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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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I do not remember the ride in the ambulance, but I do remember all that has happened since that Saturday morning in May of 1980, all of which had led me to become a siqeh. You may ask, what on earth is a siqeh? Basically, it is a temporary wife, a prostitute of sorts, but with a contract. I have been married ten times. My name is Ateesh. I am thirty-six years old and this is my story…

I’d never felt so much pain in my life as I did then, laying in the hospital bed recovering from Hassan’s abuse. My husband had broken my ribs and given me a deep cut under my chin that hospitalized me for two weeks. Being beaten up by one’s husband is not talked about publicly in Iran, so when my family took my unconscious body to Pahlavi hospital, they admitted me under the guise of a “mysterious fall.” As I awoke to find my family at my side, observing my bloody, twelve-year-old body on a hospital bed, in a semiconscious state, I heard Modar sobbing as she said to Grandma Tuba, “Divorce is unavoidable.”

Her words were all I needed to hear. In a state of tranquility, I drifted off to sleep as words continued to flow from Modar’s mouth.

After my stay in the hospital, I was taken back to my parents’ home and promised by Modar and Grandma Tuba that I would never return to my husband’s house.

The next morning, Modar woke up quite a bit earlier than usual. Unlike my father, she was not an early riser. She made a large breakfast with all my favorite items: flat, whole wheat bread fresh from the bakery; local, yellowish sheep butter; and fresh honey still in honeycombs. The elaborate breakfast, along with Grandma Tuba’s presence, revealed that something big was going to happen. My guess was that they were going to take me to the registrar—a notary and religious official—to inquire about a divorce.

I listened and peered through the slightly open door as Modar and Grandma Tuba conversed quietly in the porch attached to the breakfast room.

“I told him again last night,” Modar said exasperatedly. “Ateesh can’t go back to her husband. He is going to kill her one of these days and I’m not going to wait for that to happen. She is all I have left, and I am going to protect her with my life.”

Grandma Tuba smiled sadly and said, “I wish you had told your husband so clearly and strongly about your broken heart when he told you of his plans to take a second wife.”

They were both quiet for a moment. “So what did he say?” Grandma Tuba asked.

“What do you expect?” Modar replied. “He said, ‘Aberue yeh man meereh! We will lose face!’ I told him, plain and simple, ‘I will live without aberue, face, but not without my daughter.’ So, I told him.…” she began to sob, “I told him that I forgive him.”

“Forgive him?” Grandma Tuba interrupted. “Azim destroyed you by taking a second wife!”

“I have to rescue Ateesh,” Modar said, “I have to.” Grandma Tuba reached over and embraced her.

My head was reeling. I didn’t know what to think. Poor Modar. More than ever I resented Baba for causing her so much pain.

I stepped onto the porch and walked toward them. As I approached, I tried to say something to let them know of my presence, but instead I burst into tears. I began to weaken and felt as if I was going to collapse. I grabbed onto the chair and suddenly felt their arms around me, lifting me gently onto the day bed.

“God kill Hassan for what he did to you,” Modar said.

“Just watch how his opium addiction will spread through his body and into his soul,” Grandma Tuba said as she looked toward the sky with the palms of her hands in a prayer gesture. “His dead body will be taken to the funeral home!”

They both helped me sit up.

“Look here,” Modar said, as she attempted a smile and pointed to a basket of freshly picked yellow roses on the breakfast table. “See what beautiful roses Grandma Tuba has brought for you, Ateesh.”

“They are almost as beautiful as you,” Grandma Tuba said softly, avoiding eye contact with me.

Thin and of medium height, Grandma’s face was full of soft wrinkles and she had dark eyes that could speak volumes.

Modar had told me stories of her father bringing yellow rosebuds to her every Thursday on the way home from where he worked as a clerk in the local taxation and treasury department. He picked the flowers from a garden where the treasury building was located. They were always carefully wrapped in his handkerchief to prevent the thorns from pricking her delicate fingers. Modar loved roses and would wait expectantly at the front gate of their home for his arrival. As I came to know the story, yellow roses became my favorite flowers. Seeing the roses now, I gave Grandma Tuba and Modar a faint smile as I felt the tears run down my cheeks.

“Eat some breakfast,” Modar said as she pulled out a chair for me.

I adjusted my pajamas and sat down.

“Where’s Baba?” I asked Modar, although I was sure of the answer.

“He had to go to the restaurant early to talk to the accountant,” Modar replied, avoiding my eyes.

“Baba is ashamed of me,” I said crossly. “I know he is, but what does he want me to do? He can kill me himself, instead of letting Hassan kill me!”

“Don’t say that!” Modar said.

One day I had asked him, “Baba Joon? Would you have been more proud of me if I was a boy?” He told me I was equal, but I knew that was a lie. It was so obvious he loved his sons more than me—the two sons he had with his second wife. Only a daughter could bring this kind of a shame to a family, and that was why he was avoiding me.

