A Persian Requiem Page 4

  “Well,” reassured Yusef, “he did it so that when Sahar is being shod, he won’t be frightened or pull away which might cause a nail to go into his foot. Now today, I’ll hold up his foot myself, just as I once helped to deliver him.” He turned to Zari who had come to sit by them. “You’ve put the hookah in front of you, as if you wanted to smoke it yourself,” he said.

  Zari took a puff but gave up the moment she began to cough.

  “Father, may I come and watch?” Khosrow asked.

  “Of course. Weren’t you there when he was born?”

  “Yes! Do I remember! Sahar stood up right away. The mare chewed off the cord and began to lick and smell him. You threw your cloak on him so he wouldn’t catch cold and you rubbed his body to keep him warm while Gholam fetched a blanket … But he’s really naughty now, isn’t he?” he added laughingly. “He bites his mother, then he changes his mind and licks her.” Khosrow paused, then said, “Father, why do I love Sahar so much? I want to talk about him all the time. When I’m sitting in class I keep praying for the bell to ring so I can rush home and play with him.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with loving, my son. Loving lightens the heart, just as malice and hatred darken it. Learn to love now, and then when you grow up you’ll be ready to love what’s good and beautiful in the world. The heart is like a garden full of flowers in bud. If you water them, they’ll open; if you feed them with hatred, they’ll wither. Remember that malice and hatred are not for the beautiful and good but for the ugly, the dishonourable and the unjust. A hatred of these things means a love of justice and honour.”

  “Father, you’re talking above my head again,” Khosrow complained.

  “Didn’t you understand what I said?”

  “I think I understood. You said that there is nothing wrong in loving Sahar. Then you said I must water the flowers …”

  “We must have been miles away while father was lecturing!” laughed Zari. “If you ask me, you should go to your uncle’s and visit your cousin Hormoz, and come back when they’ve finished with Sahar.”

  “No Zari,” Yusef said. “Khosrow has to learn that if Sahar is to be shod, he must put up with a few nails. He has got to realize that there’s pain and suffering in this world.”

  “Father, will it hurt him very much?”

  “No. The important thing is to learn to endure things. We’ve trained him to stop playing around for a few minutes, long enough to put up with the shoeing. Whereas other horses …”

  “But father, that herd of wild horses you told me a story about,” Khosrow interrupted, “they didn’t have bridles or shoes.”

  “What was the story?” Zari asked.

  “I don’t remember it myself,” Yusef said.

  Khosrow sprang up, exclaiming: “Don’t you remember? You told me the story the night Sahar was born. Afterwards, Gholam and I talked a lot about the herd of horses. Gholam said you made it all up so I’d stop crying.”

  Stifling a laugh, Zari asked, “What was the story?”

  “Father, let me tell it … It was when father was invited to stay with the Qashqai tribe. One night when there was a moon and the air was as clear as can be, with the sky full of stars, they went hunting. Suddenly, in the middle of a very, very big plain, they saw a herd of wild horses. The stallions were standing in a really wide circle facing outwards, their backs to the centre, where a mare was giving birth. The stallions were too embarrassed to look, because a baby comes out from a very bad place. Father and the others didn’t go any closer because the horses would have charged on them … well, I mean the stallions were standing like that to reassure the mare, otherwise she would have been scared. After all, some wild animal could have attacked the foal. And, oh yes, I forgot to say that an older mare stood by as a kind of midwife.”

  “Did I say the baby comes out from a very bad place?” Yusef asked.

  “No, father, Gholam said that.”

  At that moment Gholam came in, wearing his faithful old felt hat.

  “Is the blacksmith here?” Khosrow asked.

  “His wife is here. She says he’s got a fever,” he replied, and turning to Yusef, “he won’t be coming.”

  That evening Gholam came back with two porters who could carry loads on their heads. Two copper trays, piled high with bread and dates covered with a calico table-cloth, had been put out by the pool in front of the house, ready for collection. Ameh, wearing her veil, was sitting next to one of the trays. Haj Mohammad Reza, the dyer, was pacing up and down outside the gate. But Hossein Agha, the grocer, had come inside and was admiring the orange blossoms in the grove.

