Free In the Walled Gardens by Anahita Firouz

Malekshah, always the pedant, interrupted him
     to define the complete benefits of parsley and carrot juice. Then just as he was getting started on the marvels of Swedish
     calisthenics, they were asked to play bridge. My two pious aunts retired up stairs to take their afternoon nap. The marching
     suffragette went up to read Toynbee, but not before hearing the ladies hold forth on the fabulous new pearls of our favorite
     jeweler, who always fawned on them and was always willing to make exchanges with tact and discretion.
    Before Reza’s sudden arrival, Father and his lifelong friend Mr. Mostaufi, abandoning the damask-covered chairs of the dining
     room for the corner armchairs under the imperious portrait of Grandfather garnished with medals, had been indulging in one
     of their favorite pastimes: proceeding through the vast and interconnected family trees of the aristocracy, branch to branch.
     This was always triggered by some news of an impending wedding or funeral or someone indisposed — as they called the sick
     — and they were off, going from parents to grandparents to aunts and uncles and progeny and intermarriages, fanning out into
     ever-rippling circles, all the while approving of each other’s memory and knowledge and dedication in this field by saying,
     “Yes, yes, and of course you know . . .” Now Mr. Mostaufi was dozing peacefully, alone in the corner. We all knew his wife
     would wake him up to lecture him any moment.
    Houshang looked around and announced he wanted to go home immediately. He’d charmed everyone long enough and the show was
     over. I wanted to talk to Father about Peyman Bashirian, so I told him to go ahead. He hung back and said we’d all leave together,
     taking up backgammon with my brother Kavoos and the colonel. Houshang is so predictable, staying only to see what I was up
     to.
    We had more tea with dates and dried mulberries, choosing from a succession of sweets arranged in perfect pyramids on footed
     silver dishes around the drawing room. The dice rolled while the men played, cards shuffled at the bridge table. The afternoon
     sun was sinking behind the heavy drapes.
    I waited. Suddenly I wasn’t waiting to talk to Father but to see Reza. With my husband watching from across the room, I thought
     of him, what he and I possessed together. A childhood, coming of age, families entwined for generations. What we had escaped
     was the fate — the compulsion — of being together.
    I listened for footsteps in the hall, beyond the curtained French doors, eyeing my watch. Mother eyed me, talking about the
     potted plants and Seville orange trees in her hothouse to her good friends Mrs. Mostaufi and Mrs. Vahaab. Mrs. Mostaufi slipped
     away to awaken her dozing husband. Mrs. Vahaab took up much of the sofa, her ample body dipping into a green velvet dress
     and resurfacing at very puffy ankles. The penciled mole by her penciled lips shuddered as she spoke, her inflection epic,
     like her proportions. She’s known for her voice. Her husband, the retired colonel, lives at her feet. When she croons old
     favorites, he dabs his eyes with a starched handkerchief, overcome. Today she was talking about her bunions. The colonel said
     with military panache that it was time to leave. The Mostaufis returned arguing about the appropriateness of napping and,
     overhearing the colonel, agreed it was time to leave.
    Mother accompanied them outside.
    I flipped through magazines, mostly cut-and-paste rehashes of foreign periodicals. True confessions, crimes of passion, the
     art scene, cooking, pop singers like Aref and Googoosh, trendy movie stars, nostalgic tributes to dead artists like Mahvash.
     Mother sub-scribed to them all, embracing the grand and trivial with the contemplative enthusiasm of a philosopher. A door
     opened and closed, and I went out into the hall. Father and Reza were shaking hands by the grandfather clock between vistas
     of epic battles. I walked toward them and they