“Modar, is today the day we are going to the registrar?” I asked. “You both promised me in the hospital that you would get me a divorce with or without Baba’s approval. Please don’t make me go back to Hassan…please!” “Yes, Ateesh Joon,” Modar said, “today is the day. We are going to free you. Grandma has the name and address of the registrar who will help us get a divorce. Now eat your breakfast and take a shower. Then we’ll go.”

Grandma Tuba walked over to the samovar and poured tea into my favorite teacup.

“Here is your tea, my princess,” she said, bowing gracefully. “Shall I spoon feed you, too?”

All three of us burst into laughter. Grandma Tuba always rose higher in spirits to comfort us, especially lately.

“Are you coming too, Grandma?” I asked, my happiness deflating as quickly as it had come. “You don’t have to. I know that divorce is not…is not a proper thing…even to talk about, but you know this isn’t my fault. You don’t want to be seen going to a registrar’s office, right?”

Without hesitation Grandma Tuba replied, “Right now, my child, the most important thing is to save your life, get you a divorce, and get you out of that house. I can handle mardom, people, but not losing you. Allaho Akbar!” she exclaimed. God is great!

Modar nodded in agreement.

Grandma Tuba would wait at home for our return while Modar and I went to the registrar’s office.

After we finished breakfast and washed up, Modar and I took a short taxi ride to the main street. As we rode in the backseat, she held my hand gently, though I wasn’t sure if this was for her comfort or mine.

“Ateesh,” she said, pale as snow, “I believe in fate and that our path in life is written when we are born.”

Her hands were soft and reassuring, but I could feel her pulse racing.

“Modar,” I said, admiring her strength and courage to rescue me, “I will make you proud.”

I wasn’t sure at the time exactly what that entailed, but as my modar affectionately squeezed my hand, I knew it was the right thing to say. I looked at her sad yet determined face. In her late twenties, Modar was attractive and used to having people comment on her beauty. Her beautiful long, dark, curly hair decorated her dark eyes with a perfect set of white teeth. I took pride in hearing that I had taken after her. But at that moment, sadness overwhelmed her beauty.

As we rode, I tried to remember the last time I saw a glow on her face and a genuine smile on her lips. She had been heavy with sadness for years now. I rested my head on her shoulder and suddenly recalled one night when I was about four years old, when I had been awakened to the sounds of screaming and shouting, as if someone was being chased.

“Modar!” I had screamed.

She was already in my bedroom, clearly shaken up.

“Metarsam!” cried, “I am scared! What’s going on?”

“Ateesh Joon.” she said, attempting to be calm, “there’s nothing to worry about. Baba will take care of it.”

“Take care of what?” I asked, bewildered.

That’s when we were startled by a sudden flash of light through my open window, where our gardener, Qolam-Ali, and his eldest son had appeared.

“Khanoom; Ma’ am” he said calmly, “Aqa is awake and is on his way. He wants to know if you are all right. He is checking the pool house, but it looks as if the intruders have left the same way they came in.”

As he finished his sentence, Baba appeared next to him with a shotgun in one hand and a flashlight in the other. “Go back to sleep and close the window,” he said with authority. “Everything is under control.”

His presence triggered something in my mind. Why wasn’t Baba already in the house? Something was wrong.

As Modar closed my bedroom window, she stole a glance at Baba, and though no words came out of her mouth, her eyes asked a thousand questions.

At that young age, I knew that Baba had a second wife, and that she hated us and we hated her, but I hadn’t realized until that moment that he wasn’t living with us any longer.

Before Baba had taken a second wife, Modar would play with me in the garden pool during the hot summer months. We had so much fun together, until Baba married again and she refused to go with me. “I don’t want to run into her,” she would say.

That’s when she began to stay inside and watch me from the window. Was this what marriage did to women?

I thought of my own husband, and a shiver ran through me as I remembered my wedding night, that first time I had met him…

“Wait here for your husband and stop crying, or Baba will get angry,” Grandma Tuba had said sharply.

I looked up at her. I had never heard that tone in Grandma Tuba’s voice before. I searched her face for comfort, for an answer, but she turned away from me, walked out of the room and closed the door behind her, leaving me alone in a strange room. I stared at the closed door, praying that it would open and she would come back to me, but nothing happened. Everything was still. I wanted to run to the door and pound on it, scream out her name, but I was too frightened to move.

Suddenly the door opened. I held my breath as a tall, thin man with cold, dark eyes stepped in and closed the door behind him. He smiled at me, but it wasn’t a real smile. It was more of a smirk. I turned away. He was older than I, but I wasn’t sure exactly how much older. Maybe 19 or 20? My heart raced as he came closer. I didn’t know anything about this man who was about to touch me.

I watched as he placed a square white cloth on the bed, and then reached for me. I tensed as he removed my clothes, lifted me up and placed me on the bed on top of the white cloth he had laid out, which was much longer and wider than my hips. Before I could say anything or make a move, he forced himself on top of me. I felt a sharp pain as he smiled down at me with a pleased look on his face. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed it would end.

The next thing I remember I was naked, lying in blood next to this stranger.

