Read Online Persian Girls: A Memoir by Nahid Rachlin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nahid Rachlin
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“Don’t worry, Father, I stay on safe ground.”
Father got up to leave; so did Cyrus. Parviz and I lingered.
“I wish I could go to America, too, one day,” I said.
“Nahid joon, I hope you will. You’re my studious sister.”
Then he got up to leave as Father called him.
It was even hotter than most summers that year, with temperatures reaching 110 degrees. Damp winds blew in from Shatt-Al-Arab, the river at the Iraqi border, a marshy channel contaminated with oil. Homeless beggars died on the street from heatstroke. The asphalt melted and stuck to our shoes. The dank air brought many mosquitoes, and Ali constantly pumped mosquito repellent into every room.
On the long, hot summer days when every moment was like an eternity I had only Pari to make the time move. Pari and I dipped our feet into the pool in the courtyard to cool off. The pool was shallow and full of frogs. Lizards emerged from behind palm trees, looked around, and went back to their shady spot. We dampened our clothes and sat under the fan turned on high in Pari’s room. Sometimes we climbed the stairs to the roof and watched the scenes on the outdoor screen of Sahara Cinema across the street. Though they showed mediocre movies, we still liked watching the images on the screen and catching some of the dialogue. We drank glass after glass of doogh to quench our ever-present thirst, and indulged in flights of fantasy about what we could do with our lives, and were full of hope that we could resist our parents’ pressures.
One evening, in the middle of August, Father took the family to Akbari chelo kababi restaurant on Pahlavi Avenue, as a farewell dinner for our brothers. Father chose that old, traditional restaurant because my brothers most likely wouldn’t have that kind of food for a long time. Parviz was going to a university in St. Louis, and Cyrus to an engineering school in Indiana. My brothers said again how they intended to return home after completing their education. They agreed with father that it was a pity we didn’t have enough Iranian experts and that foreigners had to do those jobs. The unfavorable exchange rate from tooman s to dollars made my brothers’ education in America very expensive, but Father was willing to make the sacrifice for the good it would do. American universities were considered to be far superior to Iranian ones.
The next day after breakfast our brothers kissed us good-bye and left, with Father accompanying them to the airport. The moment they were out of the house, the rest of us fell into silence. It was as if a limb had been cut off and we were watching it bleed, not knowing what to do about it.
I found a package on my bed, put there by Ali—as he did with my mail. It was the tapestry depicting paradise, which had been in my old room. With Ali’s help I hung it on the wall of my new room. Maryam had embroidered the tapestry for her own dowry. In the middle of the lush green square cloth a stream meandered; trees full of exotic flowers stood on the four sides; birds flew out of the center to the edges; huri s carried platters of fruit to men and women who reclined against cushions set under the trees; angels clustered in the air, ready to be of service. I found something new in it almost every time I looked—a rabbit peeking out of a bush, a gazelle half hidden behind a rock. But what I liked most about it now was that in the sky the birds were in flight.
Eight
I n the fall I entered the seventh grade and joined Pari and Manijeh in the same school. Pari and I walked back and forth together; Manijeh chose to be driven by the chauffeur in the family limousine. Students in Nezam Vafa High School came from the same family background as our parents, middle to upper-middle class, as had been the case in the elementary school. Having a high income, as we did, didn’t make a family
“Don’t worry, Father, I stay on safe ground.”
Father got up to leave; so did Cyrus. Parviz and I lingered.
“I wish I could go to America, too, one day,” I said.
“Nahid joon, I hope you will. You’re my studious sister.”
Then he got up to leave as Father called him.
It was even hotter than most summers that year, with temperatures reaching 110 degrees. Damp winds blew in from Shatt-Al-Arab, the river at the Iraqi border, a marshy channel contaminated with oil. Homeless beggars died on the street from heatstroke. The asphalt melted and stuck to our shoes. The dank air brought many mosquitoes, and Ali constantly pumped mosquito repellent into every room.
On the long, hot summer days when every moment was like an eternity I had only Pari to make the time move. Pari and I dipped our feet into the pool in the courtyard to cool off. The pool was shallow and full of frogs. Lizards emerged from behind palm trees, looked around, and went back to their shady spot. We dampened our clothes and sat under the fan turned on high in Pari’s room. Sometimes we climbed the stairs to the roof and watched the scenes on the outdoor screen of Sahara Cinema across the street. Though they showed mediocre movies, we still liked watching the images on the screen and catching some of the dialogue. We drank glass after glass of doogh to quench our ever-present thirst, and indulged in flights of fantasy about what we could do with our lives, and were full of hope that we could resist our parents’ pressures.
One evening, in the middle of August, Father took the family to Akbari chelo kababi restaurant on Pahlavi Avenue, as a farewell dinner for our brothers. Father chose that old, traditional restaurant because my brothers most likely wouldn’t have that kind of food for a long time. Parviz was going to a university in St. Louis, and Cyrus to an engineering school in Indiana. My brothers said again how they intended to return home after completing their education. They agreed with father that it was a pity we didn’t have enough Iranian experts and that foreigners had to do those jobs. The unfavorable exchange rate from tooman s to dollars made my brothers’ education in America very expensive, but Father was willing to make the sacrifice for the good it would do. American universities were considered to be far superior to Iranian ones.
The next day after breakfast our brothers kissed us good-bye and left, with Father accompanying them to the airport. The moment they were out of the house, the rest of us fell into silence. It was as if a limb had been cut off and we were watching it bleed, not knowing what to do about it.
I found a package on my bed, put there by Ali—as he did with my mail. It was the tapestry depicting paradise, which had been in my old room. With Ali’s help I hung it on the wall of my new room. Maryam had embroidered the tapestry for her own dowry. In the middle of the lush green square cloth a stream meandered; trees full of exotic flowers stood on the four sides; birds flew out of the center to the edges; huri s carried platters of fruit to men and women who reclined against cushions set under the trees; angels clustered in the air, ready to be of service. I found something new in it almost every time I looked—a rabbit peeking out of a bush, a gazelle half hidden behind a rock. But what I liked most about it now was that in the sky the birds were in flight.
Eight
I n the fall I entered the seventh grade and joined Pari and Manijeh in the same school. Pari and I walked back and forth together; Manijeh chose to be driven by the chauffeur in the family limousine. Students in Nezam Vafa High School came from the same family background as our parents, middle to upper-middle class, as had been the case in the elementary school. Having a high income, as we did, didn’t make a family
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