A Persian Requiem Page 6

“You’ve taken out your rusty, broken guns from the cracks and crevices in the mountain-side, oiled them and taken to looting and killing your fellow-men again. What more can you and I have to say to each other?”

  “Zari Khanom isn’t a stranger,” Sohrab said, “and I’m not afraid of saying in front of her that we had to take our revenge. How long can we take it from the government? With that general pardon of theirs, which they later broke—and how! What they promised us on the one hand, they took away with the other. There was only bribery, excuses, hatred, and executions. Their forced settlements turned out to be a total waste of money. They built a couple of mud-huts in dried-up areas, and told us to go and live in them. Instead of books, teachers, doctors, medicine and health care, they sent us soldiers armed with bayonets, guns and hostility. It’s only natural that we’ve gone back to our old trade and taken revenge on them.”

  While Sohrab was talking, Khadijeh brought a hookah and placed it in front of Yusef. Zari whispered to her, “Take the boots and give them to Gholam for cleaning. Bring some tea, too.”

  Drawing on the pipe, Yusef said, “What can I say, Sohrab my friend; you’ve put your finger on it yourself. You say you’ve gone back to your ‘trade’. In other words the tribe has become a kind of business for you. You use it to make deals.”

  “Believe me,” Malek Rostam protested, “they acted entirely without provocation at the beginning. I’m personally in favour of the idea of settlements. You know that yourself. But it’s as if they themselves don’t want us to prosper. Certain forces are at work against us. They want us either to rot away from the inside and ultimately destroy ourselves, or else to stay in our present state.”

  Yusef lifted the pipe to his lips again. “You yourselves prefer this present state of affairs,” he said. “If you had been more willing, the settlements might have worked. But my friend, you tribal chiefs have become too accustomed to exploiting your tribesmen. For you they aren’t human beings; they’re no different from your sheep—you sell them both in one go.”

  “Don’t speak to me like that, Yusef,” Malek Rostam retorted angrily. “You’re a close friend, we’ve been classmates and we’ve shared each other’s hospitality many times, but …”

  “I don’t know how to say what I have to say any other way,” Yusef interrupted. “You know me well enough. I don’t stand on ceremony with anyone—especially not with my closest friends.”

  Malek Rostam replied quietly, “I know, better than anyone, that tribal life with all its excitement and adventure is not the right way to live. You know that I would prefer to be a settled Qashqai rather than a nomadic one. I know it’s not right for thousands of men, women and children to be led by their herds, wandering from the top of the Gulf to the other side of the mountains in search of grass and water. I realize that the lives of so many people should not be tied to cows, sheep and grazing land. But do you think it’s up to me alone? Am I the chief? What can one person do?”

  Yusef put his pipe aside. “If that one person really wants to,” he said quietly, “he can easily sway others. There are a great many people who are capable of understanding what’s right and fair, and recognizing it when they hear it. But these people are scattered and you must join forces with them … Even if you don’t do it yourself, your children and the children of others will do it in their time. They will pass through towns and villages, they’ll see schools, mosques, public baths and hospitals. They’ll grow to understand and want these things and finally do something about their lot.”

  “You know it’s too late for that,” Malek Rostam replied wearily.

  There was a pause when Khosrow came in to take hazelnuts for Sahar. After he left, Yusef asked, “What was all that about the Malek Abad Pass? I’ve heard a few things, but I want to hear about it from you.”

  “I swear to you, it wasn’t anything much,” replied Malek Rostam. “The Ezhdehakosh clan disarmed a group of soldiers, chopped off a few heads, took a dozen rifles or so, some ammunition and about twenty horses—that’s all. And what’s more, they did it without permission. The Farsi Madan clan brought it to my uncle’s attention. My uncle doesn’t agree with this kind of pilfering.”

  Malek Sohrab, who had been silent for a while, spoke up: “Brother, tell Yusef about the incident with the captain’s pups.”

  When Malek Rostam remained silent, Sohrab began to tell the story himself.

  “The dog belonging to the captain in charge of the tribal settlement had just whelped,” he began. “A couple of mischievous kids from the Ezhdehakosh clan threw stones at it—a purebred wolfhound, no less. Anyway, afraid that they would be found out, they stole the dog and got rid of it. Again the tell-tale Farsi Madans gave them away, and the captain forced three women from the Ezhdehakosh to breast-feed the puppies.”

