Things We Left Unsaid Page 5

  Mrs. Simonian laid her spoon and fork neatly side by side on her plate and picked up the napkin from her lap. ‘Whether they have school in the morning or not is no reason for children to change bedtimes. A child has to get used to a fixed schedule. Emily sleeps at nine o’clock sharp. When Emile was a child I ordered his governess...’

  I scooted my chair back and stood up. ‘Let me look in on the children.’

  Emile got up and gave a slight bow. Artoush took a bite out of a piece of bread.

  In a corner of the hallway, a few suitcases were stacked atop each other. Next to them was a statue of a stone elephant. Half of its trunk and part of an ear were broken off. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter after eight.

  Emily’s room was an exact copy of Armen’s, though it, too, seemed a bit larger to me. There was not much in it, except for the metal bed, a small desk, and a crimson carpet. The windows had no curtains, and the room was dimly lit. The twins were sitting on the carpet, and Armen was sitting in the chair at the writing desk. Emily was reclining on the bed. The hem of her white dress had hitched up above her knees, one of her pigtails had come undone, and her hair was falling in her face. She was playing with the ribbon. When she saw me enter, she sat up straight, pulled down on the hem of her dress, and placed both hands on her knees.

  Arsineh looked at me, her curly hair spilling out from beneath her orange headband. ‘It would be great if tomorrow...’

  Armineh, her curly hair spilling out from beneath her orange headband, continued, ‘...Emily could come to the movies with us.’

  Arsineh asked, ‘Can you ask for permission for her?’

  Armineh cocked her head, ‘Please?’

  Armen picked up a book off the writing desk and flipped through its pages.

  ‘Are you having fun?’ I asked. ‘What have you been doing?’

  Armineh said, ‘We were talking until now.’

  Arsineh said, ‘Emily was telling us about the schools she’s gone to.’

  ‘Now we’re going to play Spin the Bottle.’

  ‘Emily has taught us how.’

  ‘Spin the Bottle?’ I took a deep breath.

  I had met Artoush playing Spin the Bottle at the birthday party of a mutual friend. The guests spun the bottle one by one and had to kiss whomever the bottleneck was pointing to when it came to rest. Once the arrangements were finalized for our marriage, Artoush admitted, ‘I tried to spin the bottle somehow so that it would point at you.’ After our first anniversary, I was bold enough to say, ‘Me too.’

  Armineh said, ‘The person who spins the bottle...’

  Arsineh said, ‘...gives the person who the bottle points to...’

  Armineh said, ‘...any command he feels like.’

  ‘Neat, huh?’ the two of them chimed together.

  I let out my breath and laughed. ‘As long as the commands are not dangerous.’ How innocent children are, I thought.

  Artoush and Emile were talking in the living room. Mrs. Simonian was clearing the dinner table – I was surprised she hadn’t set her son the task. I helped. As we went back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen, she hitched up her dress and talked on and on. ‘I had attendants and servants from birth. Now I am forced to do the work myself. India, with all its problems, had an abundance of maids and servants. In my father’s house in Julfa we had all the servants you could want...some families served for several generations in our house.’ The pearl necklace kept catching on the dishes and the door handle. ‘When we were in Masjed-Soleiman I brought a girl servant from Julfa. She was not quite right in the head. I informed her family, and they came to get her. I believe she wound up in Namagerd, though you probably don’t know and don’t care where Namagerd is. Can you recommend a good maid here?’

  I was about to admit that I do in fact know where Namagerd is, but held my tongue. I thought of Ashkhen, who came round to our place to help out with the housework twice a week, and to Alice and Mother’s house once a week. Ashkhen’s husband was paralyzed after a back operation and received a pittance of a pension from the Oil Company. Her son had just returned from military service and was out of work, or as Ashkhen put it, ‘His job is to hang around the Kuwaiti Bazaar dawn to dusk, stroll up and down along the Shatt al-Arab, smoke two or three packs a day, and chomp on sunflower seeds. He supposes his poor mother, namely me, can pluck money from the trees.’ This could work out to their advantage – help for my neighbor and a little extra income for Ashkhen.

