A Door between Us Read online

  That night, after the party, Aunt Mehri had informed Sarah’s mother that the wedding had to be called off. “It breaks my heart to see this from Mina’s family,” she’d exclaimed, her hand pressed to her chest as if holding her fragmenting heart together. “And I’m sure that if Mina were here, she would set her sister straight. She’s been in New York far too long. But, praise God, it just goes to show how right I was to take things slow and keep the young people away from any temptation. Praise God, we found out what this family really is in time to break things off with no harm done.”

  Had Aunt Mehri noticed the boys’ antics beside the sofreh aghd ? And where was Azar? Why wasn’t she controlling her unruly sons?

  Sarah spotted Azar on the left side of the bridal spread, almost exactly opposite her sons and Aunt Mehri on the right. As sister of the groom, she was one of the few women at the gathering who didn’t have to cover up her revealing wedding dress while Ali was in the ladies section of the banquet hall. Azar’s thick black hair was pulled into a severe updo, and her makeup was limited to a bit of lipstick and mascara. She wore a black sheath dress and dark-green jacket with black accents at the lapel and upturned sleeves. Even in a dress, Sarah had noticed earlier, Azar managed to look as if she were working.

  Azar really was a strange woman for their tabaghe, or class of wealthy religious families. For one thing, it was rumored that she’d refused her husband’s bed for the first few years of marriage. For another, she worked outside the home at her own law practice in the morally suspect field of helping women obtain divorces. And she wasn’t at all interested in the typical things that ladies enjoyed. Once, in an effort to bond with her soon-to-be sister-in-law, Sarah had confided her difficulties in completing purchases of furnishings and linens for the home she and Ali would share. “I just can’t sleep at night thinking how I’m going to find towels to match the bathroom accessories my father brought from London,” Sarah had complained. Admittedly, Sarah might have been a bit melodramatic but she hadn’t deserved Azar’s rolled eyes and contemptuous question that if mismatched towels kept Sarah up at night, how on earth would she handle a real problem. Since the towel incident, Sarah had felt a bit prickly toward Azar.

  With all her manly attitudes and behaviors, one might have thought Azar wouldn’t have any trouble controlling two young boys. But, in this area, she seemed to be at a loss. Sarah had seen Azar plead with Hossein and Muhammadreza in the same manner, but with less success, than when Sarah pleaded with her father for more spending money.

  Azar met Sarah’s eyes and gave her a small smile. She looked surprised to see Sarah looking so pointedly at her. Was it possible she hadn’t heard her boys? Sarah tilted her head and narrowed her eyes toward Hossein and Muhammadreza, but when Azar followed her gaze, she still looked confused.

  Exasperated, Sarah turned her attention to Aunt Mehri, hoping that she might have missed the boys’ chanting. But from the way Aunt Mehri’s pursed lips radiated angry lines through her papery skin, it was clear she’d heard the boys’ offensive words all too well. Sarah felt her corset winch another notch around her waist as she wondered what her aunt would do.

  Despite Aunt Mehri’s sarcastic remarks about Sarah’s blundered response to the mullah, Sarah actually felt a little sorry for her. Sarah couldn’t think of another time when Aunt Mehri’s decision about a family matter hadn’t been the final word, and a part of Sarah still couldn’t believe she’d managed to convince her parents, Maman-joon especially, to defy her older-by-twenty-years sister who was more like a mother to her and a grandmother to Sarah.

  Aunt Mehri hadn’t taken it lightly. In the past few days she’d railed at Sarah’s parents for making a monumental mistake. She’d threatened to boycott the wedding and forbid other family members from attending. And she’d warned tearfully that her poor heart couldn’t take being treated this way and that no one should be surprised if God in his infinite mercy took her from this world before she had to witness her niece marry into the “family of traitors and infidels”—a family she didn’t seem to remember having once been so enthusiastic about that she’d literally forced Sarah to meet their son.

  In the end, however, Aunt Mehri had swallowed her pride, attended the wedding, and had, mostly, been quite gracious. It was unfair for Aunt Mehri to have these awful chants thrown in her face.

