Pomegranate Sky

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

LaylaTehran

January 2001

The bell rang and five rows of veiled girls looked up at

me expectantly.

I nodded. “Yes, you may go.”

The classroom was suddenly filled with chatter and

laughter, the rustle of papers and the thud of books being thrown into bags.

Gossiping and giggling in little groups, they drifted towards the door and

then filed out of the room.

“Have a good weekend, everyone. Don’t forget the

exercises for next week,” I called after them.

“Have a good weekend, Khanoom,” one or two

called.

The door swung shut, muffling the din of delighted

students making Thursday night plans in the corridor outside. Their

excitement was infectious; it made my heart leap, for I too, had plans that

evening. Goose bumps pricked my arms and in spite of the close warmth of the

classroom I shivered, running my fingers over the hot columns of the

radiator, first one way, then the other.

I went over to the window. The girls streamed across the

courtyard below me, through the school gates and out into the street where

the younger ones were whisked into cars and the older ones gathered by the

corner shop. Beyond, the sun was melting into the horizon, an amber and ruby

haze in the night sky. As if someone had pressed a switch, the street lamps

flickered on, throwing rings of light around the plane trees lining the

winding street. The last few notes of the muezzin’s call to prayer echoed

in the distance. It was getting late.

I wiped the blackboard clean, rubbing out the day’s

vocabulary and grammar lessons, clapped my hands free of chalky dust and

locked my desk. As I was gathering my books and papers, Mina popped her head

round the door.

“We’re all going for coffee. Want to come?”

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy.” I smoothed my

maghnaeh and tucked in an unruly curl.

“Layla, you’re always busy these days. Is your

mother trying to set you up again with some balding middle-aged businessman

looking for a trophy wife?”

I laughed. “No, thank goodness. My aunt Nelly has

invited me round to taste her baklava. She wants to make sure it’s

authentic.” I need not feel guilty, I told myself. I wasn’t lying, just

not telling the whole truth.

“Join us later, then. We’ll probably end up at my

house and order pizzas.”

“I’ll try, but I expect she’ll ask me to stay for

supper. With Roxana in England, she and my uncle like the company.”

“I was going to introduce you to Davood’s cousin.

He’s cute. Rich, too.”

“Now who’s matchmaking? You sound just like my

mother and Nasrin.”

“If I do, it’s because I love you like a sister,

azizam. I don’t want to see you end up alone.”

Across the schoolyard, shadows stretched out in dark

corners. There were no stars, and the moon was hidden behind cloud. The icy

wind cut through the night and tugged at my maghnaeh. Although there

was no sign of the komiteh, the morality police, I gripped the black

cloth to keep it in place, slipped through the iron gates and turned into

the street that would lead me home.

As I hurried down the hill, I did not look down. I knew

every bump and dip in the pavement by heart. I had traipsed up and down this

street with Nasrin when we were students at the Azad School for Girls.

Sometimes time played tricks, and once again, I was running down this street

after Nasrin to hide in our basement while Saddam’s planes dropped

bombs.

Tonight I thought only of the secret that smouldered in

my heart, and the past fled like ghosts into the inky night.

I rushed in through the front door, pulled off my

maghnaeh and shook my hair free.

“Layla? Azizam?” My mother’s voice floated

into the hall.

I walked down the corridor and pushed open the door to

my parents’ room. “Yes, Maman.”

“These gold earrings or those pearl ones?” She held

them out for my inspection.

I pointed to the pearls, my favourite since

childhood.

“You always choose the same ones.”

“I don’t like gold. It’s too flashy.”

Maman put her hand on one hip and contemplated her

reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a new black shift dress, which her

tailor had billed as very chic, very Jackie O. “You know, one day your

mother-in-law will pin a gold brooch on your wedding dress. What will you

say then? Thank you, Madar joon, but it’s too flashy?”

In my mind, I rolled my eyes and stalked off like a

moody teenager. How I wished my mother would stop dropping hints about

marriage. In other cultures, a twenty-four-year-old girl wouldn’t need to

worry about husbands and in-laws. But here, in the Islamic Republic, I was

swiftly approaching the point of no return after which I would be an old

maid.

“Maman, I haven’t got time for this now,” I

protested, edging towards the door.

She sat down on the bed. “You never have time for

anything anymore. Always rushing here, hurrying there. Never thinking of

your future.” Her voice was tight, her eyes dark and still. I could sense

a storm brewing.

I sat down beside her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean

to upset you.”

She continued as if she had not heard me. “You never

let me introduce you to anyone. What about that handsome son of Aunty

Afrouz’s neighbour? He was such a catch, but you refused to even meet him

for a coffee.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I promise to meet

whoever you like next time. I’ll even meet the son of Aunty Afrouz’s

gardener. But I really have to go now.”

Her eyes softened. “Very well. I suppose I’d better

hurry too, or we’ll be late for Zahra’s dinner. Your father will be

cross if I keep him waiting. Where are you off to tonight anyway?”

“Aunty Nelly’s, to try her baklava. I mentioned it

at breakfast, remember?”

“So you did,” Maman said. She went to the mirror and

slid a tortoiseshell comb into her hair. “What will you do later? Surely

you won’t stay with Mammad and Nelly all evening.”

I had hoped to escape before she asked that question.

