on the tray. “And how do you feel about the shah?” Her father’s eyes were bright and measuring. Anna’s stomach twisted.
Nouri’s response was nuanced. Anna wondered if her father could tell. “He’s done good. A lot of good, actually, in bringing modern life to Iran. But at the same time, his record on human rights…,” Nouri had adopted the term from observing American politics, “…is a failure. SAVAK is an abomination.”
Her father bent his head. “Do you not believe that the end justifies the means? If poverty is erased, and the people are better off, does it really matter how it came to be?”
A frown line appeared on Nouri’s forehead. Was this a trick? Anna wondered.
“If people cannot express themselves without fear of reprisals by the state,” Nouri replied, “what good is prosperity?”
“But your shah is promising a car for every Iranian.”
“Exactly. I stand by what I said.”
Her father’s smile was speculative. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you’re a progressive—perhaps even a Marxist—in capitalist’s clothing.”
Nouri grinned.
Her father pressed his fingertips together. “Then again, everyone is a Marxist when they’re young.”
Anna was miffed. Nouri kept a neutral expression on his face.
“Of course…,” Anna’s father said, “history has shown Iran to be quite…flexible. The father of your shah tilted toward Hitler during the war. At least until the British and the US stepped in. Then his son tilted just as easily the other way. Did you know that?”
Nouri shook his head.
“They probably deleted it from your textbooks. Persians rival the French in their…elasticity.”
A plume of anger flared in Anna. Her father’s comment was a dig not only at Nouri, but also at her mother.
“Well…,” her father concluded, seemingly oblivious to Anna’s discomfort, “…we have an eight o’clock dinner reservation. Until then, I bid you…” he paused, then flashed them a conspiratorial smile, “…adieu.”
*****
The town had only one decent restaurant, a country-style café that served thick soups and hush puppies, but it sported white tablecloths, courteous waiters, and a well-stocked bar. The maître d’ welcomed her father and pretended to recognize Anna, although they hadn’t seen each other since she was twelve. The servers were unfailingly polite to Nouri, and even offered him the wine menu, which he declined.
Anna’s father wore the same suit but had changed into a fresh white shirt. He ordered baked mostaccioli, which Anna considered an odd menu item for a country restaurant. She ordered fish, Nouri chicken. The food was surprisingly tasty. They made small talk while they ate but, once the entrées were cleared, her father took off his Ben Franklin glasses, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and started to polish them. He put his glasses back on, then clasped his hands together.
“Nouri,” he said. “I find myself in a somewhat awkward position. Anna is my only daughter. While I did expect she would ask permission to marry one day, I must admit I didn’t anticipate it would come so soon. As you know, she just graduated from college.”
A flash of irritation flickered through her. Since when did she need permission to marry? But she held her tongue. Her father wanted to make a point.
“But Anna has chosen you,” her father continued.
“As I have chosen her. I love and honor your daughter. I will cherish her forever.”
A smile tugged at Anna’s lips.
“I believe you.” Her father cleared his throat. “But unfortunately, my advancing age, plus my work schedule, will not permit me to come to Tehran for your wedding.”
“We hope to persuade you otherwise.”
“I don’t think so.” Her father paused. “I assume you will have a Muslim ceremony? And that Anna will be required to say she will convert?”
Anna wondered how her father knew that. She and Nouri had already discussed it and came to a
Nouri’s response was nuanced. Anna wondered if her father could tell. “He’s done good. A lot of good, actually, in bringing modern life to Iran. But at the same time, his record on human rights…,” Nouri had adopted the term from observing American politics, “…is a failure. SAVAK is an abomination.”
Her father bent his head. “Do you not believe that the end justifies the means? If poverty is erased, and the people are better off, does it really matter how it came to be?”
A frown line appeared on Nouri’s forehead. Was this a trick? Anna wondered.
“If people cannot express themselves without fear of reprisals by the state,” Nouri replied, “what good is prosperity?”
“But your shah is promising a car for every Iranian.”
“Exactly. I stand by what I said.”
Her father’s smile was speculative. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you’re a progressive—perhaps even a Marxist—in capitalist’s clothing.”
Nouri grinned.
Her father pressed his fingertips together. “Then again, everyone is a Marxist when they’re young.”
Anna was miffed. Nouri kept a neutral expression on his face.
“Of course…,” Anna’s father said, “history has shown Iran to be quite…flexible. The father of your shah tilted toward Hitler during the war. At least until the British and the US stepped in. Then his son tilted just as easily the other way. Did you know that?”
Nouri shook his head.
“They probably deleted it from your textbooks. Persians rival the French in their…elasticity.”
A plume of anger flared in Anna. Her father’s comment was a dig not only at Nouri, but also at her mother.
“Well…,” her father concluded, seemingly oblivious to Anna’s discomfort, “…we have an eight o’clock dinner reservation. Until then, I bid you…” he paused, then flashed them a conspiratorial smile, “…adieu.”
*****
The town had only one decent restaurant, a country-style café that served thick soups and hush puppies, but it sported white tablecloths, courteous waiters, and a well-stocked bar. The maître d’ welcomed her father and pretended to recognize Anna, although they hadn’t seen each other since she was twelve. The servers were unfailingly polite to Nouri, and even offered him the wine menu, which he declined.
Anna’s father wore the same suit but had changed into a fresh white shirt. He ordered baked mostaccioli, which Anna considered an odd menu item for a country restaurant. She ordered fish, Nouri chicken. The food was surprisingly tasty. They made small talk while they ate but, once the entrées were cleared, her father took off his Ben Franklin glasses, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and started to polish them. He put his glasses back on, then clasped his hands together.
“Nouri,” he said. “I find myself in a somewhat awkward position. Anna is my only daughter. While I did expect she would ask permission to marry one day, I must admit I didn’t anticipate it would come so soon. As you know, she just graduated from college.”
A flash of irritation flickered through her. Since when did she need permission to marry? But she held her tongue. Her father wanted to make a point.
“But Anna has chosen you,” her father continued.
“As I have chosen her. I love and honor your daughter. I will cherish her forever.”
A smile tugged at Anna’s lips.
“I believe you.” Her father cleared his throat. “But unfortunately, my advancing age, plus my work schedule, will not permit me to come to Tehran for your wedding.”
“We hope to persuade you otherwise.”
“I don’t think so.” Her father paused. “I assume you will have a Muslim ceremony? And that Anna will be required to say she will convert?”
Anna wondered how her father knew that. She and Nouri had already discussed it and came to a
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