Author's note: I would like to preface this chapter with a disclaimer: Christine and Nadir will be in Persia for the first time (at least on Christine's part), and I'd like to say that any and possibly all of the cultural bits that I mention that may seem surprising to you will be so because they are all from my imagination. It's fiction! So please don't get mad at me. Also, thanks to Gothic TigerLady Wen, and Catalina Fioght and Company for reviewing. Yes, it's Persia time! Should be interesting for naïve Christine.
Disclaimer #2: POTO is not mine.
For the third time, as Christine and Nadir were waiting at a train station in Persia, a man approached nadir and said something in Farsi in a suggestive voice. Christine didn't want to know what they were saying, because to each man, Nadir had responded in a harsh tone of voice, almost seeming close to fighting.
But she had to know. "What are these men asking, M. Khan?" she asked.
"You don't want to know." Then he glanced at her, and let out a heavy sigh. "But you have to, I guess. These men think that you are…a woman of disreputable reputation."
"They think I'm a prostitute? Why?"
"Well, you have pale skin, of course and…prostitutes here often paint their skin to be as pale as yours. Also, you're wearing your hair down. Only children and…prostitutes do that here," he said. "In fact, as odd as this sounds, it may be best for us to look like we are married. It is unusual, but trust me: I wouldn't say this unless it was absolutely necessary."
"I believe you, monsieur, but what do we do to look like a couple?" she asked.
He thought for a moment. "Normally public displays of affection are frowned upon, but in situations like these it is a little more common, to prevent things like what you just saw happen." He reluctantly linked his arm in hers. "This should do for now, but we need to do something about your hair. And your clothes."
"These are the clothes I left in—remember? You didn't let me get any more clothes."
"I don't blame you, it was simply a comment. Once we arrive in Tehran, we will find a place to buy you clothes."
"Who's in Tehran?" she asked.
"Djali. She's Erik and Mathieu's cousin."
Djali…that name sounded familiar. Now she remembered—Mathieu had mentioned that name when he was talking to Erik. She had remembered feeling jealous when hearing that name, though she wasn't sure why. "Why should we talk to their cousin? What would she know?"
"You will see." They were silent for a moment, than he said, "I can tell you feel awkward. Do not worry, I am not trying to make a move on you—Erik would kill me, not to mention that I am not attracted to you."
"Oh! Thank you for comforting me, but I was more concerned about myself looking like a prostitute while here."
"Do not worry. Once we get you looking more like a Persian, it will be fine."
Shortly the train came. They walked on, and Christine was shocked. This train didn't have normal closed off enclaves for people to sit—on the contrary, the car was stuffed with people- the chairs along the wall were long taken, and people were sitting on the ground, standing- essentially staying wherever they could fit. Nadir seemed unsurprised. He simply led Christine to the back of the car, where they found a wall to lean against.
"First class looks more like what you're used to, Mademoiselle Daaé, and stop giving everything such a disgusted and surprised look. It's making you stand out even more," whispered Nadir. "Now might also be the time to go to the powder room and put your hair up. It should be through the far door, with a 'D' on the door."
That seemed to be an order, so Christine made her way over the many people, out the door, and found the door Nadir had described. As she was about to open the door, the train started off with a great lurch, and she was thrown against the far wall. How sudden it was! Most unlike the trains in France which, though not perfect, were far smoother than these. Once she found her balance once more, she opened the door, and found herself suddenly glad that no one had been in there—the "powder room" consisted of a cracked mirror and a hideous, large pot to go to the bathroom in.
Trying to ignore the smell, she closed the door behind her. She noticed with some dismay that there was no way to lock the door, and she prayed that she wouldn't have to go to the bathroom while on the train. She put her hair up in a rather messy bun as well as she could in the shortest amount of time possible: she did not want to stay in that room longer than necessary, then made her way back to Nadir. It would be a long trip.
