A Beginner's Guide to Acting English Read online

  'Shocking behaviour!' said an old lady sitting next to us. She poked Peyvand's shoulder and said really kindly, 'You take no notice of people like that! It ain't your fault you're a Paki.'

  On the way out of South Kensington Station Peyvand kept asking, 'But what were they saying, Maman? Why did they tell us to go home? Maman, what's a Paki?'

  Why didn't Maman tell them we couldn't go home yet, we hadn't been to the museum. We were going to go there, see some dinosaurs and then go home.

  Maman said the Rooster and the Hedgehog were laat – louts – and probably didn't have mothers. What mother would let her son get an earring?

  Maman held our hands and marched down the street, following a small stream of tourists towards the Natural History Museum. She was still ranting about the punks saying that if we'd have been in Iran the other people on the Tube would have taught the Rooster such a lesson that he would never again dare to pick on a woman with her children instead of just 'sitting there staring like cows' the way the men on the Tube did today. Maman pursed her lips and rolled her eyes the way she did when she was outraged. 'We are not even from Pakistan, we are from Iran, these kharejis should get an education.'

  Maman's hurt and outrage were silenced for a moment once we reached the Natural History Museum and she had to stand for a while in awe of this magnificent pinkish building. It was beautiful, the most beautiful building I had ever seen, and no wonder they kept the dinosaurs in there, it was huge. It didn't look like a museum, it looked like somewhere the Shah and Farah would live.

  'Is this bigger than the Shah's house, Maman?' I asked.

  'I think it might be,' Maman said.

  'Is it bigger than Persepolis?' Peyvand asked.

  'No,' Maman said firmly. 'It's definitely smaller than Persepolis.'

  There were steps made of the same pinky brick of the building leading up to the door. Peyvand and I would normally have raced up there but it was so pretty we both held Maman's hands and walked. The ceiling was up near the sky. And the dinosaurs, I could see the dinosaurs!

  'Where in God's name do we pay for this place? I'm not just going to walk in and have another laat accuse foreigners of not paying.'

  Maman asked the man in a smart uniform by the gift shop where she should pay. He was very nice and he told her that the museum was free. Maman laughed and rolled her eyes up to tell him she felt a little silly. The man liked Maman, I could tell. He asked her where she was from. 'Iran,' she told him.

  'Ah, Iran! You wanna go to the British Museum then, there's all the stuff from ancient Persia there.'

  Maman told him that we were here to visit ancient dinosaurs today and thanked him. The man said, 'No problem, sweetheart' and I jumped out of my skin as Peyvand snuck up behind me and roared like a dinosaur.

  'No, Shaparak! That is not a cognac glass! Don't you know a cognac glass from a wine glass?'

  I was helping Baba prepare for a mehmooni. Lots of people were coming and Maman made about four different Persian dishes for dinner. Baba was in charge of barking orders and moving the furniture around to make as much room as possible for the guests. 'There are about twenty people coming, now, we have six chairs, five can fit on the sofa, two stools, two floor cushions, two people are always in the kitchen with your mother, two men will stand debating and one person will be in the toilet. Perfect, just enough room!'

  Then Baba took time to put all the drinks glasses out on the table and explained which was for whisky, wine, cognac and beer. Maman had been in the kitchen for hours. We heard her singing as she worked. Her voice was rich and beautiful. She stirred her pots and closed her eyes in the more intense moments of a song, then opened them again when she needed the turmeric. She always made at least two different dishes with meat and rice as well as covering our coffee table with an elaborate fruit display, ajeel, cucumber yoghurt and breads for dipping, salad olovieh and a million other delicious things to line the guests' stomachs as they drank and chatted.

  It seemed that almost every night our flat was full of Amanis and the Aminis and the Tehranis and the Sanatis.

  'Peyvand! Peyvand! Come here, Baba, and show everyone how well you light my cigarettes!'

  Our flat was filled with people, drinking and chatting and laughing loudly. The guests were mostly Iranian except for one or two English wives. Each arrived on the doorstep of our new home with bouquets of flowers and whisky and champagne and chocolates. The men wore expensive suits and smelled of the same aftershave Baba used. I had watched Baba shave and, like always, he rewarded my company by dabbing a little of his aftershave under my nose so I was very familiar with the smell.

