An Afternoon of Negotiation
I must have been twenty years old then. It was the middle of the week. It was almost summer. We were expected ng company from out of the country for lunch. Mama was quite excited. She sent Ibrahim, our chauffeur, to pick them up from the hotel. She was busy flitting about making sure everything was in order. Sultan and Khatoon were in the kitchen doing whatever needed to be done. Every few minutes she rushed back into the kitchen with more instruction for them. The two of them calmly did whatever they had to do, shaking their heads in assent without saying a word. Mama was nervous and quite excited. She hadn’t seen her cousins in such a very long time.
I had followed her into the kitchen to see what dishes were being served that day. I did not even have a chance to take a peek. “What? You’re still here! Didn’t I tell you to go pick up Papa from the office? Why are you still here!” she demanded.
“On my way, Mama,” I said as I turned to leave. I did not want to make her more anxious. Mama had a way of worrying that there was not enough food or the table was set poorly. She worried that there were not enough flower arrangements about the house. Did someone put out the heavily embroidered guest towels in the powder room and one of the other bathrooms? Were the drinks chilled? Were there enough pickles and dips set up on the hors d’œuvre table? On and on it went. It was best to go pick up Papa before I started to become anxious as well. I got into my light blue Fiat and drove to the business district. Our home was all the way north, at the foot of the Alborz Mountains. The business district was all the way south.
I got there and parked the car. I had to walk a bit to get to the office. Whereas where we lived was very westernized, the business district was located in the religious area. The women were covered from head to foot in their chadors. The men favoured beards. They did not wear suits and ties, but baggy black or grey pants and loose collarless shirts. They did not mind our European dress as long as we did not offend them with wearing mini skirts or any form of trousers accentuating our female form. They were bazaaris. We were not. As long as I can remember, there was a wide invisible line dividing the two groups and it was not about being wealthy or not. It was in the style of living. Our women were educated, theirs got married at fourteen or fifteen. Their women were expected to be compliant obedient, we were allowed to think and express our opinions. There was a deep chasm in our styles of living.
I reached Papa’s office and climbed up the steep stairs. The building was a solid old building with thick walls. One could barely hear the heavy traffic outside. By this time, everyone at the office had gone home for lunch. They would not return until after four o’clock. They would have their lunch and their siesta first. Office hours began at seven in the morning. The lights were off, except in Papa’s office. “Oh no!” I thought, “I’m late! I shouldn’t have dragged my feet!” But no, I heard voices coming from his office. I tip-toed to the open door. Papa saw me and gave me a little nod. He pointed his forefinger up, as if to tell me to give him a moment. I nodded my head to tell him I understood. There was a bazaari sitting facing him. His clothes looked as if he was as poor as a church mouse. Papa’s firm was the sole representative of a company called Hungarotex. They did a lucrative business selling bolts of fabrics for chadors, the head covering of the religious Moslem women. The man sitting opposite Papa was a man who had a store in the bazaar. His main line of business was selling fabrics for chadors. Women entered his shop to choose chador fabrics for different occasions. There were fabrics for young girls, there were fabrics for weddings, everyday chadors, chadors for mourning, chadors for flirty women, a wide array of fabrics for all. On a table by Papa’s desk were stacks of swatches of fabrics from which the bazaari could order from.
The bazaari spoke in a feeble quavering voice. He sounded so old and weak, as if he could die at any second. At first, I was feeling sorry for him, but soon I realized it was all an act. The difference in the price they were haggling over was two cents a metre. Two cents a metre! Come on, Papa, give it to him, let’s go! Mama has a house full of guests at home waiting for us to serve lunch, I thought to myself. I would not interrupt these negotiators, but I was getting impatient. I had arrived at the office a little after one. The time was inching to almost 2:30 pm. The ceiling fans were off. The air felt hot. Papa was calmly sucking at his pipe and not budging an inch as he stoically looked at the man sitting in front of him, waiting for his next move. Finally, as the time inched towards three o’clock, the bazaari accepted Papa’s price. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said. He ordered 20,000 meters of chador fabrics. He stood up and left to go home for lunch and a siesta.
“Papa, why did you give him such a hard time?” I asked.
“I know his mode of operation. He comes just before lunchtime, hoping I am hungry and tired, and I would give in to his demands. When I see him walking towards the office, I switch off the fans, so he will be hot and uncomfortable. I know he has eaten before he came to see me. I smell it on his breath. He dresses like a pauper yet he owns half the city. Shall we?” he asks as he switches the fans back on as we walk out of the office.
Hmm, I think, doing business is like a game of chess. When we get home, he quickly takes a shower and changes his clothes. He does not go back to the office that afternoon. He stays home and enjoys their guests. He’s truly earned his half-day off, I think to myself.
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