  Zari herself went to the prison and asylum on alternate weeks. But there was always someone who could help her out with her vow and go to the place she wasn’t visiting that week. And when there was no volunteer, there were Hossein Agha and Haj Mohammad Reza to turn to—they were good neighbours who would never leave a friend in the lurch.

  Zari, Ameh and Khadijeh the maid had been busy all afternoon putting dates between pieces of bread. Now Zari stood in front of her dressing-table, applying a touch of make-up. From her bedroom window she could see the garden and listen to what was going on. She could hear Ameh asking one of the porters, “Well, how much do you charge?”

  “Where do I have to go?” he asked.

  “The Karim Khan prison—the dungeon,” Ameh told him, to which the man replied, “God bless you; I don’t want any money. Give me some home-made bread instead.”

  “Where do I go?” the other porter asked.

  “You go to the mental asylum,” Ameh told him.

  “Pay me in bread too,” he said.

  Zari patted her face, smoothing out the powder. Then she walked on to the verandah.

  “Sister, they’re asking for bread instead of money,” Ameh explained to her.

  “All right,” Zari replied. Turning to Gholam she said, “Give them each ten loaves.”

  “I have further to go, but it doesn’t matter,” the first porter said. “This fellow’s child is ill. It’s this disease they say the foreign army has brought with them. I’ve heard that the water in the Vakil reservoir has been contaminated.”

  “God protect us!” Ameh exclaimed.

  “As if their presence alone wasn’t enough, they had to bring their diseases as well,” Hossein Agha complained.

  “You’re giving charity to prisoners and madmen on the holy eve of Friday,” the first porter said, “but no one remembers the needy standing right in front of them.”

  “May God repay them for their charity anyway,” said the second porter. “Our God is generous too.”

  Gholam arrived with the bread. Both porters unwound the cloths they usually twisted into a tight coil to use as padding for their heads while carrying the trays. Then they carefully wrapped the bread inside these cloths and tied the bundles around their waists, bulging out in front like a pair of pregnant women.

  “What will you carry on your head, then?” Zari asked.

  “If we don’t do this,” the first porter explained, “someone may snatch the bread from us. Especially this home-made bread, so fresh and delicate. Just the smell of it makes your stomach growl! It’s a good thing you’ve covered the trays with tablecloths.”

  “But you’re taking a droshke. No-one is going to snatch the bread from you in the little way you’ll need to walk.”

  “It looks like the lady isn’t a native of this town!”

  “Gholam, go and get the master’s and Khosrow’s waistcloths from Khadijeh,” Zari said, “and coil them into pads. These men can’t carry the trays on their bare heads.”

  As Gholam ran back inside, a car drew up at the garden gate, and sounded its horn. Zari saw Abol-Ghassem Khan and his son Hormoz come in. She thought, “Oh my God! I’m not ready yet,” and dashed inside. There, she quickly took off her house-dress, pulled on a woollen sweater and a skirt, and started looking for her shoes.

  “Hello, everybody!” she heard Abol-Ghassem say. “Will you be long
?”

  “Now don’t rush her,” Ameh’s voice rose in reply. “This is the first time she isn’t carrying out her vow herself, and all for your sake.”

  “It’s a long way and we must be there at five o’clock sharp,” Abol-Ghassem Khan insisted.

  “Isn’t it near Seyyid Abol Vafa’s shrine?”

  “No, sister, it’s about four miles further on.”

  “Now why don’t you do a good deed for a change and help these poor porters. While the others get ready for the party you can give the porter and me a lift in your car.”

  “What’s the hurry? Will you be late for your opium?”

  As Zari quickly combed her hair, she prayed that the two of them would not start a quarrel again. She could hear Hormoz trying to patch things up. “Auntie,” he offered, “if you like I can go. I like talking to the prisoners. I’ve been there three times with Hossein Agha. Isn’t that so, Hossein Agha?”

  “What nonsense is this again?” Abol-Ghassem Khan turned on him angrily. Then he walked up to the edge of the verandah and called out jokingly to Zari, “Sister, how many hours have you been spending in front of the mirror? Where’s my brother; where’s Khosrow?”