  The ladies all looked deliciously glamorous. I stood back against the wall and stared at their immaculate glossy hair. The women all had black or golden hair, their make-up was expertly applied and they wore exquisite floaty dresses. I stood about and waited for them to notice me, waiting for the onslaught of fussing and kisses.

  With some drama, the ladies dropped to my height and exclaimed what a pretty little girl I was. I was not a pretty girl and I didn't know why they said it. I looked like Baba, not Maman. I much preferred the ladies who took me on their laps and chatted to me and laughed at the things I said. With my face marked several times by Yves Saint Laurent lipstick, my breath squeezed out of me and dizzy from the scent of their perfume, I was released from the ladies and they turned their attentions to Peyvand. There was no escape. Greeting guests was very important and his cheeks were endlessly stroked and pinched and kissed. Even I saw the appeal of Peyvand's perfectly round, soft, chocolately cheeks though he hardly ever let me touch them. He bore it well, standing still, patiently waiting for the mauling to be over. When the ladies had had their fill of him, he was released too and he ran over to light Baba's cigarettes.

  'Afareen!' chanted the men and slapped Peyvand on the back and Baba looked very proud of him.

  The party went on late into the night. Maman's lamb and aubergine khorest was served way past the time Peyvand and I were usually in bed. Our plates were loaded up along with the grown-ups' and we ate the lot, even though we'd been stuffing ourselves with Maman's delicious hors d'oeuvres all evening.

  Maziar was there. His father, Mr Mahjoobi, was a sort of cousin of Maman's. They weren't blood but Maman Shamsi and Mr Mahjoobi's sister grew up together and were like sisters and so they adopted one another's families. Maziar was the same age as Peyvand but he was friends with me too and we played Tarzan in the bedroom after dinner as the grown-ups danced and drank.

  The shouting we suddenly heard from where the adults were was not the usual, exuberant party shouting which was always followed by raucous laughter. This was proper shouting; no laughter followed and the rest of the room seemed to go quiet. Maziar, Peyvand and I ran into the living room.

  A Mr Imani and a Mr Faridi, not regular guests at our home, more warm acquaintances than close friends, were shouting at each other about Iran.

  'The Shah? The Shah? I shit on his father's grave! He is America's dog!'

  'How dare you let such words past your lips? Perhaps you are with the mujahideen? He is our shah! Have some respect!'

  'It is not your business if I am mujahideen or not! I will not respect a thief! A dirty thief and a liar.'

  Their passionate words were accompanied by passionate gesticulations that escalated to passionate pushing and shoving. Baba tried to separate them but was too small so a taller dinner guest called Mr Toofani, a pistachio importer, stepped in and prised the men apart. He pushed the one nearer the door into the hallway; I had to move out of the way so I wouldn't be knocked over. When it was noticed that we kids had come in, we were pulled on to laps by the perfumed ladies, who kissed us and laughed and told us the men were only joking.

  There was more shouting. The other guests all joined in the calming down.

  'Brother, there are ways to debate; this is not the way.'

  'Amir Jaan! You and Faridi are friends, what is this? Tsk! It's a shame on both of you.'


  The men spluttered with rage at one another but a few decibels lower because their wives were now beside them like the queens on Baba's chessboard, positioning themselves to limit further damage.

  The other women straightened their skirts and shook their heads.

  'This is what happens when you have a dictatorship,' said one. 'It's all coming to a head now.'

  'Don't you start, Maheen,' another woman scolded. 'It's bad enough with the men fighting, do you want us to start as well?'

  One of the women said something I didn't understand that got them all into fits of giggles, quiet giggles, because the men were still not quite calm.

  'What's the point of us all fighting amongst ourselves; whatever is meant to happen will happen, and that's that.'

  The women all nodded and agreed that was indeed the case.

