Author:  Mitra Elyati
Translator: Salar Abdoh

Things were going as I’d planned. Tom and my father had broken the ice between them almost right away. Tom didn’t speak a word of Persian and my dad didn’t speak a word of English. So I was their translator, and not a very precise one at that.

It didn’t take long for my dad to teach Tom backgammon, and now the two men had become sworn rivals. No more reading the afternoon newspaper or watching sports on TV for Tom. These days, as soon as we were back from work the men would go at it, playing for hours on end. It got to a point that several times Tom even pulled me out of the shower to come and translate my dad’s constant good natured trash talk. My dad returned the favor, often calling out while I was busy making dinner asking where I’d found “this congenital cheater.”

Meanwhile, I continued to translate for them in my own fashion.

Everything was different now. Each night Tom would buy me flowers and bring Egyptian cigarettes for my dad. This had to be happiness, no? After all, hadn’t my dad come on this visit for the sake of my happiness? He hadn’t shown up when we got married. Wouldn’t even let my mom come. Said that the plan had been for me to return to Iran when my studies were over. Besides, what made me think I could marry without his approval? And to a foreigner at that!

Five years had passed since those days and we’d just separated when his first letter came: “The doctors say I don’t have a whole lot of time left. Even if they hadn’t told me, I’d know it myself. I just don’t know what to do with this bit of time I still have on my hands. Your mother is driving me crazy. Tired of her bossing me around about what to eat and what not to eat. I need a break. Do you suppose you have room for my visit? Your husband won’t throw me out?”

By the time he arrived Tom and I had been living apart for a while, though the final divorce papers hadn’t come in yet. We’d divided the furniture and I was renting a small one-bedroom over in what they still called Germantown in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I’d phoned Tom and told him about my dad’s letter.

“He doesn’t have to know we’re getting a divorce.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Do you think we could manage to play the role of a happy couple for a few days?”

“Under one roof?”

“If it’s okay with you.”

“And on one bed?”

“Tom, it’s only for a few days!”

“Exactly how many days?”

“I don’t know. A week tops. Depends how long his visa is for, I guess.”

“I’ll think about it.”

A couple of days later he finally agreed, but he didn’t bring any of his stuff over until the very night we had to go to the airport. And by ‘stuff’ I mean the absolute minimum – a towel, a toothbrush and just a couple of extra clothes. I on the other hand had the house spick and span. I’d placed an extra bed for my father in the living room and my empty flower pots had some colors to them for a change.

Now three weeks had passed and my dad was still here. Even though we left him alone all day, he hardly ever ventured on the street. He’d hang around by the outside door of the building and watch the passersby. Sometimes he’d try his hand at talking with the neighbors and make a stab at inviting them in for tea. An exercise in utter futility in New York.

“The people in this city, not only they don’t know how to act like human beings, you’re lucky if they don’t answer your invitation with a slap on the back of the head!”

Still, those were good days, the three of us together like that. I was enjoying making dinner on weeknights. And on weekends, my father would visit the kosher butcher shop across the street. He’d marinate his meat in onions, saffron and yogurt and the next day we’d drive out to the lake an hour away from the city where Tom would get his fishing rod out and my father would start the barbecue.

Then one night I came home a little later than usual. Tom arrived after me. No flowers tonight for me. No cigarettes for my dad either. Nevertheless they sat at their backgammon without even finishing their dinner. But then after some back and forth Tom suddenly stood up, said an abrupt “goodnight” and went to the bedroom. My father also murmured something about being tired and started getting ready for bed. I retreated to the kitchen where I pretended to be doing the dishes.

At some point my dad called out, “Nelou!”

I quickly wiped away my tears.

“My girl, come to your father.”

I didn’t just go to him, I pretty much threw myself at him and burst into sobs as he caressed my hair, “Baba, thank you for coming here. You’ve made me proud in front of Tom.”

He went on caressing me and said, “Can I ask you something?”

I panicked, “No, there’s no way I’ll let you leave just yet. What would I tell Tom?”

He laughed, “Who’s talking about leaving?”

“Then what?”

“Actually, let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

*

On the bed I lie next to Tom, our backs turned to each other at first and plenty of distance between us.

He turns to me, “I’m not sure I can handle another one of these weekends.”