  Once the table was cleared, I sat down opposite Emile and Artoush, and Mrs. Simonian retook her earlier seat, saying, ‘We don’t take tea and fruit after our dinner. It inhibits digestion.’ Then she asked for the address of the Adib Grocery near our house and jotted down the phone number of the children’s piano teacher. ‘I’ve sent Emily to piano lessons since she was seven. She must continue. Of course, I was playing the piano from the age of five.’ I almost expected her to say, ‘I was performing on the piano.’

  Emile was sitting with one leg crossed. He was wearing black patent-leather shoes and black socks. Artoush had one leg crossed as well. His shoes were black and his socks brown. That was my fault. I forgot to lay out his black socks next to his shoes.

  I was looking for an opportunity to catch Artoush’s eye and signal to him it was time to say goodnight when Armen rushed into the room. His face was red and he could not stop coughing. I leapt to my feet.

  ‘What happened?’

  Between coughs he croaked, ‘Water!’

  Emile jumped up. Artoush also stood up. Mrs. Simonian didn’t budge.

  I took Armen to the kitchen and poured him some water. ‘Did something get stuck in your throat?’

  His long eyelashes were matted with tears. He asked for more water, coughed some more, drank again, finally regained his composure and said without looking at me, ‘I don’t know what made me start coughing all of a sudden,’ and walked out of the kitchen.

  Artoush had called the twins and was thanking Mrs. Simonian and saying goodbye. Emily, eyes downcast, was twirling the white ribbon around her finger. Was it just me, or was there a half-smile on her face?

  As I was shaking hands with Mrs. Simonian and her son, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Armen go over to the twins and whisper in their ear. Armineh tugged at my skirt. ‘The movies tomorrow!’

  I turned to Emile. ‘Would it be alright for Emily to go to the movies with the children tomorrow?’

  Emile looked at his mother.

  Arsineh tugged at my skirt from the other side. ‘Ask her grandma!’

  Mrs. Simonian, after ascertaining which cinema and which film, with whom they were going and when they were coming back, and heaven forbid that they eat any sandwiches or chips, finally gave her permission.

  The twins, holding each other around the waist, crossed the street ahead of me and Artoush and Armen. Once or twice they turned back to Armen and laughed. I opened the front door and turned on the light in the hallway.

  Arsineh said, ‘Ahh! It’s so nice to have a bright house!’

  Armineh said, ‘Ahh! And it’s nice and cool, too.’

  ‘That was fun,’ added Arsineh, ‘but their house is very dark.’

  ‘That was fun,’ agreed Armineh, ‘but their house was very hot.’

  Artoush took off his tie and headed for the kitchen. ‘Do we have anything to eat?’ Armen went to his room and slammed the door.

  I sent the twins off to their bedroom, took off my high heels and went barefoot to the kitchen.

  Artoush was sitting at the table, staring at the flowers on the ledge. ‘Poor guy. Now I know why he doesn’t seem normal. With that mother...’ A small lizard on the outside of the window screen was staring into the kitchen. I made a hard-boiled egg sandwich. Eggs, whenever and however prepared, were my husband’s favorite food.

  Just as Artoush was about to bite into the sandwich, Arsineh yelled, ‘Tell me where Ishy is, or I’ll tell why you were coughing!’

  I was about to get up from the t
able when Artoush caught my hand and said for the umpteenth time, ‘Don’t interfere. Let them fight. They’ll make up afterwards. They’ll keep on fighting and making up. Let them be.’ Then he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t kill each other.’ Still holding my hand, he stroked the back of it with his finger. I didn’t move. How long had it been since he had held my hand? He let go, picked up his sandwich and took a bite. ‘Your skin is so dry.’

  I looked at my hands. At my close-clipped and unpolished nails. When I shook hands, did Mrs. Simonian notice how chapped my hands were? What about her son? I felt embarrassed at the thought of his kissing my hand. The kids were quiet. Half an hour later, when I looked in on their rooms, all three of them were fast asleep and Armineh was hugging Ishy.

  8

  On Fridays, when we did not have to rush off to work, we always ate a big breakfast.

  The radio was on. I cracked the eggs into the frying pan and told Artoush, who was getting the cheese and butter from the fridge, ‘I’ll set the table. Go wake Armen so they can make it to the cinema’

  From the kitchen doorway Armen said, ‘Awake and at your service. Go wake up your lazy daughters. And, by the way, good morning to you.’ His hair was all wet and his face all rosy. Artoush looked at me and arched his eyebrows. We both stared at our son.

