Veil of Roses Read Free Page A

say,
turbulence.
I was saying how my bad luck follows me all the way around the world.” I watch her to see if she is able to understand me or if I’ll need to repeat myself. I really don’t know how good my English is, and I feel myself blush. It could be just awful.
    But perhaps not, because she gets an excited look in her eyes and turns more fully to me. “You’re
just
coming from Iran?”
    I nod.
    “That’s awesome! Do you have family here?”
    I nod again. “My sister lives here with her husband.”
    Maryam has lived in the United States for almost fifteen years, ever since she married an orthopedic surgeon named Ardishir. On his yearly visits to Tehran to see his mother, he began courting my sister. My parents were proud he was a surgeon. That means a lot in my culture. But he was only a resident of the United States, not a citizen. That was not good enough. My parents would not permit the marriage until he obtained his U.S. citizenship, for then he could take my sister back with him to America and sponsor her for citizenship.
    “How long are you staying?” Her smile is so friendly, I do not mind all the questions. Everyone in America smiles big and talks a lot. I have seen this in the movies.
    “I am moving here.”
    “Really? How did you manage that?”
    My heart pounds. I feel myself blush. I tuck my hair behind my ears. I feel like I am lying. But it is true. I
am
moving here.
    “I am getting married,” I say, as confidently as I can. I smile, knowing happiness is expected with such a statement.
    “Congratulations! Did you meet him back in Iran, then?”
    I shake my head, swallow hard. “I have not met him yet.”
    “Oh,” my seatmate says. Her broad smile falters and her eyes darken. “An arranged marriage?”
    “Yes,” I say. “In my culture, it is not so unusual.”
    “How do you feel about that?”
    How do I feel about that?
What, I want to ask, does that have to do with anything? I am here on a three-month visa. The sole purpose of my trip is to find a way to stay, and that means I must find a husband who will sponsor my application for residency. The choice is marriage here or marriage there, and for me this is an easy choice. Being married is a small price to pay if it means I can stay in the Land of Opportunity and raise my children, my daughters, in the freedom that would be denied them in Iran.
    “Americans only get married if they are in love,” I tell my seatmate. “But in my culture, we try to choose someone we can grow to love over time.”
    “Wow, I can’t imagine that.” She shakes her head, but suddenly laughs. “But then again, I’ve been divorced twice already and I’m not even forty. Who’s to say yours isn’t the better way?”
    My eyes get big. I cannot help it. Divorced, twice! She must be the black sheep of her family, to have behaved so badly that not one but two men divorced her. This is why she is so chatty. This is why she talks to strangers on airplanes. Everyone else probably shuns her.
    She grins at my shock. “But I’ll tell you what. That Persian boyfriend I lived with for a while? He was better in bed than both my husbands put together. He was
fan-tastic
. Maybe that’s a cultural thing, too.” She shakes her head at the memory. “
Mmmm-hmmm,
the things he could do with his tongue.”
    The plane jerks to the ground. The rough landing prevents me from having to respond. I am stunned and horribly embarrassed by what she has said. I make myself busy gathering my things as the airplane taxis to the gate.
    “Can you find your way out okay?” she asks.
    “Yes, yes,” I assure her, not wanting my sister to see me with such a
badjen,
a disreputable woman. “Thank you very much for your kindness.”
    “Take care, then,” she says, unbuckling her seat belt and pulling herself up before the plane has even come to a full stop. She grabs her backpack and heads to the front of the plane. I watch her walk away. She is the first American woman that