A Persian Requiem Page 8

  Sahar lowered his head and dug at the soil underneath the orange tree. After Khosrow had gone, he came near the verandah and neighed loudly. His mother answered him from the stables. Zari looked at him through her tears. “You poor beast!” she thought. “What sweet eyes you have. Why don’t you look straight at me? Why lower your gaze? Why don’t you call me a helpless woman who’ll betray you tomorrow?”

  “I for one am leaving this place,” Ameh Khanom announced. “Why do I need a ‘dashport’, ‘pashport’ or whatever they call it? I’ll get myself smuggled out. I’ll buy gold coins with my money, and sew them into the lining of my coat. I’ll just take one suitcase, get myself to Ahwaz, and it’ll be easy from there. I’ll go through the date-palm plantations, then find some Arabs, give them each a gold coin, and they’ll put me in one of their boats to cross the Tigris. Then I’ll be rid of all this. From then on, I won’t be a burden and I won’t let anyone impose on me. And it won’t be my own country so I won’t have to worry all the time about what happens to it.” She clenched a fist to her bosom, praying:

  “O Imam Hossein! Allow this poor creature of yours to come to you in Karbala!”

  “Did you want the hookah, Khanom?” Khadijeh came in to ask, bringing one with her.

  Zari took the pipe from Khadijeh, and drew deeply on it. It made her cough. Then she drew on it again and again. It made her feel sick, but she kept on inhaling.

  “They can drive you to addiction, sister,” Ameh warned. “You mustn’t smoke if you can help it. A habit is a terrible thing.” She looked up at the sky and said with bitterness, “O Lord, I’m not ungrateful, yet I’ve never known anything but sorrow in this world of yours. They hounded and harassed my husband to death. He couldn’t take it any more, and smashed himself, on horseback, against the pillars of the British Consulate building. My only son died young. A boil grew in his throat, and he withered away before my very eyes. In all of this godforsaken town no one could give him the medicine he needed … O Lord, maybe you brought me all these sorrows to see whether I have the patience of Job. Well, I haven’t, I haven’t! Grant my only wish now. Let me make my pilgrimage!”

  Zari was in tears again. She brushed them away with the back of her hand. “Ameh Khanom,” she pleaded, “don’t make me so unhappy. Where do you want to get up and go to? At least this is your homeland. Your husband and son are buried here. Whenever you feel lonely, you can visit their graves. Whom will you turn to there?”

  “To Imam Hossein.”

  “It’s hot there. The climate won’t agree with you. There’s a big garden here. My children are like your own. We live like sisters. Besides, how will they send you money?”

  “I’m only one person. I’m willing to live on bread and water. What makes me more special than Bibi, my mother?”

  Before Zari could reply, Khadijeh came out to the verandah: “Khanom, the children are making a fuss. No matter what I say they refuse to eat their meal. They’re driving me out of my mind.”

  “I’ll come,” Zari said, getting up and going to the parlour. She found Marjan sitting on the table, rubbing her eyes. Mina was standing by her, looking frightened and staring anxiously at the door. Catching sight of her mother, she laughed and stretched out her arms. Zari sat next to them and tried to put a spoonful of food in Mina’s mouth, but the child pushed the spoon away. When she tried to feed Marjan, the same thing happened.

  “I don’t want any rice-pudding!” Marjan cried.

  “Why not?” asked Zari.

  “I don’t like it!” she shouted.

  “All right, then just have some bread,” Zari offered.

  “That child who threw a stone at me said, ‘Gimme some bread! Gimme some fruit from your tree!’” said Marjan, rubbing her eyes.

  “Which child?”

  “That child who didn’t have any shoes. That one whose mama danced. The papa sat down and said: ‘Ouch!’ His foot was hurt bad,” Marjan explained.

  “See, that poor child had no bread to eat. But you won’t even have your rice-pudding and honey.”

  “Gholam went and hit him,” Marjan said.

  They drove Zari to distraction before taking a few more spoonfuls. As she was taking them to bed, she saw that Ameh was still sitting quietly next to the opium brazier.

  The children, unable to get to sleep, tossed about restlessly. Obviously, Abol-Ghassem Khan’s disturbing afternoon visit had affected them too.

  “If you close your eyes, I’ll tell you a story,” Zari promised.

