"I am fine, thank you," he said. "How are you?"
The girl smiled. "Where are you from?"
One day, Mustafa thought, I will speak in such a way that no one will ask this rude question because they will not believe, even for a minute, that they are talking to a foreigner. He picked up his plastic bag and walked outside.
A Mexican American couple crossed the sidewalk, she pushing a baby in a stroller, he holding the hand of a toddler. They walked unhurriedly while Rose watched them with envy. Now that her marriage was over, every couple she saw seemed blissfully content.
"You know what? I wish your grandma-the-witch could have seen me flirting with that Turk. Can you imagine her horror? I cannot think of a worse nightmare for the proud Tchakhmakhchian family! Proud and puffed up… proud and.." Rose didn't finish her sentence because she was distracted by a most puckish thought. The light turned green, the cars that were lined up in front of her lurched forward, and the van behind her honked. But Rose remained motionless. The fantasy was so delicious she could not move. Her mind wallowed in many images, while her eyes beamed a ray of pure rage at an oblique angle. That, indeed, was the third most common side effect of postmarital chronic resentment: It not only made you talk to yourself and be obstinate with others, but it also made you quite irrational. Once a woman felt justifiable resentment, the world turned upside down, and unreason appeared perfectly reasonable.
Oh sweet vengeance. Recovery was a long-term plan, an investment that paid off over time. But retaliation was quick to act. Rose's first instinct was to do something, anything, to exasperate her ex-mother-in-law. And there existed on the surface of the earth only one thing that could annoy the women of the Tchakhmakhchian family even more than an odar: a Turk!
How interesting it would be to flirt with her ex-husband's archenemy. But where would you find a Turkish man in the midst of the Arizona desert? They didn't grow on cacti, did they? Rose chuckled as her facial expression changed from recognition to one of intense gratitude. What a lovely coincidence that fortune had just introduced her to a Turk. Or was it not a coincidence?
Singing along with the song, Rose moved forward. But instead of going straight on her route she veered to the left, made a full U-turn, and once in the other lane, sped in the opposite direction.
Primitive love, I want what it used to be. In next to no time the ultramarine 1984 Jeep Cherokee had reached Fry's Supermarket's parking lot. I don't have to think, right now you've got me at the brink. This is good-bye for all the times I cried…
The car moved in a semicircle, then maneuvered crosswise, thus reaching the main exit of the supermarket. Just when Rose was about to lose any hope of finding the young man, she spotted him patiently waiting at the bus stop with a flimsy plastic bag next to him."Hey, Mostapha!" Rose yelled, cocking her head from the half-open window. "Wanna ride?"
"Sure, thanks." Mustafa nodded and made a frail attempt to correct her pronunciation: "It's Mus-ta-fa ".
Inside the car, Rose smiled.."Mustapha, meet my daughter, Armanoush…. But I call her Amy! Amy this is Mustapha, Mustapha this is Amy…."
While the young man beamed at the sleepy baby, Rose studied his face for signs of recognition but couldn't find any. So, she decided to give him another hint, this time a more revealing one: "My daughter's full name is Amy Tchakhmakhchian."
If the words had inspired any negative recognition, Mustafa's face didn't show it. So Rose felt the need to repeat, just in case it hadn't been understood the first time: "Armanoush Tchakh-makhchi-an! "
It was only then that the young man's hazel eyes flickered, though not exactly in the way Rose had anticipated.
"Chak-mak-chi-an… yak-mak-q…! Hey, that sounds like Turkish!" he exclaimed happily.
"Well, as a matter of fact, it's Armenian," Rose said. Suddenly she felt insecure. "Her father-I mean, my ex-husband-" She swallowed hard as if trying to get rid of some sour taste. "He was, I mean, he is, Armenian."
"Oh yeah?" he said nonchalantly.
He didn't get it, did he? Rose wondered to herself as she chewed the inside of her mouth. Then, as if breathing out a suppressed hiccup long welling up in her throat, she let out a whoop of laughter. But he is cute… very cute…. He will be my sweet vengeance! she thought.
"Listen," Rose said. "I don't know if you like Mexican art but there is a group exhibition opening tomorrow night. If you don't have other plans we could go to it and grab a bite afterward.""Mexican art…?" Mustafa paused.
"People who have seen it elsewhere say it's really good," Rose said. "So what do you say…. Would you like to come with me?"
"Mexican art…!" Mustafa echoed with confidence. "Sure, why not?"
"Awesome." Rose cheered up. "It's so nice to meet you, Mostapha," she said, distorting his name again. But this time Mustafa felt no need to correct her.
THREE
Sugar
Is it true? Please somebody tell me it is not true!" Uncle Dikran Stamboulian exclaimed as he banged the door open and dashed into the living room, searching for his nephew or nieces or anyone willing to console him. His dark eyes were slightly bulged with excitement. He had a full, drooping mustache that turned up slightly at the ends, making him look like he was smiling even when seriously enraged.
"Please calm down and have a seat, Uncle," Auntie Surpun, the youngest of the Tchakhmakhchian sisters, muttered without directly looking at him. Being the only one in the family who had unreservedly supported Barsam's marriage to Rose, she now felt culpable. Such self-reproach was not something she was used to. A professor of humanities at the University of California at Berkeley, Surpun Tchakhmakhchian was a self-confident feminist scholar who believed that every problem in this world was negotiable by calm dialog and reason. There were times this particular conviction had made her feel alone in a family as temperamental as hers.
Dikran Stamboulian did as he was told and scuffled toward an empty chair, chewing on the ends of his mustache. The whole family was gathered around an antique mahogany table full of food, although nobody seemed to be eating anything. Auntie Varsenig's twin babies slept peacefully on the sofa. Distant cousin Kevork Karaoglanian was here too, having flown from Minneapolis for a social event organized by the Armenian Youth Community in the Bay Area. Over the past three months Kevork had dutifully attended every event organized by the group-a benefit concert, Annual Picnic, Christmas Party, Friday Night Light Party, Annual Winter Gala, Sunday Brunch, and a rafting race to benefit ecotour
m ism in Yerevan. Uncle Dikran suspected the reason his handsome nephew came to San Francisco so frequently was not only because he was committed to these organizational events, but also because he had a yet-to-be-revealed affection for a girl he had met in, the group.
Dikran Stamboulian gazed longingly at the food set out on the table, and reached for a jar of yogurt drink, Americanized with too many ice cubes. In multihued clay bowls of different sizes were many ofhis favorite dishes: fassoulye pilaki, kadin budu kofte, karmyarlk, newly made churek, and to Uncle Dikran's delight, bastirma. Though he was still fuming, his heart warmed at the sight of bastirma and entirely melted when he saw his favorite dish next to it: Burma.
Despite the fact that he had always been under the strict dietary surveillance of his wife, every year Uncle Dikran had added another layer of flab to his infamous belly, like a tree trunk adding a growth ring with the passing of each year. Now he was a squat and portly man who did not mind drawing attention to either fact. Two years ago he had been offered a role in a pasta commercial. He had played a jolly cook whose spirits could not be dampened, even when he was dumped by his fiancee, since he still owned his kitchen and could cook spaghetti casserole. In truth, just as in the commercial, Uncle Dikran was such an exceptionally good-humored man that whenever one of his many acquaintances wanted to illustrate the cliche of fat people being far more cheery fellows than others, they would cite his name. Except today Uncle Dikran didn't look like his usual self.