Jalal

September 1998

Jalal prayed the groan that woke him had been his own. He raised his head an inch off the pillow and scanned his room, confirming himself the sole occupant before lying back to stare at the ceiling. Positively the last time. No more lost weekends for him. If it had been a weekend. This could be midweek for all he knew. Getting wasted was no longer confined to particular nights—or days.

Gingerly, he maneuvered himself upright on the side of the bed. He ran a hand over his jaw, then sought a second opinion from the bathroom mirror. Stubble length indicated he might have lost only one day this time. That was one day too many. He renewed his vow and stepped under the hot shower spray.

Twenty minutes later, Jalal dressed in jeans and stepped out of his closet pulling on a tee. As his head cleared the neckband, his eyes focused on a blonde in a slinky black dress, standing in the doorway across the room. He froze. The rising fear that his blackout had progressed to hallucinations sped up his heart, slowed his breathing, and then dissipated when she spoke.

“Oh, good,” she said, “you’re finally up. I’m starved. Let’s go to Colliano’s for lunch.”

He stared dumbly at her, wracking his brain for her name. Her face was familiar. He knew her. Hell, considering she was now disentangling her underwear from his sheets, he apparently knew her intimately.

Fully dressed now, she wriggled her dress back down her thighs and smiled. “You ready?”

He had not moved, or even closed his mouth. Krista. Her name was Krista, and this was not her first time here, but that was all he could grasp before the fog slid back. He returned to the closet for shoes, calling to her from the safety of the ten-foot distance between them, “I am a little hazy about … last night.” She responded with a wince-inducing giggle, and then her shadow stretched across the closet floor. He picked up his Nikes and faced her.

“I’m sure you’ll remember it all when you see your living room,” she said with a smile. “You’ll want to call your cleaning service. Unless you don’t mind puke all over your sofa.”

“What?”

“Yeah, that bitch, Carly, should leave the coke alone.”

Jalal pushed past her, headed toward the damage, and stopped dead two steps into the living room. Every damned inch of the place was trashed. Even some of his books—My books!—lay scattered on the floor. “What the hell?” He flung his shoes across the room, but almost as quickly as his anger had flared, renewed fear doused it. Krista was wrong. Not a single minute of last night came back to him. The last he remembered, he was sitting in Zee Bar, and it was afternoon. But it might not have been yesterday afternoon. For the third time that morning, he vowed sobriety.

Jalal spun around, shoving Krista aside as he returned to the bedroom in search of his cell phone. He hoped to god he had left it there, and would not have to dig it out of that substance abuse fuckup in the living room. He struck out on the chest top and nightstand, but recognized the phone’s weight when he grabbed his slacks from the floor beside the bed. After arranging for the cleaning service—yes, this is an emergency—he turned to Krista again.

“I am sorry, Krista. I cannot take you to lunch, but I will call you a taxi.” He flipped open his phone again. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her foot stomp and knew she wanted him to look up so he would see her pout. He chose not to give her that satisfaction. Memories of her had begun to seep through. Krista was rich. Krista was spoiled. Krista was not used to being denied. When he hit the call button, she spun away leaving a string of obscenities trailing behind her. Seconds later, she slammed his apartment door for the last time.

The next day, he changed his cell number and called a moving company. Within a week, he had stored everything he owned, except some clothes, books, and his journals. He bought a car and set off driving west. If The Fates had any mercy, the biggest mistakes of his life lay behind him in New York City.

***

Now, six months later, Jalal stood in his parents’ Seattle living room. His California home, a sixteen-hour drive away, was far enough that he could avoid frequent visits, but close enough for his mother to guilt him into an occasional one. Each time he hoped for some sign of understanding from his father. Each time he left disappointed. Nothing good would come from hating his father, yet, as Jalal gazed at him across the living room, that knowledge did nothing to loosen the cords of hurt and resentment knotted in his gut. Baba had made clear his disapproval. Cruelly so. He would never back down, not even if poetry circles should one day revere the name Jalal Vaziri, because such admiration would not make him a wealthy man. Money was king to Baba. Money was god. And Jalal remained an infidel.

“Jalal,” said his father, “tell your brother how you made such a good deal on your house.”

“Navid knows, Baba. I told him and Farhad yesterday.”

“Your mother is anxious to see it. Maybe you will invite us down soon?”

Jalal only nodded and pushed away from the wall he leaned against. “I need to get on the road now.”

“Wait,” said Azadeh. “Maman wants to send some food with you.”

“Yes,” he whispered, “because God knows there are no restaurants along the thousand miles of road between here and my house.”

Azadeh flashed him the fiercest look she could manage. “Don’t be a brat.”

