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Exiles in America(3)

By:Christopher Bram


6

C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

photographs on the walls. None of this work was Daniel’s, however; it was all

by friends in New York.

“What a pretty dog,” said Elena when Jocko danced forward to say hello.

She gingerly stretched out her fingers to tap the top of his head. “Like a big

black sheep.”

“There’s a cat around somewhere,” said Daniel. “I hope you’re not aller-

gic.” Balthus usually made herself scarce when strangers were present.

Ross and Zack came out of the kitchen and introduced themselves. Abbas

only nodded after each name: Daniel wondered if he was arrogant and

haughty or just unsure about his English.

“What a pretty view,” declared Elena a few minutes later when she stood

outside on the terrace, a glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

“Don’t you think, Abbas?”

Again Abbas only nodded before he took a long suck off his own cigarette.

Not only did the Rohanis drink but they smoked—like chimneys. Zack

dug out an ashtray from the back of a kitchen drawer. Even without ciga-

rettes, they looked more French than Muslim. They certainly dressed French,

elegant in casual clothes, especially Elena. She wore a silky saffron blouse with

her jeans. Her long face initially struck Daniel as horsey, but her strong fea-

tures—her blade of nose and broad cheekbones and cool gray eyes—grew on

him, and she became oddly beautiful. She was clearly older than her husband,

although Abbas looked simultaneously young and old. His short black hair

formed a widow’s peak halfway up his skull, yet his umber skin was boyishly

smooth. His dark brown eyes were caged in narrow, black-framed designer

glasses like a raccoon mask.

Ross promptly struck up a conversation with Elena. He seemed quite

taken with her: his Southern accent grew just a little thicker.

“Tehran?” she replied. “Oh no. I have never lived there. I have only vis-

ited. You see, I am not Persian. Only Abbas is Persian. I am Russian. Or was

until the Soviet union   went kaput. I am from Uzbekistan. Which means I am

Turkic. Not Turkish but Turkic. Of Central Asia. With some Russian blood. I

have not been back in years. I hear it is unlivable.”

Abbas stood off to the side, warily watching Ross. “You have been to

Tehran?” he asked.

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

7

“Ages ago,” said Ross. “Back at the time of the Shah. So it was—what year?”

“Before 1979,” said Abbas. “That was when my family left. When I was

fourteen.” He spoke very carefully, in a soft, low, husky tenor, like a muted

clarinet.

“Your family, uh, emigrated?” asked Zack.

“We fled. To Paris. I grew up in Paris. I have been back to Tehran only to

visit my brother. Who returned after the death of Khomeini. But it is still an

impossible country for artists.”

“And for women,” said Elena.

Ross said something in French, and Abbas answered in what sounded like

fluent French. Daniel didn’t know the language.

“We met,” Elena announced, “in Berlin. And we lived in Paris for a time.

And now we are here. We are going to be Canadian next. We await our pa-

pers. When we finish here, we will go to Toronto and become Canucks.” She

happily puckered her lips around the strange, new syllables, almost kissing

them. “That is the word?”

Ross assured her that that was the word.

The sun was down now, the leafy green trees full of inky blue shadow.

Husband and wife blew their silky streams of smoke into the gloaming. Daniel

noticed Zack twitching his nostrils, not in distaste but in nostalgia. Zack used

to smoke himself.

“So how do you like Virginia so far?” Zack asked.

“We like it enough,” said Elena. “We find it hot and damp, but we hear it

will change.”

“Have you visited Colonial Williamsburg yet?” asked Ross. “That can be

a hoot. Our cartoon America.”

“We walked in it yesterday. We found it very cute.”

She used we a lot, a word that Daniel tried to use carefully, saving it only

for special occasions.

“Zack, darling? Why don’t you start the grill?” He wanted to remind the

Rohanis that he and Zack were a couple, too. “We’re going to keep it simple.

A plain old American cookout.”

Zack stepped to the end of the terrace and began to arrange a neat black

pyramid of charcoal in the hibachi.

8

C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

“Such a quiet town,” said Elena. “Is it safe to walk at night? They give us

a house one street over.” She waved her hand at the trees. “I go out at night