PART 3 (part 1) (part 2)
(part 4)
From: Ms. Firoozeh L.
132567 C…… Avenue
Canoga Park, CA
USA
January 28, 2…
To: Mrs. Sedigheh M….
186 Khiabane K…., Plaque B-2
Tehran, IRAN
Khaleh Joon,
Before anything else, I want you to know that I am well, and very sorry to have remained silent for so long after my departure from Iran. Before I give you my news, I would like to ask you to please not communicate anything I tell you in this or other letters to Papa Joon or Mahrokh Khanoom. Not that I would expect you to. You have always been a precious and loyal confidant to me. Indeed, you have been the closest thing to what I can call a real mother ever since I was a child.
Khaleh joon, now again, you are the only I can confide my real thoughts to as a newly married woman in a strange land. How I wish I could elate you with the typical joys and happy anecdotes that must be the norm for most newlyweds! Instead, I am filled with anxiety and fear for my marriage and my new life here.
I can see you now standing at your kitchen counter, the letter in your hand, shaking your head and smiling that sad “I told you so” smile of yours. You were against this marriage from the get-go and indeed, you had your points. To get married to a virtual stranger (he is distantly related to my stepmother of course, but that doesn’t exactly bide well for me does it?) and move to a faraway country where I have no connections, no family, no shoulder to cry on, well that was surely crazy in your eyes.
But Khaleh Joon, I don’t know how to explain it. I felt like I was being pushed along by this huge wave in the ocean leading me away from shore and there was no way of stopping it. And truth be told, although I was mostly terrified by this unknown horizon I was being led to, I was also a bit thrilled too. Loneliness, dear Khaleh, can be the worst of pains. And in that house that was supposed to be my “home”, but where I always felt like an unwanted guest ever since Mahrokh Khanoom moved in, I thought sometimes that I could literally die from loneliness.
So when Shahab came along, with so much fanfare and so much attention heaped upon me, his avalanche of sweet words, his extravagant gifts for me, I could not help but feel flattered and elated that someone so charismatic, so attractive, someone who has traveled all over the world and made Amrika his home, would find me, the invisible mouse who lived in a hole in the wall of her own home, interesting, or appealing. It all happened so fast.
I know you will blame, perhaps rightly so, Mahrokh Khanoom for this speedy wedding. No doubt she has been dreaming for years how to get rid of this unwanted stepchild, the only reminder left in Papa Joon’s house of my dear, late mother. But my stepmother is not entirely to blame. I could have said “no” in the end after all and I would just have had to endure more of those sly looks, those double-edged comments, those thousand and one cruelties and small humiliations that have been part of my daily diet for the past twenty or so years.
With Shahab, I dared to dream that I could be happy, that he would rescue me from this lonely, loveless existence. I thought, perhaps naively, that even if I had not fallen head over heels in love with my husband, that the respect and admiration I had for him, a self-made man who made his fortune in the United States starting from nothing, would be enough to live my life side by side with him in harmony.
But Khaleh Joon, ever since I stepped foot into my new life as a married woman, I have so far been stunned and disappointed. In such a short time, I have become unsure of my husband. Though I want to trust him and live with him, I have come to doubt his words and fear his temper. It started from the minute he greeted me at the airport and took me home. After all that Shahab had boasted to us all about his grand life in the United States, his mansion in the hills overlooking Hollywood, his fleet of automobiles, his successful chain of restaurants, you can imagine my surprise when he picked me up at the airport in an old, beaten-up looking car that even Kazem, our gardener, would have scoffed at!
I was so exhausted and disoriented from my long flight that I did not even make any comments. And so, we drove to an area of Los Angeles that, far from being a lush hill, is as flat and devoid of greenery as a desert. We ended up in this sad-looking apartment complex the likes of which even the most down on his luck Tehrani would be ashamed to call home. Shahab led me into his one bedroom flat wordlessly and I just remember sinking into the stinking, hot bed, relieved to find some rest at last.