Aza was the daughter most like their mother, and rose quickest to her defense. His defense too. He knew she would act as his advocate in whatever discussion his father and brother would have about him after he left. Not that it would do any good. And not that she would ever relay such conversations verbatim. Whenever he asked, she would only brush aside his question, asserting he was crazy to see himself as the family outcast. Equally adamant, he declared her blind to his status.

Jalal always kept up appearances, and a dutiful son would never show disrespect by leaving his father’s home without a proper farewell. He crossed the room to Baba, who, like a king on a reclining leather throne, rose to exchange the customary kisses on each cheek. Jalal avoided his father’s eyes until Baba’s hand lingered too long on his shoulder.

“Do not be a stranger,” Baba said.

Maman’s voice behind Jalal interrupted the moment. He turned toward her, but his father’s words followed him, an invisible tether between them. Often, in farewell to visitors, he had heard Baba say, Do not be a stranger to my home. But never to close family, and never only, Do not be a stranger.

Maman’s hand touched Jalal’s cheek, demanding his full attention. “If you did not insist on driving,” she said, “you could visit us more often.”

Navid snorted in derision. If Farhad had been there, he would have reacted the same. Jalal’s brothers had razzed him about buying a car to drive across country from New York to avoid flying. They thought him weak for holding onto his childhood fear, which he viewed as insult added to injury. Their merciless taunting after he vomited from the turbulence during their flight from Beirut to Paris had birthed his phobia. Since then, only his love of international travel made him enter an airport. He kissed his mother and took the basket she offered. “I will call you when I get home.”

“No, azizam.” She wagged a finger at him. “You will call me when you get home, but you must also call me tonight when you stop to sleep.”

A protest parted his lips before affection sealed them and he smiled at her. “Yes, Maman.” He bent his head to kiss the top of hers, and with a last good-bye to all, moved toward the door where Azadeh stood with his duffle bag in hand.

“I’ll walk you out,” she said.

On the porch, he traded the basket for the bag and led the way to his car. After he stowed the duffle and food in the car, he stood beside the open door. “Do you have a problem, Aza?”

“Can’t I say good-bye to my brother in private without an ulterior motive?”

“You could, but that is not why you came out here.” Azadeh, now seemingly fascinated with his right shoulder, said nothing. “All right then,” he said, “I will guess. Is it about Baba? Or Maman?” Nothing. “Is it me?” Still nothing. He studied her face. “So, what is the problem with your marriage?”

She pounced on his last question. “Do you know something about Sam?”

“I know you are too good for him.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Her wan smile betrayed her. “It’s nothing. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

“Aza …”

She grabbed his collar and jerked, tilting his head down, so she could kiss his cheek. “Really. Everything’s fine. Now, go and don’t speed the whole way, okay?” She sprinted toward the house, calling over her shoulder. “I’ll phone you tomorrow night.”

Jalal, left standing with his mouth open, blinked and climbed into the car. He had driven past the Seattle city limits before he decided he really knew nothing about Sam that Azadeh did not already know. He would hear her cause for worry eventually; she never kept her secrets from him for long. Most of the time, the sharing was mutual. The extent of his real reasons for fleeing New York was one thing he had not shared. For the last six months, he had kept his vow. There had been no more drugs, and no more blackouts because he consumed little liquor now, a lot of wine, yes, but he was sixteen the last time wine had been enough to waste him. His mind was stable now. He could think. He could write.

He looked back on those years in New York with amazement. How he had kept his job—hell, kept his sanity—was a wonder. To have left that city whole, with published work as well, might even be miraculous. He felt shame, though. He had never held any real interest in any of the women he met there, but he had let them think he did. Would it have turned out differently, if he had met a woman he could relate to? A woman like Jocelyn. How old would she be now, forty? Forty-five, maybe. He had never been sure how old she was then. When he asked once, too old was all she said. He let it go. It did not matter. He was just past sixteen when they met in Paris. And, he had to admit, it was all because of Baba.

His father, determined to emigrate again, to America, had wanted them all to take English lessons. This, after Jalal had spent three years perfecting his French. He could already speak some English. Enough to flirt with the American girls he met in the cafés. That first night, he slouched in his seat in the back of the classroom, wishing he could be anywhere but there with his whole family. Even Farhad, already married, had not dared to disobey Baba’s command. Only his grandfather was exempt. What little French he knew, Jalal had taught him as they read the newspapers together, a daily ritual he began at the age of six, when he learned to read. Jalal had no choice. He would attend these language classes, but not willingly.

Then, Jocelyn walked through the door. She wrote her name on the blackboard and said, first in English, then repeated in French, “You may call me Miss Adams or Jocelyn, whichever you are comfortable with.” He would call her Jocelyn. And he would learn to speak perfect English.

