The French Wife
My mother was quite a lady. She was very conscious about her appearance and the way she conducted herself. Everything about her was elegant: the way she dressed, walked, and spoke. Papa was a businessman. They intermingled with the various embassy crowds in Tehran. His firm exclusively represented some of the well-known companies from different countries. Because of that, they led quite a busy social life. It was not uncommon for them to be out three or four evenings a week at various functions in the different embassies. It was necessary for Mama to be well-dressed and groomed. She made sure she had the proper attire for different occasions at all times. She was soft-spoken. Mama’s accent was quite French. Her r’s were softly pronounced at the back of her throat, not with her tongue almost against her teeth as in the English language. She was educated at the Alliance Française in Baghdad since she was a little slip of a girl. Her teachers were French. So it was no surprise that she had a thick French accent. On the day in question, late on a cold winter afternoon, she had an appointment with her hairdresser. That evening she and Papa were going to a cocktail party. The hair salon was busy. There were women at the different stations. Since it was cold, Mama had worn her silver fox coat. There was a faint cloud of Arpège by Lanvin perfume wafting about her as she walked into the salon. Mama was a good-looking woman with quite a pleasing figure. She was graceful. She was charming. Several curious pairs of eyes peered at her through the mirror in front of them as she entered. They followed her with their eyes as she walked to the receptionist and announced herself. They noticed her accent. One matronly woman eyed her disapprovingly. “Huh! These foreign women! They come to our country, steal the best of our men, leaving the crumbs for our daughters. Look at how she is dressed! In her wildest dreams she would not have been able to afford dressing like this if she was still from wherever she comes from,” she said disdainfully. The other women looked at Mama. She was young, she was beautiful, and she was dressed in perfect taste. The older one had stirred them up. They felt a sense of envy of her beauty and her air of je ne sais quoi. A few of them decided to add to the nasty comments. At first Mama ignored them, but the more they said, the more upset she became. Finally she turned around and faced their images in the mirror. Mama’s eyes were very expressive. You could see the revulsion she felt towards them. “My husband is not an Iranian!” she said. The older woman did not back down. “And pray tell, so if your husband is not Iranian, then what is he?” she asked sarcastically. Mama was flustered by all the antagonism she felt in the air, but she wasn’t backing down. Instead of saying Iraqi, she said, “My husband is an Arab!” She could hardly wait to have her hair done, to rush out of the salon and to the safety of her home. When she got there, Papa was sitting on his armchair contentedly smoking his pipe and reading a book. He was waiting for her. Still very upset about the whole incident, she recounted what had transpired, almost in tears. Papa looked at her with eyes twinkling with amusement. “Aha! So now you are a fancy French lady married to a humble Arab!” he chuckled. “You could have done worse. Hurry up! We are late for a cocktail party. After all, I have a need to show off my fancy French wife,” he chided her. And that is how, for many years thereafter, Papa and his French wife became the subject of many a family joke.