The Revolutionary’s Cousin

3. Yasmin

3

Yasmin

Karim put the greasy phone down slowly. What was going on? Why had Zahra changed her mind? He tried to think kindly of her but couldn’t help feeling annoyed, not to mention sexually frustrated. Maybe Ahmad hadn’t wanted to be separated from his mother and that’s why she’d gone with him to the village. Karim walked up to the counter in the cafe and gave the owner a few coins for the phone call.

‘Can I get you a coffee, sir?’ the man asked.

He shook his head. He didn’t fancy a fiddly little cup of Iranian coffee made by the shy young woman who had peered round the plastic curtain when he came in. What he needed was a double strength cappuccino from an American diner, followed by a large hamburger.

So, he thought irritably as he walked to his car, she doesn’t want me—yet. When she’s got a ring on her finger she’ll do it, but not till then. He took off his leather jacket and threw it on the back seat of the station wagon. He was in no man’s land on the edges of the city. It had started to rain; the locals were watching him as if he were an extra-terrestrial. Zahra had turned him down. Damn! He really did not understand women.

As he manoeuvred the heavy station wagon back onto the highway, his mind wandered from Zahra to his American first wife Nancy. That was pure lust, he realised now; he must have been crazy to marry her! When she had packed up, emptied his bank account and told him she had someone else, he had been angry and humiliated. His friends had warned him before he married her, but he ignored them.

He didn’t need to be warned about Zahra though—everything about their relationship was perfect. He would marry her, inherit a son, and probably have a few more children. Poor Zahra. Her cousin Firzun had married her out of pity. He remembered sharing a meal with him once; he could hardly believe that now. Firzun told Karim ‘in confidence’ that Zahra’s first husband had died suddenly from a heart attack a couple of years ago. Even though Firzun was Zahra’s cousin, he had married her.

‘It’s an Afghan thing,’ Firzun had told him casually. ‘In my country, widows are a burden on the family.’

Karim was determined to help Zahra. She had been widowed twice now, and needed protection and loving care. He planned to take Zahra and her son to America. Once there, they’d get married. He wanted her to be an equal partner in the marriage, to make joint decisions with him about their future. He shrugged to himself—was he living in fantasy land? What did he really know about Zahra? How could he have imagined himself in love with someone he’d only known for eight weeks? He was going down the same road again. He had hardly known Nancy when he had married her and that had ended in a bitter, acrimonious divorce.

He felt annoyed with Zahra. Tahmineh had told him that she was sitting outside in the car. She could easily have come back into the house and spoken to him. Why hadn’t she? Well, he’d be back in Tehran in a few days and she could explain everything then.

He was in mountainous country now. The rain was coming down in sheets and the wipers thwacked backward and forward across the windscreen. He pushed his Top Hits of 1979 tape into the stereo deck. A friend had sent it last week from the States. Given that there was a crackdown on everything American now, he was surprised it hadn’t been confiscated at the post office. Finally, the cassette tape got going. As the bends got tighter on the treacherous road, he joined in the chorus of the song ‘YMCA’, belting out the words at the top of his voice. It stopped him thinking about the steep ravines on either side of the bitumen.

After crawling up the mountain for hours, he began the long, winding trek down the treacherous muddy roads into Ramsar. It was seven o’clock when he manoeuvred the station wagon onto the driveway of the beach house. The outside lights were on and a warm glow showed through the blinds of the downstairs rooms. He eased the heavy vehicle into the garage and parked next to the smaller convertible his parents used in the summer. A warm smell of casseroled meat greeted him as he pushed open the door from the garage. He propped his umbrella against the wall; he didn’t want to get in trouble from the housekeeper for getting drips on the highly polished ceramic tiles.

‘I’m here!’ he called out.

Peri Khanoum, the housekeeper, came out of the kitchen. She bustled and fussed just like her counterpart in Tehran, greeting him with a torrent of words. She told him where everything was and that his bed was made up. She asked about his parents, gave condolences about his grandmother’s passing. She had laid the table in the kitchen; did she need to stay and serve his food? After he thanked her and said he was fine, she pulled on her black chador and wrapped a black head covering over her other headscarf. She promised that she and her husband Sami, who was hovering in the background while she talked, would return tomorrow morning. She bid Karim a quick goodbye and took off into the night, followed by her husband.

Karim stood in the large modern kitchen, recovering from the tirade, and looked around. How Zahra would have loved this house, he thought. He helped himself to the salad Peri had left him and tore some bread from the warm loaf she’d taken from the oven. The lamb casserole was delicious—there was enough to feed a family of six.

