“You’re forgetting what Lila’s mother has done for you,” Mike reminds Naghmeh.
“She has left no âberoo for our family. It is all gone down the sewer I cannot even keep my head high in front of people anymore,” Naghmeh bemoans the loss of the family’s âberoo, a non-tangible commodity for which one cannot find an equivalent word in English to convey its real meaning or justice to the word. This quintessentially Iranian craze can best be described as a combination of high regard and respect for one’s honor, reputation and good name.
“Whatever Lila is, she’s still Che’s mother. Those kids are your grandchildren, woman. If I were you I wouldn’t talk like that about my daughter-in-law who happens to be yours, too,” Grandpa Ferdous says, not because he wholeheartedly believes in what he says, but just to aggravate Naghmeh.
“It’s my opinion. Besides, you hate blacks as much as I do,” Naghmeh says with a gesture of short-tempered dismissal.
“I don’t hate blacks. I just dislike them a lot. As for you, just keep your opinions to yourself,” Ferdous retaliates with an aggrieved look.
“I wish Bibi were here. She knew how to take care of Che,” Naghmeh says.
Worrying that the conversation is about to take a bad turn, regarding who is genuinely more racist than the other, Mike agrees with Naghmeh saying, “I wish that, too. I never understood why she suddenly packed and left. I thought nothing could separate her from Noshin, our kids and our grandkids.”
“I don’t know, either. All I know is that she started to act very peculiar soon after she received a letter from Iran,” Naghmeh reveals.
“What was the letter about?” Mike asks.
“I’ll be damned if I know. When I asked her, she outright ignored my question.”
“I remember when I was driving her to the airport, she was awfully quiet, adamantly refused to tell me why she was leaving us, no matter how many times I asked,” Mike says.
“Well, as I have said many times before, she is gone and we have to forget about her and get on with our lives without her,” Ferdous says and Mike nods approvingly.
“Well, she has done that once before. See, you save them from their wretched lives, bring them to your home, trust them, and do everything for them. What they do to you? They leave you in a blink of an eye. That’s what you get as thanks from these sorts of low class people, disloyalty,” Naghmeh expresses her resentment toward Bibi.
“What do you mean, ‘She has done it once before?’ ” Mike asks.
“When she was about eighteen, without any prior notice, she decided to leave our house,” Naghmeh informs him.
“What happened then?” Mikes asks.
“Oh, about seven months later, late one night, she showed up at our door, unannounced, alone, bruised and in a pathetic state of mind. She was changed.”
“What do you mean, ‘She was changed?’ ” Ferdous asks.
“For one thing, she looked ten years older. Second thing, she became quiet. She didn’t say even one word as to why she had left, where she had gone, and why she was back. Another thing we noticed about her was her attachment to Noshin. It became much stronger. She wouldn’t go anywhere without her. Well, that was fine with us, so we never asked her again,” Naghmeh reveals.
“I didn’t know that. Noshin never mentioned it to me. Did you know that, Dad?” Mike asks.
“No. It is all news to me. No one tells me anything in this household anyway, especially this woman, who thinks we are all beneath he,” Ferdous responds, registering his usual complaint.
“Why should I say anything to you? You’re not interested in other people’s affairs,” Naghmeh tells Ferdous.
“Go ahead and act as if I don’t exist in this house,” Ferdous says.
“Stop it, you two,” Mike says authoritatively.
“Oh, one more thing about Bibi,” Naghmeh has more news. “One time, several years later, when she was suffering from a high fever, in a delirious state of mind, she kept repeating, ‘my poor baby. I will love you to the end of my life.’ A few days later when she fully recovered, I asked her about it. She said her dream was about Noshin. They way she said it, I didn’t believe a word of it.”
“Is there any way to get in touch with Bibi now?”
“Not that I know of,” Naghmeh responds.
“We should find some way to at least inquire as to how she is doing,” Mike suggests.
“I will ask some of my old friends to look for her. In fact, I have someone in particular in mind to ask,” Naghmeh says.
“What’s wrong with you, woman? Why do you keep this a secret?” Ferdous asks Naghmeh angrily.
“It’s none of your business. I don’t need to subject myself to your ridicule,” Naghmeh says as she leaves the room to go to the bathroom.
“It’s really a mystery,” Mike says when he hears the sound of the adjacent bathroom door being slammed closed by Naghmeh.
“What’s a mystery?”
“Lady Naghmeh is going to the bathroom so often.”
“Your sweet mother-in-law goes to the bathroom to take inventory of all her parts, including every one of her hairs. She is practically in love with herself.”
A moment later as dolled up as before, with a smile of satisfaction on her face, Naghmeh returns and perches on her chair, looking a bit more relaxed.
To distract his father from being nasty to Naghmeh, Mike tells his father, “Dad, you need to have an annual checkup. I’ll call Dr. Peterson for an appointment.”
“I don’t need a doctor. I need to go back home where things make sense. You know the biggest difference between living in this country and Iran is that over here it is much harder to go on without having the slightest clue about your future. But in Iran, with having so much history of living behind us, we can almost predict the damn future.”
“Do you have any idea what kind of life is waiting for you back there? You won’t be able to tolerate the awful things that are happening in Iran.”
“Still it is better than this godforsaken place.”
“Dad, you need to see a doctor.”
“Then I’d like to see an Iranian doctor, if you don’t mind, Son.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Tea is ready. … Is Bush going to bomb our country?” Ferdous asks suddenly as he pours the tea into three cups.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, he bombed Iraq for oil, and Iran has even more oil than Iraq.”
“I hope Bush bombs Iran and kills all those mullahs,” Naghmeh gives her unsolicited opinion.
“And I presume it wouldn’t bother you if bombing Iran sends our country and its people back to the Stone Age. Would it?” Ferdous asks.
“I don’t want to talk to you, Mr. Yazdy,” Naghmeh tells Ferdous as her face is disfigured by her emotion.
“And I’m talking to my son, Mrs. Rushanzadeh.”
“Those mullahs killed my husband,” Naghmeh says angrily.
“Maybe because he was a staunch supporter of the Shah, a man who was trying to play the role of dictator, but as we found out later, was a fake dictator, a coward, a genuine chicken-shit.”
They all hear the front door