  Zari didn’t answer; she was listening to Ameh who was saying: “Let’s go. Hossein Agha, help him lift the tray to his head.”

  As he heaved the tray up, one of the porters said: “God give me strength!”

  When they arrived at the open-air party, Captain Singer was there to greet them in person. Together they walked past the fields of summer crops to where the marquees had been set up. Zari was feeling hot, but she knew it would be cooler in the evening. She was walking ahead with Abol-Ghassem Khan while Yusef and Singer followed behind, and Khosrow and Hormoz brought up the rear.

  They passed a field of lettuces, caked with dust and sand, standing in rows like soldiers on parade. As they walked on, they passed other fields where the entire crop of cucumbers, eggplants, tomatoes and melons—ripe and unripe—lay exposed to the relentless sun.

  “They need watering,” Abol-Ghassem Khan observed.

  To the left of the fields large tents had been pitched, in which soldiers and officers were sitting or standing. Their army vehicles were parked nearby. Zari heard Yusef recite a familiar yet very apt line of verse: “Will this wine ever suffice to quench our thirst?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Captain Singer challenged him.

  Abol-Ghassem Khan stopped abruptly and turned to face them. Zari also stopped. Abol-Ghassem Khan blinked, and said to Captain Singer, “To be quite frank, your honour, what my brother means is that a glass of whisky wouldn’t go amiss right now; even though a person can’t get drunk on only one glass.” After that he made a careful manoeuvre, changing places with Yusef, and falling into step with Singer.

  The guests were ushered into the Supreme Command’s huge marquee. Abol-Ghassem Khan had rushed them so much that they were now too early. They greeted Khanom Hakim and a Scottish officer. A map of Iran had been spread out on a table near the entrance. Khanom Hakim was pacing around the marquee looking as though she were trying to memorize something from a piece of paper in her hand. Zari glanced at the map; there were enough multi-coloured markers stuck on it to confuse even the expert. Yusef headed for the map with an agitated Abol-Ghassem at his heels.

  Staring at the familiar outline of his country, Yusef murmured, “How they’ve disembowelled her!”

  Abol-Ghassem Khan placed a hand on his brother’s arm.

  At that moment, Singer directed an Indian soldier who had just entered the marquee, carrying a tray of sherbets and various soft drinks, to the table where the map was displayed. Turning to Yusef, he said: “Let’s have something to drink.”

  The three men each took a drink. Then Singer, raising his glass in a toast, proclaimed in his usual broken Persian: “To Iran, so much bigger than France; and to Tehran, bigger than … than Vichy!”

  Yusef raised his head from the map and looked straight at Singer.

  “But unfortunately we didn’t get a chance to fight!” he said.

  Abol-Ghassem Khan mumbled nervously: “Actually, Vichy mineral water does wonders for indigestion …”

  “Why say you unfortunately?” Singer asked, cutting him short and staring at Yusef.

  “Because we’re suffering the consequences anyway, without ever having tasted victory or even an honourable defeat,” Yusef replied.

  “Then why did you not fight, if you were able?” Singer demanded. “How to find right word? Straw? Yes, that’s it, straw. We only found stuffed dummy when we come here. When we ripped him apart, there was no blood, only straw … stuffed with straw.”

  Yusef gave a hollow laugh and put his hand on Singer’s shoulder.

  “My dear Singer, you knew yourself what the score was, and that’s what makes all of this even more ugly and despicable. We were deprived the chance of an honourable defeat …

  Singer raised a hand to stop him. “A-a-a-a … slow now, slow, so that I can follow what you say …”

  Abol-Ghassem Khan, with an attack of his nervous blink, tried to mediate: “That’s all water under the bridge …”

  “You talk in proverbs and confuse me,” Singer said irritably.

  A number of other officers, English, Scottish and Indian, and McMahon the Irishman, entered the marquee. Hormoz, who had been following the conversation, whispered in Zari’s ear, “If Mr Fotouhi, our teacher, were here, he would shake uncle’s hand, and call him a real man. Mr Fotouhi’s always bragging about his own background. If only he could see my uncle now!”