As he ate, he thought again about Zahra. His plans for a future together were well advanced in his mind. They would live in his apartment in New York. He had already decided to buy a beach house in Florida for winter breaks. He smiled to himself. Ahmad and Zahra would be amazed when they saw the ocean for the first time.

He rinsed his plate and put it in the sink, helped himself to an apple from a bowl of fruit, and wandered into the main living room. The rain had blown out to sea and from the clear black sky a full moon dappled the water as it washed onto the beach near the house. No lights shone from the neighbouring houses. They were all closed up for the winter.

As he looked round the living room, a wave of nostalgia overwhelmed him. The beach house had belonged to his grandmother, and now it was his. In her will, his grandmother had left an apartment in Tehran to his sister and the beach house to him. Even though it wasn’t hers, his mother Esmat had redecorated the whole house a couple of years ago. His grandmother never saw the make-over; she had been too sick to travel at that stage. Esmat had ordered several large white couches for the main living room and scattered blue and white striped cushions on them. She had the walls painted ‘a nice ice-blue white’, cleared out all the antiquated dark furniture, and replaced the drapes with shutters and blinds. The Persian prayer rugs and pictures of ‘dead people’ came off the walls. Now the place was full of family photographs in white frames and large canvases with a seaside theme. Esmat had also furnished the basement area as a recreation room and small gym for Karim.

‘I know you're into a fitness regime in the States,’ she had commented to her son.

On the second floor, all the bedrooms had a theme. A Disney-themed bedroom for his nephews when they came from the States with his sister, and a Scottish-themed room for him.

He pushed open his bedroom door. The incongruous picture of a Highland stag on the opposite wall never failed to startle him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mary Queen of Scots watching him from her wooden frame. He had objected to tartan wallpaper and instead had settled for ‘splashes of the Highlands’, as his mother put it. Two wooden chairs, ‘exact copies of the throne of the Scottish kings’, sat on either side of the large patio window. Bright red Stewart tartan cushions were scattered everywhere. At least he got his own way about a white bedspread, albeit with a tartan overlay at the end, and a plain headboard.

The room, which had once irritated him and made Nancy shriek ‘My God, how kitsch!’ when she’d seen it, was now a welcome sight after his rain-drenched journey. He plucked a small lace-edged tartan placemat from the phone and picked it up. To his dismay the line was dead. He felt unreasonably disappointed. He wanted to speak to Zahra and get an explanation before he went to sleep.

The lines to Tehran were still down the following morning. He had a lot to do and the time passed quickly. He sorted through the boxes mechanically. So many decisions: ocean shipment to America, store here, take back to Tehran. By lunch time he was exhausted. He felt that the whole weight of his parents’ choice to emigrate to America now rested on his shoulders. He looked around the vast spaces of the beach house, wondering whether to put it up for rent. In the end, he decided to phone his father when he got back to Tehran and discuss it with him. Maybe he should sell it or simply lock it up. If things changed for the better in Iran, they could all come back and resume their former lives.

The rain cleared by the afternoon and the air felt surprisingly warm. He needed a Band-Aid for an annoying cut on his hand that wouldn’t stop bleeding. He drove into town and found a parking space easily—the rain had kept everyone indoors. As he neared the pharmacy, a sharp memory reared up. He remembered coming here a few years ago with Nancy, then his girlfriend. Men had stared at her in the street, partly because of her long blond hair, but mostly because of her hot pants and bikini top. Karim had tried to persuade her that even though Iran, at the time, was quite a free-thinking country, this wasn’t the city. Women wore a long beach dress over their beach gear when they went shopping. She had laughed in his face and told him not to be so prudish, this was the age of feminism and they could all get …

The pharmacy was quiet. The male pharmacist was counting pills into a bottle, and a couple of chador-clad women were checking the shelves behind the counter. One of them raised her hand to her forehead and brushed away an invisible strand of hair. With a shock he recognised her. Her name was Yasmin—they had been in lustful love with each other for a whole summer sixteen years ago, when they were both eighteen. He’d first met her here, in this same pharmacy. After he got to know her better, she told him how she was moving to live with an aunt in Tehran where she’d got a place at university.

‘It’s my last summer ever in Ramsar. I’m never coming back!’ she had announced one evening after they’d made love in a secret room at the back of the shop.

They had met secretly, but then his mother found out he was ‘messing with the local girls’. A week later, incandescent with, he’d thought at the time, a disproportionate rage, she sent him back to Tehran. He spent the end of that miserable hot summer in the family home studying. The following year Yasmin no longer worked in the pharmacy. He had only seen her once after that when he was walking along the street with Nancy. She’d flicked him and Nancy a quick look, then crossed over.