I squeezed my eyes shut again. This had to be a nightmare I was having.

Where was Modar? Where was Grandma Tuba? My ears searched for their familiar voices, somewhere out there, but there was nothing. As weak as I felt, I promised myself I would never allow what happened to me to happen to my own daughter.

He sat up and held the white cloth under the night lamp. With the same smirk on his face, he looked down at the white sheet under me, which also was stained with blood. Then he returned to bed, laid his head on the pillow, and turned his back to me. I lay still, my heart pounding, and stared at the back of his head until I heard snoring. I wanted to get up and run out of the room. But that would have brought shame to my family. I had already lost my virginity. My only choice was to remain. My marriage had been arranged. I was legitimately where I belonged: with this strange man who was now my husband.

I laid there feeling numb until he woke up and forced himself on me again. As he entered me, my mind began to race. I heard Grandma Tuba’s voice saying, “Stay away from boys. They will hurt you.” Why was it okay for this man to hurt me? This man they call my husband?

“This is what girls must go through to become women,” Grandma Tuba explained to me the first time I got my period, as she put a warm towel on my tummy and joked about the real pain awaiting me. “Ateesh Joon, delivering a baby is a lot harder than this. This is only practice to prepare you for the real pain.”

What about this pain? She hadn’t mentioned this. If what was happening to me now was normal, why hadn’t anybody ever talked about it?

When he tried to force himself inside me again, I squeezed my legs together. He forced me onto my stomach, and before I know what was happening, I felt a sharp pain in my rear. He pushed my head and neck down into the embroidered white bridal pillow filled with swan feathers. I struggled to turn my head sideways and cried out.

“You are my wife and I can do anything I want with you,” he whispered into my face. “There is no limit to how I can use your body for my own pleasure. It is my right.”

“I will never love you,” I spat. “You disgust me.”

He laughed and said, “You will learn to love me.”

I didn’t sleep at all that night. As sunlight gently crept inside the room and warmed my face, my husband caressed my cheek and said, “You are even more beautiful now that I have deposited my juices in you.” Then he sat up and said, “God forgive me! I’ve missed my morning prayers!”

In my exhausted yet attentive mind, it occurred to me that God could not and would not forgive him for hurting me so badly. I did not believe then, and I do not believe now, that religion would justify hurting others, not even one’s wife.

Everything still felt unreal. This had to be a nightmare. It had to be. I kept squeezing my eyes together in a desperate attempt to wake up.

Almost immediately after he left the room, Modar and another woman I came to know as my modar-in-law came in. I turned away from them, holding back tears. I felt shattered and angry, especially at Modar and Grandma Tuba.

“Ateesh,” Modar said, “it is alright.”

Her beautiful, dark brown eyes were puffy and red. She appeared pale and fragile.

My modar-in-law looked pleased at the bloody sheet that had been left on display by her son on the edge of the bed. “The doctor’s virginity certificate was genuine,” she said with a smile.

A virginity certificate? It was then I understood why Modar had taken me to the doctor a few days earlier. The doctor had examined my private parts and gave Modar a piece of paper. When I asked Modar what it was, she ignored me, but now I knew.

As my modar-in-law left the room, Grandma Tuba walked in, closed the door behind her, and came over to me.

“I know you feel betrayed by us Joon, dear,” Grandma Tuba said, “but you will learn the truth one day why your modar and I had to accept this marriage proposal without your knowledge. He is a good boy and has promised us he will treat you kindly.”

I felt her hands on my head, and my tears surfaced. Then for the first time, I remembered where I saw him before: at Baba’s second wife’s house.

“You both betrayed me!” I shouted.

The taxi came to an abrupt stop in front of the five-story office complex. It was not far from the main street, which connected the harbor to the city of Abadan where my family lived. The building was hidden behind a shopping plaza frequented by young men and women looking for the latest fashions inspired by European designers. Modar and I had visited some of the boutiques in that plaza, but we had never noticed this unimpressive office complex before. There was also sweet shop where we stopped every Friday afternoon for traditional-style ice cream. Although I hadn’t cared much for the pistachio nuts in the ice cream, I would swallow them whole since I was told they were good for me. I was so fond of ice cream that I wanted to marry the ice cream man so I could have ice cream all the time. If only I had had the choice of whom I would marry.

“How much?” asked Modar.

“Five tumon,” said the taxi driver. Modar handed him the money, and we stepped out onto the street.

We walked toward the dreaded building. Modar pushed the main door open and it made a cracking sound similar to seagulls preying for food. Trying to stay calm, I counted the fifty-four dusty, marble steps up to the fourth floor of the building. A short hallway led us to the entrance of the registrar’s office. My heart was pounding so fast I feared it might jump out of my chest and claim a life of its own. I looked at Modar, who was trying to remain composed.

The registrar was the only one who could end my marriage. I imagined him to be a cleric with a white beard, a clear sign of a halo above his holy head, and rosary beads in his hand. Grandma Tuba had a picture of her religious guru, Ayatollah Boroujerdi, on the table in her sitting room along with photos of her parents. Those visions in my mind were comforting.