  The fighting men were now in the kitchen, hugging, kissing each other's cheeks and calling each other 'brother'. More whisky was poured, Baba slapped the men on their backs and took them back to the party, where they both stood for a polite amount of time to show there were no hard feelings then left, within minutes of each other. Peyvand, Maziar and I went back to playing Tarzan. I was Cheetah. They always made me be Cheetah.

  The Shah, who was the king of Iran, was very handsome and his wife, Farah, was beautiful. I had seen pictures of them and didn't understand why people didn't like him. England had a Queen and everyone seemed to love her. Soon after we had got to England, there was a big party for her. The television showed everyone out on the street waving flags and the Queen herself rode in a gold carriage like Cinderella and my mum said it was nothing compared to the celebrations the Shah had. That was why, she explained, a lot of people didn't like the Shah. He spent money on parties when his people were very poor. Besides, the Queen didn't rule England the way the Shah ruled Iran.

  Everyone sank comfortably on the sofa or on the big cushions on the floor with their drink in their hand, relieved that the rowing men had gone and everyone could digest Maman's delicious lamb and aubergine dish and koftehs in peace.

  'You have to watch that Faridi,' Maheen Khanoom said dramatically, raising a delicately plucked and dyed eyebrow. 'They say his cousin has links with SAVAK!'

  Then Baba said, 'Enough now, let's leave it. Maheen, sing us a song!'

  Baba was always talking and arguing with people about Iran, but when it went as far as it had this evening, in his own house, he wanted to change the subject. After Maheen Khanoom sang her song, Baba was called upon to read out loud his poetry. Peyvand, Maziar and I stopped playing to listen. I never understood Baba's poems but, just as I did around the sofra in Iran at Maman Shamsi's house, I laughed loudly when everyone else did. I settled down at Baba's feet as he read his poems because everyone was looking at him and laughing and I wanted to sit as near as possible to him because he was my baba. Baba's voice was rich and warm and he kept one hand on the top of my head as he held his poems in the other. He lifted his hand to turn pages but put it straight back afterwards. No one else had a baba like mine who could make everyone laugh one minute and shake their heads slowly and whisper bah bah, bah bah, wonderful, wonderful, the next. I was too little to know the warmth I felt in my chest then was pride. Pride that it was Baba who made everyone laugh, who got everyone's attention and always seemed in charge. He was the one who started a party by walking into a room and so it didn't matter that I didn't understand his poems; his hand was on my head and I was the most important person in the world to him.

  After everyone clapped their hands Baba bashfully accepted their praise, then it was Maman's turn. 'Okay, Fati must now sing!' Baba and everyone else called for a song.

  Maman feigned reluctance, until the pantomime chorus of 'Come on! You must!' began. Guests clapped their hands in anticipation until Maman delicately cleared her throat then blew the room away.

  I loved to hear Maman sing properly like this, in front of people. Occasionally, when she was washing up, Peyvand and I had to ask her to sing more quietly because we were trying to watch something on the television, but usually it was during the most peaceful of afternoons when Maman sang her heart out in the kitchen while Peyvand and I played quietly together and Baba sat at the dining-room table quietly smoking and filling page after page with squiggly writing. These afternoons were my favourites, when every moment seemed perfect and delicious and endless.

  Maman singing in the kitchen when we were by ourselves was one thing, but in front of other people it made me and Peyvand laugh. A lady whose lipstick had got on to her teeth glared at us, which made us laugh even more.

  It wasn't Maman's singing that made me and Peyvand cram our hands into our mouths to stop ourselves laughing. It was all the guests closing their eyes and shaking their heads in time with the melody. They whispered 'bah bah' and rocked from side to side. Maman closed her eyes when she sang, so suddenly all the adults had their eyes shut and Peyvand, Maziar and I giggled until we had to leave the room before we got into trouble.

  These parties were a part of our lives the way milk and biscuits were a part of our lives at the Miss Kings' nursery. Sometimes there were several in one week and the nights Maman and Baba weren't entertaining, they were being entertained at someone else's house where we'd play with their kids while different people argued about the Shah, read poems, danced and sang.

  HYDE PARK

  Hyde Park was only a short walk from our flat but the walk to the park was hazardous, an assault course of dog poo.

