Veil of Roses Read Online Free PDF Page A

only socks on his feet, and I can tell from the rows of shoes neatly lined up in the foyer that everyone else is shoeless, too, as is custom.
    “I can’t. Maryam says I must wait here for Mohammed so he can see me in my fancy shoes.”
    Ardishir shakes his head at my sister and smiles. “I’ll go find him, then.”
    Maryam and I continue to stand at the doorway, and I can see from the gold-edged mirror that the other guests are sneaking glimpses of me. I smile and try not to look scared.
    At last, Ardishir and Mohammed come to the doorway. I size up Mohammed with my eyes, and I see him give me a quick up-and-down of my face, dress, and feet. He does not look too intently, and neither does he look impressed. When he sticks out his hand for me to shake, I stand still and feel my face redden. This is not considered polite. This is not how it is done in Iran, for him to offer his hand first. As the moment becomes unbearably awkward, Maryam nudges me.
    “It’s okay, Tami,” she says in a light tone and nods toward his hand. I shake it tentatively and want very much to pull away from its frail delicacy. “She’s just off the plane, you know,” she tells Mohammed. “She’s still used to how things are done in Iran.”
    It looks to me like Mohammed hides a sneer under his polite, apologetic expression as he replies, “She dresses so American that I suppose I thought she’d act like one, too.”
    I know then that I do not like him. I know I will not marry him, and I know this night will be interminably long.
    Finally, I am allowed to take off my shoes and enter the house. It reminds me of an opulent home in Iran, like those belonging to older men who were in positions of importance with the Shah’s government. All the walls are white, mostly bare except for the occasional rug displayed. Gold-plated fruit dishes adorn the tables, with grapes and apricots and dates piled high. Persian rugs of high thread counts are draped across every available spot in the ample living room. There is a huge television in the room, larger than any I’ve seen in my whole life, and Maryam points out that we are watching an Iranian television station beamed in over satellite from Los Angeles, where half a million Iranians live and they call it Tehrangeles.
    I am much more interested in the music playing on the stereo. It is Siavesh,
the
biggest music star in Iran for young people, but because his music is banned there, you can only buy it on the black market. I am tempted for a moment to cry when I think back to how many nights Leila and Minu and I watched his bootleg concert video while dreaming of life in America, where girls are permitted to go to concerts and weep with joy and longing for their favorite heartthrobs, who sing to them of love.
Em-rika, good. Very good.
That’s how we said it.
    And yet here I am, feeling strangely let down. I hadn’t expected that America would be so…so Iranian.
    My sister takes me around to everyone at the party and introduces me. I smile until the muscles in my face hurt. They all ask what I think of America.
It’s good. All good,
I assure them. What more
can
I say? I’ve gone from an empty airport to an empty road in the middle of the night to a house full of Persians who are related to an unfriendly dentist who seems not to approve of me, when all I really want to do is sleep. I know this is not a polite way to think, but it is what I think nonetheless.
    “This is Mrs. Behruzi, Mohammed’s mother,” my sister says as she leads me to a larger-size woman with sharp brown eyes. Mrs. Behruzi reaches for my hand and encircles it with both of hers. “You are a lovely girl,” she says. I thank her. “Your parents, they must be proud of you to come so far.”
    “Yes,” I agree. “They want for me a better life than I could have in Iran.”
    She questions me about my education, about the friends I have left behind, and about the northern Tehran neighborhood where I was raised. I can see she likes