  “I’m scared,” Mina whimpered.

  Zari didn’t know why she should suddenly think of McMahon and the story he had written for Mina and Marjan. That night, the night of the wedding, when she had gone to the dinner table, McMahon had managed to find a plate and cutlery for her, despite his drunken state. The room was so crowded, with everyone rushing to find a place at the table. No one moved away, and late-comers were not given a chance. Those people didn’t know the meaning of real hunger, Zari reflected, but they certainly behaved as though they did. Their children didn’t have to go around barefoot, begging for a lump of bread …

  Zari remembered thanking McMahon. “I really enjoyed your story,” she told him. McMahon had laughed. His eyes were like slits in his face. She remembered him saying, “I’ll polish it up, and send it to a publisher of children’s books.”

  The Governor had come out then, and invited McMahon to sit at an empty table reserved for foreigners only, where they would be served roast pork. But McMahon wasn’t tempted, choosing to stay with his friend’s wife. Again, Zari thanked him.

  “I hope you succeed in building that airplane which drops toys to little children!” she said.

  McMahon sighed. “But who will ever build an airplane which will shower consolation over sorrowful men … men who’ve lost their mothers …”

  Yusef made his way to them, bringing a plate of rice spiced with pistachio nuts and raisins.

  “For all three of us,” he had announced.

  McMahon went on talking to Zari. “When I think about it,” he said, “I realize that all of us, all our lives, we’re just children who get our happiness from our toys. The day, alas, they take away those toys, or don’t let us have new ones—our children, our mothers, our philosophies, our religions—we crumble.”

  “Have some of this now,” Yusef had laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone so blind drunk and so philosophical at the same time!”

  “I promise you I couldn’t swallow a thing,” McMahon replied. “Anything more, and I’d burst!”

  Marjan brought Zari back to the present. “I’m scared!” she cried out. “Snake!”

  “Go to sleep, dear,” Zari said reassuringly. “There’s no snake around. It’s in Haj Mohammad Reza’s yellow box. They’ve taken its teeth out, too, and the box is locked.”

  Then she started to tell a story.

  “Once upon a time there was a man who built a big plane. The plane carried only toys, story books, fruit, food and sweets for children …”

  “Mummy, was there a snake in the plane?” Mina asked.

  “No, dear,” Zari answered, “there wasn’t a snake; the plane was loaded with things children like. This plane would fly over the towns to drop whatever toys the children wanted.”

  “But they’ll break!” Marjan exclaimed.

  “No, the plane flew low over the houses, and the children held out their skirts underneath the plane. Then the pilot dropped whatever they wanted into their skirts.”

  “What about Khosrow?” Marjan asked. “Khosrow doesn’t have a skirt.”

  “You’re right,” Zari smiled. “But the pilot also gave toys and things to boys even though they don’t wear skirts. Sometimes he stopped his plane on the roof and …”

  “Would he give toys to the child who was throwing stones?” Marjan interrupted.

  “Of course,” said Zari.

  “Oh good.”

  “Now where was I?” Zari continued. “Oh yes. The pilot stopped the plane on a
rooftop and picked up the good children and took them to the sky with him. They flew past the stars, past the moon. They flew past them so closely they could reach out and gather the stars and put them in their lap.”

  “Tell him to bring his plane on our roof,” Marjan piped up again, “and give Sahar to Khosrow … all right?”

  “All right,” Zari promised; “now go to sleep.” It occurred to her that if the twins were developing a memory even for recent events, they were no longer babies.

  As soon as the children were asleep, Zari went out on to the verandah. Ameh was still sitting there, with her hand under her chin, staring at the cold brazier in front of her.

  “Are you thinking of your journey?” Zari asked.

  Ameh lifted her head. Zari was taken aback to see tears in her eyes.

  “Yes, sister,” Ameh answered. “Even if my heart is sad and heavy, it doesn’t mean that’s all there is in the whole world. Now that it’s too late for happiness in this life, I want at least to prepare for my peace afterwards. They say whoever is buried next to the Imam won’t have to answer to Nakir and Monkir. There’s no inquisition of the dead either. First the Imam Ali, and then Imam Hossein come to you. If you’re a woman, Hazrate Fatemeh comes to you. Hand in hand with these holy ones, the dead are taken to God …”

  “It’s strange,” commented Zari, “how Abol-Ghassem Khan disturbed us all with his news! Even the children felt it. They saw Haj Mohammad Reza’s snake yesterday and they weren’t afraid. But tonight they were frightened and couldn’t sleep.”