  Zari felt sick, but Yusef merely smiled and said, “My dear Sohrab, that story must be at least ten, twelve years old. And it’s the third time you’ve told it to me.”

  “Then why let me tell it a fourth time?” Malek Sohrab countered indignantly.

  “I didn’t recognize it at first, but it came back to me as you went on. Anyway, what do you think I am, some sort of saint? I’m a human being, like everyone else.” Turning to Rostam, Yusef continued, “Well, what do you want from me? We’ve been talking about this and that; let’s get to the point.”

  “Please believe that I don’t agree with everything my uncle does,” Malek Rostam said. “I was even against his sending me to you. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. But in these sensitive times, I can’t turn my back on him.”

  Zari could have sworn Malek Rostam had told her it was Malek Sohrab who was there on behalf of their uncle, and he himself had just come along for the visit.

  “You still haven’t said what you want of me,” Yusef reminded him.

  Malek Rostam lowered his head, seemingly lost in thought. But Malek Sohrab stepped in.

  “Help,” he said, after a moment’s silence.

  “What sort of help?”

  “Sell us whatever provisions you have. We’ll even buy the unharvested crop. You just name the price.”

  “Who has put you up to this?” Yusef asked suspiciously. “Singer? Up to now there’s only been talk of surplus crops. Now it’s the whole lot!”

  The two brothers exchanged a glance. Suddenly Yusef raised his voice: “You want the provisions to sell to the foreign army in exchange for arms, so you can go on fighting and looting your fellow-countrymen and brothers! Don’t you realize that if you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile? Haven’t you any brains? Those ‘mysterious government forces’ which you claim have prevented you from prospering in the settlement could’ve been used to your advantage at a time like this … So where’s that spirit of adventure, that fight and dignity now?” Yusef’s moustache trembled in anger.

  “Do you know government men stopped the tribe in Kam Firouz?” Malek Sohrab pleaded. “Do you realize they refused permission to migrate this summer? All around us we face the guns and bullets of our own countrymen. The green grass on the slopes of the mountains is drying up untouched, and our sheep are starving and dying of thirst.”

  “Now look here, Sohrab,” Yusef retorted angrily, “don’t give me this nonsense, you young fool. You sold most of your sheep to the foreigners. They’re frozen now, and being dutifully guarded in the cold-storage of the Ahwaz-Bandar Shah railway.”

  Rostam’s eyes were glued to the designs on the carpet.

  “If we hadn’t sold them,” his brother answered, “they would have died on us. Believe me, our sheep couldn’t even walk at the end. They had to be carried away in trucks.”

  “What did you do with the money—buy weapons? Golden pitchers? Golden jars? Did you sew royal crowns on to your hats, and get a thrill when they started calling your uncle ‘His Highness’?” Yusef snapped.

  Malek Sohrab, unable to contain himself any longer, jumped to his feet.

  “Yusef Khan, our friendship is all very fine, but everything
has a limit!” he shouted. “What right have you to call me a young fool? To say that we have no brains? You are the one with no brains, because right now you should be the deputy, not your brother …”

  “Deputy for whom—Singer? I spit on the deputation for which you, Malek Sohrab, have to act as go-between!” Yusef said, his voice shaking with anger.

  “What on earth are you talking about!” Malek Sohrab shouted even more angrily. “You say whatever comes to your mind without pausing to think that you may be the one who’s wrong. Who uses me as a go-between? Why are you so self-righteous? Who on earth do you think you are? And besides, what mistakes? What do golden pitchers have to do with us? Why do you blame us for what Davoud Khan may have done? Why? What right have you got?”

  “You’re all the same,” Yusef sighed wearily.

  Malek Rostam turned to Sohrab, trying to calm him down. “Sit down, boy,” he said. “I made you promise you wouldn’t insult my friend.” Then the two brothers started talking in Turkish. Rostam’s voice gradually became harsher as Sohrab’s tone softened, until he finally sat and apologized. Yusef pulled the hookah towards him.

  “The charcoal has gone out, let me go and light it again,” Zari said.

  “There’s enough fire within me,” Yusef sighed, as he drew on the pipe.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you; I apologize again,” Sohrab said, forcing a smile.