An old sign on the registrar’s tinted, glass door read, “Registry of Marriage and Divorce since 1950.” The door bore a religious name and his title, Hajji Mohammad Al Jabar. Only men who had been to Mecca were referred to as “Hajji,” and the title warranted respect. Still, his name concerned me.

“He’s Arab, Modar?” I asked. “Can he speak Farsi?”

“I was told by Grandma Tuba that he is the one who performed my religious wedding ceremony,” Modar said, whispering so quietly I had difficulty hearing her. “Maybe his father is Arab. Let us go in and see. It shouldn’t matter; he can still help us with the divorce.”

I guessed she was concerned that somebody might hear what we were talking about. After all, the word divorce itself is taboo in our culture, and even speaking of it could bring shame. Modar took a deep breath, then knocked before turning the doorknob. A deep voice asked us to enter and take a seat.

The office was cold and impersonal, furnished with office-type leather fixtures. There was a long wall unit holding many files. The white walls were decorated with Islamic calligraphy bearing the ninety-nine virtues of God: God is Great, God is Merciful, and God is Forgiving. These were some of God’s attributes, I was told. Knowing what I’ve been through, I thought, God will help me.

The registrar was on the phone but motioned for us to sit across from him on a black sofa. His beard was jet-black, same as the hair that was showing under his turban. On two of his fat fingers, right next to each other, were rings with enormous stones.

My grandfather had told me that religious men usually wear a ring decorated with a precious stone called aqiq as a sign of piety. Grandfather always wore a ring with aqiq.

The second ring was decorated with a large Mediterranean blue sapphire, signifying wealth, and a special religious affiliation as a direct descendant of Prophet Mohammad. Modar and I glanced at each other. As soon as we sat down, I felt the weight of his eyes on me. I looked to make sure my blouse was buttoned and I straightened my skirt over my knee.

As he talked on the phone, he lifted his eyeglasses off the desk, put them on, and started appraising my modar and me. “We will continue this conversation another time,” he was saying, “but I want to make clear that I will not allow this kind of indecency in my neighborhood.”

He hung up the phone, cutting short the voice on the other end.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” he asked, as he fiddled with the collar of his shirt.

“We are here to request a divorce for my daughter,” Modar said, her voice shaking with nervousness.

At the word “divorce,” his eyes turned to me.

“We were told you can effectuate a divorce,” Modar continued. “Is that true?”

Fixing his eyes on me like a hawk, the registrar stood up, walked around his desk and stood right in front of us. I shifted in my seat and tried to appear more like a grown up, by crossing my leg in front of me and holding my head up.

“How old is your daughter?” he asked Modar, without removing his eyes from me.

“She is turning thirteen on the eleventh of July,” Modar said.

“She looks as if she is seventeen or eighteen,” he said. “Where is her father? We need his permission to do it.”

“Is her father’s presence absolutely necessary?”

“Of course it is,” he answered. “According to Islamic law, as long as the father is alive, he is the legal guardian of his children.”

“What if he is dead?”

Her question startled me. I turned and looked at her. To get my divorce Baba needed to be dead? But surely the registrar must have heard of Baba’s cholo-Kababys, restaurants. The registrar observed her for a moment then asked her to step out into the hallway.

“I need to ask your daughter something,” he said. Something in his voice had changed. It seemed to have gone from authoritative to sympathetic.

Modar must have felt the change in his voice too, because without a word, she sheepishly stood up and walked toward the door. Just before she left, she lifted her sad eyes to gaze at me. The fiery sparkle, which had once illuminated her beautiful face, had long since been extinguished. Instead, pain and suffering were etched onto her drawn visage.

Desperately I questioned her departure with my eyes, and with her eyes, she replied, “No choice.” She stepped out of the room before I could ask, “Why?”

As the door closed behind her, the registrar went back behind his desk. I followed him with my eyes. He was well into his fifties and had a bulging belly that suggested good food and a comfortable living. His mustache covered his upper lip and most of his mouth. He reached into a drawer and took something out. Then, without taking his eyes off me, he opened a small perfume bottle, dabbed a few drops on himself and closed it. He affixed his light cotton, black religious robe over his shoulders.

His robe reminded me of the one Grandfather put on every time he left the house. Grandma Tuba always helped Grandfather put it on, making sure it hung evenly on all sides.

“If your grandfather leaves the house untidy, I, as his wife, will look bad in front of people,” Grandma Tuba explained.

If Grandma Tuba wasn’t around to fix his robe, I would follow him to the front door, adjusting it to make sure it hung evenly. Grandfather told me I would make a good wife. The robe indicated status and piety for men like Grandfather, and, presumably, for men like Hajji registrar.

Counting the beads on his rosary, the registrar walked toward me. My heart was pounding, but nothing compared to the first time my husband had walked toward me. As the registrar came closer, I smelled his cologne. Unlike Grandfather’s heavenly smell of wild roses, the registrar’s perfume smelled like rotten fruit. I held my breath as he came closer.