  “You’re right,” Ameh said. “It’s been a long time since I went over the untimely death of my loved ones in my mind. Tonight all of them passed again before my eyes.”

  “I’ve been in your family for many years now,” Zari said, “but I’d never heard you mention your late husband or your child before. Tonight …”

  “I know. I’ve always kept my grief to myself,” Ameh replied. “I’ve never told anyone what I’ve suffered.”

  Zari sat down and took her sister-in-law’s hand. “You’ve always said yourself that a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. You used to say that the Imam Ali would lean over a well and tell his sorrows to the water deep down which he couldn’t see.”

  Ameh nodded. “Should I sigh for you in sorrow?” she recited, as if to herself. “Then as Ali I look into a well.”

  “Am I not as good as a well?” Zari asked.

  “You’re young. I don’t want to destroy your hopes in life with my unhappy tales.”

  “I’ve had my share of sorrows.”

  “I know.” And so it was that Ameh began to tell all she had kept locked away inside her; stories which Zari had never heard before.

  6

  That night, Ameh began, I was sitting right next to this very brazier, in the same wretched darkness, stirring the ashes with these tongs. I was gazing at the brass figurines, holding hands all around the edge of the brazier. That night I counted thirty-two of them. They’re still intact, those featureless little figures.

  It was the night my child died. Soudabeh, my father’s mistress, sat with me till dawn, shedding tears as I cried. When he died … at the grove … all alone … I knew he was dead, but I held him, my six-year-old, and ran to Sardazak. If I hadn’t lost him, I wouldn’t be obsessed with veils and religious modesty now, nor with opium and convulsing at the mere thought of not getting any.

  I rushed to my father’s house. He and Soudabeh were sitting in the room with the sash windows next to this very brazier. Grief-stricken, I wished I could breathe out fire and turn everyone around me into ashes. Soudabeh stood up and took my child from me. She was shaken, but trying hard not to show it. What a woman! She went out and came back without the child. I asked her what she had done with him. She said, “Who knows, maybe my brother, Mohammad Hossein, can bring him back to life with his healing touch.” I said, “Don’t blaspheme, woman! Only God brings to life. It says in the Quran: I breathed life unto him of My Spirit.” But Soudabeh wanted to give me hope.

  I had studied Arabic and Persian with my father, and geography and geometry with Mohammad Hossein, Soudabeh’s brother. When my father came back from Tehran after completing his religious training, he shut himself up at home. He didn’t go out to lead prayers anymore. He was forced to give up teaching at the Khan seminary too. He only taught at home, in the main room with the sash windows. Men would come in, kiss his hand and bring him questions on jurisprudence or theology. I used to sit in the next room and listen. When my father returned from his pilgrimage to holy Najaf, everyone in town went all the way on foot to Baj Gah to welcome him. That first day he led the communal prayers, and all the mullahs in town—even the Imam Juma—followed him as a mark of respect. When he spoke at the Vakil Mosque there was a packed audience.

  Oh Lord! And I was quite a woman in those days too! I remember being daring enough to carry my father’s secret anti-government letters in my bosom to the Shah Cheraq shrine where I would deliver them to someone waiting there. I can remember it as if it were yesterday … the meeting place used to be between the two lion statues at the front of the shrine.

  Then my father, of all people, fell for an Indian dancer. Mohammad Hossein and his sister Soudabeh had recently arrived from India. Despite my father’s courtship, to the last Soudabeh refused to marry him. She used to say they were better off the way they were. Of course she broke up our home and caused Bibi, my mother, no end of grief. But what a woman she was! And what a dancer! I’ll never forget the day my father asked Soudabeh to dance for his guests at the Rashk Behesht Gardens. She wasn’t really pretty, quite short and very sallow. She had a dark beauty spot on her upper lip, and used to outline her large brown eyes with a lot of kohl. When she wasn’t laughing she looked like an owl, but when she smiled it was as if the heavens had opened.