He remembered how, when she had worked there, she used to wear neat white overalls with her name embroidered on the pocket. Now she wore the ubiquitous black chador and black headscarf with only her face showing. Her spectacular thick black hair had been scraped out of sight. As she reached to put something up on the shelf, the light caught her wedding ring and at the same time she turned and saw him.

‘Hello, Yasmin,’ he said quietly.

She came up to the counter. Their eyes met briefly, then she blushed and looked away. When she glanced up again, she spoke softly with the slight lisp he remembered.

‘Hello, Karim, how are you? What can I help you with?’

‘I’m well, Yasmin, and you? I need some Band-Aids. I’m packing up the beach house and I’ve cut my hand.’

‘Packing up!’ She laughed nervously, a small coughing sound.

‘My family’s gone to America and I’m following them soon with my fiancée.’

She looked straight at him, her dark eyes with their thick lashes alive with interest. ‘You mean the American lady …’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘My friend said she would sunbathe … topless.’

‘No, this is a different fiancée.’ He couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘Band-Aids?’

‘Oh, yes!’

She hurried away from the high counter and came back, not with a box as he’d expected, but a strip of six.

‘Since the regime took over, you know, it’s been hard to get boxes,’ she told him. ‘They used to come from America, but …’

‘Okay, they’ll do.’ He handed over a banknote. ‘So, you’re a qualified pharmacist now?’

She looked down. ‘I didn’t go to university. I got married instead. It’s what my parents wanted.’

No surprises there, he thought. Even sixteen years ago, when the shah’s education reforms were in full swing, it was unusual for a village girl to go to university. Pity really, she was very clever. He had grappled with his maths and had to resubmit some assignments before his university place was confirmed. She’d done them for him, and at twice the speed he could. Their eyes met briefly when Yasmin handed him his change and she stroked his palm surreptitiously with her finger. An electrical charge shot through his body at her touch.

‘I hope you’re happy,’ he said, trying to keep his face impassive.

She smiled and shrugged. He wasn’t sure what that meant.

‘I’ve got a family now. My daughter’s fifteen—she wants to be an architect.’ Her eyes held his, then she looked away. ‘Our son is two years younger.’

‘Well, wish them luck,’ Karim said cheerfully. ‘Nice catching up, Yasmin.’

‘Khodāfez, Karim djan,’ she whispered.

He left the shop quickly. He needed fresh air to rid himself of the steamy memories that seeing Yasmin had stirred up. He strolled round the familiar town. His route took him past the deserted royal palace with its wedding-cake style façade. The Shah and Empress of Iran had stayed here nearly every summer with their family until this year. What a terrible come-down to be stateless in America. In all the anti-shah protests, he hadn’t thought of the human face of this tragedy. Exiled with his wife and four children, the refugee former monarch was being treated for cancer in an American hospital. The prognosis for his survival was a well-guarded secret.

At least his own parents were in a better situation, he reflected. Unlike him, they had become American citizens years ago. His father was employed by an American oil company and when Karim was studying there, his parents had lived in the States for two years.

It was good to walk after being confined to the house and Karim set off at a brisk pace down the tree-lined boulevard that led from the palace. Eventually he turned back and retraced his steps to the car to head home. As he pulled into the driveway, he glanced up at the mountains that surrounded the town. Clouds obscured the tops and a mist was rolling in. Large drops of rain were already hitting the car roof.

He opened the garage with the remote control and steered the car in. He was glad that most of the packing was finished and the boxes were stacked ready to go. Above the noise of the rain and the closing garage door, he heard the phone ringing. He flung open the door, took off his outdoor shoes, and grabbed the receiver. Before he could speak, Tahmineh’s voice asked if it was him.

‘I was just about to hang up!’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, sir, everything’s fine. I’m calling about Zahra’s trip home.’

He frowned. What was the woman talking about?

‘Sorry, I don’t understand … Did you say Zahra’s going home? You mean Herat, Afghanistan?’

Tahmineh confirmed it. ‘Zahra and Ahmad are very excited. They are leaving tomorrow,’ she said in a rush. The flight was at three o’clock, but Zahra would leave the house at twelve, just in case. She had a lot to talk over with her family, of course, but then Mr Karim would understand that, wouldn’t he? He managed to stop her for a second and asked to speak to Zahra.

‘Well, actually, I rang you about clothes, sir,’ Tahmineh said in a lowered voice. ‘Can she have some of the things from your mother’s department store? From the boxes here?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said quickly. ‘Can you bring Zahra to the phone, please?’

‘Certainly, I won’t be a minute.’

Karim leaned on the wall, unable to think straight. Afghanistan? What was going on? He heard a shuffle and voices near the phone, then Zahra came on the line.

