If You Could Be Mine Page 6

  “She isn’t very smart, sir,” I say. I hear Nasrin harrumph behind me. She shouldn’t take it personally. I’m only trying to save her skin. She can be so childish sometimes.

  “You are dressed fine, sister,” the other policeman says. “You should give your whorish friend some fashion tips.” Although I am terrified, I can’t help but also feel offended. Is he calling me homely? I’m in my school uniform, a baggy, dark blue coat that reaches to below my knees and a tight head scarf that lets only my face poke through. Should I have put on some more makeup?

  “Normally she is dressed just like I am,” I explain. “Her mother is sick and doesn’t have time to check her before she leaves the house. We are going straight home and this will never happen again, I swear.” The first policeman grips his baton again, and that reminds me of a girl at school who got caught at a party with alcohol. After a conversation with an overzealous officer, two of her fingers were fractured and purple, and both hands were covered in bruises.

  “Let me take care of them,” Farshad says. His torso is even more imposing in the daytime. I don’t know if he’s going to help us or hurt us. If Farshad does hurt us, Ali will find out about it, but I don’t know the nature of their arrangement. The smaller but more menacing policeman moves aside for Farshad, and he takes both Nasrin and me by one arm. He pushes us into the backseat of his police car and slams the door behind us. Nasrin is in tears, hysterical and yelling my name over and over again. I watch Farshad pat the other policeman on one shoulder, and then the second man smirks and walks into a restaurant.

  Bystanders look at us through the window of the police car. Some are sympathetic, while others just enjoy a good show. Nasrin covers her face with her hands and I rub small circles on her back, assuring her everything is going to be okay. Farshad enters the car, buckles up, and starts the engine.

  The car is filled with the sounds of Nasrin’s hysterics and the police radio. She continues to mutter about what her parents will do to her when they find out. I try to meet Farshad’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t acknowledge our presence. He is not the easiest person to read.

  “Sahar, I’m so scared,” Nasrin says as she rests her head on my shoulder. I wrap one arm protectively around her shoulders.

  Farshad drives us to a part of the city near Tehran University and stops the car in a side alleyway. He is going to violate us here. He is so big, I won’t be able to fight him off of Nasrin. Maybe I can spare her for me, if I have to. Oh, please. Who would take advantage of me when Nasrin is the much prettier target? Farshad turns in his seat and looks at me.

  “Turn right on the main street until you see Restaurant Javan,” he says. “Ask for a table and tell the host who you are. Your cousin will be there eventually.”

  Nasrin looks at me in shock, and I thank Farshad. He nods, turns back around, and waits for us to get out. I scramble out of the car and yank on Nasrin’s arm. Her body is limp from shock, and I drag her behind me. When we have cleared the car, Farshad screeches from the alleyway, his exhaust clouding us in shame. We were lucky. Nasrin is catatonic until I pull her into me for a hug.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. She pulls away from me suddenly. It’s just a hug, you paranoid brat! “Nasrin, until your wedding day can you please wear full-length pants and shirts? Or at least look like a walking tent instead of a sex goddess?”

  She laughs in a nervous and exhilarated way, but I find the situation anything but funny. “You’re lucky I knew that officer! Don’t you know what could have happened?” At last I’m the one who knows what’s going on. She needed me today, and that feels good. Her laughter subsides, but she still has a bit of a grin left over, and I do my best not to smack her. Or kiss her.

  “You think I look like a sex goddess?” Nasrin is beyond exasperating. I take her roughly by the hand and lead her to the main street that Farshad told us to walk to. I walk fast, dragging Nasrin behind me while I frantically make my way through the crowd, my eyes peeled for Restaurant Javan.

  “Since when are you so mysterious?” Nasrin yells at me over the din of the crowd. “I’m supposed to be the exciting one!” Ignoring her babbling, I see the restaurant. Pushing forward, I make my way to the entrance, feeling Nasrin breathing on the back of my neck. The scene at Restaurant Javan is similar to the one at Ali’s apartment. The place is packed. Unlike at the party, no one is dancing, but the coiffed hairdos, shaved forearms, and mascara-wearing boys are familiar. Of course Ali will be here later.

