Veil of Roses Read Online Free PDF

me just fine.
    “My son would do well to marry a nice girl like you,” she tells me. Then she calls to him across the room, “Mohammed!” His smile is fixed as he makes his way over to us.
    In a country where women can show none of their curves and must always cover their hair, there is only one way to show sex appeal, and it is all in the eyes. When Mohammed approaches, I lower my head and present myself as shy, almost too shy to make eye contact. But then I raise my eyes to meet his with a slightly teasing tilt of my head and a tiny smile I seem unable to hide. There is, contained within the glance, an undertone of both submission and sexuality. It is a look Iranian mothers have helped their daughters perfect over the last two decades.
    Mohammed’s eye twitches when he notices what I am doing. His facial muscles are tight.
    “Tamila is the nicest girl,” his mother tells him. “Talk with her. Get to know her. You two have a seat on the couch. Go ahead.” She waves us away.
    Sweat explodes under my arms as I walk ahead of Mohammed to the couch. He seats himself two cushions away. From the corner of my eye, I see that we are the focus of everyone’s attention, although they pretend to ignore us.
    “So, did you have a nice trip?”
    I nod and smile. “Very nice, thank you.”
    “Good food on the plane?”
    “Yes, very good.”
    “What did my mother tell you about me?” he asks bluntly.
    I swallow. “That you are a good son.” She has not even said this. I realize she has said absolutely nothing about him.
    “Has she told you I live with my girlfriend, who she refuses to meet because she’s not Persian?”
    Mohammed’s eyes are sharp. Not unkind, I notice. Just resolved.
    “No.” I want to cry, I am so humiliated. “I did not know this. I am sorry for any problems this meeting has caused you.”
    “It hasn’t caused any problems,” he assures me. “I know a good Iranian son is supposed to marry a good Persian woman, and bonus points to him if he helps her move to America. But it’s not going to happen with me. If I get married, it’ll be to Shelly.”
    My heart sinks. Not for me, but for him to be placed in such a horrible position. “I understand. I am very happy for you to have found someone you care for.”
    “Thank you.” He is more relaxed now that he has made his intentions, or lack of them, clear to me. “Can I get you anything to eat?”
    “No, thank you.” All I want to do is slink away and cry. What a bad idea this party was.
    “Come on,” he urges me. “It will make my mother happy to see us talking together like friends. I will tell her later that I am engaged to Shelly and not to bother with these silly meetings anymore. I’ll be right back.”
    Mrs. Behruzi gives me a broad smile from across the room. She is a nice woman. I would like a mother-in-law like her. I feel disappointed for her, and for letting down Maryam. I mentally calculate: eighty-eight days left to find a husband. I can only hope I will not have eighty-eight more meetings such as this.
    Mohammed brings me a plate of fruit and nuts. He hands it to me, sits back down, and begins eating his own. I murmur my thanks and nibble on a dried apricot. At least my nerves have calmed now that the pressure to impress him is off.
    “Can I offer you some advice?” he asks.
    “Of course.” I am eager for any advice that will help me find a husband and stay in America.
    “The Iranians most likely to marry you are going to be the traditional, religious ones. So you shouldn’t dress like that.” He gestures with his eyes to my low-cut crimson dress.
    I feel my face redden. “But I am not so religious.”
    “Obviously,” he says. Again, I detect that sneer just beneath his smile.
    “I didn’t come all this way to wear a chador.” Of that I am certain.
    He sees he has offended me and he raises his palms in defense. “I’m just saying, it’s something to think about. If a Persian guy with citizenship wants an