Temporary Bride

Vahid’s mother and I have begun what has become a daily ritual. I take my morning’s thrill-seeking taxi ride through the crowded streets of Yazd, to their apartment complex on the edge of the city. I ask the driver to stop on the way to buy flowers and he frets impatiently as I point through the wilted irises and tulips that have somehow found their way to this place in the desert.

The guards know me by now and look up from their newspapers to wave me through the entry gates and up the stairs.

Over cups of cinnamon tea Vahid’s mother and I thumb through our combined collection of cookbooks and pick out the day’s menu - chicken in pomegranate and walnut sauce, braised lamb with okra or a fish stew from her native Khuzestan with fenugreek and tamarind.

We sit on the floor with a silver tray between us sorting through mountains of fresh mint, basil and parsley. As the house fills with the aroma of saffron, pomegranate syrup or onions fried in butter, we lay the ‘Sofreh’ tablecloth on the floor and cover it with bowls of rice, fragrant stews, and little jars of pickles.

The men join us and gobble everything up almost without speaking. Their eyes are glued to the television. As their plates empty they are automatically refilled by their wives. Scraps of parchment like bread are set before them and the handles of the doogh pitcher or the salad dressing are turned for their easy reach. In this house life quietly arranges itself around the men who watch CNN and Persian BBC.

I half listen but I am not so interested. The reporter is talking about the upcoming elections. Ahmedinejad is making a speech. The men struggle to understand the English voiceover and weave a layer of loud interpretations together - a commentary of pointing and shouting and half full mouths of the food that we cooked. No one thinks to ask me.

Vahid’s father is always the loudest. “Down, down America”.

Every evening, Vahid is tasked with taking me back to my hotel. He is chivalrous but impatient, brusquely pushing me to the opposite side of him each time we cross a street to shield me from the nighttime traffic.

We don’t talk much, or at least I don’t get many words in edgewise. He has just completed 2 years of military service and seems to want to talk at someone rather than to someone to avenge the years he’s spent being ordered and bossed around.