Let Me Tell You Where I've Been: New Writing by Women of the Iranian Diaspora

The Sun Is a Dying Star

The Sun Is a Dying Star H NILOOFAR KALAAM  . I dress with the same care some would use to polish a weapon. Not that it matters, I lost this battle at birth. But I shade the hollows with mystery, and coax pain into disdain. A flashing ghost of a doubt, a microscopic prick to their convictions—that’s all I ask. Tom walks in as I start on my eyes. “This fuckin’ long weekend is a fuckin’ drag,” he complains. “Take it easy, baby,” I coax, hoping that the check will arrive in the mail as promised, that the club will in fact pay him for the gig. In the mirror,I watch surprise alter his face.“Goin’out?”he asks. “Yep.” I move the inverted milk crate that acts as my dressing table and get closer to the mirror. “Where to?” “My uncle’s.” Shock unfolds as confusion and spirals into a low chuckle. The kind that says,“Shit! I’ve been conned.” “You know,” he tells me, “I keep forgetting you have relatives here.” I know he has been the sole support of my gloom. And it has been heavy. “So do I,” I reply. He’s sprawled across the old Guitar Chair.Stop watching me.Please. My hands shake. “What’s the occasion?” “His in-laws visiting from Iran.” “Fu-un.” “His sister-in-law’s my age,” I offer. We found it up the road and christened it the Guitar Chair because the left arm was missing. Perfect for holding the guitar. “Her name’s Meena.” “Your uncle’s a doctor, isn’t he?” THE SUN IS A DYING STAR 13 “Isn’t that a pretty name?” “What is it with immigrants, Laila? Why do they go so fuckin’ straight when they come here?” In the mirror I watch my jaw tighten. I watch the left side of my mouth twitch. I say nothing. He strums, softly, absently, his gaze fixed on my reflection. Then he starts singing. “Surrender to the power of the Dollar. Work, buy, owe, work. AnotherVCR, a faster car. What do I care?” He puts down the guitar and says,“You guys had a fuckin’ revolution for fuck’s sake.” He waits for me to respond. I don’t. He picks up the guitar and plays some more.“For God’s sake, can you say something?” I can’t. It is not that I don’t want to, or that I have nothing to say. It is just that I can’t find that first word. That first word that can lead to the many, the multiple, the dense cluster of words that have fused together, that have fused into silence. In silence we weave the boundaries of our disparate spheres. H “Am I being racist?” He is standing behind me now,his hands warm on my shoulders, his breath a tickle of apology.“Do you think your uncle would even talk to me?” He lifts my wrist to his lips. In the mirror our eyes meet. From the aqua turbulence of his to the dark pits of mine, we trace our common despair. “Let your hair down,” his tongue on my wrist zigzags. I shake my head,no. His hands slide up,searching for the pins that hold my dignity. “I don’t want to go,” I say. His fingers swim happily in the weight of my hair.“Don’t.” Then the tears start, rolling dents in my armor. Before I can say, “I have to,” our lips meet.We taste the heat and the flesh and the salt, 14 NILOOFAR KALAAM and we stumble into security. My last thought before the world dissolves completely is that I will be late.  . “Laila,”my aunt flashes her latest Chanel smile,“you’re finally here. We had just about given up on you.” It is as it always is. The women together, weary with preparations and strains of social interaction, the men elsewhere. I whirl from one perfumed space to another,extending my greetings .I am really here to see Meena,but I comply with convention and leave her—the youngest—until last. We embrace. And I am carried to the gardens of my youth. H The howz* has the dimensions of a large looking glass. It reflects me and the willow tree behind me, even the rose bush on the other side. Twin cherries decorate my ears, jasmine hangs around...