On Opera and International Relations

I looked up and a dark, attractive man was giving me a very frank stare from the booth across the restaurant. I smiled and looked back down to my glass. A memory I haven’t thought of in years came rushing back so intensely I could smell the exotic spice of the little garret room and that rainy evening, back when the world and I were very young. The empire that we once called Persia was stable and prosperous in those days, and the emerging professional class families sent their sons to Europe and the US for a modern education. Amir had come in that wave of progressive thinking to the heartland of America to study science and technology. Who knew in our lifetime the earth would shift beneath our feet, making our countries enemies? The man I saw before me in that restaurant so long ago was exquisitely handsome, with dark silky hair and skin lighter than my own tanned flesh. When I looked up and saw him staring at me with eyes I could drown in, I returned the stare immodestly for much longer than I should have. There was only one table between us and it was empty. I tried not to look again, but even when I glanced for only a second, his eyes were still devouring me. He was with another man who was not his equal in looks, but had more courage. The friend ventured a question, forcing me to look and respond. I think he asked me if I was at the University, but he could have asked my shoe size for all I knew, because when I looked up I fell back into the deep pool of Amir’s eyes and had to struggle for air.

The friend asked for my phone number and foolishly I gave it to him. I have no idea what his name was now, but when my phone rang later that week, it was Amir. Whatever arrangement they had made I never knew, just that I was grateful not to have to turn down the friend. My first meeting with the beautiful Persian was in the student commons of University of Kentucky. He had no car, could not drive, and refused my offer of transportation. If I had known anything about his country I wouldn’t have suggested driving him. That evening I listened to the history of his country, the pride of his people, his dream and hopes, and I knew this man was thunderstruck by me. I knew equally that I was charmed and intrigued by him, but had heard too much of foreign entanglements. My body was responding to the look and smell of him, but my brain was telling me to run. I listened to my body first and checked in with my brain several months later.

He made no move to kiss me that day, perhaps because I held myself a bit aloof, biding my time, unsure of how to handle the dangerous feelings. It was weeks later that I walked up the three flights of stairs and knocked on his door. He was not expecting me and I had no intentions to seduce him. We had met several times and exchanged a few goodbye kisses, but my sexual experience at that point in time was extremely limited, and I think his may have been equally so. I believed I was only seeking refuge from the storm that night, but I should have known better. The music coming from his record player was unexpected, Italian Opera, with a tenor singing sweet love songs. Amir pulled off my damp coat and tossed it over a chair. I had just finished a shift at the department store where I worked after classes at the University and was in professional black, including hose and heels. He had on a white cotton shirt woven in his country, with delicate embroidery along the collar. I slipped off my shoes because they were wet from the rain and looked around the room. There was no place to sit except on his bed. I didn’t have long to think about what to do now before his arms were around me. His mouth was soft and sweet and he smelled of roses and some spice I could not define.

The books he had been reading were tossed onto the floor and he undressed me before I could think of saying no. He pushed me down to the narrow bed and stood over me while he pulled his shirt over his head, then the trousers fell to the floor. I was suddenly overwhelmed with modesty and tried to cover myself with the sheet, but he pulled it back and put his own wonderful body in its place. His skin was soft as rose petals, whether naturally or from some secret Persian elixir I never knew. I only know I arched my back and rose to meet his hands as they caressed my own softness lovingly, tenderly. The aria rang out gloriously in the background as he moved in me, and our climax seemed to be paced to the music. After we were done he clutched me desperately and said, “You are in my heart Elaine.” It was not “I love you” and required no reply. Was it an impassioned declaration of undying love or the lonely voice of a young man, far from home and family, clinging to me for shelter? I only know the fervor I heard in his voice, the need for procession of my body and soul. I didn't know I would run when I left his room. I didn't know I would let the phone ring for weeks, fearful it might be him and I unable to resist if I saw or touched him again.

Tonight I wonder again what he must have thought of me. Amir said his name meant “king”, but there are no kings in Persia anymore. For years I searched for his face on the news, thinking I might spot him among the angry men with raised fists and guns. I think of his soft hands and his fierce pride, his passion and his loneliness. I wonder if that softness has turned to stone, the pride to bitterness, his passion to war, or even if he is still alive. I remember another girl from my school that married an Iranian and went to live with him in his country. I wonder about her fate in the turmoil of the world and am grateful for the decision I made. Yet tonight, with the dark heavy weight of the eyes across the room pressing through me, I know my fear was not of Amir’s passion, but of my own. I am relieved when my husband returns from watching football in the game room.