Free Things We Left Unsaid by Zoyâ Pirzâd Page B

the kids were little, they were frightened of Marguerita’s father, a tall, very rotund man who sported a
thick beard. They called him ‘Golirra.’ I had heard from Artoush that the rank, or as the Abadanis would put it, the Grade of the ‘Gorilla’ had been raised, and he
got himself a house in Braim. When they lived in Bawarda, Marguerita had many times come home from school with the twins and stayed at our house quite late, until finally her mother would arrive to
pick her up with a wishy-washy apology. ‘Sorry. It’s so late. I got caught up.’ It was well known to all the Armenians in Abadan what caught up Marguerita’s mother: gambling
and lounging about the Milk Bar, a new café that had recently opened.
    Alice took my hand and headed off. ‘Come along.’
    No need to ask where we were going. Whenever we went out, the first thing Alice did was find a mirror and make sure her hair was not mussed up and her lipstick not wiped away. And no need to ask
why I should tag along, either. Alice could not possibly contemplate going to the ladies’ room alone.
    Marguerita’s mother was in the restroom teasing her hair. Her name was Juliette, but she insisted people call her Zhou Zhou. On the sink next to her purse stood a small aerosol can of Taft
hairspray. The last time we had seen one another, in a ball at the Boat Club, she was a brunette. Now she was a redhead. Same color as her lipstick.
    She saw us in the mirror, and turned around to give us a lukewarm greeting. ‘Well, well!’ she said. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ The humanitarian aim of this sentence was to
ask what we low- Grade residents of Bawarda were doing in the Golestan Club, which she considered the exclusive preserve of the high- Grade residents of Braim.
    Alice drew a deep breath and puffed up her chest. I realized she was about to – in her words – ‘run Marguerita’s mother through the wringer and hang her out to
dry.’ Alice glanced at herself in the mirror, and once assured that her hair was in place and her lipstick fresh, she turned to Marguerita’s mother. Before I could do anything about it,
she asked, ‘Excuse me, Juliette. What Grade did you say your husband holds?’
    Marguerita’s mother arched her eyebrows into virtual half crescents. ‘It’s Zhou Zhou. Fifteen. Why?’
    Alice smiled. ‘How interesting. So he still has three Grades to go before he reaches my brother-in-law.’ Then she threaded her arm in mine and said, ‘Phew! The smell of
hairspray’s about knocked me unconscious. Come on, Clarice.’
    Outside the restroom, I protested. ‘Why do you tell her such fibs? Her husband and Artoush are at the same Grade .’
    Alice let go of my arm and waved at someone. ‘It was the right thing to do. Keep that monkey-lady from going around and showing off in people’s faces about the Grade of her
gorilla man. If the Professor would knock off this “comrade” nonsense of his and get a house in Braim like any normal person would, we wouldn’t have to put up with the pretentious
airs of every nouveau riche in town. By the way, did you hear what I said before we walked in? You will invite them, won’t you?’ All of a sudden she gave a broad smile and a loud
‘Well, hellllo!’ and went up to a couple whom I could not recall. I had heard what she said before we walked in. And no need to ask who she wanted me to invite.
    Artoush was talking to the head waiter by the door to the dining hall. I walked up to him and on the way peeked into the assembly hall, the double doors of which were wide open. There were
thirty or forty women sitting in seven or eight rows of chairs, facing a table covered by a green baize cloth. On the tablecloth stood a vase full of asters, behind which a woman stood giving a
speech. From her chignon and the bow in her hair I recognized her immediately. It was Mrs. Nurollahi. I always marveled at how she could arrange her hair in such a tall chignon. Armen called Mrs.
Nurollahi’s