“I will get you your divorce. It is going to be very hard without your father’s permission. But, out of the goodness of my heart, I will get it for you, on the condition that you become my siqeh for a year.”

His smile revealed stained, ugly teeth. His cold eyes stared at me, and I could smell his lust. Suddenly the halo I had imagined around his carefully wrapped white turban disappeared, and I sat there feeling nauseated.

Siqeh? I had never heard that word before. But that is what the registrar wanted in exchange. It must be something valuable that I possessed, but I didn’t know what it was or how to respond. I looked at the door where I could see Modar’s shadow. It didn’t move.

“Think about it for a minute,” he said. “It’s your only way out.”

I stared at the doorknob, hoping it would turn by force of her hand, but it didn’t. I wondered if it would’ve turned if Grandma Tuba was there. I thought of my wedding night, when I had stared at that door, waiting for Grandma Tuba to come back in, and suddenly felt a resurgence of pain from my almost-healed injuries. I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t know anything anymore.

Only a few days earlier, Grandma Tuba and I had visited the rug market. It had been crowded with all kinds of people, especially elders looking to purchase rugs for their children’s soon-to-be brides or grooms. It is customary for parents to include fine rugs as wedding presents. Grandma Tuba and I were looking for a runner to replace the old worn-out one she had in her stairway. The aroma of delicious long grain rice, dom syya, from nearby restaurants was mouthwatering. But I forgot about eating when I noticed the glances I kept getting from the salesman who was trying to convince Grandma Tuba to purchase a particular runner.

“You bastard,” Grandma Tuba suddenly spat, as she hit him on the head with a newspaper, “Don’t you have a modar or sister?”

The salesman quickly apologized. He placed his right hand on his chest and lowered his head in a subordinating gesture, and said, “Forgive me, Modar.”

To call an older woman “Modar,” who is not your Modar, shows respect and sincerity. Of course, if you call a woman Modar who is not older than you it has the opposite effect.

Grandma Tuba then gave him a short lecture on righteousness and the consequences of impure thoughts on the soul.

As we walked out of the shop, I asked her if she believed all of what she had said to him. She explained that she had heard many times in sermons that our thoughts are heard by God, and written down by angels. On Judgment Day, it will be read and we will be judged. “We’ll be sent to hellfire or paradise,” she said, her tone indicating she believed.

But now, Grandma Tuba was not with me. Avoiding the registrar’s eyes, I noticed the framed lithograph on the wall near the exit. In Arabic, it said “Allaho Akbar!” God is great! Grandma Tuba used that particular phrase all the time.

I turned back to the registrar and asked politely, “Siqeh?”

He smiled and muttered something. He moved so close to me that I could smell his body and the strong odor of tobacco on his clothes. The strong feeling of Allaho Akbar was vanishing as he stood there leering at me, in his old-fashioned black suit, with a crease on his carefully ironed white shirt, and the rosary around his wrist. He reminded me of that pushy salesman in the rug market.

The registrar’s smile had the opposite of its intended effect. Grandma Tuba would say that he was going straight to hell for his evil thoughts. I felt as if I were standing in the room with my husband again. But this time I didn’t feel as scared and weak. I knew more and was learning quickly about life.

“How does that work?” I asked in a very soft voice.

He explained that it would be exactly the same as a permanent marriage contract, but with a fixed, shorter duration. The look on his face made clear what he expected of me in exchange for granting my divorce. Still, I did not completely understand.

“If you agree to be my siqeh for a short time, I promise to get your divorce,” he repeated. “As a sign of good faith I also agree to pay you a marriage gift of five gold coins, plus monthly maintenance.” He stopped to take a breath, and then in a low, desperate voice, he said, “Say yes!” as spit escaped his mouth.

“Chi?” I asked. “What?”

In exchange for my divorce, I would be his temporary wife, and he would pay me five gold coins plus monthly living expenses. Maybe I would bring less shame to my father this way. But what would I be losing in exchange?

He then went on to explain that, as a minor, I wouldn’t be allowed to divorce my husband without my father’s consent, although my husband could divorce me without my knowledge, or even my presence.

“Why is that, Hajji?” I asked, intentionally calling him Hajji to appear respectful.

“It is all in the Quran,” he replied with authority. “It is of course for the protection of the weaker sex: women.” He looked directly into my eyes and continued, “You need my support and protection and I will help you. Let me handle your father. We men understand each other better. He will agree.”

The more he talked on, the less I understood his rationale for temporary marriage and why this arrangement would even be called marriage and how it would protect me. Bewildered, I noticed saliva beginning to collect in the corners of his mouth and the edge of his mustache. He looked less like a cleric and more like a decrepit old man eyeing a mouthwatering pastry.

Maybe, just maybe, I was in control, just as Grandma Tuba was in the rug market with the salesman. But it was me that they desired.