  Armen took a seat at the table. ‘What’s the big deal? Never seen anyone fresh from the bath before?’

  Artoush slid the spatula under the egg, sunny-side up. ‘We’ve had occasion to see a freshly bathed face or two in our day, but not usually a freshly bathed Armen.’ He put the egg on Armen’s plate and we both laughed. Since the age of ten, getting Armen to take a bath was one of my hardest chores.

  Armen was complaining that he didn’t like runny eggs when the twins bounced in, wearing their red and blue plaid pinafore dresses over white blouses. They said they didn’t want eggs and both asked instead for toast with butter and jam, and chocolate milk.

  Over the radio came the pinched voice of the Iranian radio announcer, Forouzandeh Arbabi: ‘These are the days of spring blossoms and the rain in Tehran...’

  Armen declared loudly, ‘These are the days of scorching heat and mugginess in Abadan.’

  Arsineh asked, ‘What are you talking about?’

  Armineh mimicked in a nasal voice, ‘He’s talking like Forouzandeh Arbabi.’

  Arsineh, convulsed with laughter, said through her giggles, ‘Are we eating lunch at the Club?’

  Armineh added, ‘Let’s eat lunch at the Club.’

  When we were not invited over to someone’s house on Fridays, or did not have our own guests, we went to the Golestan Club. The kids liked the Chelow Kebab at the Club, and I thought it was wonderful that we could all be together to eat lunch once a week. Artoush poured sugar in his tea. ‘On one condition.’

  Armineh quickly swallowed what she was chewing. ‘What condition? We’ve done our homework. We’ve also practiced the piano. We’ve also toadied up our room.’ She sought her sister’s approval, as usual. ‘Isn’t that right, Arsineh?’

  Armen separated the solid and the runny parts of the egg. ‘Not toadied. Tidied, you dim...’ He caught my glance and did not finish his sentence.

  The twins were looking at Artoush. ‘What condition? Tell us!’ Artoush was stirring his tea.

  Armineh said, ‘We accept.’

  Arsineh affirmed, ‘We accept any condition.’

  They chimed together, ‘What is it? Tell us, tell us!’

  Now Armen and I were also looking at Artoush, waiting for his answer. He carefully removed the spoon from his cup, laid it ceremoniously on the saucer, stared out the window, looked at me, then at Armen, then at the twins. Finally he said, ‘On condition that my beautiful daughters each give their father a big kiss.’

  The twins began to laugh, and both leapt up from their chairs. Armen made a face. ‘Hahaha, very funny.’ I laughed and started clearing the breakfast table.

  Sitting on Artoush’s knee, Arsineh said, ‘It would be so nice if Emily could come to the Club with us after the movie.’

  From his other knee, Armineh said, ‘Oh my gosh! We have to go get her.’

  Armen pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll go get her.’ Artoush looked over Arsineh’s curly hair at me. Armen had already reached the hallway when the twins yelled after him, ‘Wait!’ and rushed out of the kitchen.

  Artoush looked over at the kitchen door. ‘Our son has become very meticulous about his manners.’ He got up. ‘After the movie, I’ll pick up the kids from the cinema, and come get you. Call Mother and Alice. Ask them to come too.’

  I was taken by surprise. Artoush knew very well that Mother and Alice had no need of an invitation, and would certainly come in any case. And I knew full well that Artoush had no particular desire for either of them to come. So what was the reason for all the lovey-dovey?

  From the hallway he yelled, ‘After I drop off the kids at the movies, I’ll drop in on Shahandeh.’

  Aha, I thought. So that’s why... ‘Wait!’ I called out, and ran after him.

  He stopped in the middle of the path and waited for me to catch up to him. He was stroking his goatee and chuckling. So I was right! He was horse-trading with me. I stood directly in front of him. ‘Didn’t you promise me not to go to Shahandeh’s?’

  He pushed back the hair that had fallen in my face and said patiently, ‘I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s not true what you have heard. When was Shahandeh ever mixed up in politics? If one or two folks come around to his store and we chat a bit, so what?’ He touched the tip of my nose with his finger. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll only have a little rosewater sherbet and come right back. Shall I bring back some sherbet for you?’ And he laughed.

