Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [140]
I looked at Mahshid, who, although quiet, seemed to be saying, “Here we go again.”
“And,” Azin continued, reaching for her mug, “we’re talking about educated girls—girls like us, who’ve gone to college, who one might think would have higher ambitions.”
“Not all of them,” Mahshid said quietly, without looking at Azin. “Many women are independent. Look at how many businesswomen we have, and there are women who have chosen to live alone.” Yes, and you are one of them, I thought, a studious working girl still living with her parents at thirty-two.
“But most don’t have a choice,” said Manna. “And I think we’re way behind Jane Austen’s times.” This was one of the few instances I can remember when Manna implicitly sided with Azin against Mahshid. “My mother could choose whom she wanted to marry. I had less choice, and my younger sister has even less,” she concluded gloomily.
“How about a temporary marriage?” said Nassrin, rearranging the orange peels on her plate like pieces of a puzzle. “You seem to have forgotten our president’s enlightened alternative.” She was referring to an Islamic rule peculiar to Iran, according to which men could have four official wives and as many temporary wives as they wished. The logic behind this was that they had to satisfy their own needs when their wives were unavailable, or unable, to satisfy them. A man could enter into such a contract for as short a period as ten minutes or as long as ninety-nine years. President Rafsanjani, then honored with the title of reformist, had proposed that young people should enter into temporary marriages. This angered both the reactionaries, who felt it was a shrewd move on the president’s part to curry favor with the young, and the progressives, who were equally skeptical of the president’s motives and, in addition, found it insulting, especially to women. Some went so far as to call the temporary marriage a sanctified form of prostitution.
“I’m not in favor of the temporary marriage,” said Mahshid. “But men are weaker and do have more sexual needs. Besides,” she added cautiously, “it’s the girl’s choice. She isn’t forced into it.”
“The girl’s choice?” said Nassrin with evident disgust. “You do have funny notions of choice.”
Mahshid, lowering her eyes, did not respond.
“Some men, even the most educated,” Nassrin continued fiercely, “think of this as progressive. I had to argue with a friend—a male friend—that the only way he could convince me this was progressive was if the law gave women the same rights as men. You want to know how open-minded these men are? I’m not talking about the religious guys—no, the secular ones,” she said, tossing another orange peel into the fire. “Just ask them about marriage. Talk about hypocrisy!”
“It’s true that neither my mom nor my aunts married for love,” Yassi said, furrowing her brow, “but all my uncles married for love. It’s strange when you think about it. Where does that leave us—what sort of legacy, I mean?
“I suppose,” she added, brightening up after a moment’s reflection, “that if Austen were in our shoes, she’d say it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a Muslim man, regardless of his fortune, must be in want of a nine-year-old virgin wife.” And this was how we started our play on Austen’s famous opening sentence—a temptation that almost every Austen reader must have felt at least once.
Our merrymaking was interrupted by the sound of the bell. Mahshid, who was closest to the door, said, I’ll get it. We heard the street door close, steps on the stairs, a pause. Mahshid opened the front door to sounds of greetings and laughter. Sanaz came in, smiling radiantly. She was holding a big box of pastries. Why the pastries? I asked. It isn’t your turn.
“Yes, but I have good news,” she said mysteriously.
“Are you getting married?” Yassi asked lazily from the depths of the couch.