“They told me not to unpack my bags. I haven’t. They told me that California was enough like Tehran. Enough like Tehran. Be careful when you gossip in Farsi because everyone is from Iran. Everyone left after the Shah did, but they didn’t unpack their bags, because it would only be a moment, A MOMENT, before things returned to normal. I wonder if the Shah unpacked his bags. I wonder if the Ayatollah did when he was in France or in Iraq for that matter,” said Farnoosh, lighting the gas burner with a pop hiss.
“Then they said, make sure that you say that you are Persian. Persian like a cat. Persia is an exotic land filled with spices, cats, rugs, and bazaars to Americans. They don’t know that it doesn’t exist any more. Iran is a terrorist menace indistinguishable from any other country with a desert. If they could find Israel or Persia on a map I would be very surprised. I’m willing to bet your hookah on that. They couldn’t find- do you want a little sugar or a lot of sugar?”
The Jinn was laying on the couch reading a Los Angeles magazine with Zach Galafinakis on the front. He was wearing her husband Emir’s FUBU sweatshirt because Farnoosh’s house was always freezing. It felt like it had gotten colder recently. The lofted ceilings and marble hallways of the Westwood mansion made the Jinn shiver in his spiral-toed slippers. The occasional clinking of Emir’s free weights as he edged his body closer to perfection left along with him weeks ago. At least he left his FUBU sweatshirt. He wouldn’t be cold where he had gone.
Tala was away at a college prep course, so she wasn’t around to complain to her mother that the house was arctic cold. It reminded the Jinn of a castle of a dying Chinese warlord that he had once inhabited. No warmth of life, just howling winds. Centuries in the desert made air-conditioning intolerable to Jinn. There were so many horrible inventions in this century.
Farnoosh could see her reflection in the coffee grounds. They were getting ready to boil.
“Jinn? a little sugar or… A lot of sugar. You always have a lot of sugar don’t you Jinn?” Farnoosh asked under her breath, the corners of her mouth pulling down as bearing the weight of the world in her cheeks.
The Jinn hated the word always. As a Jinn, enslaved for eternity, forced to grant wishes of masters of his vessel he had a different opinion of time. Always was never actually always. Always meant, for now, and humans have terrible ideas of what that even means. Humans just have terrible ideas, things that explode, incinerate, and pierce came to mind. Air conditioning came to mind as his immortal nipples puckered beneath Emir’s sweatshirt. The Jinn sighed and ran a hand through the ponytail that sprouted off of the top of his bald head like a stalk of celery. He thought about the places and times that he had appeared. He hoped each time that there would be no one left to rouse him from his slumber. He wanted to dissolve. He kicked off his curl-toed slippers and stretched out along the couch.
“A little sugar,” the Jinn rumbled, knowing that Farnoosh already put too much in it.
“You know Asa, down on Brentwood?”
“No,” said Jinn, pretending that he was reading. Pretending that he did not know who Asa down on Brentwood was. Asa down on Brentwood was Farnoosh’s mortal enemy, the younger, the more beautiful, the more western Asa down on Brentwood. The Asa of the fairer skin and the thicker hair. The Asa of the little dog and the perfect, plastic sculpted body parts. The Asa who was in talks about starring on a reality show about how she spends her money foolishly. She was the whore of Babylon, her taste in clothing is dreadful, her khoresht is far too salty, and she says that she is Turkish. Not Persian, not Iranian, but Turkish. Disgraceful.
“Yes you do. She was drinking coffee with a man who was not her husband. They were outside of Whole Foods today. I saw her when I went for sugar. She didn’t recognize me, maybe because I had just gotten my hair cut. You didn’t notice did you?”
Farnoosh fingered the cropped ends of her thick dark hair. It took her a week to leave the house after Emir left. She felt as if she took a step out the front door an arm might fall off, or an eye would pop out and shatter onto the ground. She felt delicate. Her haircut was her escape plan. A first step towards newness. She hated it, but she still wanted Jinn to notice. He didn’t look up from his magazine. He turned a page.
“You didn’t notice that I got my hair cut as well,” replied Jinn as he turned a page with a lackadaisical finger to a story about Mediterranean Restaurants on Sunset Boulevard.
“Your hair doesn’t grow,” said Farnoosh, placing a demitasse of thick dark coffee on the coffee table, with an annoyed clink!
“Maybe you just don’t notice.”
The Jinn was scanning the page, looking at pictures of chickpeas and roasted red peppers.
“You’re in foul mood today.”
“You can get rid of me any time that you want,” said the Jinn tossing the magazine to the side and rubbing his temples where a headache had materialized. The Jinn took his coffee between two delicate fingers and sipped it gingerly.