  “My dear Sohrab, for once you’ve discovered my weakness and see what a fuss you made! But I like that, you have guts. Only you still don’t see very far.” He put the pipe aside and continued, “You know, I was never happy about your playing around with the Germans, nor am I happy now that you’ve made a deal with their enemies. You’re the ones who’ve turned Hitler into a ‘Messiah’ among our people. These tricks don’t really work with us, and your political flirtations only gave these foreigners an added excuse to come here.”

  “Well brother, after all it’s a war,” Malek Sohrab said gently. “They don’t give out sweets in a war. These people have to stay around to protect the oil and the access to the Gulf. They would have come in any case, even if we weren’t here. And anyhow, they only come to the town on sick leave or on holiday. The main camp is at Khorramshahr … they have no other alternative.”

  “Now you’re defending them too, my friend?” Yusef asked in a fatherly tone. “Their war is their affair. What does it have to do with us? Hitler is from their continent. They created him themselves. Let them pay for that. Let them pay for everything, even the unhappiness they’ve brought on the ones who, according to Singer, ‘have resources they don’t know how to use’. The English never ask who’s to blame for this ignorance.”

  Malek Sohrab glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I’ve got a headache. Do you have any aspirin? Make sure it’s Bayer.”

  Zari got up and took away the hookah. When she returned with the Bayer aspirin and a glass of water, Yusef was saying, “I assure you that it’s so. In order to discourage their ally from the plan I just mentioned, they’ll arrange a few skirmishes and manoeuvres with your aid, and quite a number of our people will be slaughtered at your hands. The British never say no to an ally. They simply confront him with a fait accompli so that he abandons his original plan himself. Mark my words: they will stain your hands with blood, while they themselves just sit and watch. A real massacre will take place amongst us.”

  “We must be going soon,” Malek Sohrab pointed out anxiously, “so let’s get back to the point. You still haven’t told us whether you’ll sell the provisions or not.”

  “He hasn’t said? Must he spell it out for you? He went to such lengths …” Malek Rostam laughed, but still Malek Sohrab bargained: “Please believe that we don’t want to sell all of it. Our men are hungry; they’re falling like flies from sickness and hunger.”

  “I’ll take Rostam’s word of honour,” Yusef answered. “If he promises to buy just enough for your own men, and to use my provisions for your people only, then I will agree. Tomorrow I’m going to Kavar … I know you’ve been stopped there too. Bring camels to load the provisions. But, remember, only for the tribe’s use. Band Bahman is just a kilometre further away, and there you’ll find water. I’ll also provide the pasture for free.”

  “I can’t cheat you,” Malek Rostam said dejectedly.

  “I know you can’t.” Yusef paused, then said with feeling, “Rostam, try to turn away from this path you’ve chosen for yourself. Why don’t you try, at least, to create a spark of faith somehow, somewhere. Teach your people skills. How many times have I told you! My unused lands are there just waiting for houses, schools, public baths, hospitals, mosques, pastures …”

  Malek Sohrab cut Yusef short. “These things you talk about are not in our nature,” he said. “We’ve lived free. Nature has always been within our reach. We’ve ridden horses in the mountains, rested on the plains, camped under the skies. We can’t be imprisoned in houses.”

  “But it seems it can be done to us Khans,” Yusef said bitterly. “We used to have the best gardens in town, the best houses … and where are they now? At the disposal of the Supreme Command, that’s where!”

  Malek Sohrab, knowing what Yusef was about to say, stopped him gently. “I promise you our people love the kind of life they lead. If they settle down their spirit will be broken.”

  “Because it’s the only life they’ve ever known,” Yusef argued. “But Sohrab, my friend, when a man cultivates a piece of land, labours over its soil and reaps its harvest, he becomes attached to that land. In a village, nature is still within reach. When you’re settled …”

  Sohrab finished the sentence for him: “You become stupid, helpless, petty and cowardly.” Then, as if to change the subject, he said, “May I ask you a question? What will you do with all your corn and grain and dates? It’s harvest time now in the lowlands. What will you do after the harvest? Will you hoard everything?”