  If the weather was hot, Shahandeh would offer rosewater sherbet to everyone who visited his store. And when the weather wasn’t hot, it was tea with dried lemon. I had only tried rosewater sherbet once and did not care for it at all.

  We walked to the gate together, and Artoush said, ‘Maybe he’ll even tell an interesting hunting yarn. When I get back I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘Not that you’re any good at telling stories,’ I teased. The hunting adventures Shahandeh recounted were interesting, even in Artoush’s truncated and lifeless re-telling. I helped him open the garage door. ‘There really isn’t anything going on at Shahandeh’s store? Then why was it closed from Norouz almost until Easter? The owner of the perfume shop next door said they had come after him from Tehran.’

  The sunlight fell on the dark maroon Chevrolet, a twenty-year-old model that was one of Alice’s favorite reasons for ridiculing Artoush. He opened the door. ‘The perfume-seller was talking nonsense. Shahandeh, like me, did some things in his youth. By now the heroic stuffing has been knocked out of the both of us.’ He climbed in. ‘We’re only going to chat a little. Honest.’ After turning the ignition a few times, the car finally started. Artoush was backing out of the garage when the children walked up.

  Emily had her hair scraped back off her forehead under a red hairband. Now that her hair was not spilling over her face, her eyes looked larger, her lips and cheeks more prominent. I wondered again whether she was wearing lipstick.

  The twins were pouting. ‘Emily’s grandmother did not give her permission to come to the Club with us.’

  ‘Her grandmother said restaurant food is not good for her.’ They each took hold of my hands and swung my arms back and forth. ‘You go and ask permission.’

  ‘Please, go.’

  ‘Pretty please?’

  Armen, standing a few paces back, was rolling a gravel stone back and forth with the point of his shoe. Emily was looking down. Artoush called from the car, ‘Come on. It’s late!’

  I put a hand on the shoulders of each twin and led them to the car. ‘Okay. Maybe I’ll go and ask permission for you.’

  Arsineh and Armineh scrambled onto the back seat. Armen held the door for Emily to get in, then closed her door and sat in the front seat, next to his f
ather. Artoush headed off and waved. The twins rolled down the window and yelled, ‘Permission for Emily! Please.’ I nodded and waved goodbye.

  I waited until the Chevy reached the end of the street and turned in the direction of Cinema Taj. A warm wind kicked up, gently swaying the Msasa trees lining either side of the street. Our neighbor, Mr. Rahimi, whose garage adjoined ours, was fiddling with his car. His five-year-old son was crying and tugging at his father’s trousers. ‘Daddy, let’s go pol. Let’s go pol!’

  Mr. Rahimi greeted me and laughed. ‘Son, the pool is not open yet.’

  The little boy was whining, a packet of Kool-Aid in his hand, and an orange ring round his mouth. In Abadan, the adults used lemon, orange or other flavors of Kool-Aid to create refreshing drinks. But the children loved to take the powder and eat it dry, sticking out their tongues to ask, ‘Is it orange? Is it red? Is it purple?’

  I asked after Mr. Rahimi’s wife, who had gone to Tehran to buy things for her nephew’s wedding. Then I said goodbye, opened the gate and shut it behind me. I walked up the path across the lawn. I looked at the red clover in the grass and remembered what Armineh had said. ‘Just like violet Smarties. Aren’t they, Arsineh?’ They both loved Smarties, colorful round chocolate beans. The branches of the willow tree hung down over the swing seat, and the rose bush was decked with new red blossoms.

  9

  I went inside and locked the door behind me. In Abadan, nobody locked the door in the middle of the day; I only did so when I wanted to make sure I was alone. My penchant for self-criticism meant that I had challenged myself on this more than once: What does locking the door have to do with being alone? To which I always answered: I don’t know.

  I leaned up against the door and closed my eyes. After the bright light and heat outdoors, and the noise of the children, the cool, quiet chiaroscuro of the house was lovely. The only sound was the monotonous humming of the air conditioners, and the only smell, a hint of Artoush’s cologne hanging in the hallway. I felt like having a coffee.