I am hungry. I think of another place to have a free meal, St. Mary’s Armenian Church. I like churches better than mosques. Mosques remind me of my sin, or what they consider to be sin. Also at the church we eat at a dining table. At my home we ate at a table rather than sitting on the floor around a sofreh, as most old-fashioned Iranians do. My father, though strict, was modern in some ways. He worked in an office for a building construction company.
At the church’s dining hall I take some beans, chicken, potatoes, from the buffet table and sit by a window to eat. On the other side of the room a group of women, who seem to be employees of the church, have gathered in front of a television. I look out the window and watch people hurrying by, talking, laughing. I fall into a reverie about my mother. How different my life would have been if I only had her and not my father to look after me. She would have been tolerant of my having been with Mohsen, would have forgiven me for getting pregnant. She put love before her principles. She would have let me have the child. She was able to get pregnant only once and would have had a desire for my child. She would have told the neighbors and other busy-bodies that my husband died, or made up something acceptable to them. I wouldn’t have been forced to run away from home. Wouldn’t have lost my baby. Wouldn’t have lost my mind. I am smart, I know, but crazy. I am not stupid.
Someone is tapping me on my shoulder. I turn around. A young woman is standing in front of me.
“Can I sit with you?” she asks.
“I have to leave.” I get up and run out.
I sit across from the hotel and watch people coming and going into it. I look at them very, very carefully, hoping to be able to report something to Lynn. I see a policeman approaching and I nervously pull the chador more tightly around me.
“Get up and go away,” he orders. I see his legs in front of me.
I dig out the pouch from my bag, take out most of the money, and give it to him.
He walks away to his car. Then a thin, tall, furtive looking man comes out of the second hotel door that leads to the basement and he goes towards the avenue. He makes me nervous. I have seen him standing in doorways, behind lampposts or trees lining this street and staring at the hotel. What does he want? Is he foreign or Iranian, it’s hard to tell. Then I realize he’s the same man with the paisley design shirt. He could be planning to bomb the hotel. Should I go and tell Lynn? But I know today is her day off. Anyway the man is already out of my sight.
I start reading my book. When I look up next, a dress, folded up neatly, is on the floor in front of me. Who put it there, so quietly, without me noticing it? Maybe that man? I pick it up and look at it. It is too big for me but it is beautiful, yellow with blue stripes. I put it in my bag, put my money and the bowl in it too, and get up.
I go to the thrift shop next to the Hejabi Mosque and try to sell the dress. A fat woman is standing behind the counter with a stack of clothes on it. She is picking up each item and folding them.
“What do you want?” she asks curtly.
I hold the dress before her. “Can you buy this?”
She glances at it. “We don’t buy things here.”
I spread the dress on an empty corner of the counter.
“What do you want for it?” she asks.
“Anything you give me.”
She takes out a few coins from a drawer in front of her and throws it on the counter. I pick them up and leave.
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