But her mother-in-law did not respond. Frustrated, Rose repeated the question. That, indeed, was the second most common side effect of postmarital chronic resentment: It made you not only talk to yourself, but also made you obstinate with others. Even if you might be dangerously close to the breaking point, you would never bend. 'Why didn't you ever leave us alone?' Rose posed the same question one by one to,her husband's three sisters-Auntie Surpun, Auntie Zarouhi, and Auntie Varsenig-while she glared at the jars of baba-ghanoush on the grocery shelves.
Rose left the ethnic foods section, making a sharp, swift U-turn into the next aisle. Inspired by her anger and melancholy, she moved down the aisle of Canned Food and Dry Beans from one end to the other, almost bumping into a young man standing there. He was eyeing the shelf where different brands of garbanzo beans were lined up. That guy surely wasn't there a second ago! thought Rose. He seemed to have simply materialized, as if zoomed down from the sky. He had fair skin, a slim, well-proportioned body, hazel eyes, and a pointed nose, which made him look attentive and studious. His sable hair was short. Rose suspected that she had seen him before, but where and when she couldn't remember.
'They are good, aren't they?' Rose asked. 'Unfortunately not everyone is sensible enough to appreciate them….'
Yanked out of his meditation, the young man flinched, turned toward the rosy-faced, plumpish woman who had mushroomed by his side, and still clutching in each hand a can of garbanzo beans, blushed. Having been caught by surprise, he could not easily get his masculine guard back.
'I am sorry…. ' he said, and tilted his head to the right, a nervous tic, which Rose interpreted as a sign of shyness.
She smiled to show the young man that she pardoned him and then looked at his face without so much as a blink, making him even more nervous. Besides the suave-bunny expression that she now wore, Rose had three other animal-like looks inspired by Mother Nature, which she interchangeably employed for all her dealings with the opposite sex: her staunch-canine expression, one that she chose when she wanted to convey complete dedication; her impish-feline expression, which she used when she wanted to seduce; and her pugnacious-coyote expression, which she wore whenever she was criticized.
'Oh, I know you!' All of a sudden Rose beamed an ear-to-ear grin, satisfied with her memory. 'I was racking my brain wondering where I'd seen you before. Now I know! You're from the U of A, right? I'll bet you like chicken quesadillas!'
The young man glanced up the aisle, as if he were considering running away at any moment but couldn't figure out toward which direction.
'I work part-time at the Cactus Grill'-Rose tried her best to help him comprehend-'the big restaurant on the second floor inside the Student Union, remember? I am usually behind the counter where the hot food is served-you know, omelettes and quesadillas. It's a part-time job, of course; it doesn't pay much but what are you gonna do? This is just for the time being. What I really want is to become a primary schoolteacher.'
The young man was now quizzically studying Rose's face as if to memorize every detail for future reference.
'Anyway, that is where I must have seen you before,' Rose concluded. She narrowed her eyes and moistened her bottom lip, switching to her feline expression. 'I dropped out when I had a baby last year, but now I'm trying to go back to college….'
'Oh, really?' the guy said, but then instantly shut his mouth. If Rose had had any previous experience with foreigners she would have detected the foreigner's introduction reflex-the fear of engaging in a conversation and not expressing the right words at the right time or with the correct pronunciation.
However, ever since she was a teenager Rose harbored a propensity to assume everything around her was either for or about or against her. Accordingly, she interpreted the silence as a sign of her own inability to make a decent introduction. To compensate for the error, she reached out her hand.
'Oh, I am sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Rose.'
'Mustafa…' The young man swallowed, his Adam's apple moving up and down.
'Where are you from?' Rose asked.
'Istanbul,' he answered curtly.
Rose raised her eyebrows and a trace of panic crossed her face. If Mustafa had any previous experience with provincials, he could detect the provincial's information reflex-the fear of not having enough knowledge of geography or world history. Rose was trying to recall where on earth Istanbul was. Was it the capital of Egypt or perhaps somewhere in India…? She frowned in confusion.
However, ever since he was a teenager Mustafa harbored a fright of losing his grip on time and his appeal for women. So he interpreted the gesture as a sign of having bored Rose by failing to come up with anything interesting to say, and to compensate for the lack, he hastened to cut off the conversation.
'Nice meeting you, Rose,' he said, drawling his vowels with a mellow but obvious accent. 'I have to go now….'
Very quickly he put back both cans of garbanzo beans, stared at his watch, grabbed his basket, and walked off. Before he disappeared, Rose heard him mumble 'bye-bye' and then, as if echoing himself, another 'bye-bye.' Then he was gone.
Having thus lost this mysterious companion, Rose suddenly realized how much time she had squandered in the supermarket. She grabbed a few cans of garbanzo beans, including the ones Mustafa had left behind, and hurried to the checkout. She passed through the aisle of journals and books, and it was there that she caught sight of something she sorely needed: The Great World Atlas. Underneath the title it said: A World Atlas of Flags, Facts, and Maps/Helping Parents, Students, Teachers, and Travelers Worldwide. She grabbed the book, pinpointed 'Istanbul' in the index, and once having found the relevant page, looked at the map to see where it was.
Outside in the parking lot she found the ultramarine 1984 Jeep Cherokee heating up under the Arizona sun while her baby girl slept inside.
'Armanoush, wake up sweetheart, Mama's back!'
The baby moved but did not open her eyes, not even when Rose rained kisses all over her face. Her soft brown hair was tied with a golden ribbon almost as big as her head and she was wearing a fluffy green outfit adorned with salmon stripes and purplish buttons. She looked like a dwarf Christmas tree decorated by someone in a state of frenzy.
'Are you hungry? Mama is gonna cook you real American food tonight!' Rose exclaimed as she put the plastic bags in the backseat, reserving a package of coconut marshmallows for the road. She checked her hair in the rear view mirror, put on a cassette that was her favorite these days, and grabbed a handful of marshmallows before she started the engine.
'Did you know that the guy I've just met in the supermarket is from Turkey?!' Rose said, as she winked at her daughter in the rear view mirror. Everything about her baby seemed just about right: her button nose, her round hands, her feet, everything except her name. Her husband's family had wanted to name the baby girl after her grandmother's mother. How deeply Rose lamented not having named her something less outlandish, like Annie or Katie or Cyndie, instead of accepting the name her mother-in-law had come up with. A child was supposed to have a childlike name and 'Armanoush' was anything but that. The name sounded so… so mature and cold, appropriate for a grown-up, perhaps. Did Rose have to wait until her baby girl had reached forty to use her name without it pricking her tongue? Rose rolled her eyes and ate another marshmallow. Then and there she had a revelation: She could call her daughter 'Amy' from now on, and as part of the baptism ceremony, she sent the baby a kiss.
At the next intersection they waited for the light to turn green. Rose drummed on the steering wheel, accompanying Gloria Estefan.
No modern love for me, it's all a hustle
What's done is done, now it's my turn to have fun.
Mustafa placed the few items he had selected in front of the cashier: Kalamata olives, frozen spinach and feta pizza, a can of mushroom soup, a can of cream of chicken soup, and a can of chicken noodle soup. Until he came to the United States, he had never had to cook in his life. Every time he labored in the small kitchen in his two bedroom student apartment, he felt like a dethroned king living in exile. Long gone were the days when he was served and fed by a devoted grandmother, mother, and four sisters. Now, dish washing, room-cleaning, ironing, and especially shopping were a huge burden for him. It wouldn't be as difficult if he could only rid himself of the feeling that someone else should be doing these things for him. He was no more used to doing chores than he was to being
