Pomegranate Sky

Chapter 1-2

Someone touched my arm. “Are you alright?”

I put my hand up to shade my eyes. The sun was so

bright, that all I could see was a silhouette. But I knew the voice: it was

him. “I’m fine. Just hot,” I said.

“Let me get you a glass of water.”

“That’s kind, but there’s no need.” I stood up.

He was standing so close to me that I could see gold flecks in his eyes. His

cologne was sweet and musky.

“I guess I’ll see you next week, Layla

Khanoom.”

How did he know my name?

He smiled. “I asked Pari Khanoom who her best

student was. I knew it would be you.”

*

The days until my next class passed slowly. Each morning

I woke from dreams of him. As I lay there, sweat beading my skin, I went

over every detail of our encounter. The hand brushing mine, his arms, his

eyes. His cologne, musky-sweet and unsettling.

I tried to put him out of my mind and told myself no

good could come of this. He wasn’t from our part of town; he was from the

city proper, where merchants haggled and mullahs raved, and the masses bowed

down their heads at Friday prayers.

Keyvan was not the type of young man I was supposed to

like: a son of a family friend who, like me, had grown up in the leafy

suburbs of the north and had money and a good name.

“Layla joon, you look a little flushed,”

Maman said one afternoon. She placed her hand against my cheek.

“I’m OK. It’s hot, that’s all,” I said.

“I’m going to the club for a swim. Why don’t you

come?”

It was ladies’ afternoon and the pool was full of

Maman’s friends. They swam a few lengths and then gathered to gossip at

the shallow end.

I dove in and swam under the surface, pushing the cool

waters apart with my hands. I was glad that Maman had persuaded me to come.

I liked the water streaming through my hair and running over my back. I

reached the other side and pushed off again. The bare legs of Maman’s

friends bounced in slow motion on the pool floor. Someone waved a hand

underwater at me, but I pretended not to see.

When I was tired, I swam to the side and pulled myself

up. I sat for a while, legs dangling, watching the light spiral in the

water, the sun behind me. I swam again and rested for a second time. Then I

heard Maman call; she was sitting in the shade with Nahid, sipping cordial

and smoking cigarettes. I stood up and wrapped a towel around.

Maman patted the chair next to her. “Azizam,

you’ve been swimming for hours. Come, talk to us.”

Nahid smiled at me. “Layla joon, your mother

tells me you’ve taken up painting.”

Maman flagged a waitress down. “Another

sharbat, please,” she said.

“I enjoyed painting when I was younger,” Nahid went

on. “But then I got married and had a family, and there was no time for

such things.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew out slowly.

She smiled brightly. “Has your mother told you? Maha’s expecting.

She’s due in the autumn.”

I shook my head, surprised that Maman had forgotten to

mention it. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

“She’s bringing the baby for a visit in January.

We’re going to have a party. I hope you’ll come.”

“Of course we will. Layla’s longing to catch up with

Maha,” Maman said. “Aren’t you, azizam?”

I hadn’t seen Maha for several years. After her

wedding, she and her husband had moved to New York. Maha and I were on

amicable terms, but weren’t close. It was only because of our parents’

friendship that we had played together as children.

The waitress delivered my drink, and I leaned back in my

chair and sipped the cold cordial. Nahid was filling Maman in on Maha’s

pregnancy, and Maman was comparing it with Nasrin’s. I looked out at the

club, its golf course, pool and tennis courts. Uncle Mammad and Aunty Nelly

liked to come here; it held fond memories for them, as this was where

they’d first met. The club was different then, they said. During the

Shah’s time, men and women swam together and waiters were allowed to serve

stronger stuff than cordial.

Beyond the club were rolling green hills and in the

distance, rising up out of the dust, were the towers of downtown. Tomorrow

was my art class. Would he talk to me, seek me out? Suddenly, I wondered if

I had read too much into the way he’d looked at me, his hand brushing

mine. Perhaps our meeting had meant nothing to him. If so, it was for the

best, I told myself; but it was one thing to tell, and another to

listen.

“Layla?” Maman laughed lightly. “Nahid, see what a

daydreamer she is. Now you know what I’m up against. She’s just not

interested in finding a husband.”

I said nothing. I wasn’t interested in the suitors she

chose. And I hated it when Maman talked about me to her friends; it was

humiliating.

Nahid waggled her finger. “You’re not getting any

younger, Layla joon. Maha was married at twenty-one. How old are you

now, twenty-five?”

I forced a smile. “Twenty-four.”

“I keep telling her, but she won’t listen,” Maman

said. “I wear myself out hoping for the day when Layla will give me the

happy news you’ve had from Maha.” She pushed back her chair. “We’d

better go, Nahid joon. Firouz will be home soon and wanting his

supper.”

In the car, neither of us spoke, both disappointed with

each other. Maman drove quickly, cutting corners and honking at slow movers.

At the traffic lights, she sighed loudly. I knew that she wanted me to ask

her what was wrong, but I felt wronged myself, and in no mood to talk about

marriage. I stared out of the window until we were home.

*

It was time for my next art class. I looked at my

wardrobe in despair; it was agony deciding what to wear. I had made one

decision: I would take off my hejab. I didn’t want Keyvan to think

I was a prude. But that made what I wore underneath crucial. A dress would

be too much; it would shout out that I was trying to impress. Trousers and a

white shirt? I could hear Maman’s voice in my head: too masculine,

Layla!