Christine and Nadir ended up spending the rest of that day and the night on the crowded car. At one point in the night, a man, ostensibly an employee of the train, though he had no uniform, walked around offering certain foodstuffs. They all looked rather unappealing to Christine, and she didn't understand what he was saying. Also, he had woken her out of a sound sleep, so at the moment she was more interested in going back to sleep.
The next morning Christine awoke to the train pulling to an unsteady halt. She would have been more afraid if she had been thinking more on that, but she was far too relieved: Nadir had told her that it was a one stop train, and the only stop that it would make would be their destination. She stood up and looked out the window. She was quite confused to see desert: not a city in sight, and no one seemed to be getting off.
Nadir was still asleep, so she shook him awake and asked, "Why has the train stopped?"
He rubbed his eyes and said, "It probably has stopped for refueling. That means we're half-way there." With that, he turned over and went back to sleep.
24 long more hours found them finally in Tehran. When Christine had gotten her first glimpse of the city, she had wanted to cry from relief. When the train stopped, nadir sprung up, seemingly refreshed and not at all uncomfortable from sleeping two nights on the floor of a dirty train.
"Very good, we're here. Let's find you good clothes before we find Djali. We'll also need to fix your hair. It's a little better now, but it still needs work," he said, and led her through the struggling crowds out of that accursed train. Seeing her frazzled expression, he smiled. "Still want to find Erik? Or have you had enough?"
"What?" The question had come out of the blue. "Of course I still want to find him. If he lived here, surely I can survive it long enough to find him," she said, a steely glint in her eye that no one had seen before.
Nadir nodded. "Then allons-y."
They found a simple dress quickly enough, and there was a hair place where Christine had her hair done right next to the dress shop. Once sufficiently disguised, they took a rickshaw through the streets to the home of Djali. As they drove, Christine couldn't help but feel like a small child just seeing the world for the first time. She didn't understand a word anyone was saying, except for the few odd times when she heard snippets of French, German, which she had learned from singing, and English, which she had learned a little in school. The colors that people were wearing seemed somehow so much brighter and freer than what anyone wore in Paris outside of Mardi Gras. At the same time, the culture also seemed more restrictive. Mosques were everywhere though, upon reflection, she realized that churches were everywhere in France. But also, the women seemed to be more mild and submissive. She didn't see one woman ever walking alone—indeed, she never even saw a group of women without at least one man watching over them. In France it would be unheard of to have to ask a man to escort them outside, but here it seemed to be common.
She noticed that Nadir seemed to be perfectly at home, unsurprised by anything. She kept forgetting that this was his homeland—he had always been a part of the Opera in her mind. When the rickshaw stopped, she began to open the door to get out when Nadir stopped her.
"No, Mademoiselle Daaé," he cautioned. "As a woman, the driver will open the door for you. You are also dressed as a member of the upper class, so he would have done this regardless. Wait for my advice before you do these things."
That irked Christine, though she saw the wisdom in it. Nadir was truly the wise one in this case—she had no jurisdiction here. Sure enough, a moment later the driver opened the door for her and she stepped carefully out, followed by Nadir, who said something to the driver. The driver nodded, then drove off.
"Why did you send him away?" she asked in confusion.
"I am relying on Djali's kindness to provide transportation," he simply said, and walked slowly up the steps with Christine. Before ringing the bell, he warned, "I shall talk at first, then you may ask questions, answer them, whatever Djali wishes. This is her house, so she is to be respected."
"Very well. I shall remain silent," Christine proclaimed.
Nadir nodded and rang the bell. In an instant, a man who even Christine recognized as a butler opened the door. Nadir and the butler exchanged a short conversation, and they were let in and led to some sort of drawing room, where they were given a seat. After about ten minutes a woman came in. She was short and stocky, but gave of an aura of power and intimidation. Seeing the two of them, she turned to Christine and said in perfect French, "Why are you looking for Erik?"
HOW DOES SHE KNOW? We shall see…soon enough! I'm not sure when I'll next be able to update. It all depends on the tide and whether I'll have access to a computer next week. Regardless, review, good friends, and perhaps I will try to update before I leave! Thank you to those who have already reviewed- you keep me alive and writing.