Free Veil of Roses by Laura Fitzgerald Page A

shirt, but when we went up a hill, I tightened my arms around his waist and felt a rush of longing for the moment to stand still. The closeness of a man against my body was a new sensation for me, and it was exquisitely delicious.
If that’s corruption, I want more of it.
That’s what the not-so-naïve part of myself thinks in response to my sister’s warning.
    “I’ll be careful,” I promise.
    “Maybe Tami can find an American man to marry,” Ardishir says casually. But his tone is a joking one, designed to get a rise out of Maryam, which it does.
    “Right! No American is going to marry her just so she can get a green card!”
    “That seems unfairly critical,” I say. “You do not think even one American man would do such a favor for a female friend of his?”
    “No.” She is adamant. “They’d only do it because there’s something really wrong with them. Or they’d only do it for the sex. Here, people take a long time to date before they get engaged, and then a long time being engaged before they get married.”
    “I know that,” I tell her sullenly. “Do you really think I don’t know that? All I’m asking is to walk to school.” My voice catches in my throat. It does not seem like this is too much to ask. “I just want to walk to school.”
    “I know,” Maryam soothes, patting my hand. “And that’s fine. But you must promise me you won’t get yourself into a situation with an American man that could affect your chances of marrying. Word gets out, and if you act in a dishonorable way, like a
badjen,
we won’t be able to find you a husband.”
    “I just want to walk to school,” I insist.
    “I know,” she soothes.
    It is time to change the subject.
    “Eva brought to class a wonderful dessert called
stollen,
” I say. “Do you think I should make some
Nane Shirini
cookies tomorrow?” I am an expert at making these delicate cookies, which contain orange rind and lemon juice and walnuts, but with the main ingredient of sugar.
    “An excellent idea,” Ardishir offers, quick as me to change the subject. Ardishir is one who likes to keep the peace. He likes things to be pleasant in his home. “Make some extra for me, please.”
    “We can bring them to your office,” Maryam offers.
    Ardishir’s office is on the north side of town. Maryam has the day off tomorrow, and she is taking me there to see where he works, and then to Sabino Canyon, which she says is very beautiful and full of cactus that are not seen anywhere else in the world. I am very much looking forward to our outing, although I do not think I will be able to do much hiking in the canyon. Maryam was kind to make for me a foot bath of hot water and rose petals when she arrived home from work and saw my blistered feet, but even now, they still throb unrelentingly.
    After dinner, I help Maryam with the dishes and I watch Iranian television out of Los Angeles with them for a little while. But I am very tired and I am feeling something close to sadness, so I excuse myself and announce that I am going upstairs.
    I close my bedroom door behind me in relief. The master bedroom is downstairs, which means I have the whole upstairs to myself. I pretend sometimes when I am up here that I live alone, and I relish the quiet. I cannot hear the Iranian television and I cannot hear Maryam. For this, I am so very grateful.
    I have developed a nightly ritual for myself since arriving. I have bought what is called a Perpetual Light candle from the grocery store, which from the label I see you are to light and perhaps your hopes will come true. I have created a little altar for myself on my dresser, with the candle and the blue perfume bottle of American sand that my father gave me. I have tucked my favorite picture, the one of my mother in her pink bikini, into a bottom corner of my mirror and I have hung my brightest
hejab
over a top corner of the mirror, having vowed only to use it for decoration and never again for concealing myself from the