A Persian Requiem Page 2

  The ceremony over, celebrations got under way in the garden and on the front verandah. All the cypresses, palms and orange trees had been strung with light bulbs—each tree a different colour. Large bulbs lit the larger trees, while small ones had been used for the smaller, twinkling like so many stars. Water flowed from two directions in a terraced stream into a pool, cascading over the red glow of rose-shaped lamps set inside each step. The main part of the garden had been spread with carpets for dancing. Zari assumed the wiring for the waterfall lights ran under the carpets. Around the edge of the pool they had alternated bowls full of different kinds of fruit, three-branched candlelabra and baskets of flowers. If a gust of wind blew out one of the candles, a servant would instantly relight it with a short-stemmed taper.

  The Governor, a tall, heavy-set man with white hair and a white moustache, was standing by the pool welcoming even more guests. An English Colonel with a squint, walking arm in arm with Zari’s former headmistress, was the last to arrive. Behind them came two Indian soldiers carrying a basket of carnations in the shape of a ship. When they reached the Governor, they placed it at his feet. At first the Governor didn’t notice the flowers as he was busy kissing the English-woman’s hand. But the headmistress must have drawn his attention to them because the Governor shook hands with the Colonel again before extending his hand to the Indian soldiers. They, for their part, merely clicked their heels together, saluted, about-turned, and withdrew.

  Then came the hired musicians. One played the zither, while his plump friend accompanied him on the tar and an attractive young boy sang a song. When the song was over, there was a dance followed by another song. The musicians then changed to a rhythmic beat and a group of men and women dressed as Qashqais did a sort of tribal dance. Zari had seen a lot of fake things in her time, but never fake Qashqais!

  Now it was the turn of the hired musicians brought over especially from Tehran. The noises sounded confused to Zari; even the sight of all those dishes piled high with sweets and dried fruit and nuts nauseated her. The sweets had probably been sent by the Confectioners’ Guild and the fruit and the nuts by the Grocers’ Guild, she thought cynically. The five-tiered wedding cake flown in by air had, she knew, been presented by the Supreme Command of the foreign armed forces. They had displayed it on a table on the verandah. On the top tier stood a bride and groom hand in hand, with a British flag behind them, each crafted skilfully out of icing.

  To Zari it felt like watching a film. Especially with the foreign army in full regalia: Scottish officers in kilts, Indian officers in turbans … If she hadn’t lost her earrings, thought Zari, it would have been possible to sit back and enjoy the show.

  The bride and groom led the dancing. The bride’s long train with its glittering rhinestones, sequins and pearls swept over the carpet like a trail of shooting stars. She was no longer wearing the length of green silk or her bridal veil, but the earrings were still there. The British Colonel had one dance with the bride; so did Captain Singer, in whose large arms the bride skipped about like a grasshopper. He even trod on her toes several times.

  Then the foreign officers sought out the other ladies. The Shirazi women in their colourful dresses danced in the arms of strangers while their men, perched on the edge of their seats, kept a nervous eye on them. Some of the men seemed particularly restless and agitated. Was it the light-hearted tempo of the music, or an inner fire kindled at the sight of strangers holding their wives so closely? It was impossible to know. At the end of the dance the officers carefully returned the ladies to their chairs, as if they were incapable of finding their own way back. They clicked their heels and kissed the lady’s hand, at which the woman’s own escort would nearly jump out of his seat and then settle back to try to compose himself. Not unlike a jack-in-the-box. The only person who didn’t dance was McMahon. He took pictures instead.

  Captain Singer came over to Zari. He clicked his heels smartly and said with a bow: “Shall we dance?”

  She excused herself. Singer shrugged and moved on to ask Khanom Hakim. Zari looked over at Yusef who was sitting a few chairs away. His eyes were fixed on her, those eyes that seemed to her deeper in colour than the azure of spring skies. He winked at her, and she felt a pang in her heart. A faint teardrop always seemed to lurk in the depths of Yusef’s eyes, making them glisten like two moist jewels—like the emeralds of her earrings.

