daughter confided in her. They'd burst out laughing at silly little things. After lunch, they'd shop for silk together, then go home and swap dress patterns. Darya would guide her daughter's hand along bolts of fabric, teach her how to cut just right, instill in her the sense of strength and inner confidence that her own mother had given her. On her daughter's wedding day, Darya would watch her dance, feeling pride in a job well done. That was how she had imagined it when she was a young mother of two sons who fought at her feet. Then it had happened. After hours of pushing and a pain that felt as if it could blind her, a wet, purple kitten-like baby had been placed in her arms. A girl. And Darya felt the joy infused with terror that only comes when a long-held dream is finally realized.

And sometimes she still felt that joy infused with terror, the pain that could blind her.

Some dreams had come true. Others had not.

Darya closed her eyes. She should let Parviz sleep. But she managed to somehow throw her hand across his face. Managed to because she wanted to wake him.

“What? What is it?” Parviz shook awake again.

“Parviz, did I wake you?”

“Um . . . yes. Did you just slap me?” Parviz rubbed his cheek.

“No, sorry. Look, I just can't sleep. I just . . .”

“Darya, forget about the men. I told you. Just go to sleep.” Parviz nestled into his pillow.

“Do you think I made an error in inputting the data? Is that why Mr. Dashti didn't turn out as planned? I thought I was doing everything right. But maybe I'm not . . .”

Parviz sat up. “That's it! You want to improve your skills! And I know just the thing. I saw something the other day . . .” He was awake now all right. Within seconds, the comforter was thrown off.
I've done it,
Darya thought. He's in his Let's Solve This Problem by Taking Action NOW! Mode.

“Let's grab life by the throat, Darya Joon! Let's take care of this right now!”

Parviz walked over to the bedroom desk and started rifling through a pile of mail and papers. He held up a booklet.

“Look, it's 1996, okay? The solution to every problem can be found. You just give me a minute, my lady. You just give me one minute.”

Darya watched as Parviz flipped through the pages of the booklet. He was now fully in his hyperactive mode. She lay back on her pillow and pulled the covers over her. This was not what she had been looking for.

“Ah-ha! Perfecto! See what I found for you, Darya Joon? Would you look at this? Huh? Come on! And it's perfect timing. Just come over and look at this!”

Darya flung the covers back and got out of bed. She went and stood behind Parviz in her pajamas. He was holding the Adult Education Community booklet that had arrived in the mail earlier in the month. He had opened to the Queens Public Library page. She squinted to read the fine print.

“Would you look at that! A class, my dear. A class that will take care of your yearning for more knowledge and know-how and will better your ability to manipulate percentage probabilities. Look at that, Darya Joon. It's made for you!”

Darya's eyes followed Parviz's hand on the page.

“Forest Hills Adult Education Fall Class Schedule.” Parviz's huge forefinger glided down the page to “Spreading Spreadsheet Specs. Intermediate/Advanced class on all things spreadsheet.”