  “Can I help you?” A short, stocky bald man with a thin mustache looks at us with skepticism. He wears a bright orange suit.

  “Can we help you?” I hear Nasrin mutter unkindly.

  “My name is Sahar Ghazvini. I’m . . . um, Ali is my cousin.” Before I can utter another word, his eyebrows rise so high, I’m afraid they might levitate off his face.

  “You’re the little cousin he goes on and on about! Come in, please, come in.” The short man whisks us into the center of the restaurant. I can feel eyes on me, from all directions. Some guests even smile at me in recognition from the party the other night. The short man seats us in a reserved area, a tier above the floor. The tables up here have clean white linen tablecloths, as opposed to the rest of the establishment, where wooden tables are scrunched together, leaving no room for guests to breathe.

  I sit down and survey my surroundings. There’s no particular decoration or advertising to suggest that this is different from any other restaurant, but the clientele is definitely telling. No one touches anyone else, but all the patrons sit precariously close. One thin man pulls gum from his mouth suggestively and twirls it around while glancing across the way at a chubby tough guy with a collared shirt. The short man who greeted us addresses Nasrin and me again.

  “Our kitchen is ready to make you anything you like! Would you like some joojeh kabob? Whatever we don’t have, we can make it for you.” He speaks with nervous excitement, and I am certain Ali has some illicit dealings here. Whether he’s selling DVDs, alcohol, or drugs, I imagine this is where Ali makes his headquarters.

  “No, thank you, sir,” I say. “We will just wait for Ali, if that is all right.”

  “I’ll have an orange juice and some baklava, if you have any,” Nasrin says, and I throw her a stern look. We aren’t here to snack! The short man hurries away and yells for his staff while the other guests stare at us, trading not so hushed whispers. Nasrin relaxes in her chair, looking over the menu as though we hadn’t been in great peril just moments ago.

  She sighs. “I shouldn’t really eat too much, since I need to go dress shopping, but I am craving some zereshk polo.” I can’t believe this is what my life has become.

  “Nasrin, as soon as Ali comes, we have to get out of here. I don’t think it’s safe.” I look from side to side, hoping no one from my day-to-day life is here.

  “Oh, relax, Sahar. We don’t even know when Ali will get here. It’s still light outside, and Ali is nocturnal.” She isn’t wrong about that. Ali lives his life mostly in the dark. “Just enjoy. Besides, it will be nice for us to catch up, since you are always either studying or avoiding me.”

  “I’m not avoiding you. I just feel guilty. When I do see you, I mean.” What I really mean and can’t say is that when our mouths are crashing together, I feel like Allah is looking down on a cheating sinner who is in way over her head.

  Nasrin lowers her menu slowly and raises an eyebrow in a way that can’t be interpreted as anything but suggestive. “But I love our study sessions!” she says, and I feel my face grow hot. “You know I rely on you to educate me.” The short man and two waiters come by with plates of dates, baklava, a tray of tea, and orange juice and pomegranate juice. They place the goodies in front of us like we are royalty. Nasrin is used to such treatment and nods at the waiters before she dives right in.

  “Sir, really, I don’t think we can afford all this,” I protest, but he shakes his head.

  “Please, it is the least we can do,” the man says. �
��We called your cousin, and he should be here shortly. He’s a very special customer. Please enjoy, and don’t hesitate to ask for anything else.”

  Before I can argue he flits away with his servers as though I am Queen Farah. Nasrin shoves a whole piece of baklava into her mouth, ignoring the crumbs that land at the corners of her lips.

  “Mmm. Not bad. I wonder where they get their pistachios from.”

  “Nasrin, we really shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not? It’s not fancy or anything, but their food is adequate.” She reaches for another pastry. I see the chubby guy with the collared shirt stretch his arms, not so subtly flexing his muscles. The skinny gum smacker takes notice. All of this is so obvious. They just need a photo outside of two men kissing to let citizens know where to pick up a male date. Except that it’s illegal. Just like a girl’s stupid elbows showing.

  “Do you want some orange juice?” Nasrin asks, and I shake my head. “Well, can I have the pomegranate juice? It’s supposed to be good for the skin, and I can’t afford to get any pimples.” She babbles on about the arguments she’s having with her mother over wedding arrangements, oblivious to our surroundings. I think it’s for the best that I not alert her to the unusual atmosphere we find ourselves in. She may have a panic attack.

