If You Could Be Mine Page 3

  “I’m scared,” I say as Ali looks out the window at the busy street below. I’m not sure what he finds so interesting. The view is always the same as the day before: traffic that never slows down or stops for pedestrians, diesel fuel pumping at a relentless pace out of the Peugeots, the motorcycles that look like they might disassemble at any moment, the occasional Mercedes or BMWs that make little kids jump up and down pointing. There’s always the same Afghani boy, organizing garbage from barrels and piling it on a cart he wheels around in the street, never on the sidewalk. Old men stand in front of the corner shop as though they are guarding the cigarettes and gum with their lives, but they’re really there for the shade from the nearby trees.

  Ali squints at something. “I always envied those stupid pigeons,” he says. “They can leave whenever they want. Maybe that’s why I stomp on them when I can.”

  I’m still thinking about Ali’s party. “I can’t go to your apartment alone,” I say. If I walk somewhere by myself, it’s more likely I’ll be stopped by the guard, especially at nighttime. There’s no way I am going to ask Baba to walk me to Ali’s place. Even Baba won’t believe that I’m going over there to study. I’m scared, but I need to get out of this room. I need to find ways to distract the gnawing pain that feeds off of every surface of my body.

  Ali looks at me and grins. His mask is back in place. “Oh, don’t worry your pretty head. I will send someone to get you. Someone even your Baba would approve of.” He ruffles my wild, curly hair and I swat at his hand. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

  The rice I have cooked is hard, and Baba and Ali don’t say anything at the dinner table, but I can see their jaws overworking. I would have done a better job if I hadn’t been thinking about Nasrin. Baba looks thinner than usual, and I know it’s because I haven’t really been cooking much of anything. If I don’t remind him to eat, he won’t. His heart isn’t in it. I look at my plate. The meat is rare, mixed with the cooked carrots and prunes. Not my best try at this dish. We should have ordered pizza.

  Ali pokes at his plate and looks around the kitchen, probably wondering why he decided to invite himself over.

  “So, Dayi, how is work?” Ali is desperate for topics of conversation. He never likes to discuss work, even other people’s. These days Baba goes to a workshop he used to own but had to sell because he didn’t produce enough to keep it after Maman died. Whatever he manages to build, he will sell to merchants at the bazaar, mostly merchants who owe him favors from the old days. The favors will one day run out. How many dressers or hope chests can any store need, especially when the Chinese can make them for less? I hope I can take care of him by the time that day arrives.

  Baba considers Ali’s question as he drinks his Coca-Cola. “Good,” he says at last, and we return to silent eating.

  I smell Maman’s cigarette smoke in the air around us. It happens from time to time. I know it’s impossible, but I do smell it. Ali claps his hands and pulls me back from my morose thoughts.

  Baba keeps chewing.

  “Sahar’s getting such good scores, Dayi!” Ali exclaims. “She showed me all her perfect scores. You must be very proud.”

  “Yes. Sahar is my highest achievement,” Baba says. From the little life left in his eyes gazing at me, I know he means it.

  “And because she’s doing so well, she and her girlfriends want to go to the movies this Friday to celebrate. Sahar says she’s afraid to ask you, because she doesn’t want to leave you alone for dinner.” I throw Ali a worried glance. I can’t believe he has the gall to lie to Baba this way. Then again, it would be kind of nice to not be so goddamn well-behaved all the time.

  Baba takes another long sip of his soda and looks at me.

  “It is just girls?”

  If he only knew that it’s the girls he should worry about.

  “Baleh, Baba. Just girls,” I say, and Ali concentrates on his plate, all innocence, as though he isn’t planning on corrupting his younger cousin. He’s a devil.

  “That’s fine. Just don’t come home too late. You need an escort home, though.”

  I can’t have Baba pick me up. I’ll have to take a taxi. I look at Ali and he smirks at me. Now that it’s decided, a feeling of dread settles in my stomach.

  4

  MY ESCORT TO ALI’S party should be arriving at any minute. I check Baba’s eggplant stew one more time. He will like it, or he should, because I have spent all day making it. I turn the heat off and leave it on the stove. I check my appearance in the hallway mirror for the thirtieth time. This whole scenario is crazy, but it’s exciting to go to a party with older people. Knowing Ali, they all will probably have cool jackets or the latest sneakers. Hopefully they won’t notice my worn-out Adidas and faded jeans.

