“We’ll still be close. You’ll only be forty minutes away, Roya Joon!” Maman laughed as if she could read her mind. “We can see each other every day, if you like. If you don’t get tired of your maman.”
Roya and Bahman had decided to lease a few rooms in a house with levels for rent conveniently located near his parents’ home. That way Bahman could still keep an eye on his mother in her volatile state. The new rooms were a bit far from the newspaper office where Bahman would start working in the fall, but he could take the bus to work. Eventually they would get a bigger place of their own, of course, but this would be a good stepping-stone. Roya was so relieved that Bahman had said no to their staying at his parents’ home; it was a common custom for newlyweds to start married life in the groom’s parents’ house. But Bahman insisted that he didn’t want Roya to feel like a caretaker to his mother, and that he and his father could handle it all as long as they lived close by.
Maman wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “In this new stage of life, with your husband’s blessing, of course, you can decide your next steps. Many will expect you to stay home and have babies, and that is a fine path too. Or if you like, you can try pursuing at least for a bit the science studies your father so cherishes?” Maman slit open a sack of rice and poured the grains into a large bowl. The grains clinked against the sides and landed in a mound inside.
Baba and his lectures. Madame Curie! Roya took the rice and filled the bowl with water to get the extra starch out. “I know he was so excited and proud of us for even having the option to study science. But it was never what I . . .”
“Wanted to solely study?” Maman finished the sentence for her. Maman’s hair shone in the sunlight that came through the kitchen window. A few strands of gray were visible in the light. “My daughter who loves her novels. Who loves to read. You will figure it all out, Roya Joon. Baba is so happy for you, as you know. He loves Bahman.” She stroked Roya’s cheek. “You will always be my baby. Forty minutes is nothing.”
Roya finished washing the rice and set down the bowl. Together they would slightly sauté the barberries in a pan. They would take chicken pieces and sprinkle them with salt, pepper, and turmeric and roast them till they were golden brown. They would boil the rice and drain it and pour it back in the pot with a cloth under the lid to catch the steam. Together she and Maman would drizzle lime juice and dissolved saffron over the roasted chicken pieces and arrange them on platters. They would chop up pistachios and sliver almonds with a knife and add the pistachios and almonds to the cooked rice. They would fold in a few curly orange rinds that Maman had dried in the sun. For her engagement party, they would serve a dish actually worthy of a wedding. It was a time of joy. Of new beginnings. Maman was right. Roya could come by anytime to say hello, ask for advice, sit with her in the kitchen and drink tea.
Zari and Kazeb came in, talking loudly as they carried large pink boxes of pastries.
“These are so heavy; my back won’t recover for a while!” Zari plopped the boxes onto the kitchen table. She took a look at Roya. “What’s wrong with you? Why the serious face? Aren’t you excited?” Zari’s tone was slightly taunting but also concerned.
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You aren’t nervous?”
“A little. But a mother will still—” She meant to tell Zari that Maman had reassured her they would still remain close.
That was all Zari needed to take the baton and run. “It’s his mother getting you down, isn’t it? She thinks we’re not good enough, I know! She thinks her son can do better. She’s just one of those greedy women who want to climb the social ladder. She wants even more money, higher status. Right? She’s thinks Baba’s job as a government clerk is beneath their family. She looks down on us!”
“Zari, enough!” Maman said.
“No, really. How will you put up with her?” Zari asked Roya.
“I love him.”
“She was against your engagement! Doesn’t that tell you something? Is that really what you want? To be married to someone whose mother hates you?”
“Enough with the dramatics, Zari. Please,” Maman said.
Zari sucked in her lips but went on: “How naïve you are sometimes, Sister! His mother has done nothing but try to sabotage you. Sons are putty in their mothers’ hands. This son more than most. ‘Oh, what can I get you, Mother? Oh, do you want another tea, Mother? Oh, let me get that for you, Mother!’ ”
“That’s what good sons do!” Maman said.
“To this extent?”
“Yes!” Roya said. “And anyway, she finally agreed, didn’t she? So it’s not as if she’s against us marrying now.”
“Just be careful, basheh, okay?”
“Zari.” Roya lowered her voice and looked around as if about to divulge a difficult secret. “She is not well.”
It was only when Roya had met Mrs. Aslan a few times that she realized Bahman compensated for his mother’s fragile state by trying to be everything to her and the family. It was as though his competence and kindness and generosity were in direct response to his mother’s lack of those qualities. He met his mother’s pit of nerves with steadiness. Where she was unkind and rude, he was generous and forgiving. His mother’s fragility seemed to create in him the need to suck everything he could from life and to be strong. Was that why Mr. Fakhri said he was the boy who would change the world? Roya had always thought it was because of his activism for Prime Minister Mossadegh. But maybe it was because seeing his mother trapped by the whims of her illness, isolated in her house most of the time, unable to converse well with others or navigate social situations effectively, drew from Bahman an ever-stronger desire to stamp his mark on life. To steer his own ship, right wrongs, “change the world,” as Mr. Fakhri put it.
“Look, Zari. There are things about Mrs. Aslan that you just don’t know. So maybe you can be a little more considerate. Just leave it be. You don’t know the whole story,” Roya whispered in the kitchen.
“I know about her crazy moods. Who doesn’t! That’s no secret!”
Roya put down her spatula, defeated.
Roya, Maman, and Baba stood in a row near the entrance, smiling and greeting each guest as they arrived. Aunts and uncles, close friends and relatives came in with flowers and pastries, congratulated Roya and her parents, and made themselves comfortable around the living room. The women sat, chatted, and drank tea on one side while the men stood in groups on the other, tea glasses in hand. Roya had expected Bahman and his parents to be the first to get there, but they were late. Where was he?
Finally the door opened and a worn-looking Bahman came in, leading his mother by the arm. His father looked ravaged as he shuffled in behind them.
“Sorry to be so late,” Bahman greeted Maman and Baba, then kissed Roya on the cheek. Roya was shocked by the gesture. They were engaged, yes, but it still felt forward and bold. Displays of affection like this in front of elders were disrespectful. But her body grew warm from the kiss and she softened.
“Is everything all right?” she whispered.
“We just had some . . . trouble,” Bahman mumbled.