Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [29]
I was sure that Azin’s assault had been partly directed against Mahshid, and perhaps indirectly against Manna, too. Their clashes were not only the result of their different backgrounds. Azin’s outbursts, her seeming frankness about her personal life and desires, made Manna and Mahshid, both reserved by temperament, deeply uncomfortable. They disapproved of her, and Azin sensed that. Her efforts at friendship were rejected as hypocritical.
Mahshid’s response, as usual, was silence. She drew into herself and refused to fill the void that Azin’s question had left behind. Her silence extended to the others, and was broken finally by a short giggle from Yassi. I thought this was a good time for a break and went to the kitchen to bring in the tea.
When I returned, I heard Yassi laughing. Trying to lighten the mood, she was saying, “How could God be so cruel as to create a Muslim woman with so much flesh and so little sex appeal?” She turned towards Mahshid and stared at her in mock horror.
Mahshid look down and then shyly and royally lifted her head, her slanted eyes widening in an indulgent smile. “You don’t need sex appeal,” she told Yassi.
But Yassi would not give up. “Laugh, please, laugh,” she implored Mahshid. “Dr. Nafisi, please command her to laugh.” And Mahshid’s attempt at laughter was drowned out by the others’ less guarded hilarity.
There was a pause and a silence as I placed the tray of tea on the table. Nassrin suddenly said: “I know what it means to be caught between tradition and change. I’ve been in the middle of it all my life.”
She seated herself on the arm of Mahshid’s chair, while Mahshid did her best to drink her tea and keep it from coming into collision with Nassrin, whose expressive hands, moving in all directions, came precariously close to knocking the teacup over several times.
“I know it firsthand,” Nassrin said. “My mother came from a wealthy, secular and modern family. She was the only daughter, had two brothers, both of whom had chosen a diplomatic career. My grandfather was very liberal and he wanted her to finish her education and go to college. He sent her to the American school.” “The American school?” echoed Sanaz, her hand lovingly playing with her hair. “Yes, in those days most girls didn’t even finish high school, never mind going to the American school, and my mother could speak English and French.” Nassrin sounded rather pleased and proud of this fact.
“But then what did she do? She fell in love with my father, her tutor. She was terrible in math and science. It is ironic,” said Nassrin, again lifting her left hand dangerously close to Mahshid’s cup. “They thought my father, coming from a religious background, would be safe with a young girl like my mother, and anyway, who would have thought that a modern young woman like her would be interested in a stern young man who seldom smiled, never looked her in the eyes, and whose sisters and mother all wore the chador? But she fell for him, perhaps because he was so different, perhaps because for her, wearing the chador and caring for him seemed more romantic than going to some college and becoming a lady doctor or whatever.
“She said she never regretted it, her marriage, but she always talked about her American school, her old high school friends, whom she never saw again after her marriage. And she taught me English. When I was a kid she used to teach me the ABCs and then she bought me English books. I never had trouble with English, thanks to her. Nor did my sister, who was much older than me, by nine years. Rather strange