Veil of Roses by Laura Fitzgerald Read Free Book Online Page A

them and backpacks at their feet. All must be students. Not one of them looks at me.
    I close my eyes and inhale the coffee smell, surrendering to the memories. I am back in Iran, a little girl at my grandmother’s house in Esfahan. I am skipping through the citrus trees, hopping from brick to brick in the courtyard. Inside, the angry talk of my aunts and uncles and older cousins is how the revolution is not so good, how maybe it was not so smart to have traded one corrupt leader they knew well for another they did not know so well. They talk of lessons learned: Beware the charismatic man who speaks the words our hearts long to hear, who rails against misdeeds and excess and promises to create a just society without ever explaining he will silence his critics by executing them, at a rate of four or five per day. They talk of who is in jail and who has been tortured and who has disappeared into the mountains, attempting escape. They talk of how much more expensive things are in the marketplace now and how there are no new cars or refrigerators because of all the boycotts against our country. Maryam sits with them, but this talk is not for me. I am young, six maybe. Young enough that wearing
hejab
is not yet required of me, and their words I have heard many times already. It is all anyone talks about anymore.
    So I am outside, running in the crisp autumn air, collecting pecans that have fallen from the trees, when my grandmother calls me inside. As I step into her warm kitchen, the smell of coffee overpowers me just like it does now, here at this Starbucks on the other side of the world. Not many people serve coffee in Iran; I know only of my grandmother. And granted, in Iran there is only instant coffee, no percolation machines. But the smell is the same.
    When I open my eyes, I am no longer in my grandmother’s warm kitchen. I am back in my very own America. The man behind the counter smiles at me like he knows just what I have been thinking. This startles me. I am not used to a man looking so closely at me, seeming to understand me even without words.
    I look past him to the colorful menu board written in chalk. But I want only one cup of water and so I must go closer to talk to him. My chest feels tight, scared. This is the first time I have handled a transaction, the first time I am without Maryam, who usually speaks for both of us. The man smiles and watches me the whole time I approach.
    I clear my throat. I swallow hard. “Excuse me, please. Could I have some water?” I say it as fast as I can so maybe I don’t seem so much like a foreigner.
    He holds out a small plastic cup of something that is not water. “Here, try this. It’s our new drink. Mango kiwi tea.”
    I had not planned on buying some tea right now. I thought perhaps after my English class, on my way home, I might buy a cup of tea and write in my journal. I glance at my Mickey Mouse watch. There is time. Mango and kiwi, these are not fruits we have in Iran. I will try it, I decide. I take the cup, then place it on the counter and reach into my backpack for some money. I pull out five dollars and hand it across the counter, trying not to look at this man in the green apron too closely. Instead of at his face, I look at his name tag.
Ike.
This is a short name. Not one I have heard before.
Ike.
    He waves my money away. “No, it’s a sample.”
    I am confused. This is
taarof,
and Maryam told me that Americans do not do
taarof
. In Iran, this is how you pay for something in a store: You try to pay the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper waves the money away and says, “No, no. Really, I couldn’t take your money.” You insist; he refuses again. You insist again; he refuses yet again and puts his hand over his heart to show you how sincere he is. Only after refusing three times will he accept your money, and when he does, he thanks you over and over again for your generosity. It is a roundabout way to buy some simple groceries, but it makes everyone feel proud