No longer feeling weakened by his presence, I stood up and looked straight into his eyes for the first time. “Thank you,” I said. “Let me convince my modar and I will come back.” And without hesitation I stood up and walked toward the door.

I was still nervous and couldn’t fully feel my legs, but I wasn’t going to let him know that.

“Shall I talk to your father?” he asked, following close behind me.

“Oh, no,” I said. “He would kill me.”

I quickly stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me.

“Let‘s get out of here,” I said to Modar, who was still waiting right outside the door.

I saw the registrar’s outline recede from the tinted glass of his office door, and I was relieved that he wasn’t going to come out and repeat his proposal. Perhaps he was worried for his aberue, face!

Though I could not have explained it then, the registrar taught me one thing in his office, and it had nothing to do with the Quran. I think it was then that I began to learn about sex and power. This was my first time in a registry office, but subsequent events would take me to similar offices again and again. Like other young temporary wives, I found refuge in a place of devil’s practice. I learned to think of my sexual ability as a sharp sword in my hand. The word, qarardud, contract, became one of the most frequently used words in my vocabulary in the coming years.

“Ateesh, what happened?” Modar asked. “What did he say? I was worried to death standing there and leaving you with that dirty old man. He was no man of God!”

I didn’t share with Modar the details of the conversation, but simply told her, “He will not help us.” I was sure Modar had heard his evil proposal, which is why she’d referred to him as a “dirty old man.”

As we stepped out onto the street, we found Grandma Tuba waiting for us.

“Grandma!” I cried as I ran into her open arms.

“I was too nervous to wait at home,” she said.

“That be pedar, bastard, asked Ateesh to become his siqeh,” Modar said to Grandma Tuba.

“Be pedar!” said Grandma Tuba as she spat with disgust onto the pavement.

No further words were spoken between us, but a few meaningful looks exchanged between Modar and Grandma Tuba told me that another plan was needed to get my divorce.

I held Grandma Tuba as we rode home, and as the taxi driver pulled away from the dreary office building, I saw the registrar standing on his balcony, watching us.

Inadvertently, I glanced through a boutique window in the plaza. The dress on display had changed. The solemn black one displayed earlier had been replaced by a beautiful red dress with tiny straps on the shoulder, two rows of pleats with an uneven hem, and ruffles at the bottom. I kept looking at the dress until the plaza and boutique were no longer in view. I imagined dancing barefoot to a Persian rhythm, wearing that dress, in our garden by the pool. In the taxi, paying no attention to the whispers of Grandma Tuba and Modar, I wished I could own that red gypsy dress with the uneven hem.

“Modar, why can’t I live here anymore?”

“Baba thinks mardom, people, would say you are spoiled child and we did not teach you how to be a wife.”

“Is that what you think, too, Modar?”

“I might have thought that the first couple of times you complained,” she said. Then she turned toward Grandma Tuba and said, “Right?”

Grandma Tuba nodded. “But that haywon, animal, turned out to be a no-good drug addict, and your Baba’s second wife must have known this.”

“What exactly was her role in my arranged marriage?” I asked.

“No need to get into that now,” Modar said. “We have more important things to take care of.”

Grandma Tuba offered the solution. “Ateesh will come and live with us.”

Modar looked at me and waited.

“Sure,” I said. “But what about Grandfather?”

“Let me handle him.”

“What about Baba?” I asked. “Who is going to convince him?”

Modar and Grandma Tuba just looked at each other.

For days after that, there were arguments between Baba and Modar. I stayed in my room and anxiously awaited the outcome. I was sure Baba wished he had never had me. His sons probably never gave him any problems at all.

I was four years old when Baba’s first son was born. He was named Karim, which means “blessing,” and always referred to as one of God’s virtues. One year later Baba’s second son, Alireza, was born. Things got a little better for me then, because as Baba’s second wife was busy with Alireza, Karim would come into the garden and play with me. I was a tomboy as a child and he and I became great playmates. We would swim for hours, run around the garden, and climb trees. We were always in competition over who could reach the top first. Our favorite trees to climb were right next to one another, and every time I saw those trees as an adult, I thought of him and how much fun we used to have.

As Alireza got bigger, he came into the backyard and followed us around. Many times we hid from him, hoping he would lose us so we could run faster without worrying about him. Karim and I became his babysitters. His modar, like my modar, would watch us from the window. Karim and Alireza had been told by their modar to call me Khohar, sister, and my modar, Zan Baba, wife of the father.

I remember even at that young age feeling guilty for having fun with the children of a woman who stole Baba from us and hurt my modar.

The fun didn’t last, though.

One day when I was about eleven years old, I overheard Baba say to Modar, “Ateesh should not climb trees like that.”

“She is a tomboy and loves to climb trees,” Modar said. “There is nothing wrong with it. This is our orchard. She should be free to do what she wants.”

“What if she falls and loses her hymen?” Baba said. “She has reached the age of womanhood!”

“Did your precious wife plant that in your head?” Modar asked. “I am shocked to hear such words coming out of your mouth, Azim.”

“She shouldn’t swim with Karim and Alireza anymore, either,” he said.

