smiling from ear to ear.
It was the first time I had seen anything but bored indifference on Kamal Hijazi’s face.
“Who is Pasha Moradi?” I asked, not noticing that Hafez had slowly let go of my hand.
January 8th, 1983
Preparing for Pasha Moradi was like unleashing a whirlwind into the tiny apartment. We bought steak and chicken and whole snapper and lamb. Every night would be a feast. Pedar spent hours installing new parquet flooring and Ma polished her glass cabinet until it danced with rainbows in the light. I mopped and vacuumed, and buffed the faucets, and tooth-brushed the bathroom grout with bleach.
One evening, Hafez drove us to Honest Ed’s to buy new bedding. He stood by, detached and distant, as we sorted through the sets.
“What do you think?” I held up the ones we were considering.
“Get whatever the hell you want.” It was the first time he had been short with me.
Ma crocheted a bedspread in zigzag colors. Pasha Moradi would have their room. Hafez and I would use the mattress, and Ma and Pedar would sleep on the couch.
“He very powerful man. No wife, no family. If we good to him, he change life for us,” said Ma.
Money. So that’s what it was about, I thought, trying to decipher the looks of resentment Hafez threw his parents as they gushed over the man on the phone.
Yes, yes, yes, we are coming to pick you up.
What would you like to eat on the first day?
Of course, we will go to Niagara Falls!
“Call your parents,” Hafez said to me, after they got off the phone one night.
“It expensive.” Ma was not pleased. Kamal Hijazi rolled his cigarette between stained fingers.
“I don’t see why she can’t talk to her family when you spend hours of long-distance with him.”
“It’s all right,” I whispered to Hafez.
“Call them.” He handed me the phone.
That night, the night before Pasha Moradi’s arrival, Hafez turned to me. He had been withdrawn since our day out, like a curtain that closes before the show even begins.
“This will be our last night alone for a while,” he said.
We were never really alone, but the living room was our space at night. My heart lurched as I felt his arms around my waist.
My husband is going to make love to me, I thought.
But his eyes were far away as he stroked my hair.
“If it weren’t for Ma, I would have left a long time ago,” he said. “I thought we would be free once we moved here.” His chest trembled as he spoke, but with anger or anguish, I couldn’t tell. “Stay away from Pasha Moradi. Do you understand, Shayda?”
I didn’t. But I nodded because of the intensity in his words. A worm of fear crawled over my flesh and left tight little goose bumps on my skin.
Hold me, Hafez, I wanted to say.
But he turned away, wrestling his own demons in some dark corner of his backstage.
February 25th, 1983
A grey wind slammed gritty snow against the windows. February was furious, pounding the glass panes until they shook in their frames. I lay on the mattress, clinging to the warm indent that Hafez had just left. It was barely dawn, but he was out the door. He had been doing that a lot lately. Last one in, first one out. I listened to Pedar snoring on the couch, thankful for the long, heavy snorts that kept me up most nights, because it meant that I wouldn’t have to wake Pasha Moradi up today.
I hated going into his room after Hafez and Pedar left for work. It smelled of him, like overripe fruit fermenting in whisky. He was the complete opposite of Kamal Hijazi—big and boisterous, with pink cheeks and fat lips that he smacked loudly whenever he ate. He sucked on his fat sausage fingers when he was done, coating them with saliva instead of getting up to wash his hands. It didn’t matter whether we were at home or treating him to dinner at a restaurant we couldn’t afford. Pasha Moradi didn’t give a damn what the world thought of him. I think he deliberately let his penis protrude from his pajamas, under that round,
It was the first time I had seen anything but bored indifference on Kamal Hijazi’s face.
“Who is Pasha Moradi?” I asked, not noticing that Hafez had slowly let go of my hand.
January 8th, 1983
Preparing for Pasha Moradi was like unleashing a whirlwind into the tiny apartment. We bought steak and chicken and whole snapper and lamb. Every night would be a feast. Pedar spent hours installing new parquet flooring and Ma polished her glass cabinet until it danced with rainbows in the light. I mopped and vacuumed, and buffed the faucets, and tooth-brushed the bathroom grout with bleach.
One evening, Hafez drove us to Honest Ed’s to buy new bedding. He stood by, detached and distant, as we sorted through the sets.
“What do you think?” I held up the ones we were considering.
“Get whatever the hell you want.” It was the first time he had been short with me.
Ma crocheted a bedspread in zigzag colors. Pasha Moradi would have their room. Hafez and I would use the mattress, and Ma and Pedar would sleep on the couch.
“He very powerful man. No wife, no family. If we good to him, he change life for us,” said Ma.
Money. So that’s what it was about, I thought, trying to decipher the looks of resentment Hafez threw his parents as they gushed over the man on the phone.
Yes, yes, yes, we are coming to pick you up.
What would you like to eat on the first day?
Of course, we will go to Niagara Falls!
“Call your parents,” Hafez said to me, after they got off the phone one night.
“It expensive.” Ma was not pleased. Kamal Hijazi rolled his cigarette between stained fingers.
“I don’t see why she can’t talk to her family when you spend hours of long-distance with him.”
“It’s all right,” I whispered to Hafez.
“Call them.” He handed me the phone.
That night, the night before Pasha Moradi’s arrival, Hafez turned to me. He had been withdrawn since our day out, like a curtain that closes before the show even begins.
“This will be our last night alone for a while,” he said.
We were never really alone, but the living room was our space at night. My heart lurched as I felt his arms around my waist.
My husband is going to make love to me, I thought.
But his eyes were far away as he stroked my hair.
“If it weren’t for Ma, I would have left a long time ago,” he said. “I thought we would be free once we moved here.” His chest trembled as he spoke, but with anger or anguish, I couldn’t tell. “Stay away from Pasha Moradi. Do you understand, Shayda?”
I didn’t. But I nodded because of the intensity in his words. A worm of fear crawled over my flesh and left tight little goose bumps on my skin.
Hold me, Hafez, I wanted to say.
But he turned away, wrestling his own demons in some dark corner of his backstage.
February 25th, 1983
A grey wind slammed gritty snow against the windows. February was furious, pounding the glass panes until they shook in their frames. I lay on the mattress, clinging to the warm indent that Hafez had just left. It was barely dawn, but he was out the door. He had been doing that a lot lately. Last one in, first one out. I listened to Pedar snoring on the couch, thankful for the long, heavy snorts that kept me up most nights, because it meant that I wouldn’t have to wake Pasha Moradi up today.
I hated going into his room after Hafez and Pedar left for work. It smelled of him, like overripe fruit fermenting in whisky. He was the complete opposite of Kamal Hijazi—big and boisterous, with pink cheeks and fat lips that he smacked loudly whenever he ate. He sucked on his fat sausage fingers when he was done, coating them with saliva instead of getting up to wash his hands. It didn’t matter whether we were at home or treating him to dinner at a restaurant we couldn’t afford. Pasha Moradi didn’t give a damn what the world thought of him. I think he deliberately let his penis protrude from his pajamas, under that round,
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