When I woke, I found that Shahab had already unpacked my suitcases, even going to the trouble of taking my passport, cash and other personal belongings to his safety deposit box at the bank, while I was asleep. He had also arranged a small platter of cold cuts and two glasses of beer for us, which he had placed on top of the kitchen counter, since he does not even have a breakfast table in his apartment. I refused the beer and asked for some water, to which he made some facetious remark about the fact that we did not live under the Islamic regime anymore and I could do as I pleased.
Over this dinner of sorts, Shahab proceeded to explain to me that due to the several months he had spent in Iran courting me and the great expenses he had undergone for our engagement and wedding and subsequently to arrange my visa to the United States, his restaurant business had greatly suffered and he had been obligated to sell all his assets: His restaurants, his house and his cars. He added that he had to file for bankruptcy, and that this apartment was all he could afford right now.
He said this with great calm and ease while on the other hand, I was dumbfounded. How could a few months of vacation have destroyed the work of thirty years of blood, sweat and tears that he had poured into his self-described Hollywood empire? And why hadn’t he told me of his troubles during the several months that I was awaiting my visa in Iran, where I could have perhaps sought the help and advice of my father to bail us out of this worrisome situation?
When I pressed him on these points, he became angry, punching the wall with such ferocity that it left a hole. He spat out quite venomously that he did not go to Iran to get married to just another gold-digger, which he could have found right here in L.A. Tears welled up in my eyes at his violent action and harsh, unjust words for me. I protested that I never cared for any of the material things he promised but that I was just shocked that he would begin our married life by keeping secret such a huge ordeal that would affect both our lives. “Is this the welcome that you have been planning for me on my very first day of marriage in a new country and a new home?” I cried bitterly.
To his credit, Shahab apologized immediately and changed his tune. He became once more the sweet natured and soft-spoken man that had nothing but kindness and praise for me in Iran. Taking me in his arms, he caressed my hair and hugged me tight until I stopped sobbing. He brought me a glass of fresh water and some Kleenex to wipe away my tears. He explained to me in a by now completely calm voice that these things happen quite often in Amrika, that fortunes are made and reversed overnight but with the love of a good woman like me, he would undoubtedly get back on his feet and soon, we would be able to enjoy the luxurious lifestyle that he had boasted about, and that he wanted nothing more than for his Princess to enjoy. I repeated to him that luxury meant nothing to me, that I just wanted us to always be kind to each other and confide in each other about our troubles, so that there would be no secrets or lies between us and that we could help each other. He kissed me and promised that he would try to rise up to be worthy of his wife.
Well, Khaleh Joon, two days later, he took the two Tabrizis that Papa gifted us for our wedding and all the jewellery that my family and Shahab himself had given me in Iran during our engagement and for the wedding ceremony, and save for my wedding band, he sold them all, to clear up some of the debts that he had accumulated. He even tried to get a cash refund on the Mexican honeymoon that you had so generously gifted us with and I can tell you that he was especially resentful when he found out that the package was not refundable. “Let’s go enjoy it anyway, perhaps some tequila and lime will take our minds off our troubles!” He announced with some forced cheerfulness.
Which brings me to how this letter arrived to you so late. I had written to you earlier and given the envelope to Shahab to take it to the post office. Being a newcomer to this country, I feel so lost and rely on Shahab for everything, including something so simple as mailing a letter. Then several days later, while I was cleaning up in preparation of our departure to Mexico, I realized with horror that my letter to you, opened and torn into pieces, had been stuffed down one of the wastebaskets.
I am afraid of confronting my husband about this event and prefer to let things lie calmly lest he becomes angry again. Perhaps Mahrokh Khanoom warned him against your influence over me. Maybe he was ashamed for anyone to find out in Iran what has happened to his fortune. He always tells me that things between husband and wife should remain private. He often likes to tell me, over and over again: “Harfe khooneh ro biroon nazan.” But I have always been used to telling you everything. Sometimes I feel you are my only friend in the world. And so, I decided to write you a second letter, which this time hopefully has made its way to you through the kindness of some fellow Iranians we met during our stay in Mexico. I don’t know yet when I will be able to correspond with you again. Please do not try to write me or to call me for now at home. I will try to find a safer and more secure way to communicate. Until then, I kiss you and hug you warmly.
Love,
Firoozeh >>> part 4