The family took their beginning English lessons on Thursday nights, but he soon discovered she taught an advanced class on Tuesdays. After that, as often as he could slip away, he attended both classes. The first Tuesday night, she looked at him in surprise when he entered, but said nothing. At the end of class, she walked to the back row where he sat. “Jalal,” she said in French, “this is an advanced class, I’m afraid you wouldn’t learn much from it.”

He answered her in English. “I will study.”

She turned a chair around to face his and sat down. “But you are not registered for this class,” she said, speaking carefully in English. “Do you understand?”

“I will register,” he said. “I will pay the fee.”

Jocelyn smiled, but shook her head. “The class is full.”

He leaned forward and switched to French. “What does that matter? Will it be a problem for me to sit quietly here and take in what I can?” He looked into her eyes and let his smile spread like honey. She jumped up and backed away. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but she said nothing. “So,” he said, rising to his feet, “it is settled. I will see you on Thursday … and next Tuesday.”

Only to Azadeh did he confess his plan to seduce Jocelyn. They were sitting against the chimney in the attic of the house they rented. Rain dripped from the rafters all around them, but it was the only place in the house not occupied by other family members. As often happened, their conversation had started in French, then drifted into their native Farsi.

“But she’s old,” said Azadeh, “as old as Farhad, I would guess.”

“I know.” Jalal grinned. “That excites me.”

“You’re disgusting.” She turned away from him, but only for a moment. “She’s our teacher. You’ll get her in trouble.”

“It’s only a night class, not real school, not even my school. Besides, no one will know.” He glowered at her. “Right?”

She sighed and nodded. Seconds later, she tilted her chin up, defiant. “It doesn’t matter anyway. This is one of your fantasies. She won’t have anything to do with you,”

“Oh, yes she will, Aza. Wait and see.”

***

Following a near sleepless night in an Oregon hotel, Jalal headed south again, toward home. He crossed the California state line intending to drive to San Francisco and then follow Highway 1 down the coast, but with his mind focused elsewhere, he blew past the Bay Bridge exit. He was trying to create order from a flood of words that rose at the sight of a lone live oak a few miles back. By the time he realized Fremont was just up ahead, he had changed plans and pulled off into a travel plaza to write down the first lines of verse in his journal. When the words ran out he drove on toward San Jose to pick up the 101 there, hoping another oak would inspire the rest of the poem. He could head west at Coelho and still be home in time for tea.

After miles with no suitable tree in sight, Jalal’s thoughts drifted again to Paris. On Thursday nights, he had behaved himself. No one could have suspected his thoughts about Jocelyn. Tuesday nights were another thing. At first, she avoided being alone with him in the classroom, striking up a conversation with one or more students at the end of class and walking out with them. Then, one night, he insinuated himself into their discussion, and after a moment the other student excused herself. Jocelyn let him walk her home. For months after that, when he had free time, he waited at her corner, hoping she would come out. When she did, he followed her like a puppy. Jocelyn acknowledged his presence by warning him off with a glance, and he kept his distance, until one day when he followed her from the library. She stopped and turned around.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said.

“Why not?”

“It’s … not proper.”

He laughed. “This is Paris,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm.

“But I am American.”

“I am not.”

“You are a student.”

“Technically, I—”

“You are a boy, Jalal.”

He closed the distance between them in two quick steps and traced one fingertip lightly down her cheek. “You are beautiful.”

A small whimper escaped her lips before she swatted his hand away. “Don’t.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Don’t do that.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back. “I will be seventeen in three months.”

Jocelyn’s hand flew to her mouth and she closed her eyes. “Seventeen,” she said, “oh god.” She turned and walked away.

He fell in beside her. “What would it hurt to sit in a café with me? Just to talk.”

“It would encourage you.” She stopped and turned to him. “And what could we possibly have to talk about?”

He pulled a book from his satchel and held it up. “This?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve read The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath?”

“Indeed.”

A slow headshake accompanied her sigh. “Indeed,” she said. Then, she graced him with a smile.

Caught up in that memory, Jalal almost missed the tree he had spent the last hour hoping to find. He pulled to the roadside to study it. For a moment, nothing came, then he picked up the thread and followed it, letting it lead him to the words he sought. The road shoulder was too narrow for safety, so he drove on until he could pull off the highway. By then, the words had shaped themselves into another verse, and the tone of the poem had slipped into sadness. Jocelyn was still on his mind.

In his loneliest moments, Jalal thought about trying to find her, but reality always sobered him. She would be married now, probably a mother. She had moved on. He had moved on. But then, really, there had been so little to move on from. Still, when Baba announced they would be leaving Paris, Jalal had envisioned a different plan.

“You knew from the beginning we would be leaving Paris,” Azadeh told him one day in their attic hideaway. “You only met Jocelyn because of the English lessons.”

Jalal swallowed and handed the bottle of wine to her. “But that was in the future … a dream. Now, just because of one bombing, Baba has applied for our papers.”