  At that gathering, everyone—men and women—stood around the paving of the garden to watch her dance and to clap. I’d never seen her perform before. It was certainly out of the ordinary. She seemed naked at first glance, except for a few bits of jewellery. But in fact she was wearing a jewel-studded brassiere and a flesh-coloured body-stocking. She managed to move each and every part of her body: not only her shoulders, belly, eyes and eyebrows, but even her chin, nose, ears and pupils. First, she pretended to do a ritual dance over the corpse of a man. For the second dance, she wore a blue silk dress with a gold border, and had two live doves with dyed feathers perched on her breasts. She moved slowly and gently, as if afraid of disturbing the birds. When the dance was over, she let them fly away. By the end of the third dance, she was looking hot and flushed, so she went and sat by the pool, dressed in her pink satin dress. As she dipped her bare feet in the water, I saw my father, my Haj Agha—the high clergyman of the town—sit down before Soudabeh and meekly fan her.

  So it came about that my father asked Mohammad Hossein to teach me at home. I used to study geometry and geography with him, drawing endless charts and maps. I was so wrapped up in my studies, I was often unaware of what was going on around me. Just imagine, the first day an airplane came to this town, everyone packed their rugs and took off at dawn to Baq Takht to watch its arrival. I was sitting on the roof of our house in the sunshine, drawing a map of India. The airplane flew right over my head and I didn’t even lift my eyes to look at it. Oh God, a person like that shouldn’t become an opium addict!

  Mohammad Hossein was quite a character. He was a sun-worshipper. Every morning and evening he’d go on to the roof to watch the sun rise or set, until finally sunlight ruined his eyesight. He could also do conjuring tricks. He fried eggs in a felt hat floating on the pool. He could produce gold coins from bits of paper. He would swallow my Haj Agha’s fob-watch and bring it back out of Abol-Ghassem’s pocket. He dabbled in palmistry, too. Once he told my fortune, and said I would have twelve sons, all of whom would become ministers. I remember thinking that my family would make up the entire cabinet! My father used to say that Mohammad Hossein had spiritual powers. But
the townspeople thought he dabbled in witchcraft and black magic. Whatever he was, the man took great pains over my lessons, God rest his soul.

  That terrible night it was Mohammad Hossein who washed and buried my child. For a whole week he would make me sit in front of him, gaze into my eyes, and repeat, “I shall put you to sleep, and in your sleep you will see your child, see how well and happy he is in his new place.” But I couldn’t be hypnotized. He said I resisted too much. He even painted my thumbnail black and told me to gaze at that. “Your child will appear right now,” he said. “Can’t you see him? Here he is. Here he is. Ask him what he wants. He wants something to eat.” But no matter how hard I stared, I didn’t see anything.

  His sister Soudabeh, however, had charmed my father. She never did become his wife, but she had him under her spell. What a woman she was! The kind who could draw people to herself as if by magnetism … once seduced, you could never be free of her. It had nothing to do with beauty. It had more to do with charisma. Everyone around Haj Agha was amazed at his behaviour. Perhaps they even cursed him behind his back. One sly fellow—we never found out who it was—commissioned several lengths of hand-printed cloth from Isfahan, picturing the proverbial Sheikh San’an going to Europe with his followers. The Sheikh was shown as a besotted-looking old man, wearing a turban and cloak just like my Haj Agha. There was a train of followers behind him and a lewd woman languished in an upper chamber of the house. Those days wherever you went, they seemed to have hung up one of these cloths. People certainly know how to be vicious when they want to.

  As for Haj Agha himself, he would say, “They’ve taken away my teaching and preaching from me. Far be it from me to interfere in other worldly affairs. I gave it a try and suffered the consequences. After all, a person must do something greater in life than just the daily business of living. He must bring about changes. Now that there’s nothing more left for me to do, I’ll abandon myself to love.” “Love hath done more than steal your faith,” he used to quote, “A Sufi it can turn to Christian.” And sometimes he would add, “The pilgrim’s destination is but the starting place for love.” The mullahs in town even spread a rumour that he had turned into a heretic and a Babi. But since my father was always a generous host, and continued to solve their problems by telephone, he was never officially excommunicated. Besides, the clergy had lost much of its power, and most mullahs had exchanged their religious turban for the civilian hat.