تعلق
(Belonging)
Short Story
by Lynda Tavakoli
The landing lights of Mehrâbâd airport glowed like fireflies in an ink-blue darkness as the fasten seat belt sign gave notice to passengers of final descent. Cabin lights dimmed as children emerged from a long flight’s uncomfortable sleep, while men checked watches for accuracy of arrival time and women rummaged in handbags stuffed as full as Thanksgiving turkeys.
Regarding the scene with the eye of an interloper, Eva tried to dampen the feelings of apprehension that had been stewing her insides like simmering pasta. She knew it was never going to be easy visiting her husband’s relatives for the first time; the language barrier, along with the cavernous cultural differences between them, only two of the obstacles lying ahead of her.
Reluctantly then, she slid a hand into her bag to withdraw a scarf. It was the most vibrant colour of turquoise she could find and around the edges were sewn delicate flower heads of cream and red which sat nicely across her brow when she framed it into place. Eva was determined that regardless of anything else, she would wear something other than black.
She clicked open her compact and studied her pale reflection in the mirror, while adding some fresh gloss to her dehydrated lips. Blue eyes with specks of rust looked back, and a few auburn tendrils made a defiant escape at her temples, but it felt surprisingly agreeable to be so open-faced and Eva relaxed into her seat for the landing. Beside her, Omid stared out through the window into a bruised Tehran darkness. She felt the soft pressure of his hand on her thigh and thought that for different reasons, it was probably going to be as hard for him as it would be for her.
As the plane began lowering its bulk earthward, Eva closed her eyes and tried to think of something other than their imminent arrival. It had been a long and often challenging road to get here, with the final arrangements proving anything but straightforward, and for just a few minutes it would have been nice to free her mind from apprehension. She loved her husband; had loved him for the many years they had been together, but she could not shirk off the voices of cynics back home. Acquaintances who relished in seeding doubt wherever they could.
“What if he changes when he gets you there?” from one so-called friend who had herself known Omid for several years. And from others, various versions of, “They’ll force you to walk behind him,” or “You’ll have to keep yourself completely covered up.” As it was, she already knew that while in public she would need only to keep her hair enclosed loosely within the scarf and wear modest clothing, but inside the home she could wear what she liked. All the same, the cruelty of the remarks had stung.
Eva had, in fact, met her in-laws already when they’d visited hers and Omid’s house in the United States. Then it had been under her terms and in her country of birth, which was quite a different scenario than the one she was about to embrace. Her Farsi wasn’t brilliant, despite her best efforts to learn to speak the Persian language, and any attempts she’d made to write it had been abandoned long since. When she’d met her mother and father-in-law previously this didn’t seem to matter unduly because she was on home turf, but somehow now her lack of communication had taken on a whole new meaning. Consequently, Eva was feeling vulnerable and exposed like a child attending school for the first time and about to let go of her mother’s hand.
The abrupt whoosh of the engines’ reverse thrust made Eva realise, with a start, that the plane had touched down. Omid was continuing to stare out of the window, his face unreadable even in the sudden bright lights of the cabin, and she wondered what was going on in his head. He was, after all, returning to a country that was not the same as the one he left behind all those years before in order to study for his doctorate in the States. The revolution had occurred shortly after his departure and was in no small way responsible for the enormous changes that had subsequently ensued in his life, not least of all his marriage to Eva over three decades ago. Iran, or Persia as Omid preferred to call it, had consistently tempted him back, but there was a host of complicated reasons why he hadn’t returned. Now it would be the two of them facing their challenges together and from this, at least, Eva felt some comfort.
The plane continued its slow taxiing through the darkness while men, ignoring the still illuminated seatbelt sign, began to force bags from overhead lockers and tersely instruct their offspring to remain seated. The sense of anticipation was so palpable it crackled like noiseless static through the aisles and Eva began to look more closely at her fellow travellers. All the women had by now had their heads covered in varying degrees of exposure and almost without exception they wore more make-up than she herself would have used on a special night out. She observed them enviously. Mostly they needed not the slightest amount of face-paint to enhance their obvious good looks; a legacy from the race of beautiful women in the generations that had preceded them. Eva thought about her own unruly red curls and sallow complexion: throwbacks from her Irish roots. From the beginning she never really understood what Omid had seen in her when he could have had his choice of Persian brides, albeit the American versions.