  Sarah wanted to bow her head back to its proper position before Aunt Mehri noticed. But she was transfixed by the sight of Aunt Mehri’s arm as it began to stretch, amoeba-like under the veil’s draping, toward Hossein’s shoulder. When Aunt Mehri’s reaching appendage grasped the startled boy, Hossein grimaced in pain from what Sarah knew from experience to be a surprisingly strong grip for a woman whose cloistered body enjoyed even less exercise than it did sun. Aunt Mehri held him firmly as the boy squirmed. But as the awkward strain of her bent position became too difficult to maintain, she suddenly pitched forward. Sarah tensed and squeezed her eyes shut just as Aunt Mehri crash-landed into the middle of the bridal spread on the floor, scattering flowers, eggs, and other decorations on her way.

  When Sarah opened her eyes again, it was to the sight of her mother, Cousin Zainab, and some of the other ladies, Mrs. Rahimi included, valiantly trying to help Aunt Mehri get upright while holding their rumpled chadors in place over their revealing wedding gowns. Aunt Mehri’s rounded proportions made the job an extra challenge as the ladies struggled to roll her up over the girth of her belly while keeping her veiling secure and without damaging any more of the fragile bridal spread accouterments. When Hossein and Muhammadreza started laughing, Nafiseh, Aunt Mehri’s teenage granddaughter, the one Sarah always thought would one day inherit her mother Zainab’s position as enforcer of rules, gave Muhammedreza a swift kick that set off another physical tussle. The adults momentarily abandoned Aunt Mehri on the bridal spread as they tried to pull the children apart. Azar, finally cued in to the havoc her boys were causing, ran around the bridal spread to get to the melee. At first, she tried to help the forgotten Aunt Mehri, but when the old woman slapped at her extended hands, Azar turned to grab and pull her boys away.

  “What’s going on?” the mullah shouted. “Ladies, your attention please. It’s time to ask the bride one more time if she will permit me to perform this marriage ceremony.” The man didn’t seem to realize he had entirely lost his audience.

  Cousin Zainab, Sadegh’s scarred wife Sumayeh, and a few other ladies of the family finally managed to get Aunt Mehri on her feet. Aunt Mehri’s chador was snug again but off-center so that one side trailed on the floor while the other ended at her shins, making her stockinged legs and wide-heeled black shoes visible. “Khodaya, ghalbam vaystad! Lord help me . . . my heart can’t take this,” Aunt Mehri aspirated, taking trembling breaths between words. “Those . . . little monsters! I have never . . . ever . . . Zainab, dear . . . get me out of here . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Biya beshin. Come, take a seat,” Sarah’s mother pulled at her sister to move her toward the chairs and tables where she could sit away from the bridal spread. Maman-joon looked as if she was going to cry. All of the engagement and wedding drama had been hardest on her. Maman-joon was the one who’d had to break the news to Aunt Mehri that the wedding would proceed as planned and then bore the brunt of anger and hurt from her beloved and revered older sister, who’d taken her in and raised her along with Zainab and her other children when their parents had passed. It was all made worse by the fact that Maman-joon was too embarrassed to admit that Sarah had been secretly talking to Ali all along and had fallen in love with him. So Aunt Mehri had little context for why she was being disobeyed. Even more than Sarah, Maman-joon had hoped that a successful wedding party would mollify Aunt Mehri by demonstrating God’s favor as well as the finality of the decision.

  “Na! ” Aunt Mehri pushed Maman-joon away as she righted her chador, centering it correctly around her. “I won’t stay another second. What kind of people teach their children s
uch lies about our supreme leader, who has spent his whole life guiding us toward God and protecting us from our many enemies? What kind of people teach their children to attack an old woman? They’re just like those violent rioters in the street. Zainab dear,” Aunt Mehri called, “Get me out of here!”

  Sarah knew she had to do something. Gathering the folds of her awkward bridal chador around her, she stood and called, “Khaleh-joon, koja mirin? Dearest Aunt, where are you going? The wedding party hasn’t even started.”

  Aunt Mehri turned, and the ladies parted to allow an unobstructed visual tunnel connecting the bride at one end and the family matriarch at the other. Suddenly everyone was silent. Even the forgotten mullah seemed to have tired of trying to get everyone’s attention.

