Free Veil of Roses by Laura Fitzgerald Page B

world. Every night, I light my candle. Every night, I turn on my CD of Googoosh and climb into my bed. While lying in the dark, I watch how the flame from the candle dances, how it dips and weaves all by itself in the night. It dips and weaves and moves in whatever direction it must in order to keep from being extinguished.
    Googoosh. Her voice is a gift to the world, a gift of true beauty. She is, without question, the most famous Iranian singer, loved by both women and men. Before the revolution, girls went into beauty shops in Tehran and asked for a Googooshi haircut. She
was
the fashion; she
set
the trends under the Western freedoms the Shah permitted. It is she who introduced our country to the miniskirt, and my mother loved her for it.
    Once the revolution came, she, like so many other women, was forbidden from singing in public. I am sure she could have fled her homeland, but for twenty years she remained in her apartment in Tehran like a bird whose wings had been cruelly clipped. Her fame only grew. Bootleg copies of her music flourished, and she became for us a symbol of the bitter choices we all face. Do you stay in your homeland even as it suffocates your spirit, do you love it even if it does not love you back, or do you declare defeat, do you hand over to the thief the keys to your home and say,
Take it, it doesn’t matter to me anymore anyway, you have already taken too much and there’s nothing here for me now
?
    After twenty years, Googoosh’s husband secured permission for her to leave Iran. She performed first in Toronto to a crowd of twelve thousand, and we heard back in Iran that her voice, so long suppressed, was never more beautiful. We heard there was not a dry eye in the crowd, hers included. We heard this and we cried, too, and we urged her in our hearts,
Sing, Googoosh, sing. Sing for us. Sing for yourself.
    On this night, I watch the flame from the candle and listen to her voice. I feel her sadness; it washes over me. I saw real freedom today on my walk to and from English class—I saw young boys and girls chase one another on the playground; I saw Agata and Josef make their way toward love. I saw men and women sit together at outside patio tables; I saw university girls bare their skin to the sun. I rode on the back of a man’s motor scooter and felt a thrill when my body touched his. My girlfriends in Iran might never have a day like I had today, and this makes me so very sad. As for myself, I want to have days like this again and again and I do not want to fight with Maryam every step of the way.
    I will make my parents’ dream come true. I will find a husband. I will get married. But I do not want to wait a lifetime in order to find my happiness.
    I love Googoosh. But I do not want to be her.

I am happy for Ardishir when I learn how he spends his days. His office is in an adobe building with a four-tiered fountain out front. He has three women assistants who answer the phones and file insurance information and make appointments. It is very pleasant; the music he plays in his lobby is not Persian or even classical.
    “What is this music?” I ask Maryam. I have not heard this style before.
    “I don’t know,” she replies. “Ardishir takes care of everything for his office.” She chats with one of the receptionists and picks up a picture on her desk to admire.
    “It’s Keb’ Mo’,” Ardishir says as he greets us out front, kissing us both on our cheeks. “Sort of New Orleans-y.”
    I remember that Ardishir got his undergraduate degree at Tulane in New Orleans. This was before he knew Maryam. He has told me several stories about how much fun he had living in the college dormitories and then with friends. It sounds like he had many years of fun times before he got married.
    Seeing his office is like seeing a whole new person. It is as if he has carved out for himself a piece of the world only for him, designed just how he likes. I feel in myself a sense of envy, that he gets to