  Now the Colonel and Singer, either together or singly, began to accompany some of the men on a brief walk to the bottom of the garden. After a few minutes they would return and head straight for the bar, where they drank each other’s health. Zari saw Singer whisper something in Yusef’s ear, at which Yusef rose and set off with him down the garden path, with its border of illuminated cypresses and orange trees. But they were back almost immediately. This time they did not visit the bar. Zari saw Captain Singer make a sign to the Colonel, whose expression reflected his annoyance. Yusef came and sat next to Zari, his face flushed and his fair moustache trembling.

  “Let’s get up and leave quietly,” he said.

  Flicking her hair forward to cover her bare ears, Zari said: “As you like.”

  She was getting up to leave when McMahon appeared, drink in hand, and sat down next to them. He had drunk so much gin he could barely keep his eyes open. He spoke in English:

  “You’re at loggerheads with the big tailor again, Yusef?” he asked. “I must admit, it’s even more difficult for you Persians to deal with the British than it is for us Irish … Did you like my poem that I recited for you earlier tonight? You did, didn’t you? Now I’m thinking of composing a poem for your town …”

  Pointing to the slice of lime in his drink, he said: “The lime with its light green delicate peel, its fragrance combining all the perfumes of the plain, and the cypress tree with its strength and restraint—these are the things which grow in this region. People usually resemble the nature surrounding them; in this case, delicate and restrained. They’ve sent me to ask why you’re not delicate and restrained, Yusef. I’m doing well you know, even though I’m blind drunk. Look how easily I’ve accomplished my mission!” He turned to Zari. “Cheers!” he said, draining his glass and putting it on the table.

  “Let’s go and sit on the bench near that ship of flowers,” he suggested. “Zari, you come too—the presence of a lovely woman is always inspiring. That warship laden with flowers is a gift from our Supreme Command.” They moved across to the bench. “That’s better. Where’s my glass? Zari, please pour us another drink.

  “We are related, aren’t we?” he carried on, with a faraway look in his eyes. “Iran and Ireland. Both lands of the Aryans. You the ancestors and we the descendants. O ancient, ancient ancestors, console us! Here am I a Catholic Irishman, a patriarch, a drunkard, bound to end up dying in a ditch one foul, rain-sodden day, or wandering around poor houses looking for some old woman to claim as my mother. I can see her now, knitting woollen socks with little patterns for her son at the front… like the ones I’m wearing. You see, my father was on air-raid duty; he knew that the planes were bombing our area, he knew that at any moment they would wipe out our home, and he knew that mother was there knitting patterned socks for her son at the front. When they pulled her out from underneath the rubble, she was still clutching the knitting needles—and now my father has written me a letter. He has written to me to say he’s sorry … he’s sorry that …”

  McMahon’s speech was becoming slurred and he broke off for a moment. Then he raised his hand in a grandly drunken gesture:

  “Why did you, you home-loving Catholic family, wrapped in your traditions, with your confession and such nonsense … why did you uproot yourselves and move to London? If you had stayed to help put right and free your own poor, blighted Ireland you wouldn’t have had to pay so dearly for that move.

  “Away from home,” he paused, “I remember making up tales of Ireland, boasting to others of her countless poets, and sighing for my impoverished land. I remember saying that in our land the
youth were innocent, uncorrupted, and people would ask me if I thought they were corrupt in London. We were all fooling ourselves. We’d forgotten Ireland’s alcoholics. We’d forgotten the ships which arrived every week and loaded up their cargo—the youth of Ireland—and set sail for America. We ignored the fact that the convicts among them would be sent to the colonies—like our tailor here. That big tailor has surely got it in for you, Yusef. He can’t stand the sight of you; nor me, for that matter. I told the Consul yesterday to count you out. But the big tailor won’t let him….”

