Wedding Song by Farideh Goldin Page A

sense of adventure. My mother, grandmother, and aunts kept reminding me to stop such immodest acts since we were passing Moslem shopkeepers, who were bombarding us with their
matalak
s. I had to be reticent and dignified. But I felt too good to allow the shopkeepers’ dirty little phrases to bother me.
    I took a long breath, closed my eyes, facing the sun, soaking its warmth. I opened my arms and twirled around, letting my kerchief slide down and my braids fly. When I opened my eyes, I came face to face with my mother. I expected a look of disapproval, but she had a little smile on her face, and there was a brightness in her eyes that I did not know she possessed.
The Question of Virginity
    Winter was finally over. No more snow would fall to bring down the thatched roof on our heads as we slept. My father hired laborers to patch the roof before spring showers poured through the makeshift strips of metal covering the holes. Tiny green leaves waited to push their way through raised spots on the rose tree. White petals burst out, perfuming the air, flavoring our teas. Sparrows sang again among the orange grove.
    My mother and I sat across from each other, rubbing the soap into dirty clothes. I took my eyes off Maman’s nails, thick and cracked like those on the hoofs of a mule. Instead, I stared at the clear blue sky stretched over the orange trees. I wondered how the birds had sneaked back without me noticing them. The sun made rainbows in the bubbles. I made them bigger and bigger, prettier and prettier, while trapping them between my two thumbs and index fingers like a heart. I blew the rainbow in the air. My mother smacked me with her soapy hand; she had winter in her heart, washing and hanging the clothes in silence.
    I didn’t want to help her anymore, so I went looking for my grandmother for something more exciting. Like the facets of polished ruby in my father’s workshop, the geometric designs of a Bukhari carpet surrounded Khanom-bozorg. Facing the open French doors, my grandmother ran a wooden comb through her henna-colored hair. The morning sun filtered through the large rose tree and brought in warmth mixed with strange shadows. The house was quiet.
    My grandmother felt my gaze and turned to find me perched at the door, an invisible shadow with the darkness of the hallway behind. She fanned her right hand fingers toward herself, motioned me to come closer, and gently sat me on her lap. Khanom-bozorg combed my hair, splashing a few drops of water on it to harness the unruly mess. When the black hair hung softly, she cleaned the pulled hair from the comb’s teeth, and braided my hair into one single strand. My head hurt but the price of pain was worth the moments of love and intimacy. I took the comb with its missing teeth, two in the middle just like mine, and wove hers into two braids the way I knew my grandmother liked, very close to each other, hanging side by side on her back. When I was finished, Khanom-bozorg covered her hair with a large flowery kerchief and tied it loosely underher chin. She opened her mouth in a toothless smile and made a scary face. I covered my mouth with both hands and giggled. Then I ran to get her false teeth from a chipped water glass on the mantel. She thrust them into her mouth and moved her jaws to adjust the fit, drawing out more giggles.
    She examined me critically. The colorless dress hung on me like a wet sheet hung on a tree to dry, the leftover fabric thrown together carelessly, wrinkled after being slept in the night before. I was suddenly ashamed. The dress was big to accommodate a year of growth. My mother had dressed me in mismatched pants and a long-sleeved shirt underneath the dress. As fall led to the colder days of winter, more layers of shabby odds and ends would be added in an effort to keep warm.
    “Feri,” she addressed me with my nickname, “don’t you have anything better to wear?” She made a face.
    She knew our financial situation; after all, we lived