  But Zari’s attention was fixed on Singer who had taken Abol-Ghassem Khan’s arm and was saying, in his stilted Persian: “Give your brother some good advice. God has given you so much resources in this country. Give some to us. It belongs to everyone, to all mankind. It is too much just for you. You don’t need all.”

  “Just what British Petroleum is doing!” Yusef said with a laugh.

  Singer looked taken aback. His face and neck reddened noticeably. He placed his drink on the map and blurted out, “You didn’t know how! We don’t need you. We can take it out ourselves and give to those who need …” And suddenly he became amiable again. Lifting his glass, he said, “Cheers!”

  The Governor, the Colonel and the newly married couple with Gilan Taj in tow, now made their entry. The officers stood to attention while the Governor nodded to all of them. The army commander, the town’s newspaper owners and the heads of various civic departments, all began to drift in with their wives. The marquee was soon crammed full of people, and the sickly smell of feet, sweat, perfume and alcohol filled the air. Three Indian soldiers were busy serving drinks.

  Zari signalled to Hormoz and Khosrow, and together they went over to Gilan Taj. Zari had decided to summon up courage to slip in a reminder about her earrings. First she introduced Khosrow and Hormoz. The girl extended a hand, and flashed a dimpled smile. Then the bride, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and green sunglasses, came up to them.

  “Zari, darling,” she cooed. “Thank you so much for your gift. I’ll always treasure them, and when I wear them I’ll think of you.”

  Zari looked at her in astonishment. Since when had she and the Governor’s daughter become so intimate? In the three years since the Governor’s posting to Shiraz, she had not seen the girl more than three times. Well, maybe four or five times, counting the wedding. Zari opened her mouth to say: “What gift? I only lent them, as your sister here knows full well!” But no sound escaped her lips. She cursed herself inwardly for her own ineptitude and cowardice. “Spineless women like me deserve no better!” she thought to herself.

  The bride looked at Hormoz and Khosrow.

  “Zari dear,” she said, “I never knew you had such grown-up sons. You, so young and pretty! Tell everyone they’re your brothers, not sons.”

  Khosrow was quick to chip in. “Four-eyed Hormoz here is my cousin,” he announced.

  Hormoz blushed and removed his glasses. But
Zari knew he wouldn’t be able to see a thing without them. She felt like scolding Khosrow there and then. Four-eyed Hormoz indeed! Talking like that to an older cousin, and in front of such uppity people as the Governor’s daughter! But the bride was too quick for her.

  “Master Hormoz, aren’t you Mirza Abol-Ghassem Khan’s son?” she asked. “I have a great deal of respect for him. How kind he’s been! What a sweet man he is, and so amusing! Please don’t be shy, put on your glasses by all means. I wear glasses myself; even my sunglasses have prescription lenses. Last night I had a frightful time without them.”

  A sudden flurry of trumpets and drums announced that it was time to leave the marquee for other events of the evening. The Colonel and the Governor led the way, followed by the guests, and Zari felt as if she were being taken to an execution. They reached a vast, open space, where chairs had been arranged in a horse-shoe. Already thousands of soldiers, mostly Indian, were seated.

  The officer behind the Colonel gave an order and at once, as all the soldiers rose to attention, there was a deafening scraping of chairs. Around a platform which had been made out of a couple of old boards and covered with a carpet, five flags waved of which Zari recognized only one—that of Great Britain. Khanom Hakim made her way across the creaking platform to the microphone. A hush ensued. Reading from the piece of paper in her hand, she greeted the guests in Persian. Her voice was a little unsteady at first until she gained confidence and warmed to her speech. In the light of the setting sun, her dull teeth looked decidedly yellow.

  From what Zari could gather, the gist of her speech was that in order to amuse the fighting boys of Great Britain now on leave in Shiraz, that sweet city of birds and flowers—they had arranged some entertainment. This was to enable the soldiers to fight the monster Fascism with greater strength of spirit, sending that devil Hitler back to hell in the shortest time possible. She thanked the Iranians for their hospitality, for they had made the war against Satan—meaning Hitler—easier to bear. Then she finished by declaring that Hitler was like a virus, a cancer, which had to be torn out.