“Are you okay?” asked her husband suddenly, turning his attention from the window to his wife. She felt the pressure of his fingers offering reassurance.
“Of course,” she said. “It’s been a long flight, that’s all.” And as she said it the slow burden of fatigue seemed to give in to itself and take from her bones any energy she had left.
“Don’t worry Eva. Once we’re through passport control it’ll be plain sailing to get you to my parents’ place and we can both get a good night’s sleep. You’ll be fine.” It was hard now to pinpoint his accent – sometimes it still contained a slightly foreign lilt but more often it had taken on an American west coast twang which wasn’t surprising given the amount of time he had lived in L A. Eva imagined that his mother tongue would need recharging, as the only practice he got was when he spoke to family over the telephone.
Passport control was at the end of what seemed like an interminable queue. Mehrâbâd was soon to be replaced by a state-of-the-art airport on the other side of Tehran, but until then the city and its visitors would have to make do with the more old fashioned and less high-tech amenities of its predecessor. One thing that probably wouldn’t change however, was the expression on the faces of the officials who were not unlike those whom they had already encountered during their transfer through Heathrow. Scrutiny like that somehow managed to make a person feel guilty even when they weren’t. Certainly, by the time the existing queue had snaked its way through the passport booths and it was their turn, Eva’s heartbeat was battering a hole in her chest and sticky sweat sucked her cotton blouse uncomfortably into her armpits.
A young woman, swathed in black, sat behind the glass partition and picked up the two passports that had been placed in front of her. The flesh on her face remained immobile but her eyes lifted to look first at Omid and then at Eva, before returning again to Omid. The downward pout of her lips reminded Eva of a catwalk model, humourless and severe, as though no happiness had ever dared to touch it with warmth, and she was unexpectedly filled with pity. She wondered what this woman was like at home and whether she had children, and if her husband buried his head in the hollow of her shoulder each night before sleep as Omid did.
“Your wife, this is her first visit to Iran?” The woman’s voice, speaking in English, was not unpleasant but the line of her mouth remained stubbornly fixed and her eyes stayed hard.
“Areh,” replied Omid reverting automatically to his own language, his usually affable nature suppressed by the need to curtail any small talk in the present circumstances.
“You speak Farsi, Mrs Afshani?” Eva was stunned. She had not been prepared to have any questions aimed directly at her and was worried that she might react inappropriately, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. Already the hairs at the nape of her neck were tingling like the fizz of uncorked soda.
“Man yekam Farsi sobat mikonam,” she said as confidently and agreeably as she could, all the time remaining in eye contact with the woman behind the glass. “Khehlee mamnoon. Thank you very much,” she added.
The corners of the official’s mouth twitched with almost imperceptible amusement at this effort of polite respectfulness. There was a pause as the two passports lingered in her hand and then two sharp thuds as the other brought down the stamp upon the opened pages.
“Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Iran,” she said.
Eva let the relief soak into her. She had half expected them to be taken into custody and interrogated for simply daring to come into the country from America, but these were ridiculous and illogical notions she knew. Most of her anxiety had been sewn from preconceptions instilled in her through the media at home and as she walked then towards the flickering Exit sign, she determined to give a chance to this place of such incredible and diverse history, that it put other nations to shame. Her step unwittingly lightened and her senses shocked themselves with the heady charge of night-scented stock drifting in from the arrivals area where a cacophony of waiting relatives clutched their welcoming bouquets.
Eva recognised her brother-in-law first, his look and demeanour so much like that of her husband’s, and beside him in the crush of bodies, her father and mother-in-law with other family members, their eyes desperately scanning the arriving passengers for their own flesh and blood. Without warning Eva felt Omid’s grip on her slacken as though the safety belt of their relationship had been suddenly released and that he, not she, had been freed of something.
But he was nudging her gently forward, exclaiming joyfully in Farsi over the bubble wrap of other voices, “We have come! We have come!” and her family was finally guiding her out into the Persian night where distant city lights shone their possibilities into a coming dawn, welcoming her home.
Her poems have also appeared in The Irish Times, New Irish Writing. Lynda’s debut poetry collection, ‘The Boiling Point for Jam’ is published by Arlen House
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