  My reflection greets me once again, and I groan. All this makeup has turned me into a sad prostitute. I should have learned how to apply it a long time ago, but Nasrin usually helps me. Wiping at my cheeks, I hear the buzzer. I hurry to the front of the apartment to push the button, feeling a little scared about who will answer.

  “Baleh?”

  “Salam, I’m Ali’s friend Parveen. Are you ready?” She sounds nice. Her voice is sweet but not syrupy or artificial. I grab my coat and head scarf and put them on quickly. I exit the apartment, locking the door behind me, and try not to rush down the stairs.

  Parveen is waiting for me beyond the gate at the bottom of the stairs. She’s wearing the trendiest trench coat—muted blue instead of the typical beige, black, or dark green—and flawless makeup. Her eyes are an unusual green. The front of her hair peeks out from behind her roosari, black, sleek, and soft looking. She is radiant and not who I was expecting to pick me up. I thought Ali would send someone who looked like a depressed schoolmistress as an omen of what I would become if I didn’t come to this party.

  “You’re gorgeous! Just as Ali described you,” Parveen says, and I blush, even though she is just being nice. We kiss each other on both cheeks, and she takes the lead as we walk to the bus.

  We stand at the back of the bus with the rest of the women. The men stay in front. This way if the bus gets crowded, the men and women don’t brush against one another inappropriately. It’s a blessing, really. The last thing I need is an old man’s pencil penis brushing against my bum on his way to the mosque.

  Parveen asks me the usual questions: what I am studying, if I have seen the latest Islamic Republic–approved movie in the theaters. As I answer, I feel all the eyes on her. A young man with an Armani T-shirt gives Parveen a wink. I don’t think she notices. If that man had winked at Nasrin, she would have noticed and giggled about it. Then she would kiss me in the privacy of my room, saying things like, “You’re the only one for me. I just like the attention.” Sometimes I wonder if Nasrin keeps me around just to stroke her ego.

  We get off of the bus and walk side by side. Ali’s apartment is near Vali-Asr, a nice neighborhood that a university student should not be able to afford. Two men on a motorcycle whiz by us on the sidewalk. I clutch my purse. There have been a lot of robberies courtesy of motorcyclists ripping bags out of pedestrians’ hands. The two men don’t try to steal from us, but they almost crash into a fruit stand because they are checking out Parveen.

  Parveen’s hair is peeking out slightly, and she doesn’t wear the heavy makeup that most girls do. She doesn’t have trendy tattooed eyebrows, either. Some girls shave off their eyebrows and then have these hideous cartoonlike brush strokes tattooed over their eyes. The makeup and the tattoos are all because the face is so important. Girls can’t lure boys with cleavage or tight jeans, so all the effort goes into the face. Parveen seems to know she doesn’t need all that. What’s most attractive about her is the way she walks, confidently but with a very feminine stride. Her hips sway in a way that Angry Grandpa would definitely disapprove of.

  “I’m glad you’re coming to the party. It will be so nice to have more girls there,” Parveen says, and she seems genuine.

  “I’m a little nervo
us,” I say. “I know how Ali is, so I can only imagine what his friends are like.”

  Parveen laughs loudly and unapologetically.

  “Oh, everyone is nice. Crazy and a little messed up, but nice. If anyone’s mean to you or too insane, just come find me.” She winks at me. It is dusk, and I am glad it is getting darker so Parveen won’t notice my face is scarlet red. I know she is not flirting with me—that isn’t the impression I get. I wonder: if Nasrin saw us walking together, would she be jealous?

  “You’re quiet! Are you sure you’re related to Ali?” Parveen asks. She nudges me.

  I recall when I first met Ali. My parents and I drove up to Tabriz for a holiday weekend. Maman and my uncle finally made amends about the inheritance, but I think they did so in hopes of not isolating me from her only family. Ali was thirteen and nerdy, with glasses. I was eight and thought he was so cool, dancing to boy bands from the USA in his parents’ luxury condo. Sometimes I wish we could go back to that time when my biggest problem was learning all of the Backstreet Boys American names to impress Ali.

