Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [183]
Mitra was subdued. Before I arrived, she had been telling the others about her problems at home and now she continued. Hamid’s mother was strongly opposed to their going to Canada, and her disapproval was causing Hamid to vacillate constantly in his decision. What makes me resent this, Mitra said, is not just that she doesn’t want us to leave but that she always meddles in our affairs. Before, it was her wanting us to have children—she wanted a grandson before she was too old to enjoy him—and now this. Both Mitra and Hamid were also wavering. He had a good job and financial security and in Canada they would have to start from scratch. She said she felt she was changing—she had become more anxious, more sensitive; she had started having nightmares. One night she woke up feeling that the whole house was shaking, but it was only her shaking the bedside table. Sometimes I think men just can’t relate to how difficult it is to be a woman in this country, she said with frustration. For them it’s easier, said Yassi. In a way, this place can be a man’s paradise. Hamid tells me, said Mitra, that if we make a good living, we can always take our vacations abroad.
Things are definitely better for men, said Azin. Look at the marriage and divorce laws; look at how many so-called secular men have taken second wives. Especially some of the intellectuals, said Manna, those who make the headlines with their claims about freedom and all that.
Not all men are like that, Sanaz objected.
Azin, suddenly brightening up, turned to Sanaz. Well, yes. Some men, like your new beau . . .
He’s not a beau, Sanaz objected, giggling now, clearly enjoying herself after a long period of depression. He’s a friend of Ali’s. He’s here on a visit from England, she informed me, feeling that an explanation was in order. We knew each other before—we were sort of friends, she said, through Ali. He was supposed to be our best man, you see. So he came to pay me a visit, just to be nice.
Mitra’s dimples and Azin’s knowing smile suggested that there was more to “nice” than met the eye. What? said Sanaz. He’s not good-looking. Actually, she said, narrowing her eyes, he’s sort of ugly. Perhaps more like rugged? suggested Yassi hopefully. No, no, more like, well, more like ugly, but a very nice man, considerate and kind. My brother keeps making fun of him, she said, and you know sometimes I feel like going with him or something. The other day, he was saying how he can’t wear short sleeves or go swimming over here. After he left, my brother kept mimicking him and saying, Very clever new method of seduction and my silly sister is just the kind of girl to fall for it.
The waiter came in to take my order. I ordered a café glacé, and then, looking at Manna, said also, Could you bring all of us some Turkish coffee a little later? Ever since my mother had established the ritual of serving our class Turkish coffee, we had gotten into the habit of telling our fortunes from the dregs. Manna and Azin always vied for the privilege of fortune-telling. The last time Azin had told mine, and I had promised Manna that she would get her turn soon.
After the waiter left, Azin said, Boy I’d love to take a picture of him. Why don’t you guys divert his attention and I’ll take the picture. How can we divert his attention? said Manna. You don’t want us to go to jail for flirting with this decrepit creature!
When the waiter returned with my order, I saw Azin bring up her camera, making signs to Yassi, who was sitting beside me, and idly move the camera in my general direction, as if focusing on the wall. Could I have my coffee without sugar? Yassi asked the waiter. I don’t know;