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

of what they are able to give the other person.
    So this Starbucks man, this Ike, is doing
taarof
. He must know, then, that I am from Iran. I am disappointed to look so obviously Iranian, and I wonder what aspect of my appearance or behavior has given me away.
    I again try to hand him the money. “Please,” I say. “You must let me pay for it.”
    “It’s free,” he says, a little louder. “Enjoy.”
    “No, really, I must insist on giving you some money.” My smile says that I acknowledge his kindness, but the truth is I have always found the ridiculous politeness of
taarof
tiresome.
    “It’s a sample,” he says earnestly. “A free sample.”
    That’s three refusals. But he forgot to put his hand over his heart and he is looking more insistent than humble. He does not know how to
taarof
very well.
    “You’re very kind,” I say. “Here, please. I must give you something.”
    “It’s FREE.”
    Tears come to my eyes; I cannot help it. I am stuck. He won’t take my money, but I have to go. I do not have much more time to do
taarof
with him.
    “Here,” I choke out, trying to swallow my panic. “Take it.” I should not have come into this store. I should not have insisted on walking to class. I should have let Maryam call a taxicab for me.
    He shakes his head and keeps the same goofy smile on his face. I see there is a clear acrylic box on the counter with some money stuffed in it, some coins and dollar bills. I push my five dollars into it, collect my drink, and rush out without saying another word. I want to leave this place quickly, but my feet are in desperate need of a rest. I take a seat on the patio at the only table available, which is right outside the door.
    Blech.
This is not tea. It is cold and tastes of fruit so sweet, it is as if there are a hundred sugar cubes in it. This must be what Americans drink, though, or the man behind the counter would not have had it ready for his customers. I keep sipping it, hoping it will perhaps come to taste better over time. I rest my feet and watch Ike behind the counter as I take my sips. He takes everyone else’s money the first time they hold it out. And every time he has a free moment, he looks outside and smiles at me.
    I narrow my eyes at him the next time he looks over and he raises his eyebrows in response. I look at my watch. I have still more than one kilometer to walk, and I must hurry if I am to arrive on time. But as I push back my chair to stand, I see that a police car has lurched to a stop in front of the coffee shop. Two bulky policemen get out. They have guns in their belts.
    My insides collapse. I freeze even though my body wants so badly to shake in terror. They walk right by me, so close they could reach out and grab my neck and haul me to their vehicle and make me disappear, and Maryam would know only that I did not return from class, but she would not know where to find me, how to help me. The bigger policeman yanks open the door to the coffee shop and they go right up to Ike.
He called them!
That spiteful man. I did
nothing
to him. I tried to pay, I really did.
    My breath comes out in big heaves. This is horrible. I think how I can explain that it is my money in that box and I tried to give it to him even though he kept telling me no, and that it was him, not me, who did not know how to do
taarof
properly. And please, they cannot send me back to Iran for a simple misunderstanding.
Please.
    I push my lips together and blink heavily to keep from crying. I reach into my backpack and fumble for the index card Maryam made for me. I will ask them to call her and she can explain what happened. I will beg them not to take me to jail, but please to call my sister. Ardishir has money if we need to give them some so they leave me alone. It can be arranged, I am sure.
    The policemen come back outside, toward me, carrying large cups. The smaller one nudges the larger one as they approach. I cannot move from the fear.
    “Ma’am.” He nods. “Is