  When we reach the tall apartment complex with a fountain in the front, encircled by meticulously pruned shrubbery, Parveen rings Ali’s buzzer. Moments pass. Parveen hits the buzzer again. “God, he’s probably loaded already,” she says with a hint of disapproval. The intercom crackles.

  “Yeah?” a gruff voice—definitely not Ali’s—barks. Maybe this was a bad idea. Parveen rolls her eyes and winks at me.

  “The pigeons fly free,” she says in a lilting, ever so soft voice.

  The buzzer goes off and Parveen opens the door for me. We enter a lobby and she pushes the elevator button. When I follow her into the elevator, I try not to notice the sway her hips make when she walks. I hate that I notice. A nice girl wouldn’t notice. We stand side by side, waiting to get to the twelfth floor, the top floor. Her perfume is delicious, but I prefer jasmine and vanilla. Nasrin’s scent . . . I’m so pathetic.

  “Don’t be scared,” Parveen says right before the elevator door opens and we exit to the right. I can already hear the music from the other end of the hall, and I wonder how Ali gets away with all this. Parveen knocks on the door, five times and with a particular rhythm. Code. The door opens a crack, and a behemoth of a man peers at us, sees Parveen, and opens the door.

  “Farshad, you take your job too seriously,” Parveen says as she enters.

  Farshad reaches for her coat, but Parveen keeps her chic head scarf on. “This is the package I picked up,” she says, nodding in my direction. Farshad has an eighteen o’clock shadow. He looks like an Olympic wrestler, with a neck so thick he could wear a car tire as a choker. Farshad extends his hand, blocking me, and I wonder what it is I did wrong. Parveen begins unbuttoning my coat, and it dawns on me that Farshad is the doorman. I undo the rest of the buttons and remove my head scarf. Farshad accepts them and whispers into Parveen’s ear. She blushes and swats him away, then links her arm in mine as we mill through the throng of characters.

  The air is laced with heavy smoke, a blend of cigarettes and something sweeter, which I know Baba would not approve of. A thick bass with a techno accordion thrums in the background. There are men everywhere. Most of them have stupid faux hawks that everyone thinks are cool, even though they look like rooster combs. Some skinny boys wear tight jeans. Their hair is long and shaped haphazardly, with intentional cowlicks and too long in the back. Some wear lip gloss and eyeliner as though doing so is perfectly natural. A fat man wears a blond wig, which makes perfect sense with his red, sequined dress. I don’t belong here.

  Ali’s apartment is furnished with white leather couches on a white tile floor, which is silly, because white is more likely to get dirty. Ali probably didn’t think that through. The huge flat-screen television plays Persian music videos, set on mute and beamed in via illegal satellite, and I’m pretty sure the coffee table is made of granite. Granite! Parveen clutches my hand in hers and leads me through the labyrinth of aftershave scents, nipples, and once hairy arms now waxed smooth. A man who must be in his forties, with a badly dyed beard, boldly eyes Parveen, and she adjusts her scarf to fit her head more securely.

  Parveen yells over the music to me. “It’s as though they have no respect for a lady.”

  I wouldn’t have guessed Parveen would be so modest. Some women always wear head scarves in mixed company. The very religious ones look like black tents, with only their faces peering out from the folds of the chador. Covering my head has always made me feel foolish, but I respect a woman’s decision to cover up so long as it’s the woman’s decision. It shouldn’t be a decision for a man or a government to make.

  The apartment is big, two bedrooms, and with all these people, it takes a long time to push through. We reach Ali on his throne, a couch in the back of the living room. Young men surround him, some lying down on the floor and another seated on the armrest. If only they had known him when he had those thick coke-bottle glasses. I wonder if they’d be interested to hear about the magic tricks he used to practice for hours.

  “Parveen! You brought the guest of honor!” Ali says. He claps his hands in delight before standing up and hugging me close. His breath smells like whiskey. The onlookers stare at me with curiosity, and I have never felt more scrutinized or more popular in my life.

  “Everyone,” Ali addresses the crowd, “my beautiful cousin, Sahar. Make her feel welcome . . . or else.” Blushing, I push a little away from Ali. The smell of alcohol is overwhelming.

