Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) by Marina Nemat Page A

in the kitchen at this time of day.
    “Maman, I’m ready,” I said, beach bag in hand, standing in the kitchen doorway.
    The air smelled of fish. She was washing a large cutting board and looked at me from the corner of her eye.
    “Ready for what? We aren’t going anywhere today.”
    The kitchen counters were covered with bowls of different sizes and pots and pans.
    “But…”
    “There are no ‘buts’! Your Uncle Ismael and his wife are here from Tehran to visit Marie. Your Aunt Zenia is here, too. They’re all coming over for lunch and dinner today, and we’ll be playing cards. They’ll probably sleep over tonight.”
    “But I’m invited to a birthday party tonight!”
    “Well, you can’t go.”
    “But—”
    She turned around to face me. I could feel her anger fill the kitchen.
    “Don’t you understand the meaning of the word ‘no?’”
    I turned around, went to my room, and plopped down on my bed. I could take a cab myself; I had enough money. But my mother wouldn’t let me. Maybe I could sneak out. But then I had to be home before dark, which was my curfew unless I had told my mother where I was going. I heard a car pull into our driveway, its tires scrunching against the wet sand. Looking out the window, I saw Aunt Zenia’s chauffeur, Mortezah, a polite man in his late twenties, open the back door of her brand-new Chevrolet. My mother rushed out of the front door and down the steps and embraced her sister. Mortezah opened the trunk and took out a small suitcase. Then they all walked into the house. I remained by the window, my heart pounding with frustration.
    “Roohi, get me a glass of cold water!” I heard Aunt Zenia call out to my mother with her sharp, demanding voice. “Marie has taken Ismael and Kahmi to town for something. They’ll be here soon. Where’s Marina? I have something for her.”
    “She’s around. Probably sulking in her room.”
    The door of my bedroom burst open.
    “What’s going on, Marina? You don’t even say hello to your aunt anymore?”
    I stepped forward, embraced her, kissing her on the cheeks. Although her skin was damp and sweaty, she smelled of Chanel No. 5. She squeezed me, and I found myself drowning in her large bosom. She finally let go, took a delicate bracelet out of her purse, and put it on my wrist. It was lovely. Aunt Zenia always gave me beautiful things. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
    “You’ve been crying? What for?”
    “I’m invited to a party tonight, and I can’t go.”
    She laughed. “And why can’t you go?”
    “Well—”
    “Because I’m here?”
    “Yes.” I looked down.
    “I might be old now, but I used to be young, you know. Young and beautiful. And, believe it or not, I remember what it was like.”
    I held my breath.
    “Mortezah will take you to this party and pick you up.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes, Cinderella. You can go. But be home by midnight.”

    I thanked Mortezah when he dropped me off in front of Neda’s house, promised to be waiting for him right there at midnight, and waved as he drove away. I followed the gray stepping-stones that poked through the grass in Neda’s front yard. She was standing on the porch, which encircled the one-story cottage, chatting with two girls. The back of the building faced the sea, and I could hear the waves gurgling against the sandy shore. Soon everyone arrived. All the girls left their bags in Neda’s bedroom and the boys in her brother’s, and we ran to the beach. We played tag and water polo until everyone was starving, and then we headed back to the house. In Neda’s room, when I opened my beach bag to get my dress, I realized I had forgotten to put in a bra or underwear. I had to keep my bathing suit on, which was okay; although a little wet, it was white and wasn’t going to show.
    After a dinner of cold cuts, fresh bread, and different kinds of salads, we pushed all the furniture in the living room aside and the sound of the Bee Gees filled the air. Neda