Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [155]
It had been an exhausting week for Yassi, what with this new suitor and her uncle’s departure for the States. Every time her uncle visited Iran—and it was not often—he provoked doubts and questions in Yassi, who would be plagued for weeks with vague and uneasy longings that made her yearn, without exactly knowing what for. She knew now that she must go to America, as she had known when she was twelve that she must play the forbidden musical instrument. Her playing of the instrument, her insistence on going to university in Tehran, her choosing to come to this class—all were preparations that led her towards her final goal: to be physically where her uncles were and to get a taste of the tantalizing fruit that had always dangled over the lives of her mother and aunts, beckoning and just out of reach. They, the women, had lacked nothing in intelligence and intellect, but they had lacked freedom. Yassi had no choice but to want to be like her uncles—not necessarily like them, but to be possessed of what seemed to her their inalienable rights.
I didn’t want her to be married. I wanted her to go through the whole ordeal and conquer the obstacles. The odds were overwhelmingly against her, from family opposition—it was unprecedented for a girl to go abroad to study—to enormous financial difficulties. Then there was the problem of getting accepted to an American college and obtaining a visa. I wanted her to succeed not only for herself but also for the rest of us. I always had a hankering for the security of impossible dreams.
This was a day for gentleman callers; Sanaz, too, was full of stories. After the failure of her engagement, Sanaz went on a spree, going on dates with different suitors and giving us meticulous accounts of the American-educated engineer with a green card—a status symbol—who had picked her out in a family photograph and, on arrival in Tehran, had sought her out and invited her to a Swiss restaurant; the rich merchant who loved the thought of an educated, attractive wife and wanted to buy a whole library for her so that she wouldn’t leave home, and so on. These outings were a matter of binge and purge for Sanaz.
“Learn from us,” said Azin. “Why do you need to be married?” The flirtatious note had briefly returned to her voice. “Don’t take these people seriously—just go out with them to have fun.”
My lawyer friend was having a great deal of difficulty in trying to help Azin. At first Azin had been adamant about wanting a divorce. Ten days later she had come to the lawyer’s office with her husband, mother-in-law and sisters-in-law. She thought reconciliation was possible. Soon after that, she barged in without an appointment; she was all bruised, claimed that he had beaten her again and taken their little girl to his mother’s house. Then at night he had knelt by her bedside, weeping and pleading with her not to leave him. When I mentioned this to Azin, she broke into tears again, saying that he would take the child away from her if she went through with the divorce. That girl was her whole life, and you know the courts, child custody always went to the father. She knew the only reason he wanted the child was to hurt her. He would never care for her; most probably he’d send her to his mother’s. Azin had applied for a visa to Canada, but even if her application was accepted, she couldn’t leave the country without her husband’s permission. Only if I take my own life can I act without my husband’s permission, she said, desperately and dramatically.
Manna agreed with Azin, but it was difficult for her to admit it. “If I were you, I’d get out of this country while I can” had been her advice to Sanaz. “Don’t stay here and don’t marry anyone who’ll have to stay here. You’ll only rot.”
Mahshid looked at her reproachfully. “This is your country,” she said, pursing her lips. “There’s a lot you can do.”
“There’s nothing you can do—nothing,” said