  'Why do they let their dogs poo in the street?' Maman was baffled by the English love of dogs. 'I like dogs,' she would often declare, 'but in the house? The house? It's an animal!'

  Mrs Rahmani, the lady who lived upstairs to us in Kensington knew lots of English people and told Maman all the things she had witnessed. 'I went to dinner at one family's house and they let their dog lick their dinner plates.' Mrs Rahmani slammed her chai glass down in its saucer to make a loud 'clink', adding a dramatic sound effect to her story.

  Maman closed her eyes and shuddered. 'Please stop! I can't think about it!'

  If the tiniest dog even sniffed at me, Maman would shoo it away and make us scrub our skin with the horrible-smelling soap in the park loos.

  We zigzagged down the road. We knew only one person in Iran with a dog, a neighbour called Susanne Khanoom. Everyone said she was like a khareji. 'She loves her dog more than she loves her children,' her neighbours would declare.

  'Let's go this way today, kids.' Maman steered us to the left as we went in the park gates instead of to the right, straight to the swings. Hyde Park was gigantic. Maman had told us that there were children there who became lost and couldn't find their way out for days and days so we'd better not wander off. This new path took us through some rose gardens and to my and Peyvand's delight, a sandpit!

  'CHAAAAARGE!' Peyvand yelled, taking a run up to the sandpit and jumping in. I followed him, and immediately picked the lovely yellow stuff up and let it run through my fingers. We had a sandpit at the Miss Kings' but it wasn't nearly as big as this one.

  Maman stood at the side and told us not to get ourselves too dirty. An elderly couple walked by and said something to Maman. Maman nodded sweetly and said 'Yes' as she always did when she didn't understand what English people were saying. The couple didn't smile, just looked at us again and walked away shaking their heads. I was making a sand castle. I gathered a heap of sand and pressed it together. Something squelched between my fingers. I lifted my hand up to see the brown mush all over it. A Jack Russell terrier ran into the sandpit and Maman suddenly realised what the elderly couple had tried to tell her. 'OUT! OUT! BACHEHA! Beeroon! GET OUT!'

  Even though Maman had rinsed us both a hundred times, I still smelled Dettol on my skin.

  'Well, how was I to know? I can never find a toilet in the park for the kids to go to but they build special toilets for their dogs!' Maman was on the phone to Baba. 'It isn't funny! They carry disease! They could've gone blind!'

  Baba would wr
ite through the night – those nights when he got home early from a party or dinner in one of London's Persian restaurants. If I woke up in the middle of the night for a glass of water, Baba would let me sit on his lap as I drank it. He would answer any of my questions at that time of night. In the dead of the night was when Baba was calm and peaceful and he had all the time in the world for me. No one came over to play chess or drink or to shout about politics. The telephone didn't ring, demanding Baba's attention. I would go back to bed after my drink and my chat about nothing and curl up with the reassurance that Baba was still sat at the table, pen in one hand, cigarette in the other, writing the poems that made everyone love him.

  'Roll over spit' was a simple game. One of us had to lie on the floor and the other stood over their face and released the biggest glob of spit they could. The game was to see how long you dared to stay still before you rolled over to avoid the spittle. I was no good at it; I always ended up getting spit in my hair or on my mouth. Peyvand was fast and it nearly always missed him, but then his hair was shorter than mine. We were squealing and laughing as we took turns to be the 'spitter'. Eventually Maman came in from the kitchen and shouted at us. 'BE QUIET! YOUR FATHER IS SLEEPING!'

  Then Baba shouted from the bedroom, 'What is it? What's happened?'

  Maman shouted back, 'NOTHING! DON'T WORRY. IT'S JUST THESE KIDS MAKING NOISE. GO BACK TO SLEEP.'

  Sheets of steel rain kept us indoors one Saturday afternoon. We had swung from the saloon kitchen doors, we wrestled, we played hide and seek, we played all the games we usually did when it was raining and we couldn't go out, but today Peyvand played all of them half-heartedly. He was bored. Peyvand wasn't good at being bored.