Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [139]
PART IV
Austen
1
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Muslim man, regardless of his fortune, must be in want of a nine-year-old virgin wife.” So declared Yassi in that special tone of hers, deadpan and mildly ironic, which on rare occasions, and this was one of them, bordered on the burlesque.
“Or is it a truth universally acknowledged,” Manna shot back, “that a Muslim man must be in want not just of one but of many wives?” She glanced at me conspiratorially, her black eyes brimming with humor, knowing she would draw a reaction. Unlike Mahshid, Manna had a way of secretly communicating with the few people she liked. Her chief means of contact were her eyes, which she focused or withdrew from you. We had developed a hidden code between us and only when she felt offended—and she could easily be offended—would she lower and divert her gaze to one side, the playful inflections wiped from her words.
It was one of those cold, gray early-December mornings when the overcast sky and the chill in the air seem to promise snow. I had asked Bijan to light a fire before leaving for work, and it sparkled now with a soothing warmth. Cozy—a word too common for Yassi’s usage—would be the right term for how we felt. All the necessary components were there: misty windows, steaming mugs of coffee, a crackling fire, languorous cream puffs, thick wool sweaters and the mingling smells of smoke, coffee and oranges. Yassi was sprawled on the couch, in her usual place between Manna and Azin, making me wonder again how such a tiny body could take up so much space. Azin’s flirtatious laughter rang in the air, and even Mahshid bestowed upon us a hint of a smile. Nassrin had moved her chair near the fireplace, her restless hands tossing orange peels into the fire.
It was a tribute to the degree of intimacy that had developed among us that we could easily shift from light banter to serious discussions of the novels. What we had with all the writers, but especially with Austen, was fun. Sometimes we even went wild—we became childish and teasing and just plain enjoyed ourselves. How could one read the opening sentence of Pride and Prejudice and not grasp that this was what Austen demanded of her readers?
That morning, we were waiting for Sanaz. Mitra, her dimples making a temporary appearance, had informed the class that Sanaz wanted us to wait for her—she had a surprise. All our wild speculations were met with a reticent smile.
“Only two things could have happened,” Azin speculated. “Another row with her brother and she’s finally decided to leave home and move in with her wonderful aunt.” She raised her hand with a tinkling of gold and silver bangles. “Or she’s marrying her sweetheart.”
“The sweetheart seems the more likely of the two,” said Yassi, straightening herself up a little, “judging by Mitra’s expression.”
Mitra’s dimples widened, but she refused to respond to our provocation. Looking at her, I thought of her own recent marriage to Hamid; their furtive courtship must have taken place right under my unsuspecting nose. They had invited me to their wedding, but Mitra had never mentioned her relations with Hamid before then.
“Did you fall in love?” I had asked Mitra anxiously, causing Manna to say, “That boring question again.” It was a joke among my friends and colleagues that I could never resist posing my obsessive question to married couples. “Did you fall in love?” I’d ask urgently and eagerly, provoking almost invariably an indulgent smile. Mitra blushed and said, “Well, yes, of course.”
“But who is thinking about love these days?” said Azin with mock chastity. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and clusters of tiny turquoise beads trembled slightly on her ears as she turned her head. “The Islamic Republic has taken us back to Jane Austen