  He half-drained his glass, then continued:

  “Some people are like rare flowers; others resent their existence. They imagine that such a flower will use up all the earth’s strength, all the sunshine and moisture in the air, taking up their space, leaving them no sunlight or oxygen. They envy it and wish it didn’t exist. Either be like us, or don’t be at all—that’s what they say. You Persians have the occasional rare flower among you, but also a lot of oleander to keep mosquitoes away, and then some plain grass which is only good for the sheep. Well,” he rambled on, smiling, “there’s always a branch on every tree which is taller and leafier than others. And this taller branch has its eyes and ears open and can see everything clearly. But no one likes it that way. So they send the drunken Irish poet, the war correspondent, to mollify you, Yusef, and this reporter carries his father’s letter here in his coat pocket; his father who’d written to say he’s sorry that … well, if you give in, Yusef, it’s all over.” He took a long gulp. His eyes were barely open. Then he continued sorrowfully:

  “O Ireland, O land of Aryan descent, I have composed a poem for a certain tree which must grow in your soil. The name of this tree is the ‘Tree of Independence’. You must nurture it with blood, not with water. Yes, Yusef, you were right. If independence is good for me, it’s good for you too. And that story you told me turned out to be so useful when I began to write. You said that in your folklore they talk of a tree whose leaves, when dried and put on the eyes, make you invisible, allowing you to do whatever you want. I wish there was one of these trees in Ireland and one here in your town.”

  McMahon fell silent. After a while he lit a cigarette and continued:

  “All this mumbo-jumbo was just to keep you listening. When my father’s letter arrived with the news … I sat and wrote a story for your Mina—for your twins. Where’s my story?” He searched in his pockets. “I thought I put it with my father’s letter … you see, I want to build an airplane which drops toys for children … or else pretty stories. Ah, here it is!”

  He took out a notebook and began to read.

  “Once upon a time there was a little girl called Mina. She always cried for the stars when she couldn’t see them in the sky. When she was smaller, her mother would pick her up in her arms, show her the sky and say: ‘Little little moon, pretty pretty stars, come to Mina’ or something like that, which is why Mina fell in love with the stars. Now whenever it’s cloudy at night, Mina cries for the stars. If only the maid would sweep the sky—she’s slapdash and brushes the dust away here and there, so on the nights she sweeps, at least some of the stars can be seen. But alas, if mother sweeps, she polishes the sky clean and gathers up all the stars and the moon and puts them in a sack. Then she sews up the sack, puts it in the cupboard and locks the door. But Mina found out what to do. She plotted with her sister to steal their mother’s keys and now they sleep hugging the keys tightly. If they don’t have the keys, they don’t sleep a wink. I’ve never seen a little girl so in love with the stars, and I’ve never seen a town like yours where you can hide stars in its cupboards …”

  He took another sip of his drink and said: “That’s the end of Mina’s story. Say bravo, Yusef! See what a yarn I’ve spun from odds and ends you’ve told me about your twins. You say the people of your town are born poets: well, the Irish are like that too …”

  Then he became silent.

  Zari was deep in thought when she noticed her brother-in-law, Abol-Ghassem Khan, approaching. McMahon stood up, picked up his glass and left. Abol-Ghassem Khan took his seat.

  “Is that whisky?” he asked.

  “No, it’s gin,” Zari answered. “Shall I pour you a glass?”

  Abol-Ghassem Khan said quietly to Yusef: “Listen brother, you’re being as stubborn as a mule. After all they’re guests in our country. They won’t be staying here forever, you know. And if we don’t give them what they want, they’ll take it by force. They won’t be put off by the locks and bolts on your store-rooms either. Besides, you know they’ll pay. I sold the entire contents of my store-rooms in one go … I’ve already taken a down payment for the wheat before it’s even sprouted. After all, they’re the bosses.”

  “I’m all too well aware that they’re unwelcome guests,” Yusef told his brother dryly. “But the worst thing is the feeling of inferiority that’s taken hold of everyone; overnight they’ve turned all of you into their lackeys, go-betweens, and errand-boys. Why don’t you let at least one person stand up to them so they can say to themselves that they’ve finally come across a man?”

  Before Abol-Ghassem Khan could reply, dinner was announced. The guests filed inside the house. Zari, her husband and her brother-in-law pretended to be on their way too, but lingered.

  “Sister, say something,” said Abol-Ghassem Khan, turning to Zari. “Your husband is downright insulting to his elder brother.”