  “Stop embarrassing her,” Parveen says quietly, suddenly shy. The energy has shifted, somehow. It’s because of Ali. Parveen is definitely barking up the wrong tree. Ali grins at her, clearly clued in to the huge crush she has on him. I hope I’m not that obvious when I look at Nasrin.

  “Thank you for bringing her, Parveen,” Ali says. “You’re a sweet girl.” Parveen blushes and glides over to some dancing boys. Ali hollers at a young man pouring drinks and points in my direction. I shouldn’t drink. Baba wouldn’t like that. It’s not ladylike. Ali looks me up and down and raises his eyebrows. “You look good, kid. Nasrin help pick out your outfit?” My shoulders slump. I was doing so well.

  “No. She didn’t,” I say, looking around the room for a distraction.

  The dancers are in full swing. Their hips undulate with calculated precision. Some of the masculine men shake their shoulders while the more feminine ones curve their arms in slow, languid movements. Ali puts his arm around my shoulders, and a young man wearing mascara with pockmarks on his face delivers my drink in a glass shaped like a woman.

  “Here, it shouldn’t be too strong.” Not wanting to be rude I take a small sip. I immediately spit it back into the cup. It’s disgusting. “Oh, come on!” Ali says as he takes my cup. “There’s hardly anything in there.” He takes a swig and burps.

  “How can you drink that?” I ask, not in disgust but awe.

  “Lots of practice.” He gives the drink to a guy with long hair and a T-shirt with Madonna’s face on it. “Listen, I’m sorry I brought up Nasrin.”

  “It’s okay. She’s not dead, she’s just getting married.”

  “What’s the difference?” Ali says, and I chuckle a little. He leads me to the dance floor. I hate dancing. All the attention and feigned sexiness isn’t for me. I shake my head, but Ali won’t have it. He grabs hold of my hips and moves them side to side. I feel like a metronome. He releases me and flings his arms around wildly. How is he so free to do whatever he wants? Trying not to make too much of a fool of myself, I think about how Nasrin dances. She sways slowly, back and forth, and adds a little shoulder shrugging but not so much that she seems like a harlot.

  For a while I actually don’t feel so out of place, and other than a few men dressed as women, the party is fairly “normal.” Well, aside from the water pipe full of opium that three gaunt men are smoking in the corner. They all sit on a rug on the floor, and I wonder if Ali is going to be livid when they spill ashes on it.

  Parveen is dancing in my periphe
ry, and soon we are having a dance-off. When her shoulders come forward, mine shrug back. I look around at my surroundings and notice no one cares how anyone looks, dances, or what they are able to do with their hips one way or another. Parveen shakes her hips like a belly dancer, and that’s when I know she’s won. We laugh, and I resign in a comic bow of defeat while Parveen continues to dance.

  Ali joins me and walks me over to the makeshift bar, an out-of-place circular, plastic picnic table. He pours me orange juice. Whatever liquor was intended for my drink he pours into his own. We tap our plastic cups together and survey the wonderful mess that is his apartment.

  “How do you get away with it? I mean, don’t you worry about the police?” I ask. He makes a farting noise with his mouth.

  “We have an arrangement. Besides whatever guards do show up, we pay them off. Everyone has a price.” He nods in Farshad’s direction and whispers in my ear, “He’s on the police force. I throw him a pretty young man every once in a while. Don’t worry yourself about these things, Sahar. Just have fun.”

  I preferred Ali when he was nerdy, with glasses. He wasn’t so smug then. I look around the room, and though I am sure about some, I can’t tell about others—can’t tell if they’re like me.

  “Is everyone here, um . . . you know?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?”

  No. It doesn’t. I notice Parveen on the dance floor having a great time. She isn’t gay. Of this I am sure. “Parveen likes you a lot. Too bad she isn’t your type.” I kid Ali, but wouldn’t it be easier if he just married her? They wouldn’t have to hide all the time. He isn’t looking for the great love of his life, and this way he wouldn’t be lonely. She’s a nice girl and she cares about him. Maybe she can cook. It could work, couldn’t it?

  “No, she’s not my type. Though I guess when she was Ahmad, we would have had a shot.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Parveen. She used to be Ahmad.” I still don’t get it. I blink at Ali a few times. “Don’t be so square, Sahar. Parveen’s a transsexual.”