Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [151]
Her first week back after her trip, Sanaz had returned to class in a mood of becomingly restrained elation. Photographs were spread out on the glass-topped table: the family in the hotel lobby; Sanaz and a young man with dark brown hair and gentle brown eyes, in jeans and a blue shirt, leaning against a balustrade; the engagement party; Sanaz, in a red dress, her magnificent hair caressing her bare shoulders, looking up at this personable young man in his dark suit and pale blue shirt, and he gazing into her eyes with tender affection—or there he was, slipping an engagement ring on her finger, she looking at it wistfully (it’s a shame his parents had bought the ring without consulting us, she said later). And here is the renegade aunt, and the depressed mother, and the obnoxious brother. Before she knew it, he had to return to London and she to Tehran. (There was so little Ali and I said to each other, Sanaz would tell us with some frustration—we were always surrounded by family.)
Two weeks later, she was subdued throughout the class discussion. During the break, a woeful Sanaz, apologizing for taking up class time with her personal stories, her eyes brimming with tears and her right hand pushing an absent strand of hair from her forehead, announced that everything was off, the marriage was off. She had been jilted. A phone call again: he just couldn’t see how he could make her happy. He was still a student; how could he support her? How long would it take before they could actually live together? It wasn’t fair, he kept saying, not fair to her; he was making up all sorts of excuses. I can see his point, she said, I’d shared the same worries, but still, I wish he didn’t feel he had to be so goddamn fair! He would always love her, he pleaded. What else could he say? Sanaz had asked us. Bloody coward, I thought.
Everyone as a result was being was extra nice to Sanaz. His family was very angry with him. He had been corrupted by the years he’d spent among the cold and unfeeling English, his mother said. They—Westerners—don’t have personal feelings like we do. He’ll change his mind, his father said with conviction; just give him time. None of them had seen that perhaps their own meddling and pressure had forced him into taking a step he was not sure of.
It was all so intolerable to Sanaz, all this commiseration. Even her brother had been sympathetic. There were rumors of another woman—there always are, Azin chimed in; that’s men for you. No, Sanaz said in response to Mahshid’s questions, she wasn’t Persian, not that it mattered. Some said Swedish, others English. Of course! A foreign girl: always a catch—who had said that? Sanaz was made even more desperate by the silent, funereal way her family and friends walked around her. If only her brother would throw a tantrum, she said, forcing a smile through her tears—confiscate her car or something. Today was the first time she’d had a chance to get away from them, and already she felt better.
Men are always more likable, more desirable, when they’re unavailable, Manna said in a surprisingly bitter tone. After a pause, she added enigmatically, And I’m not saying this to be nice to Sanaz.
Men! Nassrin said angrily. Men! echoed Azin. Yassi, who seemed to have suddenly shrunk to her normal size, sat up straight with her hands locked in her lap. Only the aunt was happy, Sanaz informed us. “Thank God, he saved you from your own folly” had been her