I pulled my clothes along the rail, and found the top

that Maman had given me for Norouz. I hadn’t worn it yet, although

she’d made me try it on. “It’s so revealing,” I’d complained.

Maman had looked me up and down. “It’s a little low cut, but you can

carry it off.” I pulled the top over my head and then wriggled into my

jeans.

I had spent so long deciding what to wear that I was

late for class. All of the seats at the front were taken, so I found a chair

at the back and unpacked my things. There were only two or three women in

hejab; it was strange to see them in the minority. The others were

dressed as they always were, in shirts and trousers, tops and jeans.

Then I saw him. He was talking to Pari Khanoom

and another student. I watched them jealously, wishing I had arrived

earlier. Keyvan looked up, lifted his chin and smiled at me. The student

followed his gaze and I quickly looked down, opened my drawing-pad and

fiddled with the lid on my tin of paints.

Pari Khanoom clapped her hands. “Let’s

begin.” She turned to Keyvan, who placed a photograph on the table in

front of us; it was of the Alborz at sunset.

“I would like you to paint what you see in this photo.

I don’t want a copy of it, but a sense of what it is to know these

mountains – the feel and colour and shape of the rock, the height, the

air, the light. Don’t worry about the person sitting next to you, what you

see may be different to what they do,” he said.

The photograph made me think of my family. There was so

much of our history in those mountains, so many stories. How could I begin

to paint what I saw? The other students were mixing colours and dabbing

brushes, and Keyvan was walking through the room, looking over

shoulders.

I started to panic. I didn’t know where to begin and I

was supposed to be Pari Khanoom’s best student.

I dipped my brush in water, stroked it over a dark

chocolate pigment and painted the outline of the mountains, darkening the

slopes in the shadow of the setting sun. In the sky, I smudged clouds of

rose and, at the horizon, a violet haze.

Keyvan was standing beside me. Sparks went through my

body and I could feel the tiny hairs on my arms rise.

He drew up a chair. “May I?” he asked, taking my

brush.

Our hands did not touch. “Yes, of course,” I

said.

In a few strokes, the mountains came alive.

He was so close, his shoulder only a few inches from

mine. He smiled, even closer now. “What are you doing after class?” he

said softly.

I was shocked by his audacity, but thrilled at the same

time. “Nothing much,” I said, and then wished I’d said something

clever or alluring.

“Would you like to go for coffee? There’s a nice

café not far from here.”

What if the komiteh caught us? What if someone I

knew saw us?

“It’s out of the way. Not many people know about it,

but the coffee’s good.”

My mind raced. Maman was at the salon and Baba

wouldn’t be home for hours – no one would know if I came home late. I

knew I should refuse his invitation, but a voice was whispering inside my

head: soon you’ll be married to one of the neighbour’s sons.

Keyvan touched my arm. “If you don’t want to, it’s

OK,” he said.

“I’d like to,” I said. There, it was done.

The rest of the lesson was a blur. After Pari

Khanoom wished us a good weekend, I went outside and sat down on the

steps. But I felt uneasy waiting for him there. I didn’t want the others

to see us leave together.

I walked down the street a little way. After sitting

down all afternoon, it felt good to stretch my legs. The sun was soft,

brushing the sides of yellow brick buildings. Shouts of laughter came from

an alleyway, where boys were kicking a ball, and a motorbike roared past.

Then I heard quick footsteps behind me.

“Sorry I took so long. Pari Khanoom wanted to

talk about the class,” Keyvan said. “My car’s in the next

street.”

I was suddenly too shy to look at him. We fell into step

together. I searched for something to say, but it was Keyvan who spoke

first.

“What do you do when you’re not painting?” he

asked.

“I teach English at the Azad School. It’s close to

where I live, in Shemiran. Do you know it?”

“No. I don’t go that way much.”

Of course he didn’t. I felt stupid for asking.

He stopped beside an old white Paykan, which

looked as if it had been through a few scrapes. Not that I cared, but it was

the kind of car that my father would not be seen dead in. Keyvan opened the

door for me and as I got in, I wondered if I would regret this. I had only

just met this man, and here I was letting him take me away in his car. I

could hear Nasrin’s shocked voice in my head: a perfect stranger,

Layla!

The driver’s door slammed shut and Keyvan looked over

at me. “Enshallah, she will start.”

He turned the key. The car spluttered, and then hummed.

“Yes! She likes you.”

“You should see what I drive,” I blurted. What was I

saying? I drove Maman’s car, a BMW three series.

Keyvan turned the wheel, easing the car into the street.

“Really? What kind is it?”

I was furious with myself; now I’d have to come clean.

“A BMW, but it’s very old.”

He laughed. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”

I laughed with him, relieved that he hadn’t taken

offence. I liked his laugh; it was warm and generous.

At the traffic lights, we turned into a side street, and

then another. It was quieter here; I had not been to this part of town

before. We pulled up alongside a row of shops, and Keyvan turned off the

engine and jumped out. He walked around the car and opened the door for me.

He might be from a more modest family than mine, but at least his mother had

taught him some manners. As we walked up the street, I glanced around

warily. So far so good: there was no sign of the komiteh.