“I don’t know. Probably go to Mina’s for pizza and movies.” Then, as

I’d already lied, I thought I might as well make her happy. “She wants

to introduce me to her husband’s cousin. Apparently, he’s very

well-off.”

Maman’s eyes lit up. “Joonam, why didn’t

you say so before? Mina’s a nice girl. I see her mother at coffee

mornings. A good family.” She smiled approvingly.

I turned away, hiding the shadows in my eyes. I never

used to be any good at telling lies, the guilty look on my face always gave

me away, but I had changed.

It broke my heart to deceive my family, but I couldn’t

tell them the truth; my mother’s eyes would flash with anger and fill with

tears, my father’s brow furrow with disappointment.

And so I learned to weave a web of deceit, and as one

falsehood led to another, the silken threads of my duplicity tangled and I

was lost in a labyrinth of lies.

I flung open my wardrobe doors, wondering what to wear.

This would not be an easy decision. It wasn’t simply a matter of putting

together an outfit that would take me from day to evening, a dilemma often

considered by the foreign magazines I leafed through at the salon. No, I had

a more complex predicament: I needed an ensemble that would take me from tea

with a demure English aunt to a romantic evening date, of which the aunt

must suspect nothing.

I rummaged through my clothes, pulling out a skirt here,

trousers there. Nothing was right. If I could tell my family, my life would

be easier. But I had no regrets; my eyes had been opened to a world full of

colour and possibility.

I considered one outfit, then another. Eventually, I

decided on my best pair of jeans with a cashmere cardigan for Aunty

Nelly’s, which I could unbutton later to show the lace on my silk top.

I ran a brush through my hair, trying to smooth the

stubborn waves, wondering what we would do that evening. In spite of my

protests, he had insisted on picking me up outside my aunt and uncle’s

house. He would wait for me on the corner of their street. Where we would go

from there, I did not know. There was no café, no restaurant, that was off

limits to the komiteh.

I didn’t want to go out. I disliked sitting in my

hejab in a corner and sipping fruit juice, my heart pounding every

time the door opened or a waiter smirked in our direction. If we were

caught, we would have to pretend to be cousins or brother and sister. If we

were unlucky, and the komiteh refused to believe us or fancied a bit

of fun, it would get unpleasant. Unmarried couples caught together could be

jailed and lashed, the girl’s virginity tested and both shamed in front of

their families.

The best place for us to go was his flat in the basement

of his parents’ house. There, I could take off my headscarf, and we’d

talk freely and drink vodka without worrying about the komiteh. There

was still a risk that we would be discovered, but the risk was not so

great.

But going to his flat would have to wait until his

family were asleep. To pass the time, we could drive around town, avoiding

checkpoints and places that might attract the komiteh. I’d tell him

to steer clear of Jordan; he was from downtown and might not know that on

Thursday nights, teenage boys and girls drove round Jordan in packs,

exchanging phone numbers through rolled down windows. These antics drew the

komiteh like wasps to jam; they liked nothing better than hauling

rich kids off to jail and threatening beatings until their parents turned up

with wads of cash to plead for their children’s freedom.

I stood in front of the mirror. The thought of seeing

him in just a few hours had brought a flush to my face. It had been a week

and the days had dragged; now the moment was so near, my heartbeat quickened

just like it did when we first met in the summer – had it really been six

months? The girl I was now – in love with him, lying, sneaking around,

risking everything – was not the Layla I used to be; truthful, dutiful,

virtuous, attending her art class.

*

Summer 2000

I had been drawing a bowl of fruit, shading it in to

catch the fall of light. The room was quiet, with only the sounds of pencils

sketching and the whir of the fan.

At the end of the lesson, Pari Khanoom smiled.

“Well done, everyone. Next week is watercolour painting, and I am

delighted to introduce an artist who will be helping me teach the class,”

she said, gesturing to the back of the room.

Leaning against the wall was a young man. His eyes were

dark, almost black. His arms were tanned and strong, but his hands looked

gentle and sensitive.

He walked up to the front of the room and as he passed,

his hand brushed mine. I looked up, startled, and pulled my hand away, as if

it had been burned. My face flamed. I glanced around, wondering if anyone

had seen, but all eyes were on the young man now standing beside Pari

Khanoom.

“This is Keyvan Siyahpush. We’re lucky to have him

join us.” Pari Khanoom clapped her hands and the rest of us joined

in.

When the applause faded, she continued. “I know what

some of you are thinking. If you feel uncomfortable, by all means, wear your

hejab. But these are private lessons, given in my home, so please

feel free to unveil. Personally, I can’t paint with a headscarf on, but

the choice is yours – all I ask is that you respect mine. While these

lessons go on, we are not in the Islamic Republic. We are in the world of

art.”

There were nods and murmurs, and whispers behind hands.

I didn’t know my fellow students well. They were from other

neighbourhoods. Most were about my age; some were housewives, others working

women. We exchanged smiles and polite conversation, but it never went beyond

Pari Khanoom’s sitting room. There was no snobbery, or rudeness. It

was simply a matter of shyness, and a sense of the foreign, on both

sides.

I packed up my drawing pad and pencils. Keyvan Siyahpush

was talking to Pari Khanoom. He caught my eye and smiled. I felt my

cheeks redden again, the blush spreading down my neck. I swung my bag over

my shoulder and hurried out of the room. As I went, I could feel his eyes on

me still. Outside, I sat down on the steps to catch my breath. I felt dizzy,

my head as light as air.