Modar slammed the cabinet door shut.

“Maheen will no longer allow it,” he continued. “According to the Quran, all men except a father, brother, and uncles are haram after the age of female maturity.”

“Haram?” Modar asked.

“Haram means forbidden,” Baba explained, “They are forbidden to see Ateesh without her full clothing.”

“I know what haram means!” Modar snapped.

This haram idea stayed with me in the back of my mind until years later when I took a serious interest in understanding my religion.

The news traveled quickly to my grandmodars. Both visited the next morning for breakfast before Baba left for work.

I could hear everything from my room where Modar thought I was still asleep.

“Ateesh is still a child!” Grandma Tuba said to Baba. “She has not even matured yet. The Quran does not say mature girls have to cover in front of younger children. She may have to cover up in front of mature men, but not from her six- and seven-year-old stepbrothers! And anyway, nobody in this household follows religion so strictly, so how come this poor child has to?”

Without waiting for his response, she continued, “How about Maheen? Does she cover? No? How about you, Azim? When was the last time you went to a masjid? Since when has Maheen become the religious scholar? Jamileh, what do you think of all this?”

I knew Grandma Jamileh, Baba’s modar, was in the room and wondered what she was going to say. She said nothing about religion or covering up, but bitterly said to Baba, “It is all Maheen’s doing. She is jealous of Ateesh’s beauty and you are being a fool.”

There was no sound. I tiptoed downstairs and looked into the kitchen from the bottom of the staircase. Baba rested his head on his hand and pondered for several minutes. I will never forget the look on his face. It was that of a tired man, caught up in his own battle.

Then he turned to Modar and said, “I am afraid that Ateesh may take our family aberue, face, away.”

“How?” Modar asked, “She is only a child!”

“I hear that boys follow her to school and remark on her beauty. Instead of cursing them, she smiles at them. I hear…”

“That stupid woman has affected your thinking about your own child!” Modar interrupted. “Are you forgetting Ateesh is a part of you and not just anyone’s daughter? Have you ever heard me complaining about Maheen’s boys?”

“They are boys,” he answered. “There is nothing they do can make me lose face in the community.”

That was when I understood the difference between me and his sons. I could make Baba lose face in the community, and they couldn’t.

“Azim Joonam,” Grandma Jamileh said, who usually added Joonam to his name as a sign of affection and love, “are you eating well? You look sick. You look tired and worried. You do not visit me anymore. Maheen must be giving you the meat of a dead body!”

Grandma Tuba nodded emphatically, confirming, I guessed, that Baba must have been given the meat of a dead body. Whatever that meant.

“You are a fool, Azim,” Modar said. “She is feeding you nonsense.” She walked out of the room and headed toward the staircase. I ran to my room and jumped into bed before I was caught.

That same night when we were alone in our beds on the balcony, Modar explained to me that when a husband has been fed the meat of a dead body it means he is under the total control of his wife, which makes him uninterested in any other woman but her.

“I have no idea how they came up with that,” she said. “I only know what I’ve been told.”

Despite the darkness, I knew she was crying. It seemed that with every tear she cried, her body became smaller. My mind was working quickly to comprehend everything. I was beginning to feel light-headed. “So it is because Baba has been given the meat of a dead body that he does not sleep with you anymore?”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she gazed up in despair at the beautiful clear sky and said, “I want to be born a man in my next life.”

“Stop it,” I begged, but she continued.

“Men do as they please and women simply must bow down to them and kiss their feet. All these years of kissing his feet, I cannot stand it anymore.”

“But why do women have to listen to men?” I cried. “Why?”

“That is the way things are,” she answered gloomily. Several minutes went by before she stood up, wiped away her tears, and caressed my hair affectionately. “Go to sleep now, Ateesh,” she suddenly said, her tone unusually brisk. “It is getting late.”

“I am not going to listen to any man,” I told her defiantly, and hid my face under the covers before she could scold me. I am not sure how much I really understood about everything that was happening, but one thing I knew for sure was that men were mean. I remember that night well, because it was one of the rare occasions that Modar and I had had a conversation about Baba.

The next morning I looked over the balcony to see if Karim was there waiting for me, but he wasn’t. Not even Alireza had come out. The next few days were the same. I woke up every morning and looked for them, and every night I went to bed wishing for things to be as they were before.

Several months went by before I saw Karim again. One night as I was lying in bed, I heard him calling my name. I jumped up and ran to the balcony.

“Karim!” I said joyfully.

He looked cold and distant.

“Are you sick?” I asked. “Where have you been? I missed you so much. What happened?”

“Your modar is not a Zaneh Kamel, because she could give birth only to a girl and not a boy!” he said. “I hate you!” Then he ran into the garden and disappeared.

The next morning I woke up with Modar by my side with a cold towel on my forehead. She placed a thermometer in my mouth and said, “Joonam, your body is hot like an oven. I have called the doctor and he is on his way.” I closed my eyes and hoped to wake up from the nightmare I was having.