  “What can I say?” Zari challenged.

  Turning back to Yusef, Abol-Ghassem Khan said: “Now listen, brother, you’re young and you don’t understand. You’re gambling with your life with this stubbornness of yours, and creating trouble for all of us as well. These foreigners have to feed a whole army. You know very well an army that big can’t be kept hungry.”

  “But our own people can be!” Yusef replied sharply. “The peasants who have been expecting to survive on the provisions from my store-rooms can be kept hungry!”

  “Listen, last year and the year before you got away with not giving them anything and somehow we covered up for you and made up the amount. But this year it just won’t work. Right now provisions and petrol are even more valuable to them than guns and ammunition.”

  They were still arguing when Gilan Taj came up to them and said: “Mother says please come in for dinner.”

  As they walked in, Abol-Ghassem Khan whispered in Zari’s ear: “I hope he doesn’t take it into his head not to come to their party tomorrow evening. They’ve even invited Khosrow. I’ll pick you all up myself.”

  “But tomorrow’s Thursday; it’s a holy evening and I have a lot to do. You know the vow I made.”

  “Sister, I’m counting on you!” Abol-Ghassem Khan pleaded.

  When they reached home, Zari sat on the bed. She only took off her shoes. Yusef was straightening out his trousers on the bed, ready for the hanger. When he had put on his night-clothes he went into the children’s room next door. Zari could see him from where she was sitting, standing by the twins’ bed watching them. Then he moved forward out of sight, but Zari knew he would be smoothing out their pillows, taking the keychain which they liked to hold at bedtime. She knew he would be kissing them and murmuring endearments to them. Then she heard a door open, and knew he had gone into their son Khosrow’s room. He would be tucking him in, and whispering a few words of prayer for his future.

  Yusef came back to their bedroom. Zari had not moved from the bed.

  “Aren’t you going to sleep?” Yusef asked, handing her the keychain, adding with a laugh, “The little twins are so funny!”

  He sat down next to his wife. “I suppose you want me to undo your buttons. I’m sorry I didn’t remember.”

  Without turning her back, Zari said: “McMahon wrote such a pretty story about them.”

  “Did you understand all of it?”

  “Yes, I’ve got used to his Irish accent by now.”

  “Do you know what Mina told me today when I tossed her in the air and hugged her? She asked, ‘Daddy, did m
ummy give you two stars? I can see them in your eyes’.”

  Zari laughed. “The child is right. There always seem to be stars twinkling in your eyes.”

  Yusef began to undo the buttons of his wife’s dress.

  “My goodness, what are all these buttons for?” he said. “Early this evening I said some things to McMahon, and if ever Singer gets to hear about them I’m done for.” He undid the buttons and Zari’s dress fell around her waist. He began to unhook her bra.

  “I told McMahon that the people of this town were born poets but their poetry has been stifled; their heroes have been castrated. There’s no room left for them to fight back, so at least there could be some glory, or the honour of an open challenge. They’ve made this into a land with no heroes and this town into a graveyard; the liveliest neighbourhood is the Mordestan district.”

  Yusef unhooked Zari’s bra, and putting his hands over her breasts, said: “I feel sorry for your breasts; you bind them so tightly.”

  Zari felt her breasts responding. Her nipples gradually hardened. Yusef put his lips on his wife’s shoulder. His lips were warm.

  “Didn’t he ask what the Mordestan district was?” Zari asked.

  “Yes, he did. I told him it’s the neighbourhood where the residents are mainly pathetic women who earn a livelihood from painting up their faces, and whom those Indian soldiers are sent to. The officers are much better off in that respect. I told him, ‘You’ve killed the poetry, but instead the cab-drivers, prostitutes and go-betweens have picked up a few words of English.’ McMahon said there was no need to tell him any of this, he was heartily sick of the war himself.”

  Yusef reached forward and stroked his wife’s hair. He was about to kiss the back of her neck when Zari turned around and, throwing her arms about his neck, began to cry. Yusef asked in surprise: “Are you crying because of me? You know I can’t be like the others. I can’t see our people go hungry. Someone has to be man enough to stand up …”