The baby in Sumayeh’s arms was now throwing her body weight toward the floor in a suicidal attempt to get down to where she could practice her new toddling skills. Sadegh took her from Sumayeh so his wife could settle into her new wrappings. Mahdi zoomed off to find his cousins, while Sadegh, Sumayeh, and the baby proceeded toward the living room, where the rest of the family was gathered around a coffee table laden with fruit, nuts, and Iranian baklava made with pistachios. Sadegh’s three older siblings and their spouses rose and offered kisses, handshakes, or nods of the head, depending on the gender composition and relationship of each greeting duo.
“So did you hear?” Sadegh’s eldest sister Zainab practically crowed. “Ali got arrested last night.”
Sadegh’s eyebrows rose. “Sarah’s husband? When? What did he do?” Sadegh’s mind flashed on a picture of Ali, still in his wedding finery, throwing a Molotov cocktail.
Zainab angled back into her chair and grabbed a handful of pistachios. “Ah, that whole family is involved with this Green group. It was only a matter of time before they caught up with him.”
Sadegh’s second sister, Fatimeh, spoke up. “It might not be that. Mahdiyeh said that they got stuck in a group of protesters. Maybe it was a mistake.” As usual, Fatimeh’s voice was hesitant as if afraid permission to speak might be withdrawn at any moment.
Sadegh grunted his disagreement. “People don’t get arrested by mistake. He must have done something.” Sadegh took a few juicy nectarines from the big bowl of fruit on the coffee table and started cutting them in pieces to share.
“God! I can’t believe we’re related to these people!” Zainab exclaimed.
Sadegh couldn’t help cringing at his sister’s words even as he agreed with her sentiment. Calling God’s name in this way was common practice in Iran, even among religious families. Sumayeh, however, in what was perhaps a holdover from her mother’s Christian upbringing, felt strongly that it was disrespectful, and Sadegh and his family generally tried to respect her wishes in this regard.
But Zainab was right. It was incredible that Sarah would insist on marrying someone whose family had been stoking the very fires that Sadegh’s friends were risking their lives fighting. Sadegh had heard firsthand accounts of the violent mobs who had dared to attack Basij safe houses. Even Sarah, a girl who was known to make jokes during mourning ceremonies commemorating the deaths of religious figures, should be able to see that this was serious.
“Maybe not,” Fatimeh spoke up again.
Zainab narrowed her hawk eyes on Fatimeh. “How’s that?”
“Well . . .” Fatimeh looked to the right and left as if to ensure children’s ears weren’t present. “Mahdiyeh said they never got to his house. Sarah slept at her parents’ last night.”
The sisters exchanged meaningful glances and Sadegh thought about the implications of Fatimeh’s words. Sadegh was pretty sure the marriage would have been formally registered into Sarah and Ali’s identification documents. But if the new couple separated before—well, Sadegh didn’t like to think about it, but—before they consummated the marriage, Sarah should be able to remarry easily enough with little harm done. Sadegh wondered whether Ali’s arrest would be enough for Sarah to finally understand what her husband was mixed up in.
“Where were they when they got picked up?” Sadegh asked as he arranged the pieces of nectarine on a small appetizer plate, took a couple for himself, and then passed them around to share.
Fatimeh was clearly pleased at her inside information. She blinked her bovine lashes as she answered. “In the alleyways, across from Park Mellat. Bichareha, the poor kids hadn’t even gotten five kilometers from the hotel. Albate, I don’t know why they went that way. Valiasr Street is always a mess on weekends, even without the protests.”
Sadegh took a moment to digest this along with another piece of nectarine. He’d been irritated with Sarah when he’d suggested she and Ali take Valiasr to get home from the wedding. He knew from reports coming in that it was flooded with protesters and figured sitting in snarled traffic would serve Sarah right for whatever had happened to make Maman-Mehri leave the wedding early, not to mention the disrespectful way she’d spoken to him. But perhaps the impulse had been more divinely inspired than he’d known. Clearly it had created the opportunity for his comrades to arrest Ali. Sadegh wondered what Ali had done or what he’d been wanted for.
“Bacheha, I’m so sorry. That took longer than I thought.” Maman-Mehri’s phone call had ended, and she joined them in the living room as she spoke. “Let’s eat. You all must be starving.”
“Hala . . . what did Mahdiyeh say?” Zainab asked what everyone was wondering.
“At the table,” Maman-Mehri promised.
* * *
The children were called from various corners of the house. Sadegh washed Mahdi’s hands and got him settled at the children’s table in the kitchen, where Fatimeh and Zainab’s girls, as the oldest cousins, would watch over the little ones with the help of Soghra-khanoom, Maman-Mehri’s live-in servant. The baby, too young and difficult to be left in the kitchen with her cousins, was already in the dining room with Sumayeh.
Sadegh left the kitchen and followed his mother through the short hallway into the dining room. Just inside the entryway, Maman-Mehri’s indoor sandals caught on the fringed edge of the thick carpet. She might have successfully righted herself, but, instead, she twisted violently away from Sadegh’s instinctively outreached hand. She toppled over—carefully protecting the knee she had hurt in the previous night’s fall—and Sadegh’s brother Alireza jumped out of his chair and pushed forward to help her up.
“Oh! What did I do!” Maman-Mehri straightened her scarf and chador as Alireza brought her slowly to her feet.
“Oh my goodness! What can I say?” she gasped. “Look at me, I’m such an old lady now. I can’t even walk right! Mersi, Alireza. Sadegh-jaan, mersi, azizam.”
Maman-Mehri dropped Alireza’s hand as soon as she was stable. She continued to thank Sadegh profusely. And as soon as they sat to begin their meal, she made a point of serving him first.
Sadegh understood. But, as always happened on those rare occasions when the difference between himself and Alireza was forced to the surface, he was stung by the reminder that he was not, in fact, Maman-Mehri’s son.
* * *
Maman-Mehri shook her head and said, “Mahdiyeh is a mess, poor thing,” in answer to Zainab’s repetition of her earlier question about their aunt.
The nine of them sat around the French-style rococo dining table in their usual configuration. Maman-Mehri was at the head of the table where she could observe and converse with everyone and also call orders to Soghra-khanoom in the kitchen as needed. Along the right side of the table sat Sadegh and Alireza flanked by their wives, with Sumayeh sitting beside Maman-Mehri. Zainab sat to Maman-Mehri’s left followed by her husband, Fatimeh’s husband, and then Fatimeh who sat across from Alireza’s wife. The chair at the very end of the table was empty but, as always, a place was set in memoriam of Maman-Mehri’s late and beloved husband who had died nearly fifteen years ago.