mountains in the distance?” Nouri asked.
“The Blue Ridge. They are part of the Appalachians.” She remembered a trip to Catoctin Mountain with her father where the view had been spectacular.
“They are so…blue.” Nouri marveled. “In Iran, our mountains are brown and rocky.”
“It has to do with the trees and the hydrocarbons they release into the atmosphere. My father could tell you exactly how and why.”
Eventually they pulled up at an old white clapboard farmhouse surrounded by several acres of land. It was comfortable looking, but not opulent. As she slid out of the car, the bright August sun, the heat-baked smell of the dirt, and the chirr of insects triggered a sharp memory of her childhood. The memory, both tender and full of longing, was so intense it took her breath away. She leaned against the car.
Her father was not home, but Anna had a key. They went up to her old bedroom. She’d attended boarding school after she turned fourteen, only coming back for vacations, but the room was much the same, with a huge, four-poster bed, crisp white spread, an antique armoire, and lace curtains. She took Nouri into the guest room across the hall, which was utilitarian more than decorative.
“You’ll have to sleep in here,” she said apologetically. “My father is very traditional.”
“That’s fine.” He grinned. “As long as you keep your door unlocked.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. After unpacking, they went outside. The memories were less overpowering now, and she showed him where she used to play hide and seek, where she’d fallen out of a tree and broken her arm, where her cat had kittens. As the afternoon wore on, though, she grew more agitated. She was in constant motion, arms pinwheeling, tongue licking her lips. Even Nouri noticed.
“Anna, don’t be nervous. He is your father, but he doesn’t control your life. Not anymore.”
She flashed him a grateful smile. Nouri was right. Nouri was her frame of reference now, her refuge, her joy. She could go about life without her father’s approval, without the doubts as to whether he loved her. Without fear about the secrets of his past. In Iran she would have a happy, fulfilling life. She would not have to yearn for a normal family, the kind on those silly TV shows she’d watched as a child, like Father Knows Best or Leave it to Beaver.
Anna was making tea when a long, black car sailed up the driveway. Her father had used a driver for as long as she could remember. She and Nouri went outside and watched him climb out of the car. She wondered what Nouri saw. To Anna, Erich Schroder was a distinguished looking man well into his sixties. His flowing white hair was long but neatly combed. His piercing blue eyes could burn a hole in Anna’s soul if she allowed it. He had a strong chin, which Anna inherited, and shaggy eyebrows, which, thankfully, she did not. He was not tall, but he was sturdy. If he hadn’t become a physicist, he might have been a boxer. Although people dressed less formally now, her father wore a suit, crisp white shirt, and silk tie.
He embraced her and dropped a perfunctory kiss on her forehead. He clasped Nouri’s hand, smiled, and introduced himself. They trooped into the house. Inside, her father took off his jacket and loosened his tie. They sat in the room Anna always called the front parlor—the formal room. Anna served tea. Her father took two sugars, she remembered. Nouri liked three. Her father quizzed Nouri about his family, his education, his interests. He nodded after every response. Nouri seemed subdued, and Anna wondered what he was thinking. Was he having doubts? Reconsidering?
“And what of your future, young man?” her father asked. “What will you do back in your country?”
Nouri told him about the Metro job. “It is the chance of a lifetime. To be at the center of the shah’s progress and modernization.”
“I see.” Her father took a sip of tea, placed the cup and saucer back down
“The Blue Ridge. They are part of the Appalachians.” She remembered a trip to Catoctin Mountain with her father where the view had been spectacular.
“They are so…blue.” Nouri marveled. “In Iran, our mountains are brown and rocky.”
“It has to do with the trees and the hydrocarbons they release into the atmosphere. My father could tell you exactly how and why.”
Eventually they pulled up at an old white clapboard farmhouse surrounded by several acres of land. It was comfortable looking, but not opulent. As she slid out of the car, the bright August sun, the heat-baked smell of the dirt, and the chirr of insects triggered a sharp memory of her childhood. The memory, both tender and full of longing, was so intense it took her breath away. She leaned against the car.
Her father was not home, but Anna had a key. They went up to her old bedroom. She’d attended boarding school after she turned fourteen, only coming back for vacations, but the room was much the same, with a huge, four-poster bed, crisp white spread, an antique armoire, and lace curtains. She took Nouri into the guest room across the hall, which was utilitarian more than decorative.
“You’ll have to sleep in here,” she said apologetically. “My father is very traditional.”
“That’s fine.” He grinned. “As long as you keep your door unlocked.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. After unpacking, they went outside. The memories were less overpowering now, and she showed him where she used to play hide and seek, where she’d fallen out of a tree and broken her arm, where her cat had kittens. As the afternoon wore on, though, she grew more agitated. She was in constant motion, arms pinwheeling, tongue licking her lips. Even Nouri noticed.
“Anna, don’t be nervous. He is your father, but he doesn’t control your life. Not anymore.”
She flashed him a grateful smile. Nouri was right. Nouri was her frame of reference now, her refuge, her joy. She could go about life without her father’s approval, without the doubts as to whether he loved her. Without fear about the secrets of his past. In Iran she would have a happy, fulfilling life. She would not have to yearn for a normal family, the kind on those silly TV shows she’d watched as a child, like Father Knows Best or Leave it to Beaver.
Anna was making tea when a long, black car sailed up the driveway. Her father had used a driver for as long as she could remember. She and Nouri went outside and watched him climb out of the car. She wondered what Nouri saw. To Anna, Erich Schroder was a distinguished looking man well into his sixties. His flowing white hair was long but neatly combed. His piercing blue eyes could burn a hole in Anna’s soul if she allowed it. He had a strong chin, which Anna inherited, and shaggy eyebrows, which, thankfully, she did not. He was not tall, but he was sturdy. If he hadn’t become a physicist, he might have been a boxer. Although people dressed less formally now, her father wore a suit, crisp white shirt, and silk tie.
He embraced her and dropped a perfunctory kiss on her forehead. He clasped Nouri’s hand, smiled, and introduced himself. They trooped into the house. Inside, her father took off his jacket and loosened his tie. They sat in the room Anna always called the front parlor—the formal room. Anna served tea. Her father took two sugars, she remembered. Nouri liked three. Her father quizzed Nouri about his family, his education, his interests. He nodded after every response. Nouri seemed subdued, and Anna wondered what he was thinking. Was he having doubts? Reconsidering?
“And what of your future, young man?” her father asked. “What will you do back in your country?”
Nouri told him about the Metro job. “It is the chance of a lifetime. To be at the center of the shah’s progress and modernization.”
“I see.” Her father took a sip of tea, placed the cup and saucer back down
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