“Maman shares his fears, Jalal. If you paid attention to the real world once in awhile, you would too. Because of those radicals, all Persians here will be persecuted.” She took a drink from the bottle and slammed it down between them. “I want to leave.”

He kept his eyes focused on his legs stretched out along the dusty floor. “Well … but that is a few months away. Who knows what could happen before then?”

“A lot of bad could happen. Have you forgotten why we left Iran?”

“No. I remember, but I meant … I will be eighteen by then.”

Azadeh dug her fist into his thigh muscle. “How can you dare think of doing such a thing, baradar-jan?”

In the end, he had no reason to stay behind in France. Jocelyn flew home to Connecticut to spend Christmas with her family. For only three weeks, she told him. He threw himself into his own family’s celebrations to help pass the time. For two days after her scheduled return, he tried to slip away to her apartment, but between school and Baba keeping him busy in the shop, he had no opportunity. Then it was Thursday, and though he would have no chance to be alone with her, Jalal knew he would see her in class that night. He was wrong.

They had a new English teacher, an old man. He explained he was a temporary replacement for Miss Adams, who notified the school she had accepted a marriage proposal and would not return to Paris. Jalal, aware that Azadeh tried to catch his eye, refused to acknowledge her because to accept her sympathy, would be to admit this news was true. He preferred to believe that when he went to Jocelyn’s apartment tomorrow, she would open her door. She would smile at him. She would walk to the café with him. That he would never see her again was simply impossible.

After school the next day, he phoned Baba to tell him he had to do research at the library for a school project and would be late coming to the shop. His real destination was Jocelyn’s place. He stood across the street, where he had stood a year ago, when he only dared to watch her door. A moving company van was parked out front, and through the open curtains, he saw uniformed workmen packing Jocelyn’s things. He did not notice the old woman who lived upstairs from her until she held out an envelope toward him.

“From the teacher,” she said.

Jalal took the envelope from her and as she scurried back home, he stared at the single word written on it—his name. Too numb to face reading the letter, he slipped it under his shirt where it lay against him for the next two hours while he worked. Jalal, fearing its presence easily discerned, paled at his father’s every word or movement until Baba, assuming he felt ill, released him early. Jalal ran all the way home and straight upstairs. Finding no privacy there, he grabbed a flashlight and climbed to the attic. His breath plumed in the freezing air, yet sweat beaded on his upper lip. He sat against the chimney with the light clamped between his knees and ripped open the envelope. Jocelyn had written only a single page.

My dearest Jalal,

I’m sorry I deceived you. I know it will take time, but I hope you will forgive me. I know you must have been shocked to find out I wasn’t returning to Paris. I thought it would be easier this way. Please understand, I enjoyed our time together, but this is where my life must go now.

Eric and I had plans to marry before I moved to Paris. In fact, I took the teaching job there because I was about to break our engagement. I wasn’t ready to be a wife. I ran away. He forgave me after a while, and we renewed contact this past September, but I wasn’t completely sure how I felt until I came back here. I know it was selfish not to be honest with you. You deserved better. Again, I’m sorry.

You will love America. Be happy, Jalal. I will never forget you.

Jocelyn

She had been right about America; it felt like home from the moment he arrived. Sometimes he wondered if she had also predicted correctly when she said she would never forget him. While living in New York, its proximity to Connecticut tempted him. He had connections. It might take only a phone call or two and he would find her. Except her surname was no longer Adams. Except his name was still Jalal Vaziri, not a common one in America, and he would have been easy to find. Except she had evidently never tried.

What would have happened if she had? Would he again have felt like nothing more than a boy with a crush on his teacher? Aza had been right; his relationship with Jocelyn was only one of his fantasies. How was it he had a sister who knew him so well and a father who would just as soon not know him at all? If Baba cared for him, why would he not accept him for what he was? He had just spent a week in the man’s house and not once had he asked about his writing. They only talked about money. It was always about money.

Jalal was nearly home when he passed the Welcome to Coelho sign and recalled Baba’s words to him before he left yesterday. Do not be a stranger. All his life, Baba had been a stranger to him. Did the man not know that? This was an extension of his cruelty, to pretend to be the loving father, when his heart toward his own son was as dry and barren as the land around Coelho in summer. When Jalal stopped at a red light, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Forget him,” he said. “Think of pleasant things.”

Though he had stopped twice more along the road to write, he had eaten nothing, and the scent of garlic wafting from some nearby restaurant made a decision for him. Instead of turning left toward home, he swung out of the turn pocket and continued on in search of a late lunch. A few times before, he had passed a restaurant with a French name not far from here. Did it wear the name in pretension, or would he be lucky enough to find they served true French cuisine? His hopes were not high when he walked into Pain sur la Table.

~~~

Copyright © 2011 by Linda Cassidy Lewis

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