Veil of Roses Read Online Free PDF Page B

arranged marriage, it’s because he can’t find someone here who’ll go along with his traditional ways. Think about it. If he wants someone modern, he can find that here with an American girl who has none of the hang-ups Persian women do.”
    “I see.” I let the edge come through in my voice. I place my plate on the coffee table in front of me and stand. “Thank you for your advice. Please excuse me. I must splash some water on my face. I am so very tired from my flight.”
    I pass Maryam on the way to the bathroom. She tugs at my arm. “Well? How’s it going?”
    “He’s engaged to an American girl, that’s how it’s going. His mother is acting on her wishes, not his. Maryam, didn’t you know this? I feel so foolish!”
    She pulls me in and hugs me. “I’m sorry, Tami. I didn’t know.”
    “And he told me I have hang-ups.”
    “What?” She is incredulous. “No, you don’t!”
    “Maybe I do,” I tell her wearily.
    She purses her lips at me. I know how important it is to my sister that I believe myself worthy of finding a husband in the next eighty-eight days. And I do. Rather, I will. And maybe I will even convince myself that I want one. But not tonight.
    “I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open,” I tell her. “Would it be all right for me to rest for a minute in my room?” It is past one o’clock here and I am too tired to calculate what time it is in my native time zone. But knowing Persians, the night is still young and this party has hours to go.
    “This party is in your honor.” Her voice is firm and her smile fixed. “Why don’t you freshen up? Then we’ll find some more people to talk to. Maybe someone knows of another man who is interested in marriage.”
    Yet when I look in the bathroom mirror at my rubbery, made-up face, with my curls drooping, I don’t want to go back out there.
You shouldn’t dress like that.
The dentist’s words burn in my ears.
Persian women have hang-ups.
I cannot, will not, face anyone else judging me on my first night in America. This is supposed to be a happy night, a night of hope. I cross my arms and turn away from the mirror. I take in the opulent bathroom around me. I look longingly at the deep claw-foot bathtub against the far wall. I want to lay myself down into it, curl myself into its deep curves. I
have
to, for just one minute or maybe two. Just until I am ready to face them all again. I gather the plush towels from the towel racks and spread them on the bottom of the bathtub.
    I hold up my dress to climb in, and then sink to rest my head on a rolled-up towel. I cannot suppress a sigh of relief.
This
is good, very good. I close my eyes; I cannot fight it.
    As I fade off, my slumber is invaded by strange, swirly dreams unlike any I have had before. I dream of low-cut dresses and boob jobs and sneering dentists.
    Those are the bad parts of my dream. I also dream of tongues, of men and their tongues. And those parts of my dream are not so bad. But they are very confusing to me.

T he dentist is the one who finds me in the bathtub. After I am gone awhile, my sister tries the bathroom door, only to find it locked from the inside. Sound asleep, I do not hear her pleas to open the door. Mohammed comes up behind her in the hallway, realizes what has happened, and uses a paper clip to pick the lock. He opens it to find me unconscious in the bathtub.
    I am drooling. And snoring.
    And my panties are showing.
    They are Persian panties, mind you—big, white, all-cotton briefs with a little blue bow in front. Matronly, is how Maryam describes them. When they are unable to rouse me, the dentist and Ardishir haul me to a futon in a nearby guest room. The party continues without me until shortly before dawn.
    “You need new underwear,” Maryam informs me the next day as I sink my head in horror as she tells me what happened. It is after noon, and we are only now beginning our day.
    “I just
got
new underwear.”
    We are at the kitchen table having