Farnoosh watched him drinking coffee on her couch. He looked faded. He looked smaller than when she saw him spring from her uncle’s hookah in Tehran. Then again, everything looks bigger when you’re twelve.
“Then they said, make sure that you say that you are Persian. Persian like a cat. Persia is an exotic land filled with spices, cats, rugs, and bazaars to Americans. They don’t know that it doesn’t exist any more. Iran is a terrorist menace indistinguishable from any other country with a desert. If they could find Israel or Persia on a map I would be very surprised. I’m willing to bet your hookah on that. They couldn’t find- do you want a little sugar or a lot of sugar?”
The Jinn was laying on the couch reading a Los Angeles magazine with Zach Galafinakis on the front. He was wearing her husband Emir’s FUBU sweatshirt because Farnoosh’s house was always freezing. It felt like it had gotten colder recently. The lofted ceilings and marble hallways of the Westwood mansion made the Jinn shiver in his spiral-toed slippers. The occasional clinking of Emir’s free weights as he edged his body closer to perfection left along with him weeks ago. At least he left his FUBU sweatshirt. He wouldn’t be cold where he had gone.
Tala was away at a college prep course, so she wasn’t around to complain to her mother that the house was arctic cold. It reminded the Jinn of a castle of a dying Chinese warlord that he had once inhabited. No warmth of life, just howling winds. Centuries in the desert made air-conditioning intolerable to Jinn. There were so many horrible inventions in this century.
Farnoosh could see her reflection in the coffee grounds. They were getting ready to boil.
“Jinn? a little sugar or… A lot of sugar. You always have a lot of sugar don’t you Jinn?” Farnoosh asked under her breath, the corners of her mouth pulling down as bearing the weight of the world in her cheeks.
The Jinn hated the word always. As a Jinn, enslaved for eternity, forced to grant wishes of masters of his vessel he had a different opinion of time. Always was never actually always. Always meant, for now, and humans have terrible ideas of what that even means. Humans just have terrible ideas, things that explode, incinerate, and pierce came to mind. Air conditioning came to mind as his immortal nipples puckered beneath Emir’s sweatshirt. The Jinn sighed and ran a hand through the ponytail that sprouted off of the top of his bald head like a stalk of celery. He thought about the places and times that he had appeared. He hoped each time that there would be no one left to rouse him from his slumber. He wanted to dissolve. He kicked off his curl-toed slippers and stretched out along the couch.
“A little sugar,” the Jinn rumbled, knowing that Farnoosh already put too much in it.
“You know Asa, down on Brentwood?”
“No,” said Jinn, pretending that he was reading. Pretending that he did not know who Asa down on Brentwood was. Asa down on Brentwood was Farnoosh’s mortal enemy, the younger, the more beautiful, the more western Asa down on Brentwood. The Asa of the fairer skin and the thicker hair. The Asa of the little dog and the perfect, plastic sculpted body parts. The Asa who was in talks about starring on a reality show about how she spends her money foolishly. She was the whore of Babylon, her taste in clothing is dreadful, her khoresht is far too salty, and she says that she is Turkish. Not Persian, not Iranian, but Turkish. Disgraceful.
“Yes you do. She was drinking coffee with a man who was not her husband. They were outside of Whole Foods today. I saw her when I went for sugar. She didn’t recognize me, maybe because I had just gotten my hair cut. You didn’t notice did you?”
Farnoosh fingered the cropped ends of her thick dark hair. It took her a week to leave the house after Emir left. She felt as if she took a step out the front door an arm might fall off, or an eye would pop out and shatter onto the ground. She felt delicate. Her haircut was her escape plan. A first step towards newness. She hated it, but she still wanted Jinn to notice. He didn’t look up from his magazine. He turned a page.
“You didn’t notice that I got my hair cut as well,” replied Jinn as he turned a page with a lackadaisical finger to a story about Mediterranean Restaurants on Sunset Boulevard.
“Your hair doesn’t grow,” said Farnoosh, placing a demitasse of thick dark coffee on the coffee table, with an annoyed clink!
“Maybe you just don’t notice.”
The Jinn was scanning the page, looking at pictures of chickpeas and roasted red peppers.
“You’re in foul mood today.”
“You can get rid of me any time that you want,” said the Jinn tossing the magazine to the side and rubbing his temples where a headache had materialized. The Jinn took his coffee between two delicate fingers and sipped it gingerly.
Farnoosh watched him drinking coffee on her couch. He looked faded. He looked smaller than when she saw him spring from her uncle’s hookah in Tehran. Then again, everything looks bigger when you’re twelve.