A Persian Requiem (21 page)

Zari was beginning to understand. If a crime was committed successfully, then it wasn’t such a crime after all, but if it met with failure, it was a sinful thing and had to be paid for. She was about to voice her thoughts, but she stopped herself in time. Who would pay attention to her? Hamid had no interests in life besides women, whisky and pigeons. Sohrab was blind to everything but ambition. And Ezzat-ud-Dowleh was wrestling it out with God that instant. As for Ameh, all she dwelt on was her departure for Karbala or giving up her opium addiction.

So Zari merely advised, “Sohrab Khan, it’s not too late yet … why don’t you go and join Yusef now like your brother Malek Rostam?”

“Everyone has a different nature,” replied Sohrab. “My brother has a settled farmer’s disposition, but I’m a nomad. I don’t like being patient and attaching hopes to the distant future. I want to seize the future right now. I want to die in combat, with bullets and axes, not in bed. I want to be the last person to surrender. But not on my own feet. I want them to drag me out and shoot me point blank and chop me up with an axe. I want to stare my executioners in the eye so they can envy me and wonder at my indifference to life or death!”

“It’s his tribal blood again …” Hamid said.

“You were always fearless,” Zari said, “even as a child. But you were quite a poet too. I remember for your first wife …”

“And what we need now is a fearless poet,” Sohrab interrupted. Turning to Hamid, he asked, “I wonder if you’ve ever gone to Semirom from Shahreza in a south-westerly direction?”

“No, but if you remember, once we crossed the north-westerly foot of the Denna Range to Semirom,” Hamid answered. “We were going to the wedding of Esfandiar Khan Khashkouli’s son. I
remember
we stopped at the Semiron spring. A strikingly beautiful girl there gave the driver some water from her pitcher and poured some into the car radiator, too. The way she walked, that girl! Tall as a cypress, yet graceful as a deer … she seemed to bless the ground with each delicate footstep …”

“Is this the time for that sort of thing?” Sohrab asked.

“It’s always time for ‘that sort of thing’!” Hamid replied. Then he sighed and turning to Ameh, said, “My dear aunt, you really should not have sent Ferdows away. Call her. You call her. I’m dying for a glass of gin and lime.” After a pause, Hamid looked at Sohrab and said, “You know, brother, your tribal ambitions can only lead you to more trouble and bloodshed. Personally, whatever I do is for money so I can possess the beautiful things of this world: women, wine, the most exquisite Fastoni cloth from Manchester …”

“Just a minute!” Sohrab interrupted, placing a hand on Hamid’s knee. “Isn’t that the telephone?” He stood up. Someone must have answered because the ringing stopped and then Ferdows came into the garden. All eyes were on her. Sohrab was standing expectantly. Ferdows said, “Khanom Zahra, Khosrow Khan wants to know whether you will be home for dinner or should they go ahead and eat?”

“I’ll be there right away,” replied Zari, and turning to Ameh
added, “Would you mind if we go?”

Sohrab sat down again on the edge of the takht and said, “Those sly foxes are not going to get away with it!”

“Now, now! A great man shouldn’t bend under a straw,” said Hamid.

Ezzat-ud-Dowleh shouted, “Ferdows, bring my sister’s chador! Are you deaf?” She couldn’t have dismissed her guests more obviously. Ameh’s chador was in front of her in the wrapper.

“But the night is young,” said Hamid. “Why are you going so soon? I know we’ve depressed you with all our talk about killings and war. Let me tell you the story about Sohrab’s famous fox hunt, it’ll cheer you up.”

Zari felt too embarrassed to mention that she had already heard the story several times from Malek Sohrab himself. So she waited patiently while Hamid told it with gusto once again.

Apparently they had wanted to catch a fox that was attacking Hamid’s hens every night, but each time the fox had outwitted them. One winter night they put a dead hen on a mound of snow so that Malek Sohrab could get a good aim at the fox when it climbed to the top of the mound, and shoot it. But the fox, sensing a trap, didn’t head straight for the hen. Instead, it burrowed its way through the mound of snow and grabbed the hen from underneath. Of course they only discovered the creature’s trick later, when they saw that the fox had disappeared along with the hen.

Zari wondered all the way home why Hamid had been so
insistent
on telling that story. Was he trying to remind Sohrab that he would never succeed in outwitting the clever British foxes? And it occurred to her that while Hamid made every effort to appear the pleasure-loving simpleton, he was in fact a very shrewd and cunning fellow.

When they reached home, Zari switched the radio on in the hope of hearing some news of the fighting. But although she kept trying until dinner-time, she was unable to tune into the Persian newscast of Radio Berlin. They had bought the radio recently, but because it was in the parlour where it was usually hot, they didn’t listen to it very often. Besides, the set was too heavy to be moved about frequently. When Yusef was in town, he would always go into the parlour at this time regardless of the heat, and play around with the
radio, making some earsplitting sounds until finally he managed to find the Berlin station and the voice that carried on a stream of insults at the regime. The voice accused all influential people of being Jews and, as Yusef said, cursed them so whole-heartedly you thought it had a personal grudge against them. In the mornings, Yusef would listen to Shir-Khoda and enjoy his readings from the Shahnameh. On Fridays when Yusef was in the village, Zari tried to engage the twins in listening to Sobhi’s stories on the radio. But they were too restless to stay still for half an hour.

That night after dinner, she tuned in to Iran and the World programme for international and domestic news. There was no mention of an incident in the south. She tried searching the local newspapers, but the most significant items seemed to be the
obituaries
. She turned to a stack of the newspapers which were sent to them from Tehran and which she collected to take to Khanom Fotouhi every other week. She opened the first newspaper. The Ministry of Provisions will be dissolved’, it read. Then another headline: ‘Lump sugar and sugar rationing … henceforth the ration for lump and granulated sugar will be as follows: three hundred grams of lump sugar, four hundred grams of granulated sugar

In the second newspaper there was only one item of news which vaguely interested her: ‘The Fars Society will be composed of Fars residents in Tehran’, followed by ‘Shutdown of
Man
of
Today
newspaper’ and many more such commonplace articles. But she didn’t want to give up. So she continued to search carefully through the papers every day until finally, several days later, she came across a short news item on the third page of a recently published newspaper. It read:

‘Reinforcement of the Semirom and Abadeh Garrisons:
According
to some reports, Boyer-Ahmadi and Qashqai insurgents have raided trucks carrying provisions, ammunition and clothing which were despatched by the army for the Semiron garrison. The
garrison
itself was attacked on 29 June, and a number of officers and soldiers were killed. The matter is currently under investigation in Tehran, and fortification of the Semirom and Abadeh garrisons is being considered.’

W
hen Kolu left hospital, he was too weak to be sent back to his village as Zari had vowed. They had shaved off his hair, and hung a copper crucifix around his neck which now seemed barely strong enough to support his head. His eyes were deeply sunk into their sockets, and his legs wobbled. He had been discharged too early, so Zari confined him to bed at home.

Kolu kept talking about a bearded man with a long black robe who always carried a book with him, and who wore a ‘charm’ around his neck like the one he had given Kolu, except that the chain on his was much longer. He had appeared on the day Kolu’s Indian neighbour was in the throes of death. He had passed by Kolu’s bed, and then Kolu had heard him chanting out loud. Kolu understood neither the bearded man’s chanting nor the Indian. Actually, there, no-one understood anyone else’s language except—yes, except that woman with the fang-like teeth and the bearded man when he wasn’t reciting verses, who both understood Kolu’s language.

The Indian had walked over to Kolu one night, kissing him and crying over him as if Kolu were his own son and had kept repeating “Sandra! Kitu! Kitu!” In fact all he could say was Sandra or Kitu. Or did he think Kolu was called Sandra or Kitu? On his last night, Kolu had tiptoed over to him as he lay snoring, and saw the man moving his eyes and jaws in the same way his father had done before he died.

But the bearded man in black seemed to be living at the hospital because he appeared every day. At first Kolu had thought he was the prophet Hazrate Abol Fazl come to cure the sick. But when his Indian neighbour died, he was sure the man was not the prophet.
At any rate, it was he who gave Kolu the ‘charm’ and told him to kiss it every morning, and then to go and fetch his uncle from the village so that he could get a ‘charm’ too.

The man in black had read Kolu three stories from the book he always carried with him. Kolu only liked one of them, the one about a shepherd boy who played the reed, just like Kolu. That boy had been friends with the King’s son and had killed a giant with a slingshot. The man in black kept repeating that Jesus was
everywhere
and he had paid for everybody’s sins with his own blood. Then he had taken Kolu by the hand and led him to the house of Jesus, which was just a very big, dark room, and Kolu had been frightened. But no matter how hard Kolu had peered around, he had not found Jesus in the room. The man in black had shown him a picture of their host, and their host’s mother. She was holding a baby in her arms and sort of looked like Goldusti, Kolu’s aunt.

Kolu had really wanted to find Jesus. But when he discovered from the man in black that Jesus was a shepherd too and was looking for his lost lambs, he felt sure Jesus had gone off to the plains and it would take him an age to find those poor creatures!

Early on Wednesday morning Yusef returned from the village. When Zari heard the knocking, she never imagined it could be her husband at the door. But she remembered that just recently he had gone to great lengths to obtain a night-pass. As she stepped out of the mosquito net to welcome him, she saw him dismount and come towards her. He was not alone. There was a man sitting astride the chestnut horse, his eyes closed. Zari had to rub her eyes to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. The man was wearing Yusef’s coat over his naked body. At first he appeared to be dead, since they had tied him to the saddle with ropes. But after Gholam and Yusef loosened him and lowered him gently to the ground, it was obvious he wasn’t since he opened his eyes and tried to focus with an unseeing look. Blood had clotted on his right temple and his unshaven beard was white with dust. His underpants had dark red stains on them.

“Is the bathwater hot?” Yusef asked.

“No, but we’ll soon heat it up,” replied Zari.

By the time Gholam was ready to take the stranger to the bath, Yusef had examined his wounds in the changing room, washed
them with soap and water, and applied some tincture. The wounds were superficial but the man kept his eyes closed all this time.

When they sat down to breakfast on the back verandah, Yusef explained to Zari how he had come across the man at dawn by the stream next to the Zarqan city gates. “There he lay naked, except for his underwear and a pair of torn socks. At first we thought he was an animal or something. But when I shone my torch, I realized it was a human being who’d probably been robbed by some bandit. I dismounted, and he immediately begged to be taken into town. He said he knew of me and was on his way to our house, but his legs had given way and he’d collapsed on the ground. I told him he could still travel to the house with Seyyid Mohammad, our steward, on the back of his saddle. Then he could leave for town when he felt better. But he kept on insisting that I should take him home myself. He said I would realize later why it was so important to take him to town myself, and that if I didn’t want to do it I should just let him lie there until someone else would. Well, since I’d invited a few guests for this morning I agreed to take him. At first he galloped right alongside me. But by the time we got to Baj-Gah, he couldn’t even hold the reins anymore and I had to tie him to the saddle. I think he’s either very tired or very frightened. We’ll be seeing a lot of this sort of thing these days. He kept talking about a truck which caught fire. Maybe he’s a truck driver or something.”

Kolu came up to greet the master and kiss his hand. His legs still seemed a little shaky, and Zari was hoping he wouldn’t fall. Yusef absently patted him on the head, as if he didn’t recognize him.

“This is Kolu,” Zari reminded him. “He’s had a narrow brush with the Angel of Death!”

When Kolu left, Yusef said, “I really didn’t know him at first. He’s lost so much weight! I guessed this child would catch typhus too because a messenger from Kowar told me all his family had caught it. You were right, Zari. Our shepherd had typhus. It’s spread through all the villages in that area. Imagine it—in this heat … The messenger said our village looks abandoned. But the people haven’t gone away. They’re just lying sick at home. As well as all the other things I have to do, I must get a doctor and medicine to them.”

“I doubt if you’ll be able to find a doctor,” Ameh Khanom said.

“I’ll get one of Dr Abdullah Khan’s assistants,” Yusef said. Then turning to Zari he said, “Go and wake the children, dear, I want to
see them. Bring the past two weeks’ newspapers for me to read, too.” As she was getting up to go, Yusef added, “Zari, we have a few guests today. When they come, don’t let anyone disturb us. Tell Gholam to leave the garden gates open. They’re coming by car.”

Passing the pantry, Zari came across Gholam carrying a plateful of fresh pistachios and hazelnuts. The outer green skin of the pistachios had a rosy blush, while the fresh hazelnuts looked like little buds severed from their leaves. Gholam told her he had found them in the mare’s saddlebag. She had guessed right away that Yusef was preoccupied, otherwise he would never have returned empty-handed from the village. Each time he would bring her a seasonal offering which, when he handed it to her himself, seemed to evoke the very scents of the village with its harvests, streams and orchards.

She could hardly wait for Yusef to ask her for news so she could tell him some of the stories she’d been saving up. She noticed that Yusef was cutting sections of the newspapers and putting them aside. Soon he would be coming across the ‘Semiron and Abadeh garrison’ news, and she hoped he would ask her something about it. But although Yusef saw the news item, he only cut it and put it aside, without asking anything.

On Yusef’s instructions, Gholam took Mina and Marjan for a ride on the mare around the gardens of the Verdy Mosque, with Khosrow following on Sadar. Although Yusef insisted that Kolu should go too, Khosrow refused to make Sahar carry two riders, so Kolu, too weak to walk so far, was told to lie down on Gholam’s bed in the stables and not come out unless he was called. Khadijeh was very busy that morning and was quite happy to let Khanom take care of the guests herself. Ameh disappeared into the howzkhaneh where she planned to finish stitching in the rest of her gold dinars inside her one remaining coat. As for the stranger, he was sleeping soundly in the pantry. From time to time, Yusef would look in and listen to the sound of his breathing or would send his wife to check on him. If he woke up, Zari was to give him some food and clothing and send him on his way.

Yusef was pacing about anxiously in the garden, glancing towards the gates at the slightest noise. Finally a green car drove up with its headlights on. Obviously the driver had forgotten to switch the lights off, for the sun had outstripped the guests and was already caressing the tree-tops. The car stopped in front of the
house by the pool. The driver stepped out, but went back to turn his lights off as soon as he noticed they were on. Zari recognized him. It was Majid Khan, one of her husband’s sworn companions in the plan to take over the town’s bread supplies. The other passengers were a man and two women with black chadors. Zari recognized the man as Fotouhi because of his resemblance to his sister. The ‘women’ she recognized as soon as they climbed out of the car to greet her. Malek Rostam and Malek Sohrab were relying more and more on the protection of the veil these days.

It looked as if they all had some important business in hand. As Zari was bringing them some tea in the parlour, she heard them shouting at each other, and she could tell from their expressions while she served them that they were not going to come to an agreement soon, either. At first all five of them paused while they took their tea pensively and without thanking her. Sohrab and Rostam had thrown off their chadors in a bundle at their feet. She picked up the garments and began to fold them with deliberation so as to listen to their talk, putting the chadors on one of the seats. Sohrab was saying, “Khanom Zahra was a witness. She knows what I went through that night. The massacre has turned into a real nightmare for me. Now I’m ready for anything. I’ll pay for the blood we shed with my own blood. Isn’t that enough? I’m prepared to go on a suicide mission and destroy one of their oil docks—I’ll swallow gunpowder and blow myself up with gasoline next to it. I’m not afraid of death. I’m just afraid of our plan failing. Yusef Khan, why don’t you devise a plan that has at least a thirty percent chance of succeeding …”

Turning to his wife, Yusef said, “Zari, will you look in on our new guest?”

Zari realized she was being politely dismissed, even though she very much wanted to stay. She went out, but stood behind the door to listen. Malek Sohrab’s voice could be heard pleading, “My uncle is still hopeful. I’m even willing to trick him into giving us at least two hundred guns. But you, Fotouhi, you insulted me. You’re just as dependent on others yourself. Otherwise why would you be so concerned about how they’re getting on in Stalingrad and whether or not the Russians have received weapons?”

Zari felt discouraged. With three children on her hands and one more on the way, what part could she possibly have in these schemes to be standing there, eavesdropping? The children had
barely been gone an hour, and she was already worried about whether they had fallen off the mare, or whether they were getting sunstroke despite the shady paths of the Verdy Mosque gardens.

While preparing the hookah for Yusef, she reflected that, regardless of her courage or cowardice, both her upbringing and her life-style made it impossible for her to participate in anything that would jeopardize life as she knew it. One had to be prepared, physically and mentally, for any action which smelled of danger. And she was ready only for those things which ran contrary to danger. She had neither the courage nor the endurance required. It might be different if she were not so attached to her husband and children. On the one hand were Yusef’s caresses, the words and the loving looks; on the other, witnessing the miracle of her children … no, a person like that could never take risks. True, she turned the treadwheel of her household, endlessly, every day; and it was no less true that from morning to night she laboured like Hossein Kazerouni with her feet and did nothing for herself with her ‘free’ hands—where had she read that “hands were the means to all other means”? But the smile, the look, the voice and feel of the people she loved was her reward. Each new tooth her children had, every new curl on their little heads, their voices chirping like birds, fashioning words which then trailed each other randomly into sentences; their angelic sleep, and the softness of their skin alone—all these had been her gratification. No, there was really nothing she could do. Her only act of courage would be not to hinder others who wished to be brave, and allow them to
accomplish
things with their free minds and hands—their means to all other means.

If only the world were run by women, Zari mused, women who have given birth and cherish that which they’ve created. Women who value patience, forbearance, the daily grind; who know what it is to do nothing for oneself … Perhaps men risked everything in order to feel as if they have created something, because in reality they are unable to create life. If the world were run by women, Zari wondered, would there be any wars? And if one loses the blessings one has, what then?

She remembered the time when Abol-Ghassem Khan first bought a car and they all went on a hunting trip. It was before the war, and the two brothers had not fallen out yet, although Abol-Ghassem Khan occasionally complained about Yusef’s methods of
management
as a landlord and that he let his peasants get away with too much. The driver accidentally ran into a fawn. The poor creature lay there like a pile of broken bones. They stopped and got out to drag that wretched pile to the side of the road. Suddenly the mother appeared with another fawn at her heels. She circled her dead baby several times and then rammed herself against the car, unaware that it was made of metal. She kept charging at Abol-Ghassem Khan and Yusef and Zari, dazed and confused, staggering about on those long hind legs and appealing to each one of them with her large, dark-rimmed eyes, as if to ask, “But why? Why?”
Abol-Ghassem
Khan began to cry. The game had walked up to them on its own feet. But they turned back.