91

Syracuse, New York

David needed to walk a little to clear his head.

He had spent Friday and Saturday with his parents in the hospital and had promised his father that he’d be back when visiting hours began at noon. But now, to his amazement, he was actually about to meet Marseille face-to-face. The thought both excited and terrified him at the same time.

Anxious to be on time, he got up early and drove his rental car to the hill where Syracuse University perched, finding the campus largely still asleep on this cold, quiet Sunday morning. He found a parking space on Crouse Avenue right away, got out, and began a brisk stroll through streets whose memories echoed from his past. Marseille would meet him in about forty-five minutes for an 8 a.m. breakfast at the University Sheraton, where she was staying. Then she’d be leaving to meet up with some friends from the wedding party for a 9:30 church service in the eastern suburb of Manlius. Her flight back to the West Coast left at one that afternoon. That gave them about an hour to talk.

It had been a long time since David had been on an American college campus. Marshall Street, the students’ main drag, wasn’t exactly charming, but somehow it had a worn-in feeling that seemed rather comforting to him at this moment. It was a slice of the familiar world he’d left long ago, though it wasn’t really one that belonged to him anymore.

As he stepped over a break in the sidewalk and around a pile of trash—beer bottles and fast-food wrappers apparently left over from the night before—he flashed back to scenes of the delirious chaos in Syracuse whenever S.U.’s basketball team won a key game. He remembered once or twice when the school made it to the Final Four and his brothers took him to eat pizza with them at the Varsity and buy sweatshirts at one of the many shops on M Street. He used to love hanging out there with Azad and Saeed. It made him feel older, cooler, than he was.

As he walked the few short blocks toward the Sheraton, he tried to savor these memories, in part because he didn’t want to think about a world on the edge of war. He wished he could dial back the clock to a time that was simpler and happier. Maybe that’s why he was headed to breakfast with a woman whose memory had such a strong hold on him, a woman with whom he had longed to reconnect since he was only an adolescent.

David still had another fifteen minutes before breakfast, so he stepped into the Starbucks on the corner. The place was quiet but for the Wynton Marsalis jazz music playing in the background. He ordered a triple-shot latte and sat at a table in the corner, thankful it was too early for the place to be filled with students. He found himself wishing he’d brought a book, something to occupy him as he waited. He certainly didn’t want to be early.

Finally it was time. He took a deep breath, crossed the street, entered the lobby of the Sheraton, and was soon sitting by himself at a table in Rachel’s Restaurant with a new cup of coffee. He was starting to worry that he might get a little too jumpy with all this caffeine.

And suddenly, there she was, carrying a red scarf and black wool coat and sporting a turtleneck sweater to ward off the late-winter chill. Wearing faded jeans with a leather backpack thrown over her shoulder, she could have been a graduate student herself. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, especially those large green eyes.

She walked in, spotted him, and gave him a shy smile. He stood to greet her and was grateful when she gave him a quick hug.

“David, it’s really you!”

“Hello, Marseille,” he replied with a warm smile.

In another few minutes they had ordered—eggs Benedict for him, blueberry pancakes for her. She had settled in across from him with her own cup of coffee and was looking suddenly hesitant. He glanced around the warmly lit room, noticed the waitstaff beginning to set up the tables for Sunday brunch, and was glad they were in a quiet corner, away from the preparations.

He spoke first. “It’s really good to see you, Marseille. I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“It’s been a difficult year. But you know, things have been difficult for a long time. How’s your mom doing?”

“She’s a fighter, but I’m not sure how much longer she has. Thanks for sending her flowers, by the way. It meant a lot to her—and my dad, too.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments. Then David said, “It must have been hard on you, losing your dad. What happened?”

She smiled sadly and looked away for a moment before meeting David’s eyes again. “I guess he never really recovered from my mom’s death. You know we moved to Oregon right away. He believed he’d never be able to raise me alone. He wanted me to have at least a grandmother in my life, and he was wise in that. A girl needs a woman’s touch as she goes through life. My grandma helped me through a lot. . . .”

She trailed off, and David remembered reading that her grandmother was suffering from Alzheimer’s and living in a nursing home.

He shifted back to her father. “Did your dad end up teaching out there? He was so brilliant. He’d been a professor at Princeton, right?”

“He was, but no, he never taught in Portland. He tried to write articles for some newspapers and Middle Eastern journals. But he couldn’t ever keep up with the deadlines. He’d spend months researching and then quit after writing half an article. He seemed haunted. He’d tell me he was a cursed man, that everyone was against him somehow. In the last few years, he lived in another world. He’d mutter things in Farsi even, and he’d look at me as though he was wondering who I was.”

“That must have been awful for you.”

“It was sometimes. But on other days, my dad seemed his old self, and we’d go for long walks or bicycle rides. Those were wonderful, but he was unpredictable. Lots of days he’d simply stay in his room. But I didn’t want to talk about my dad right away. I wanted to apologize first and try to explain.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Marseille. It’s been a long time. We were just kids.”

“I know, but we had a real connection; I’ve always believed that.”

She paused and looked at him as if hoping he wouldn’t contradict her. He didn’t, and when she spoke again, she seemed to have a bit more strength in her voice. “I wanted to reach out to you. You have no idea how much I wanted to talk with you and see you again. But my father absolutely forbade it. He was furious with you, David.”

“Why?”

“Because of what happened between you and me in Canada. He would rant against the Iranians—all Iranians—that they’d caused him nothing but heartbreak all his life. What you and I did . . . we shouldn’t have let ourselves go so far. I don’t blame you, but my father did. He blamed you for ruining my life.”

“Why did you tell him? I mean, I agree, it was wrong. But wouldn’t that be hard for a father to hear?”

Marseille looked down at her hands resting on the table. She seemed to be gathering courage again. “I didn’t tell him about us, David. Not at first. I didn’t have to. After a few months, it became kind of obvious.”