  “What is the matter with you, Sahar? You’re so jumpy.”

  “Nasrin, I know you have always lived above everyone else, and now you have your perfect life planned out . . . but wake up! We almost got arrested! Who knows what could have happened to us? You can be so stupid sometimes.” I wince as soon as the word comes out of my mouth. I have never called Nasrin stupid. It’s a sensitive topic for her—she knows people see her as a stupid, beautiful girl. She’s actually very clever, but it seems like I’m the only one who knows that.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lose my temper,” I apologize.

  “Oh, is that what just happened? I’m sorry—I’m just too stupid to read emotions.” She isn’t going to make this easy. Since her engagement, there have been so many cracks in our respective armors. I wonder which of us will crumble first.

  “I’m angry because I can’t always protect you. I need you to be careful, because if anything happens to you . . .” My voice starts to break.

  “Don’t cry, Sahar. Shhh, don’t do that.” She places one hand on top of mine.

  I don’t often cry in front of her. Nasrin is the crier, especially when some girl is wearing the same dress as her at a party. These days it seems I am the one crying in front of Nasrin, crying over Nasrin, crying about being without Nasrin. I’m so exhausted. I wipe my eyes with my free hand, and she slowly withdraws her own. She gives me a furtive smile, and her eyes gleam. Because of me. No one else gets that look. I feel better.

  “Hello, you two dolls! Run into some trouble today?” As Ali walks toward our table, all eyes are on him. His pace is steady and nonchalant; he’s used to the lustful glares, the jealous murmurings, and the awed glances. I don’t dare ask what business he does here. Nasrin and I stand up to greet Ali, and he kisses each of us on both cheeks, with not a care for prying eyes or for the danger such an action could create.

  We all sit down and the short man comes by again, with three waiters this time. Ali asks for two orders each of kabob soltani and zereshk polo, which he knows is Nasrin’s favorite. The waiters hurry away from our table. This is unusual for food service in Iran. Usually the waiters come around when they feel like it, and you may or may not get your food in two weeks. The short man comments on what a lovely young lady I am. Ali treats him like a pimple he is having a difficult time popping. After a few more bows of the head, the man walks away. Ali rolls his eyes at us and doesn’t bother to explain why he is so important here.

  “Farshad called me. Good thing he was there,” Ali says, looking at me with concern. He always cheats the law, but it’s funny that the one time I get in trouble he gets upset.

  “It’s my fault,” Nasrin admits. “The officer didn’t agree with my being fashionable,” I know she would take blame only for me. Everything else she just pins on someone else.

  “My cousin seems to get into nothing but trouble because of you,” Ali says. “I hope you appreciate her friendship.” It may be the first time I have ever seen him angry.

  “I do appreciate her friendship,” Nasrin snaps. “I don’t appreciate you insinuating otherwise!” The two of them look at each other like dueling princesses fighting over the last lipstick.

  “Well, your husband will be the one to deal with you soon enough. What’s his name again? Ramiz? Rasheed?”

  I kind of like it that Ali says this, but then I feel guilty. It also reminds me that I am running out of time, because Reza is a lot of things, but insignificant is not one of them. I’m not ready to reveal my half-crazed plan to these two, though.

  Nasrin bites back. “At least I have people who care about me. Not like the false friends you push drugs to.” But this is not the place to challenge Ali.

  “If you two cared about me, you wouldn’t land me in dangerous situations all the time,” I say. They look at me, their faces softening.

  “Well, what fun would it be if we didn’t get you in dangerous situations once in a while?” Ali says with a grin. “You’d be so boring, reciting biology notes all the time.”

  Nasrin chuckles. Fine. If it takes them making fun of me to get along, so be it.

  This whole time, Ali has been fiddling with his cell phone. “I’ve arranged a ride back to your apartment.”

  “Ali, no! Not them again!” I don’t know if Nasrin would be able to handle the “mother-daughter” duo. Ali laughs a little.

  “They won’t accept any calls while they drive, I promise.” I don’t have enough for cab fare, and I can’t risk Nasrin riding the bus and getting in trouble again. She’s covered her elbows, but her sleeves don’t reach to her wrists. I nod in compliance. It will be nice to see Daughter again, at least.