‘Hello, Karim.’

‘Zahra. Is this right? You’re going to Afghanistan tomorrow?’ When she didn’t reply, he said sharply, ‘Zahra! When are you coming back?’

‘I …’ She hesitated. ‘I’m going to speak in English, Karim—the housekeeper’s listening. Something’s happened, I have to go home.’ She paused and he heard her take a breath. ‘I’m not coming back,’ she rushed on. ‘I’m sorry, Karim, it’s family business, that’s all I can say. I’ve got to go. I do care about you. It’s all in the letter I’ve left you.’

‘Letter!’ he shouted in his own language, then lowered his voice. ‘If Tahmineh hadn’t called, I’d never have spoken to you again! What about us, the plans we made? I was just about to book our tickets. We were going to Istanbul to get an American visa for you and Ahmad … Next stop New York!’

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated quietly, still speaking English. ‘I can’t go with you.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’ His voice echoed in the empty beach house.

‘It’s a family thing. I don’t have a choice.’

‘I’m coming home tonight, Zahra! For God’s sake, you owe me a better explanation than that.’

He slammed the phone down and leaned against the wall, feeling stunned. What the hell was going on? She’d dumped him—why? He rushed round the house making sure everything was turned off and locked. Unbidden, the words of the Beatles’ song ‘Yesterday’ floated across his brain.

What family business? She didn’t have any family in Afghanistan as far as he knew, but then what did he know about her? Firzun had once rattled off something about her parents being dead, no siblings, Firzun’s mother her only relative. Maybe she had to go back to see her, mourn with her over the loss of her son.

Okay, so maybe Firzun’s family had put pressure on her and she had to go home. She might have mentioned the possibility. Maybe she’d told them about their engagement, and they’d ordered her to come back. Well, he thought, her home city’s only a couple of hours’ flight from Tehran. If I can’t stop her going, I’ll follow her there. But damn it! Why didn’t she phone and tell me herself?

He heaved a few remaining boxes into the station wagon. When he’d finished, he pulled his outdoor shoes on, grabbed the car keys, and pushed the button to open the garage door. How could she do this to me? he thought angrily as he revved the engine.

The rain lashed the streets and ran down the gutters in torrents. The car felt heavier and more cumbersome with the weight in the back. He gritted his teeth and guided it carefully toward the town. As he drove through the deserted shopping centre, a movement caught his eye. A woman was standing at the taxi rank. Her umbrella had blown inside out and she was struggling to right it. He slowed down; the woman’s wet chador clung to her body outlining her full breasts. He recognised her immediately: Yasmin. He rolled to a stop, trying not to spray her with a wave of water from the gutter.

She backed away when she saw the car and continued to struggle with the umbrella. He jumped out of the driver’s seat and called to her above the sound of the wind.

‘Yasmin! Get in!’ He stepped across the surging gutter and on to the footpath.

Yasmin bundled her clothes around her and he took her arm. He scanned the street quickly as he helped her into the passenger seat. He had no idea what the penalty was for picking up women from the footpath and he didn’t want to find out.

‘Thank you, thank you, Karim! I was so frightened. I missed the bus.’

She dumped her umbrella and handbag on the floor at her feet. She had brought the wet night into the car with her, so he turned up the heater. He glanced sideways at her as she released her luxurious hair from her sodden headscarf. He shivered slightly, remembering her hair from their crazy teenage years.

‘Do you still live in the same village?’ he asked, forcing himself to look at the road.

‘Yes.’ She sounded nervous.

‘I’m on my way back to Tehran. I passed your place on the way here. I can drop you off.’ Even to himself, making the four-hour drive on a night like this sounded insane.

‘Oh! It’s a long way to Tehran and it’s raining!’

He didn’t reply, just swung the station wagon toward the mountain road. They travelled in silence while she wriggled and adjusted her wet clothes, then put her hands under her hair and fluffed it out.

‘Oh! Karim, look!’

Ahead of them, a mudslide blocked the approach road to the mountains. There was no way he would get past it.

‘The road’s blocked,’ she said. Stating the obvious was a habit of hers, he remembered suddenly. ‘It’s the one to my village and the Tehran highway.’

He stopped the car, yanked on the handbrake, and leaned his head on the steering wheel.

‘They’ll probably clear it tomorrow morning,’ Yasmin ventured, but she didn’t sound too hopeful.

‘Damn!’ he muttered through gritted teeth.

She leaned over and stroked the back of his neck. He jerked his head up and turned to her.

‘I can’t get you home tonight, Yasmin,’ he said. ‘Is there anyone you can stay with?’

She stroked the back of his neck again. ‘Maybe with you?’ she whispered softly.