Chapter 3
LaylaTehran
1984
As children, Nasrin and I were aware of secrets in the
house; the half-finished sentences and closed doors intrigued us. At night,
we slipped from our beds and crouched in the corridor, listening to the
grown-ups’ dinner conversations. In the afternoons, we hid behind the
sitting room sofa while Maman’s friends smoked cigarettes and chatted over
cards and coffee.
One day, Maliheh, Maman’s second cousin, came to
lunch. When the bell rang, Roshan, our housekeeper, answered the door.
Maliheh bustled in and rushed to embrace my mother. She
was a short and stocky woman, with a weighty bosom and a nose like a
fishhook. She wore a navy skirt that looked too tight round the middle and a
long-sleeved frilly cream blouse. “Joonam, you haven’t changed a
bit,”