  “What are you talking about?” Nasrin asks.

  “Some girls who work for me. They’re in sales,” Ali says. I don’t know whether I should laugh or be disappointed. When did Ali become this? “They won’t be here for a while. Why don’t we enjoy some dinner, hmm?” He signals the waiters and they scurry into the kitchen. They come out quickly with steaming plates of saffron rice and chicken with dried mulberries. When a plate of kabob is placed in front of Ali, he grins at me affectionately. I try to do the same back. I’m suddenly not hungry.

  “Are you okay?” Nasrin asks. She always knows when I’m upset, or at least when it’s convenient for her to notice. Ali chews on a morsel of kabob with the genteel, delicate manners of an aristocrat.

  “Sahar does not approve of my livelihood,” he states with indifference.

  “You don’t need to have a livelihood! You’re a student,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Ali looks amused by my out-of-character nerve. “Careful with your tone of voice with me in here. The others are watching,” he says in a mocking tone. The others. Others like me. He can’t even say in public what these people are. What we are.

  “Why do they treat you so wonderfully here, anyway?” Nasrin asks. Ali looks at her with amusement.

  “Nasrin joon, these are my people.” The way he says it screams both arrogance and pride.

  Nasrin shrugs. “So what, you peddle bootleg CDs to this crowd?” She’s really testing his patience. I love her for it. He motions to a neighboring table. Two older women sit with each other, and even though they are not touching, the love in their eyes for each other is evident.

  “Like looking in a mirror, isn’t it?” Ali asks. “Hopefully, you two will age better than those poor souls over there.” There’s a bit of malice beneath his words. Nasrin looks at the women. Like I said, she is anything but stupid. She glances around the room, and suddenly she sees the knowing glances men are giving one another. Her eyes land on a woman with a prominent Adam’s apple.

  “Oh my god,” she gasps, and Ali laugh
s. Nasrin’s mortified expression upsets me. Those women sitting at that table, looking at each other longingly, are no different than us. Nasrin has no right to be prejudiced. She starts hyperventilating, and I tell her to breathe.

  “Oh, you are always so dramatic,” Ali tells Nasrin. “I’m surprised you two get along at all.”

  “Leave her alone,” I plead with him. “She’s not used to this.” I wonder if I ever would have been as ridiculous as Nasrin is being right now. I touch her shoulder, and I don’t care what it looks like. “Nasrin, it’s okay. We’ll go home soon. I tried to tell you earlier, but it’s not so bad, is it? No one cares who we are in here.” I don’t know if that’s true. There could be a secret police officer in here, but Ali is so relaxed, I doubt that’s an issue. I don’t know how Ali does what he does, or even what he does, but he’s like Iran’s gay messiah. I’m not sure if that’s an honor or not.

  “What do you mean who we are?” She’s angry.

  I let her comment wash over me. She doesn’t want to mix with anyone here. She doesn’t want to be like anyone here. This evening is full of disappointments. Ali drops his fork with a loud clink and stares at Nasrin with fierce eyes.

  “You’re a guest here because of Sahar. That is the only reason I am tolerating your backwards thinking.”

  “It isn’t backwards if it’s against the law,” Nasrin snaps, and I wish I could disintegrate into my seat. Ali slowly leans forward on the table, until he is almost over Nasrin’s plate, making direct eye contact.

  “In here is my law. Don’t forget it.” Nasrin cowers under Ali’s gaze.

  He’s right. When he’s decided she’s uncomfortable enough, he leans back in his chair and picks up his cutlery. He cuts into his kabob and without looking up addresses me.

  “Eat up, Sahar. Before it grows cold.”

  I keep my eyes on Nasrin as her heavy breathing subsides and she takes a sip of juice. For the rest of our meal there is nothing but weighted silence and the occasional sigh. Most of the sighs come from me. Ali’s phone rings, and he answers saying, “I will send them out right away.” We follow Ali outside, and I nod in thanks to the poorly dressed short man who was so kind. Ali doesn’t let us stop to properly thank him. The Mercedes is waiting for us outside, and I face Ali. I want to give him a big hug, but people would misconstrue it.