  “I’ll give my villagers their share to the last grain,” Yusef replied. “The rest I’ll bring to town. Unlike those traitors who sold both their villagers’ share and the food for the town to the foreign army. There are five of us who’ll do this, and we’re landowners of considerable means. Two of us are on the city council, and we’ve all sworn to take control of the town’s provisions. We have the mayor on our side. I know you’re not the sort to reveal this to anyone. I also want you to know that it’s not in my nature to hoard. The hoarders have sent their own people’s provisions to North Africa and …”

  Malek Rostam interrupted him. “Majid is probably with you too,” he said sadly. “God willing, I hope you manage to accomplish something.”

  “What will you do about the Governor?” Malek Sohrab asked.

  “The Governor is a human being,” Yusef replied. “He’ll agree to end the food shortage in order to have this part of the country quieten down.”

  “I think the outlook is bleak,” Malek Sohrab commented. “It’s a dangerous plan. So long as you only talk about it, they’ll leave you alone. But the minute you put your words into action, they’ll stop you by whatever means they can.” He stood up and put on his veil.

  “We’ll do our utmost,” Yusef assured him, adding: “Stay for dinner.”

  “No, we’d better go,” Malek Sohrab replied. “They’ll be worried about us; they may think we’ve been caught. Please ask someone to get us a droshke.”

  Malek Rostam got up then and put on his veil, inside out. Zari laughed.

  “You have it on the wrong way round,” she said. “The seams are showing.”

  “You stay,” Yusef said, turning to Rostam. “I’ll take you back myself tomorrow morning before sunrise.”

  “All right,” he agreed.

  They went into the garden together, and sat on the cane chairs to wait for Sohrab’s cab. The verandah lights were on. Zari, standing at the edge of the verandah, saw Khosrow squatting by Ameh’s opium brazier. He was roasting hazelnuts in the frying pan while she ground more nuts on a f
lat stone. Sahar was on the verandah, with his bridle tied to a door handle. Zari heard Yusef say, “Why didn’t you take the bridle off the poor creature? Why did you bring him on to the verandah? Child, the animal is tired. Take him to the stables and leave your treatments till the morning.”

  Khosrow got up. “Father, please let me. The hazelnut oil is ready now. I’ll rub it on his knee-cap and then I’ll take him to the stables. I brought him to the verandah because he was playing around. He was chasing the fawn, who kept waking with a start and throwing himself against the branches and bushes out of fright. So I brought Sahar here with me.”

  Ameh burned herself taking the hot hazelnuts out of the frying pan. Dropping the nuts, and blowing on her fingers, she said:

  “Brother, tell Gholam to kill the fawn tomorrow. First of all, not everyone managed to get meat from the hunt and they’re grumbling. Secondly, keeping deer brings bad luck. Come to think of it, I wish the men in this family would put hunting out of their minds once and for all. Only last year you shot a pregnant deer. The minute they opened her up and I saw that little one sleeping there in her mother’s womb, I beat myself on the head. I knew it was a bad omen …”

  “Put your veil on. Those women in the garden are really men,” Zari informed her sister-in-law quietly.

  “God protect us!” Ameh said, jumping up in astonishment. “Heaven have mercy!” Frenziedly she covered herself with her veil.

  When the droshke arrived, Malek Rostam stood up too.

  “Allow me to leave also,” he said to Yusef. “I have to reach my uncle as soon as possible. I think you’re right. My uncle has blindly worked himself into a tight corner.”

  Yusef only asked, “Blindly?”

  5

  It was ten days now since Yusef had left for the lowlands. Zari wandered about the garden with her gardening scissors, looking unsuccessfully for flowers to cut. To her, the heat there felt every bit as oppressive as in the lowlands. Summer always seemed to rush upon them in this way, brushing away the last signs of spring. Mina and Marjan followed their mother around from one rose-bush to another, chattering and giggling, while Gholam watered the brick paving in front of the house to cool off the garden. Along one border of the stream that ran by the brick paving were some tired-looking amaranthus, while along the other side a variety of snapdragons stooped under layers of dust, side by side with the humble-plants sleepily closing their petals to the approaching dusk. Zari’s only hope lay in the tuberoses that Gholam had said would bloom with the full moon. The orange blossoms were scattered now, brown and withered like so many burnt stars beneath the trees. At least in winter the narcissi bloomed gaily by the small stream, surrendering their image to the water only to be carried away, unseen and lost forever, as the water tumbled into the pool. Even spring brought with it white and purple violets that coyly greeted the passing stream, nodding cheerfully at their own reflection. But nothing seemed able to resist the heat of the summer.