Page 51 of The Mismatch

The conditions of the marriage were reiterated. Both parties had agreed to the settlement, after much back and forth between the families prior to the wedding. It was odd to Neda how little both she and Hossein cared about the specifics of the contract, all they wanted was to be married, but their families treated the whole affair as a business matter.

‘Do you consent to marry Hossein Nazari, on the terms listed?’ her Imam asked.

Tradition dictated that she said nothing, to keep the groom on his toes, until he asked the same question for the third time. Then she said, ‘Yes, I do.’

Hossein’s Imam then asked him, ‘Do you accept Neda Haghighi as your wife?’

Hossein replied, ‘I do.’

And with that, Neda Haghighi became Neda Nazari.

Once the ceremony was over, she was surprised by the lightness she felt. The way a person feels when they no longer have a choice or power over something. When the decision is made and there can be no more wondering whether what one is doing is right, no more worrying about the implications ofsuch a decision forty years later. There was no going back now, and Neda was glad.

The second party, the actual wedding, weeks later at Hossein’s family home, was much larger and a more nerve-racking experience, which made little sense because the deed had already been done: she was now his.

Neda had gone to the beautician’s in the morning with her friends to get ready. The hair on her entire body was removed, a rigmarole of hair-removal powders and creams. She had never felt so smooth, so polished. Her eyes were outlined with kohl, her eyebrows arched like the wings of a bird. She felt overdone, yes, but the thrill of seeing someone else in front of the mirror, NedaNazari, sent flashes of excitement through her.

She wore a white lace wedding dress. A veil covered her face, partly obstructing her vision. She preferred it that way, not being entirely open to the eyes of other people as well as not being able to see the expressions of those around her.

It was late October now and Tehran was cooler, but despite this, whilst preparations were being made – both to herself and within the house – she kept a fan by her side. The soothing whir that often lulled her to sleep was her comfort now. It calmed the flutters in her stomach, drowned out the voices calling to her from her childhood. She was both excited and terrified, longing for and repelled by this change.

And when Neda tentatively voiced her fears with friends and relatives, some married, others engaged, a handful single, she discovered they held – or had held – similarsentiments. Marrying meant gaining a new family in your virtually unknown husband.

‘Shahd’s husband is a monster,’ her aunties would gossip.

‘Like mine then!’ another woman would laugh, her sad eyes not matching her shrill, only half-joking response.

‘All men are monsters,’ another would shout.

‘Not mine,’ a woman newly married into the family would say, to which everyone would think:lucky kharorjust you wait.

‘It’s normal, Neda. You’ve always been indecisive, and this is a huge decision. But it’s the right one. I see the way he makes you smile,’ Shanauz had said. ‘And he isbeautifulso if you don’t want him, I’ll have him …’ Neda had laughed then and hit her friend playfully on the arm. No one knew her as well as Shanauz did; Neda hoped she was right.

The more Neda spoke to Hossein, the more convinced she became that he was different from other men. Her dad was kind but didn’t understand her decision to be a practising Muslim. Didn’t quite get why she disapproved of his drinking. He was too Western, she thought. In contrast, her brothers were old-fashioned in many of their views, mainly regarding the aspects of Islam that had nothing to do with them. They believed women should be at home cooking, cleaning or breeding – definitely not working once married.

Neda had had conversations with Hossein about her working and he simply said, ‘Do whatever you want, azizam.’ He was accommodating; wanted her to be happy and would readily assist her to achieve such aims. ‘I’m just so thankful toAllah that you said yes,’ he often said, the tops of his cheeks pink. He made her feel beautiful, special even.

So, yes, Neda was frightened of marriage, but she also realised that Hossein was different. That with him she could live the life she wanted; that it didn’t need to change drastically, not if she didn’t want it to.

The men celebrated upstairs and the women downstairs – this was Hossein’s mother’s idea, common among highly religious families, and not at all what Neda’s siblings’ weddings were like. There was also a communal room where the sexes could mix – something Maman encouraged. Music was loud, and whilst supposedly no alcohol was consumed, there was an air of drunkenness. People were high off each other’s excitement. Neda sat talking to old friends whilst her relatives danced in the middle of the room.

And then she was urged to dance too, hands were pulling her up, and her body was suddenly moving. She had rehearsed the moves many times before. The term ‘two left feet’ very much applied to Neda, but from their cheers no one seemed to notice – or at least they didn’t let it show – how terribly she was dancing. But then, Iranians loved to whisper behind each other’s backs, so they probably noted how she swung her arms a tad too wildly, curved in an unflattering way, her hair tucked behind her rather prominent ears.

When she sat back down, she looked at her surroundings properly. From within a large picture frame Hossein’s father was frowning into the camera. He wore an army uniform, his jawline strong and pronounced. Looking at it, she wonderedwhat he would think about his only son marrying her. She shook her head, forcing herself to be present in the moment.

She couldn’t help but admire the gold and other valuables displayed in cabinets around the living room. It was clear women dominated this house; everything was in its place. And yet there was a sterility to the cleanliness.

Even louder roaring erupted from the women. One of Hossein’s sisters patted her knee.

‘Hossein!’ someone said, breathless with excitement, or perhaps from the dancing. Those who wore hijabs quickly put them on.

Hossein walked towards them in his wedding suit. Just looking at him Neda felt herself blushing. She hoped those around her believed it was from embarrassment and not desire. His hair was long at the front. As he made his way towards her a strand fell in front of his eyes. It reminded her of the first time they spoke, and she resisted the urge to move it from his face.

He sat next to her, accepting the congratulations of those around him. Photos were taken. By the end she felt her cheeks straining from smiling.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘OK … how about you?’