A Persian Requiem (17 page)

But when Khosrow came back, he was at his most charming, pre-empting any efforts at remonstrating or questioning. The minute he arrived, he threw his arms around her and kissed her, saying out of the blue, “Mother, you’re not an aristocrat, are you? I mean, your father was a worker from a … something class … oh no! I forget what you call that class … anyway, your father was a worker, right?” The questions tumbled out of his mouth.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, the comrades were feeling sorry for Comrade Hormoz and me because we’re branded as aristocrats, and it takes so long to get rid of that label.”

Zari burst out laughing when Khosrow confessed that the
comrades
were even against well-ironed trousers, so he and Hormoz had decided to smear their trousers with dirt and rumple them up before going to the meetings. As for ties, well, they were
completely
out. Then he admitted to having cut a hole in his new grey trousers and fraying the threads around the hole to make the trousers look old and worn. He told her he had boasted to the comrades about his maternal grandfather who had been very, very poor. “Mother,” he said, “I told them my mother’s mother had nothing but dry bread to eat in the morning, which is why she had a broken front tooth. I told them my mother now takes bread to prisoners and mental patients every week in memory of the dry bread that broke her front tooth …”

“You’ve learnt to lie, too,” Zari interrupted.

“The comrades really liked it. Now tell me about the day you stood up to your English headmistress. You had quarrelled, I mean struggled, with her many times. You said so yourself the other night. Those struggles are very important to me.”

Zari felt depressed. What struggles!

She remembered the day when a group of Englishmen, newly arrived from London, were due to visit the school on a tour of inspection. Classes had been suspended in the morning so that Nazar Ali Beg, the Indian janitor, could sweep out the classrooms. The headmistress had sent the girls home and told them to come back in the afternoon looking absolutely spick and span, insisting that they all wear a spotless white shirt under their uniforms. Zari’s father had recently died, and she owned just the one black shirt which she wore in mourning under her black-and-white check school tunic. All the girls who went into mourning did the same: it wasn’t against the rules. But how on earth was Zari to produce a white shirt in the two or three hours she had, and with no money?

Her mother was ill in bed, complaining of sharp pains in her breast and little lumps the size of lentils in her armpit which she wouldn’t let Zari touch in case they were contagious. Zari couldn’t let her mother pawn the silver mouth-piece on her hookah, nor the family silver plate, at Deror’s the Armenian silversmith. She couldn’t sell them either, to buy white material for Zari. Besides, even if it were possible, how could the blouse be made up in time? Those were very hard times, the first few months after father’s death, as her mother used to say. They weren’t getting a pension then. Later on, the head of the Shoa’ieh School gave them the idea of writing a petition. He had called Zari’s brother into his office and quietly made him understand that his family could apply for a pension, giving suggestions on how to write the letter and to whom it should be addressed. When Zari’s brother had come home and related the incident, their mother had prostrated herself and kissed the ground in thanksgiving.

On the day of the inspection, Zari decided to take a risk. She washed and ironed her blouse and went to school. They wouldn’t kill her for it, after all, she decided. But when the headmistress spotted her, she was so upset, she nearly hit her. “You ugly little runt!” she shouted. “You’ve become quite disobedient, haven’t you?” Of all her compatriots, this one had learned Persian well.

“I’m in mourning,” Zari replied. “My father died less than a month ago.”

“And you answer back, too! When did your father ever believe in such superstitions?” Then she calmed down and said, “Too bad your English is so much better than all the other students and I need you to welcome the guests in English, otherwise I would expel you. Perhaps I was wrong to exempt you from paying tuition fees.”

Now it was all out. Until that day none of Zari’s classmates had known she didn’t pay fees. How could she ever hold up her head again?

Somehow within fifteen minutes, the headmistress had found a white blouse Zari’s size which she handed to her and ordered her to wear.

But Zari decided to be stubborn. “I’m in mourning,” she insisted, “my father has just died.”

The headmistress got down to it herself. In front of all the other girls, she carefully removed Zari’s uniform, then yanked off the black shirt, ripping a sleeve in the process. The white blouse she put on again with care.

Singer arrived before the others and assembled all the girls about him in the garden where they were scattered. Most of them knew him since they had bought sewing machines from him. He looked them over critically, saying, “Like so. They enter the hall, you pretty girls bow. These people pay money for school from own pocket. For the sake of Jesus they give large school.” Then he called Zari over. “Zari, you say welcome. Lady stretch hand to you. You kiss hand!”

The assistant headmistress rang the bell and all the girls lined up and filed into the assembly hall of the school to wait for the guests. Singer walked in after a while followed by an assortment of ageing ladies and gentlemen, some stooped over, others stiff as a rod, some of average height, others short. Zari counted sixteen of them. Singer was being particularly respectful to one of the old women who was sporting a large hat with what looked like two sparrows buried in it. One was perched with open wings, ready for flight, the other’s head merely peeped out.

Zari stepped forward and spoke her welcome. The headmistress had a smile on her thin lips. Singer’s eyes were fixed on the old woman with the sparrow’s nest. When the woman stretched out her hand, Zari shook it. Singer frowned, but it was too late.

Then Zari joined the other girls in singing the hymn “Christ in Heaven”, ending with a resounding “Hallelujah!” Their Indian teacher opened the Bible, tossed her braid over her shoulder, and began to read St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians: “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels …” But when it was Zari’s turn to recite a poem, she involuntarily launched into Milton’s “Samson Agonistes” instead of Kipling’s “If”:

“O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon …”

When they were filing out of the hall, the headmistress squeezed Zari’s arm hard, whispering, “You little wretch!” This one knew Persian well. She even knew expressions Zari and her friends had never heard of.

K
olu’s illness and the confusion that went with it, caused Zari to forget all about Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s lunch invitation. But Ezzat-ud-Dowleh herself had not forgotten. That
distinguished
lady had probably gone to great lengths to make
preparations
, because she rang bright and early on Wednesday morning to double check, reminding them of the invitation. Now it was Ameh’s turn to grumble.

“Why don’t you all go, sister. I, for one, am not going. I went to the baths only the day before yesterday. And sister, you didn’t say a word to stop me. Besides, I’m not in the mood for
Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s
fuss and ceremony. She spreads a feast from one end of the room to the other, but her crossed eyes follow your every mouthful. She watches the sugar-bowl to count the sugar-lumps you take! And probably sees double, too.”

Zari had never felt so tired in all her life as she had over the past few days. “Ameh Khanom, the lunch is in your honour,” she said. “In any case, Ezzat-ud-Dowleh is your friend.” She nearly added, “She is your sister-by-oath and your crony,” but decided against it. Instead, she said, “You know, lately you’ve been cutting yourself off from us, and I was thinking perhaps it’s because you’re
preparing
to leave us altogether.”

“You’re quite right. When I leave here on my pilgrimage, I don’t want to feel your absence all the time. Besides, I don’t want these poor children to keep asking for me as soon as I go away.”

But finally Ameh Khanom consented. They took a droshke through the avenues, but walked the narrow back-streets. Khadijeh carried one twin while Zari gave a hand with the other, who was walking, helping her over the rock-strewn alleys. They passed the narrow Qahr-o-Ashti street, and on the right-hand side, just before
Sardazak, they stopped in front of the enormous gates of
Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s
house. Khadijeh was out of breath. Ameh Khanom read the Quranic inscription on the mosaic over the gate: “Lo! We have brought unto ye a great and glorious victory.” She glanced at the house opposite Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s, the house in which she had grown up. “What a ruin it’s become!” she commented.

The gates of Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s house were open. As they passed through the large, shady octagonal porch, the doorman was sitting idly on his wooden bench. He jumped to attention, as if roused from a dream. Taking off his felt hat, he greeted them and invited them in. At the entrance to the outer courtyard, an old black maidservant held out a crystal bowl. She removed the lid of the bowl and invited them to help themselves. The two women each took a jasmine-flavoured almond sweet. The black maid bent down to serve the twins, and then came round to Khadijeh. At the entrance of the inner courtyard, which was an orangery,
Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s
personal maid Ferdows, wearing a blue silk chador, offered them a platter of fragrant melon. She served them as the black maid had done. Zari placed the cool melon against her face, inhaling its mild scent as if every refreshing aroma in the world was to be found right there.

In the large, cool basement, the fountains of the indoor marble pools had been turned on. Ezzat-ud-Dowleh was dominating the room from her position at one end where she was sitting on a folded blanket. She apologized for not rising to greet them, explaining that her chronic rheumatism plagued her even in the middle of summer. She then welcomed them profusely.

Ferdows re-appeared carrying a square bundle of cashmere brocade which she placed before Ameh Khanom. Then Ferdows helped her take off her black outdoor chador which she carefully folded while Ameh Khanom unwrapped the bundle and examined the pile of different chadors, choosing a plain navy one. Ferdows opened it up and draped it on her. Then she wrapped up the bundle of chadors again, including Ameh’s black one, inside the cashmere brocade and took them away.

After this, they were brought fresh lime juice in a decorative china bowl with a matching ladle. The bowl was placed carefully before Ezzat-ud-Dowleh. On a silver tray, the old black maid brought some finely-cut crystal glasses and Ezzat-ud-Dowleh served the lime juice with deliberation and ceremony. Turning to
Ameh she said, “You’re so fortunate, Qods-ol-Saltaneh. If I didn’t have this rheumatism, I would have dearly liked to become a pilgrim to such an imam …”

Zari had long forgotten Ameh Khanom’s title.

“First of all, tell them to turn off those fountains,” Ameh said. “The damp does your leg pains no good.” Ezzat-ud-Dowleh ignored this. Zari concluded that the leg pains were merely
pretence
and wished that she would get to the point, in other words, the reason for all the hospitality. In an effort to make
conversation
, Zari once again complimented Ezzat-ud-Dowleh on the colour of her hair. Ezzat-ud-Dowleh smiled and passed a hand over her garish hair.

“Acquaintances,” she said, “even the Governor’s wife, kill
themselves
to get me to reveal the ingredients of this hair-dye. But I’ve refused to tell anyone so far. Everyone who sees me says, ‘What beautiful hair!’ And I say, ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. ‘But Zari dear, I’ll tell it to you. You’re like my own daughter. Your mother, God rest her soul, and I were like one soul in two bodies. I so wanted you to become my daughter-in-law. My poor Hamid singled you out from amongst all those girls. Well, it was not to be. That is, you played hard to get. But your own chestnut shade is also very pretty. It hasn’t turned grey yet, so it’s a shame to dye it. When you dye hair, it starts to go grey before you know it.”

“God bless you for your kindness,” replied Zari, and to herself, “Thank God I didn’t marry your lecherous son!”

“I’m going to tell it to you, but you must swear never to divulge it …” confided Ezzat-ud-Dowleh, staring cross-eyed at her guests, “it’s been a family secret. Henna, coffee and cocoa, that’s what it is! I added the cocoa myself. It softens the hair. Take one
soup-spoonful
of henna, cocoa and coffee at a time, add some
chamomile
and rub all over the hair. Then cover this with fresh walnut leaves and wrap your hair overnight or from morning till
afternoon
…”

Zari had no interest in hair-colour secrets. If her poor mother had been alive, it might have meant something. Her mother had vowed, if she ever recovered from her illness, to take a set of silver dishes as a gift to the shrine of Hazrate Abbas and then come back and dye her hair just like Ezzat-ud-Dowleh. She used to say that she would get the secret ingredients out of Ezzat-ud-Dowleh by whatever means. But her mother was away from all this now. She began to
pray that Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s breathtaking generosity was not
building
up to some impossible favour in return.

When they went to the changing rooms outside the bath, the black maid was squatting there next to a His Master’s Voice
gramophone
with a conical horn which she switched on the moment they walked in. “You left me and broke your pledge …” The lower half of the changing-room walls was made of marble, while the upper half and the ceiling were covered with frescoes. Zari had seen this very hammam and the Zurkhaneh behind it, on that school trip when the teacher had brought all the girls of marriageable age to Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s place on the pretext of visiting a historic old house. The building was one of the town’s landmarks,
nevertheless
, and no important foreign visitor left Shiraz without seeing it.

It was easy to understand why Hamid Khan himself had taken on the role of tour-guide to the school visitors. The large reception room with sash windows did not have electric lights yet, and Hamid Khan had tried to show the girls the paintings on the ceiling with the aid of a kerosene lamp which he held high above his head. The reception room ceiling was lined from one end to the other with portraits of men and women next to each other. The women were depicted with tiny, pea-sized mouths, doe-like eyes, and long, wavy locks. The men were identical to the women, only they had forelocks and no earrings.

That day Zari had not really noticed Hamid Khan’s ogling. But the following week, when Ezzat-ud-Dowleh intruded into their private cubicle at the hammam, squinting curiously at her naked body, Zari suddenly realized what was going on. The woman’s stare sent shivers down Zari’s spine. It was as if something was being stripped away from her. How impudently Ezzat-ud-Dowleh had tilted Zari’s chin upward to catch the sunlight in the cubicle, muttering to herself, “God protect her, never seen such a fair and delicate body! Just like fine porcelain! Eyes the colour of mahogany … never seen eyes this colour. God created you for His own heart. By all that’s perfect! God knows if we weren’t in a bath I would’ve thought it was make-up or something …”

Zari had wanted to shove the woman’s hand away from her chin. But after two hours of Etiquette and one hour of Conduct every day at school, how could she possibly do such a thing? Of course they always ended up reading the Bible instead of Conduct, but Etiquette was about manners … and Ezzat-ud-Dowleh was not going to give
up. “Pearly teeth, such a beautiful neck you’d think it’s carved out of marble, what eyelids …”

The twins brought her back to the present with their refusal to undress and their fascination with the paintings on the ceiling, especially one of a man on horseback staring at a naked girl combing her long hair. Zari remembered that on the day of the school-trip, Hamid Khan had purposely kept the girls for a long time in the changing-rooms to explain in detail about this very picture which was a scene from the famous Khosrow and Shirin love-story. The naked woman had huge breasts and was sitting next to a stream, combing her long, black hair. Some kind of screen separated the woman from the rider, who sported a thick
moustache
and a royal hat, and although the screen should have hidden the man’s anatomy too, every detail of his body and that of his horse was visible. And the woman had nothing covering her genitals, either.

Zari promised the twins that if they let Khadijeh undress them, she would send them in the afternoon to see the Zurkhaneh next door which had pictures of the ancient warrior Rostam with his parted beard and tiger-skin garment, torn off the body of the monster, Akvan. They could also see Akvan being slaughtered and skinned.

In the bath, Ameh Khanom did an ablution, rinsed her body quickly and left. She couldn’t bear the noise of the scratchy records. But Zari tried to linger as long as she could. She sat on the lowest step of the warm-water pool and let the hike-warm water engulf her body. Soon every part of her was feeling limp and relaxed. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the edge of the pool. When she got out, she sat on a shiny white tray, and wrapped a large white embroidered cloth around her body. The black maid came in at that moment. She was stark naked, and brought in the water-melon on a tray which she set down on top of one of the empty copper bowls. The water-melon had been neatly cut with a zig-zag pattern along the edge. The twins gaped at the sight of the negress. Marjan was about to cry out in fear, but was stopped by Mina’s loud question, “But mother, this one has a skin! Didn’t you say they’ve skinned her and that bearded man is wearing the skin?”

Zari laughed, and the black maid said, “God bless you, my sweet child! I’ll go burn some incense to protect you against the evil eye.”

Nana Seyyid, the best bath-masseuse in town, came in holding a
shiny pitcher with prayers engraved all round the rim. She was taken aback to see Zari, but she greeted her politely. She was naked except for a red loincloth tied between her legs and held up at the waist with a thin red band. On that day too, this same Nana Seyyid had been in their cubicle at the Shapuri Hammam. She had come to wash Ezzat-ud-Dowleh but was ordered to wash Zari first. Chatting away pleasantly, Nana Seyyid had first washed Zari’s right arm, but had given the left one such a harsh rub that Zari was forced to say, “Gently!”

Nana Seyyid had quickly taken offence. Removing her
bath-glove
, she had placed it in front of Zari and said, “Do it yourself, if you know how.” And how pleased Zari had been about that! They didn’t have any money to hire or tip a bath-masseuse, anyway.

Now Nana Seyyid went over to the warm-water pool with the pitcher which she filled and then emptied over Zari’s shoulders. She sat on the floor in front of Zari, pulling forward the raised tray containing the bath-glove and other items for the bath. She took a pinch of salt from a small copper bowl and rubbed it on Zari’s heels. Then she began to gently massage the heels with a delicately fashioned pumice-stone which had a silver cap. It tickled, but Zari didn’t make a sound. Again, the black maid came in and circled around each one of them—even Khadijeh and Nana Seyyid—with a fistful of incense. Shortly after she left, the smell of burning incense from the changing rooms filled the bath.

Zari sat on the outside step of the warm-water pool while Nana Seyyid massaged her scalp with a shampoo mixture of mud and rose petals. It occurred to her that it was a pity to stain the shiny whiteness of the marble floor with mud from the shampoo. But she surrendered herself to the gentle kneading of the masseuse,
thinking
of all those wonderful fragrances still lingering in her senses: melon, jasmine, lime, incense, rose-petal … and she wished this euphoria could go on for a long time.