Free Persian Girls: A Memoir by Nahid Rachlin Page B

it.”
    She had managed to keep her part in the play a secret from Father. But then Father came into her room, where I was sitting with her, and said, “I don’t approve of your involvement with that school play. We can get into trouble.” He threw a cutting from Etalaat, the daily newspaper he subscribed to, on the floor and left.
    Pari picked it up and we both read it.
     
    Iraj Moghadessi, the producer, Parviz Ahmadi, the director, and all the actresses, among them Simin Baghouli, were arrested for participating in Ibsen’s play Public Enemy at DadeBad Playhouse in Abadan. . . .
    “I wonder how Father found out about your being in the school play,” I said.
    “Miss Jahanbani must have told him. You know Father talks about us with her all the time. But The Glass Menagerie doesn’t have anything anyone could possibly misconstrue as anti-government.”
    Pari went to Father, cried and begged, and he finally told her she could go ahead this one time. But he didn’t come to see the play. Neither did Mohtaram, going along with Father’s wish. Manijeh wasn’t interested. I was the only one in our family who went to see it.
    The stage was designed to look like a shabby St. Louis tenement apartment: two soft armchairs, with exposed stuffing and faded floral upholstery, a worn rug on the floor, a table covered with a checkered plastic tablecloth, and four chairs. The audience, not a large one, consisted of teachers, some from other schools, a few parents and students. I sat in the first row. The stage was dimly lit but a spotlight focused on Pari’s face. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She had become Laura. Wearing a full-skirted dress falling below her knees, with puffy sleeves and frills at the neckline, she sat at the table and played with small glass animals. The mother, Amanda, wore a long silk dress and pumps. She pressed her son to find a “gentleman caller” for his sister while Laura avoided them by engaging herself with the animals.
    Two of Pari’s friends, Ziba and Fereshteh, played the male parts—Tom, the restless, poetic brother, and Jim, the gentleman caller. Tom wore a suit and tie, and Jim a suit and bow tie.
    When the play ended, there was long, loud applause. People were saying how good Pari was. I beamed with pride. As Pari had explained to me, they had left out or changed from the original what would look immoral to an Iranian audience. They didn’t show that Laura once had a crush on Jim, that he used to call her “blue roses.” They didn’t show them alone together onstage at any point. They had changed the fact that Jim told Laura directly that he was engaged. Instead the mother drew it out of him.
    I headed backstage immediately after the applause stopped. “Pari, you were so good,” I said, as she changed into her clothes.
    A girl who had worked as an usher came in with a bouquet of flowers and gave it to Pari. “For you,” she said and walked away.
    Pari looked for a card but there wasn’t one.
    As we walked home with Pari holding the bouquet, she said, “It has to be from Majid. Did you notice the man sitting on the side in a plaid maroon and blue shirt?”
    “Yes, he looked very excited watching.”
    “That was Majid. A few days ago, after a rehearsal, he was waiting for me outside, just standing next to his cherry-colored Buick, his arms folded. It was like we had an appointment. The street was empty then and I dared to get into his car. He drove through backstreets and we talked like two people who know each other well. He teaches in a boys’ high school but he’s interested in all sorts of things. He loves movies and plays. He believes women should have equal rights.” Pari paused, then said, “I let him kiss me.”
    My heart was pounding loudly in my chest. Pari had entered a forbidden realm, condemned not just by people in Maryam’s milieu but even by the more modern Iranian society.
    “He’s going to send his mother over to ask for marriage.”
    “But, Pari, do