  Aunt Mehri’s lined skin was damp and her voice shook. “My mistake was that I came in the first place and agreed to mix with people who teach their children to insult someone I would die for. I knew I would regret it. I wanted to help and guide you, as is my duty, but you turned your back and ignored me and treated me as if this decision was none of my business. After all I have done for your mother and your family, how could you treat me this way?

  “I shudder for you, my child,” Aunt Mehri went on. “You can’t imagine the wrath you and your parents have called upon yourselves. These people threaten our Islamic Republic, even at a wedding. Nothing is sacred to them! God doesn’t forgive such traitors.”

  Aunt Mehri turned her back on Sarah and pulled away from Maman-joon. Her entourage—including Cousin Zainab, Zainab’s two daughters, Zahra and Nafiseh, who had kicked Azar’s son, and Aunt Mehri’s two daughters-in-law—closed up around her and the ladies exited the ballroom.

  Sarah felt the weight of expectant gazes upon her as the remaining ladies looked to see what she would do. She searched her mind for some quip or joke or segue back to the ceremony that would shift the mood and make everything okay.

  Sarah glanced at Ali for help. But he seemed frozen in place with his head down and eyes low. Had he seen what had happened? What was he thinking? Ali didn’t have any interest in politics, and Sarah knew he didn’t share his sister’s affinity for the Greens. But Azar was his sister. And although he’d known of Aunt Mehri’s opposition, it was another thing to hear with his own ears the way she talked about his family. Would it change how he felt about marrying into hers? What were Mrs. Rahimi and Azar thinking about Aunt Mehri’s scene? Would it prompt them to oppose the marriage as well?

  Before she had time to decide on her next move, Sarah felt a hand on her arm. It was Maman-joon.

  “Sarah,” she whispered, “come with me.”

  Her mother half-pulled and half-supported Sarah as she stepped off the small platform, wobbly in her four-inch heels and slippery chador, and directed her into a small alcove off the banquet hall where they could talk privately. Once there, Maman-joon took both of Sarah’s hands in hers. “Sarah, azizam, light of my eyes,” she pleaded as Sarah’s chador slipped and her heart sank at what was coming. “Won’t you end this now? Don’t you see what this family is? Look how they talk about our supreme leader. Look how those boys run around with no one to discipline them. Look how they’re hurting our family and dividing sister from sister. I’m begging you, Sarah, to trust me. Trust me and your aunt and your father and the rest of our family. We only want what’s best for you. I see nothing but misery if you continue to insist on this unsuitable match.”

  Sarah had never been a rebellious child. Unlike many of her school friends she had generally felt loved and understood and, in turn, sought to please her mother and father. Yes, she had a reputation for some mischief-making, but even that stemmed from her knowledge that her parents were secretly proud of her high spirits. She never crossed a line into outright defiance.

  When Sarah and Ali had begun emailing and then calling one another, Sarah hadn’t really seen it as disobedience. She and Ali were engaged after all. And Sarah knew her parents didn’t entirely agree with Aunt Mehri’s overly strict insistence that the engagement period was for families to get to know one another and ensure they were a good match, and that there was time enough after the wedding for the young people to fall in love. If it weren’t for Aunt Mehri, Sarah was sure she and Ali, like many other engaged couples from religious families, would have done the sigheh early on so they could even spend time together alone. Whispered conversations in which Sarah tried to make Ali laugh with funny stories about her latest scrapes felt innocent and so right that it was hard to imagine anyone being upset about it.

  When Sarah heard from her mother that Aunt Mehri had changed her mind about Ali’s family and had decided that the marriage should be called off, it was as if someone had told her that her name wasn’t Sarah or that she wasn’t really Iranian and didn’t belong with her mother and father. Ali already felt like such an immutable part of her life and identity that Sarah couldn’t believe he could be ripped away and erased as if their relationship had never happened.

  On the other hand, if Aunt Mehri had made a decision, Sarah couldn’t imagine any way around it. The matter was out of her hands. All Sarah could do was pray that God would change her aunt’s mind again or intervene in some way to allow Sarah and Ali to be together after all.

  It was Ali who had refused to accept her aunt’s decision and convinced Sarah to fight for their marriage.