I can hear a sad Arab song coming from the hallway. Whenever my dad had a falling out with my mother he’d take his blanket and pillow and go sleep in another room, staying up till the wee hours of the morning listening to a radio station that always played Umm Kulthum.

“Okay. But this is cruel of you, Tom.”

“My problem is I’m starting to believe this game we’ve been playing.”

Game? Could it be that all these years we were together, we weren’t really together?

“Tom, I’m begging you. My father hasn’t left yet. He’s our guest.”

“Our guest?”

There’s so much such revulsion in his voice that I’m sure we could never go back to what we had once. Before our separation, I’d felt the same loneliness, one that made me want us to end it as soon as possible.  

“Yes, our guest, me and you. Or just me. What difference does it make, Tom?” I edge toward him and hold his arm, “Really? Is it finished between us?”

He pulls his arm away, sits up and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the bedstand. When he lights up I see his face for a moment. He hands me a cigarette too and I see his face a second time in the flash of the lighter.

“I think we’re being played. You know very well I don’t like it. Especially in a contest that has no winners.”

My lungs can barely tolerate the smoke. “What are you talking about? Who said anything about winning and losing?”

“Your dad knows perfectly well you and I are not together. Maybe he still has some hope. That’s why he’s toying with us. He’s playing a role and he’s making us play one too.”

“You mean he came here to bring us back together?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Why would he?”

“I can tell from the looks he gives me. Even from the way he rolls the dice when we play. I can tell from a lot of things. A lot of things just between him and me. He lets me win on purpose. Nothing I hate more than that. Didn’t you see how I left the game tonight even though I was winning?”

I tug at his arm. “Tom, lower your voice a bit. He’ll hear us.”

I get up to shut the door all the way.

“Don’t worry, that music’s plenty loud,” he says.

I’d told my mother we were living apart for now. I’d told her divorce had several stages you had to go through here, the first of which was you had to live separately. She’d asked if there was really a difference between separation and divorce. I’d told her there was. To get a divorce, first you had to see if you could endure a separation. And not just one or two days, or one or two months. It had to be more than a year. “God bless them then!” my mother had observed. Maybe she hadn’t kept my secret, after all, and told him. Poor old man. How he must have suffered hearing about it!

Tom finally allows his hand to rest on my shoulder. “Sleeping?”

“If you leave, it’ll be the end of my dad.”

“No one knows about the future.”

I can hear the wheezing in his chest. “You’re smoking too much these days.”

“It’s been hard, you know? I had to change the route we used to take together every day. Then I collected everything you’d left behind and put them all in storage. On weekends I’d try to go fishing. But it got so lonely out there I’d drive right back home. Truth is, a few times I reached for the phone to call you, thinking we could get back together. But I couldn’t get myself to dial. I thought I shouldn’t be so hasty. I had to let things take their course. I had to know for sure our being together was not out of habit.

“And now?”

“I’m still not sure. All I know is I’m always tired. You can see for yourself. We stay up late every night playing backgammon. And all day I keep nodding out behind my desk at work. You don’t want me to lose my job, do you?”

“You’re certain about leaving?”

“I wish I was.”

I sink my head into his chest. “Then you’re not certain.”

“Anyway, it’s better I’m not here while your dad’s around.”

“What do I tell him?”

“Let the game continue. Tell him my job sent me on assignment.”

Outside, in the hall, my father has turned the music off at last and there’s no sign of the famous Arab diva and her intoxicating voice.

To read Mitra Elyati's story in the original Persian, visit here:

http://www.iroon.com/irtn/blog/4864/

Mitra Elyati is the author of two short story collections – Mademoiselle Kathy (winner of the Golshiri prize for best first collection) and Mermaid Café. She has lectured on Self-Censorship in Women’s Literature in Sweden, Germany and France. She was also the editor-in-chief of the internet journal, Jenn o Pari. 

SALAR ABDOH was born in Iran, and splits his time between Tehran and New York City, where he is codirector of the Creative Writing MFA Program at the City College of New York. He is the author of The Poet Game and Opium. His essays and short stories have appeared in various publications, including the New York Times, BOMB, Callaloo, Guernica, and on the BBC. He is the recipient of the NYFA Prize and the National Endowment for the Arts award. He is the editor of Tehran Noir and the author of Tehran at Twilight, his latest novel >>>