Free Hot Pink in the City by Medeia Sharif Page B

He's into arak and
American women. His home is a bachelor pad, which is why I never
stay with him when I'm in New York. My parents don't want me and my
siblings to see the seedy way he lives, even though I think his
lifestyle is cool and normal.
    "Is that my little Asma?" he asks.
    I hug him, getting a whiff of cologne and
whatever he's been drinking. "Yes, it's me."
    " Ma'shallah , you've grown. Come
in!"
    "We won't stay long," Uncle says.
    "Nonsense. The party has just started."
    My parents have unfairly warned me about
Uncle Javed. "Seedy" is many friends, laughter, booze, and
paintings of half-naked women. Javed is a painter, and on his walls
are mermaids, women draped in towels, and ladies in other states of
undress. Inside the living room are other aunts and uncles, artist
friends, and pretty lady friends. Javed puts his arms around many
people, particularly the women. Cigarette smoke drifts around me. I
count at least a dozen smokers in the crowded space. I'm sort of
used to it since many of my relatives smoke, but back home nobody
smokes. I just left the subway, but now I feel like I'm underground
again. I desire fresh air.
    Uncle glares at Javed with disapproval, yet
Javed's licentious ways won't stop him from talking about what he
loves the most: current events. "What has happened to Iran?" Uncle
asks. "Are you watching the news?"
    "And what are you going to do about it?"
Javed asks. "All you do is talk. You either go there or do
something, or stay here and build a life for your family. It's one
or the other."
    "You can't ignore what goes on there! The
land is in shambles. There's no freedom, just torture and
imprisonment."
    Some people are mumbling, and others are
yelling pro- and anti-Khomeini speech, either supporting or bashing
the regime of Iran. Javed doesn't want any part of the political
talk, walking away from Uncle and slinging his arm around a woman.
"Who wants wine?"
    Many of my relatives shake their heads. No
alky-hol for them. Nasreen eyes the liquor cabinet. I've never seen
anything like it; it's an entire piece of furniture dedicated to
alcohol, with bottles of amber liquid behind the glass. "Do you
think we can score some?" my cousin asks.
    "Stay focused," I say. "Let's go find some
Umm."
    It's a sea of bodies. I thought Uncle's
basement apartment was bad, but the fact is most New York homes are
small. As I move, random uncles, aunts, and cousins hug and kiss
me. Their cigarette smoke clings to me. I smell nicotine-stained
skin and lips. I'm afraid of lung cancer and emphysema, not that
they're contagious, but the smoky air is ominous. "Someone open a
window!" one of the partygoers demands.
    As I circulate, my relatives all notice I've
grown.
    "Such pretty eyes," an aunt says.
    "Wow, you're a stunner," an older female
cousin named Mahla says. "We'll be looking for a husband for you in
no time."
    This husband talk makes me more nervous. I
grab Nasreen by the arm and pull her through the living room. On
our way to Javed's painting room, she grabs something off a
table.
    "What is that?" I ask.
    "A bottle of I don't know what," she
says.
    "We're not drinking anything."
    "To the left," Nasreen directs in the narrow
hallway, the bottle still in her hand.
    There's a front and back stairwell in Javed's
home. The back stairwell will lead us to Javed's painting space,
where his music also happens to be. There are cassettes in the
living room, but while relatives were grabbing and kissing me,
Nasreen looked through them and didn't find any Umm. "Most of his
music is up here," she says.
    "I hope you're right," I say.
    We're on the second floor. There are two
bedrooms and Javed converted one of them to his painting space. I
turn on a light and I'm confronted by easels, canvas boards, and
paints... also, more flesh. There are even nudes propped up against
walls.
    "Whoa, nice paintings," Nasreen says.
    "He's very talented," I say. "But I can see
why he keeps this here." Nude paintings are the results of