“Amanda, of course I am still married,” he whispered. “Beloved, I would never abandon a wife to a real divorce.” Still holding me tightly in place, he gingerly clipped my wrists together in one of his hands, then pulled my face towards him. “If Nasrin had objected, I would not have become involved with you. I love her, as I love you. I will honour my wives, always!”
Wives. I sniffled and finally looked up at him. Even through the haze of tears, I saw his concern. Which made me cry all the more. And made me think that maybe I should be laughing instead, at the sheer, ridiculous insanity of the situation. I felt like I was talking to someone from another planet.
“Jawid,” I choked, my voice still shaking. “You’ve lived in this country for almost twenty years. You know polygamy is illegal here. One man, one wife — or at least one wife at a time. My God, what the fuck part of that minor detail don’t you understand?” My anger was mixed with overwhelming pain. “Or are you deliberately being an ignorant asshole?”
Jawid’s eyes flashed at my language. I was swearing on purpose, partly because the occasion damn well called for it, and partly because I knew how much he disliked it. He pressed my hands into the bed, irritated.
“I have not changed my paperwork because you had not yet said yes — at least, not until today. Now Nasrin and I will get a civil divorce, though not a religious one, of course. After the papers are ‘final’, you and I can get married.” He leaned down and gently kissed my forehead. I turned my head away. “Then Nasrin can move back in with us, and our family will be complete. She will stay with my sisters in the meantime. She wants us to have our honeymoon first, which is as it should be.” He rained a light trail of kisses over the bridge of my nose. “We will need some time alone, you and I. To settle in to each other.” He sucked softly on my lower lip. “ To wear the edge off this frenzy we have for each other, so the three of us may live in harmony.”
I bit him. Hard enough to draw blood. His eyes flashing, he pushed me into the bed and slapped the side of my butt — hard.
“Amanda, why are you doing this?”
I don’t know what hurt more, the anger or the surprise. His and mine. His stupidity at thinking such a thing could ever work. My own stupidity for still wanting him. I turned my face to the wall, willing my body not to shake any more, taking quick, shallow breaths, so the pain of drawing in air didn’t hurt so much. I tried to ignore the heat seeping into me through his strong hands and the thick smell of our sex, knowing I’d never have them again. When I could finally speak, I let all my anger and the cold despair wrapping my heart come out in my voice.
“Get out,” I whispered. “Go home to your wife, Jawid, and stay away from me.” I took a deep, shaking breath, trying not to feel the waves of pain crashing over me with each word. “I don’t want to see you again. Ever.” I said it quietly. I didn’t move, just stared for the longest time at the afternoon shadows falling across the stark white bedroom wall.
“I do not understand,” he whispered. “Amanda. .”
As his voice broke, a warm, wet drop fell on my cheek, and my hot tears started again. This time, I didn’t try to stop them. “Get out,” I hissed. “Now!” When he finally released me, I curled into a ball, and stayed frozen in that position until I heard the front door close. Then I hugged my pillow and cried until I was too exhausted to do anything but sleep, for a long, long time.
I called in sick the rest of the week, then spent most of the weekend in bed. Eventually, I called my sister. I didn’t go into much detail. She’s never left the coal-mining town we grew up in, so I doubted she’d understand a cultural morass I couldn’t even begin to explain. I just told her I’d stupidly become involved with a married man. She listened, the way sisters do, and told me I was better off without him. “Remember what Mom always says, ‘Once a cheater, always a cheater.’ Just pay more attention with the next man, OK, hon?”
I told her yes, though the truth was I didn’t want to meet another man. I was still in love with Jawid. I was still working with him, though our co-workers kindly didn’t mention my now icy demeanour towards him. We hadn’t told anyone we were seeing each other. But we worked with bright people, whose ability to save lives often depended on their being able to read between the lines. Ours was not the first failed romance at work. It wouldn’t be the last. Our colleagues gave us both a wide berth, and tried not to schedule us in the same meetings.
The telephone call from Nasrin came a month later. I was packing for a long weekend out of town. I was still miserable, but I’d decided I’d wallowed in self-pity long enough. It was time to join some girlfriends for an impromptu camping weekend — to force myself to do something, anything, to get my mind off Jawid. Although I was trying not to take any more time off from work, I’d arranged to leave my office mid-morning on Friday. Nasrin’s insistence that she had something to discuss with me that could not possibly wait — or be said over the phone — had me wondering if it would all just go away if I hid my head in a basket long enough. But I felt so guilty I finally agreed to join her for lunch on my way out of town.
Her house in San Marino was far away from downtown. I’d assumed Jawid had lied about going to my place because it was closer to work — the same way he’d lied about everything else. As I started up the winding, tree-lined streets of the gated community they lived in, I wasn’t sure how I felt about realizing that, at least with the geography, he’d told the truth. When I gave my name, and Nasrin’s, the guard waved me through. Five minutes later, I was ringing her doorbell, admiring, against my better judgment, the profusion of exquisite flowers that lined the walkway.
I’d half expected Nasrin to punch me when she answered the door. I was stunned when she hugged me instead, taking my hands in hers and laughing as though we were continuing the conversation we’d started on that evening so long ago. I was still stumbling through my greeting when she linked her arm into mine and started showing me through the lower floor of the house.
“I’m so glad you could make it.” She smiled and led me into a music room bright with the noontime sun. Her hair was pulled up in a heavy gold clip that enhanced the open-faced beauty I’d only partially remembered. The flattering drape of her brown and yellow pantsuit made me glad I’d changed my jeans and sweatshirt for dark slacks and a light silk blouse.
Nasrin didn’t seem to notice my nervousness. “It’s such a beautiful day,” she said, leading me along. “I thought we’d eat in the garden. It’s this way.”
Although I tried hard not to, I could see Jawid, as well as her, in every room we passed through. The pristine white furniture in the immaculate living room emphasized formality, even as it invited me to sit down and rest my feet on an overstuffed hassock. The sofas and chairs were arranged in a large U-shape, to make for easy conversation and to accent an exquisite, thick Persian rug covering the hardwood floor. I recognized the stylized attack helicopters woven in with the ancient vine patterns in the upper corners of the rug, reminders, even in the opulence, of Jawid and Nasrin’s shared refugee past. Yet when I closed my eyes, it was Jawid’s presence I sensed. I could almost smell the spicy, musky tang of his skin. Even the baskets of ripe fruit resting on the polished tables in the kitchen and dining room reminded me of him. I imagined him biting into one of the oranges he so loved, the juice running sweet and sticky down his throat as he licked his fingers clean. The more I thought about him, the more the walls seemed to echo with the laughter I missed so much. I avoided Nasrin’s eyes, letting her running historical commentary blur into the background as I steeled myself against the onslaught of memories that soon hurt too much for me to see or care if she noticed.
If Nasrin picked up on my feelings, she didn’t say so. She led me through the house and out into the garden. Fortunately, that was all hers. The wind chimes tinkled in the afternoon breeze, soothing my ears as I inhaled the perfume of her thriving, vibrant roses. She’d set a small table in the shade of a vine-laden archway. I protested that I really shouldn’t join her. I wasn’t hungry, though I’d been living on coffee and frozen dinners for weeks. But when she uncovered dishes of fresh green salad and roast lamb with pitta bread, my stomach growled loudly. Despite my embarrassed flush, Nasrin laughed and steered me into a chair. The food was delicious, with a honeyed pastry for dessert, and glasses of hot, sugar-laced tea. I began to relax.