  “Sarah,” he’d argued, “this is our life. We can’t let your aunt or my sister or anyone else make decisions for us. Especially for stupid political reasons that have nothing to do with us. We don’t care about a Green revolution. Or a blue or purple one for that matter. We just want to live our lives!”

  When Sarah asked what they could possibly do, Ali made it sound easy. “We tell them that we’ve been secretly talking and that we’re already in love and we refuse to change our minds. If it comes to it, we lie and tell them that we’ve been seeing each other too and, well, we could even tell them you’re not a virgin anymore.”

  Sarah had been shocked by the scandalous suggestion but also a little pleased at how far Ali was willing to go. He made her promise, before God, that she would marry no one but him. It was a thrilling moment. It almost felt as if they were married already.

  It was that promise she held onto in the face of her parents’ disappointment when they learned of her clandestine contact with Ali. It was her promise that steeled her to withstand Aunt Mehri’s outrage as the wedding went forward more or less as planned. And it was that promise she held onto now. When Maman-joon gave her hands a squeeze and prompted, “So? Should I go tell everyone?” Sarah managed to make her voice and her resolve sound stronger than they felt. “Maman-joon,” she insisted as she returned her mother’s squeeze, “Ali is the only one for me. I love him and hope you can love him too.”

  Maman-joon dropped her hands and looked so sad that Sarah almost regretted her answer. Was this feeling of being torn between her family and Ali to be a recurring feature of her life from now on? Sarah hated having to make choices that would hurt one or the other. Was it possible to make it all go away?

  Sarah imagined for a moment how easy it could be to agree with Maman-joon and let her take care of everything. Her father would be delighted. Aunt Mehri would forgive her. And she wouldn’t have to deal with an unpredictable sister-in-law and her awful children.

  But what of Ali and his clean-shaven cheeks and honey-colored eyes? What about the way his tongue ran over the chip in his front tooth whenever he was distracted?

  It was lucky Maman-joon didn’t press any further, as Sarah’s delicate and divided will might have been crushed by the weight of her desire to please her parents. Maman-joon pulled Sarah into a fierce hug that painfully pushed the bands of Sarah’s corset even further into her ribs. “Oh, my daughter,” Maman-joon said. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes. I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing in allowing this to go forward. When I was your age, our elders made all the
important decisions. It didn’t cross our minds to even have an opinion. But I don’t have it in me to tear you from someone you love. May God help us all understand his plan and play our part in it. Tonight, I will pray for my beautiful daughter and my new son-in-law as you start your lives together.”

  “Mahdiyeh, what’s going on?” Cousin Fatimeh asked as she lumbered into the alcove. Cousin Fatimeh was a large woman with her sister’s height and her mother’s round build. She was a year younger than Maman-joon and her closest friend. The two of them had grown up together under the watchful eyes of Aunt Mehri and Cousin Zainab, and it was a sign of their devotion to one another that Cousin Fatimeh had stayed at the wedding despite the departure of her mother and sister.

  “The hajj-agha is complaining and wants to know if you’re coming to finish the ceremony or if he should go,” Fatimeh reported in a voice that was as lumbering as her build. Sarah noticed a line of sweat beaded across Fatimeh’s upper lip. It probably hadn’t been an easy decision for her to stay.

  “We’re coming,” Maman-joon said as she released Sarah and helped her wrap into her chador again. Then Maman-joon walked Sarah back to the ballroom, where Sarah responded to Ali’s quizzical look with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Azar led the ladies in joyful ululations to get the ceremony back on track, and this time when the mullah asked whether Sarah would agree to marry Ali, she answered immediately and with a strong voice that, she hoped, didn’t betray any of her confusion or doubt, “Yes, with my mother and father’s permission, I do.”

  * * *

  The rest of the evening passed quickly, if somewhat awkwardly, as the two families strained to conceal their dislike for one another from both the cameras and their 412 guests. The only moment Sarah truly enjoyed was when Ali—finally seeing her bare-headed and bare-armed with a hint of cleavage rising out of the heart-shaped neckline of her Marchesa wedding gown, her ringlets still intact—shook his head with besotted wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe how lucky he was.