Now here I was, almost thirteen years old and married, listening to Baba and Modar argue over what to do with me after the shame I had brought to the family.

I asked Grandma Tuba why Grandfather couldn’t come and talk to Baba about my new living arrangements. Maybe he would listen to a man. She agreed, but explained that Grandfather would never argue with Baba in front of us. He might talk to Baba privately in support of the idea, though.

I was so happy when I heard Grandma Jamileh’s voice. “I had to hear from Maheen that Ateesh is here!” she was saying. “Ateesh is my grandchild too!”

As I ran toward her voice in the kitchen, I crashed into Modar, who was walking out. Modar wasn’t ever happy to see Grandma Jamileh. She wasn’t welcome in our home because she had supported Baba’s second marriage.

“Grandma Jamileh!” I shouted as I ran to her.

She opened her arms and held me. “Bacheh Joon, dear child, I am here to help in any possible way. No one should be allowed to hurt you.”

I felt the warmth of her words and her touch was comforting. But none of these women, not Grandma Tuba, Grandma Jamileh, or Modar, had done anything to prevent my arranged marriage. Instead, they went along with tradition and culture. As strong and loving as they were, I felt I was breaking away. I wanted to become stronger than the traditions that had bound me to an arranged marriage.

I don’t know the details of what was discussed that day between my grandmas, Modar, and Baba. All I know is that was the last day I lived with my parents. I went to stay with Grandma Tuba and waited for a resolution.

My new living arrangements suited me just fine. The important thing was that I was far away from Hassan. Though my absence from home saddened Modar, we saw each other nearly every day.

Prior to my marriage, Grandma Tuba had been more like a modar to me anyway, sometimes even more so than Modar. Ever since the day I got my period, when I was eleven years old, she had been teaching me how to be a proper woman. “You must avoid boys altogether,” she told me that day in her deep voice as she made jasmine tea to help my stomach cramps. Whenever she was serious, she had a tendency to deepen her voice. I think she was trying to sound like a man.

“But why, Grandma?” I asked, mischievously imitating her deep voice.

“They are only after your body and they can hurt you,” she said.

“But Baba would never hurt anyone,” I said.

Impatiently, Grandma Tuba shook her head. At that age, I didn’t know the extent of the pain Baba put Modar through by taking a second wife.

Though Grandma Tuba’s plaits were usually hidden by a headscarf that matched her clothes, her beautiful long locks of black and gray hair were always braided neatly into two sections that fell to her shoulders. On this day she wore her favorite colors, a dark blue skirt that came below her knees, dark leggings with stockings over them, and flat black shoes. She wore a loose-fitting, dark blue blouse with a few lighter colors as accents around the edge of the sleeves and collar.

Grandma Tuba’s dark eyes were speaking volumes, but I could not read them now as we stepped out into the bright sunlight and walked toward the garden.

“You silly girl!” she suddenly laughed. “I don’t mean Baba!” Then becoming serious again, she added, “Just remember, you must not be alone with boys. They are not to be trusted. You must remain a virgin or you will bring disgrace to your family.”

“Disgrace? How?”

“You don’t have to know everything now, but you must stay indoors after coming home from school. Most importantly, stay away from boys. Boys are like fire and girls are like cotton balls. If they are left unsupervised, the cotton balls will catch fire.”

I frowned. “But Modar Bozorg, I’m not a cotton ball!” I said, remembering that she had used the word fire when describing my cousin, Saeed, my father’s nephew. Grandma Tuba always loudly disapproved of me playing with Saeed, but Grandma Jamileh hadn’t been as strict and often invited Saeed when I stayed overnight with her. I never told Grandma Tuba this, of course.

Four years older than me, Saeed was absolutely my favorite cousin, and I think I was his. Whenever he came over to Grandma Jemileh’s to visit, we spent hours looking up at the sky, making up stories and chatting. Many times we’d tried to count all the stars, though all of our attempts were fruitless.

“Ateesh, how many stars do you think there are?” he asked, as we lay in our separate beds on the balcony.

“I don’t know how many stars there are, but some sure are prettier than others,” I answered.

“Ateesh, you are the prettiest of all the stars,” he said.

Thinking back now, I don’t know why we never kissed. I wanted to kiss him and I could feel he wanted to kiss me too. We felt so close to each other but perhaps what we shared was more like the love and friendship of siblings. It certainly was strong and beautiful.

In Farsi, Saeed means blessing. He was a blessing to me, but unfortunately I saw little of him after my marriage.

Now that I was away from my husband and living with Grandma Tuba, I found myself curious about everything. I had so many questions I was anxious to have answered.

“Grandma, did you have boys as friends when you were growing up?” I asked as I watched her cut slices of watermelon in the backyard.

She didn’t answer me at first. She just continued slicing.

“Have some,” she said, as she placed the plate in front of me.

As we ate our watermelon in the gentle afternoon sun, Grandma Tuba shared something about herself with me that I was surprised to hear: The first man in Grandma Tuba’s life was not Grandfather.