He had a point, but not the one I thought needed making.
“I am not the fifteen-year-old girl you used to call on the phone,” I said patiently. “We don’t even know if we would get along.”
Farzad shook his head and leaned forward. “Come on, Sami, you cannot be serious. We know each other very well.”
This was getting out of hand. I tried to get the attention of the waitress to diffuse the situation, but she was nowhere to be seen.
He placed his hand on mine. “I’ve never wanted anyone in my life as much as I want you.”
Gently pulling my hand away, I smiled faintly and picked up the menu again. He did the same.
Farzad became relentless in his pursuit. He continued to mention the proposal throughout that evening and over the following days when he called. His constant attention and words of endearment, which no man had spoken to me for so long, began eroding my resolve. If I let this man go, would I ever find another who wanted to be with me so desperately?
Eventually I consented to see Farzad one more time. As Saba was at my brother Sina’s house playing with her cousin, I agreed to meet him.
Quietly leaving my parents’ house, I spotted Farzad parked in his little gold Peugeot a few hundred yards down the road. As I ducked my head and got into the car, Farzad smiled at me warmly and offered his hand for me to shake, which I took.
Pulling quickly away from the curb, Farzad took off down the road at high speed. He was clearly not a careful driver, but that is not uncommon in Iran. Taking his eyes off the road, stealing glances at me, he finally said, “I can’t believe we are together, Sami.”
This surprised me. We were not together at all, but knowing how much he wanted to be with me made me feel good.
Soon he began again.
“I love you, Sami. I want us to be married.”
“But I am leaving, Farzad. My holiday here is over soon.”
I saw the sorrow spread across his face.
Looking out the window as the city of my childhood sped past, I thought of my life in Ireland. Whom was I returning to? No one. No special person, few friends at the most, for my circle of Muslim acquaintances had shunned me when I filed for divorce. I had been so sad and depressed in Ireland. Maybe I needed a change. If Farzad, devoted Farzad, were in Ireland with me, perhaps I would not feel so alone and lost.
“Sami . . . Sami—”
Deep in thought, I did not hear him.
“Do you think you could extend your stay a little longer?” he pleaded.
I looked over at him—so worried, so much caring for me. “I am not sure,” I replied softly, “but I could try if you want me to.”
He started to laugh. “Of course I want you to.”
Still looking directly at him, I went on. “But I need to tell you something, Farzad.”
“Anything,” he replied, nodding eagerly.
“All this talk of marriage is making me uncomfortable.”
A slight scowl flashed and vanished. “I thought it was making you happy.”
Shifting awkwardly in my seat, I explained calmly. “We don’t know each other well enough. Today is the third time we have met in fifteen years and you are telling me you want to marry me. It takes at least a year to know someone, Farzad.”
Not wishing to glimpse the inevitable look of disappointment, I turned my face to the window again. Rasht continued to fall behind us.
“In what world, Sami? Your thinking is too Westernized. Your parents and my parents met on the day they got married.”
True, but things were very different back then.
I turned back toward him. Crushed, he looked at me so intensely that before I could stop myself the words were out of my mouth.
“Yes, Farzad,” I said, sighing. “I will agree to a relationship with you for now, and if things work out we can marry in a year.”
Farzad was visibly delighted. “We are going to have a wonderful life together, Sami!” he shouted. “This is a wish come true for me!”
“I don’t want to rush into this,” I emphasized. “We have both made mistakes in the past.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, not really listening.
One thing I knew with certainty was that I had no intention of staying in Iran. This was no longer my world. I told Farzad that if things worked out between us, I wanted him to move to Dublin with me, because I was not prepared to live the rest of my life with so little freedom.
“But I have never thought of leaving Iran,” Farzad said, now unsure.
I understood what he was saying. Iran was his home just as Ireland was now mine. If this was going to work out, someone was going to have to give, and I knew with total certainty that it was not going to be me.
“This isn’t just about me, Farzad. I have to think of my daughter. Saba’s father lives in Ireland.”
We drove on a little farther in silence.
Nodding his head decisively, Farzad finally spoke. “It will take me at least a year to finalize this project I am working on, and I will then come to Ireland to be with you.”
And just like that, I was engaged for the second time in my life. I had no idea at the time how much I would live to regret my words and promise.
THREE
The long road to the coffee shop, to that fateful decision, began when I set out many years ago to become educated and see the world. My father had drilled the value of learning into us from a young age. “You must educate yourself,” he would say. “Success in life comes from education.” Like many young Iranian students, I was desperate to go to college. Higher education meant I could travel, and I dreamed of settling in a country like England or America where I could live without the restrictions that were part and parcel of life in Iran.
At the age of eighteen I packed a suitcase and boarded a bus with my father for a twelve-hour journey to Ilam, a small city in the northwest of Iran, on its border with Iraq. I was going to study nursing at the Medical University of Ilam. Leaving my beautiful hometown of Rasht for the first time, I was nervous.
On that September afternoon in 1990, seated next to me as the bus idled in the station, my father sensed my fear and said it was not too late to change my mind. I had also been accepted to a college about twenty-five miles away from Rasht, the Azad University of Lahijan (Azad universities in Iran are private universities), to study for a degree in microbiology, but it was a private college and I knew my father lacked the funds to send me there. He insisted that he would find the money somehow, but I could not and would not place that financial burden on him.
“No,” I told my father as the bus pulled out of the terminal. “I will go to Ilam.”
The bus first headed toward the city of Qazvin, about two and a half hours from Rasht and for me the most enjoyable part of our journey. The bending roads climbed high up into the Alborz Mountains through lush green scenery. We passed the little town of Rudbar, famous for its olive oils and pomegranate paste, which Iranians use to make curry dishes, and then on to the windmill town of Manjil. At Qazvin we came to a junction where the road diverged. One way was the road to Iran’s capital city, Tehran, and the other road, which we took, led to Ilam.
I occupied my mind with the same thoughts as every first-year college student. Will I like the courses? Will