A Persian Requiem (30 page)

“What if Khosrow wakes up and falls off the roof? I wish you’d sent him off to Mehri’s too.”

“Hormoz is sleeping on one side of him, Majid Khan on the other.”

“Ya Hu, Ya Haq, Ya Ali!” It was Seyyid Mohammad’s voice in the distance. Close by, a man’s incessant weeping broke the thread of her fantasies, and Zari felt as though that sound would never end. She opened her eyes. She saw Malek Rostam sitting with his head in his hands, sobbing out loud. Abol-Ghassem Khan was sitting there too, pale as a corpse, as if he were the one who had died.

“Malek Rostam Khan, please stop crying for this poor woman’s sake. She’ll wake up,” said Ameh.

“I told Khanom Hakim to give her a shot that would put her to sleep,” said Abol-Ghassem Khan. “I said if she stayed awake she wouldn’t last till the morning. This blow will shatter her by dawn. I wish she’d given me a shot too.”

The weeping hasn’t ceased but Zari’s mind has fled all the misery and sorrow … and sees herself hand in hand with Yusef crossing a field of wheat. The golden wheat is ripe and bends its head to the twilight breeze. Zari and Yusef come to a stream of water and sit down until it gets dark … they’re sitting in the dark and holding hands, and Zari feels as though there’s no-one else in the world besides herself and Yusef. She puts her head on Yusef’s shoulder and listens to his heartbeat. How long did they sit in the darkness without talking?

That night they sat by the window in the darkness and stared out at the garden … that night Baba Kouhi told their fortunes, reading from Hafez, “The harvest of our work in this world is not so important!” And he recited the ode to the end. Then he predicted, “It will pass in the twinkling of an eye. It’s as close as the mouth to the lip.”

Baba Kouhi went to his own room while Zari and Yusef sat in the darkness and stared at the town-lights. They came down the
mountain
holding hands in the blackness of the night. That night, in the twins’ bedroom, Yusef took the keychain from Marjan’s pillow and put the lights off. He held Zari’s hand while they stood still in the darkness, listening to the children’s breathing. Then they slept together stark naked under the mosquito net, waking Khosrow up with their noise, and he called out to his father. Yusef hurriedly pulled on his night-clothes and went to him, saying, “Go to sleep, son, it’s nothing.” He came back and they both sat up in the mosquito net, their hearts pounding so loudly they could hear it, and they waited for Khosrow’s breathing to become even again. And all those days and nights which came and went …

Again Ameh’s voice, but Zari didn’t want to hear it. She was having pleasant dreams, yet the voice imposed itself, “I have a black scarf and dress myself, but Zari doesn’t. My poor brother disliked black. When Zari’s mother died, he didn’t let her wear black for more than forty days. I had to give a scarf and dress of hers tonight to Haj Mohammad to be dyed black. I gave all the bed sheets to be dyed black also. He said he would stay up the whole night to do the clothes and sheets. The weather is warm; they’ll be dry by morning.”

“The sheets?” asked Abol-Ghassem Khan.

“I want to cover all the rooms in black. I’ll throw black sheets over all the seat-cushions around the room.”

But Zari is in the village now, not in the basement of their house. She is in the village, and she knows that they are reaping the last field. She knows Yusef is waiting for her by the mill. She is supposed to reach him before the sun leaves the fields, and it’s a long way there. She comes out of the landlord’s house. The village women in their chadors are squatting, washing their tea-things in the stream of water which issues from the landlord’s house. They greet Zari when they see her, and she stops to chat with them. She points to Kolu’s mother’s rounded belly and says, “You’ve filled your pot again!”

She looks at Goldusti, Kolu’s aunt who has just got married and is wearing heavy make-up. Zari says, “You’re having a good time of it, aren’t you?”

Kolu is there too, idling about. Zari pats him on his wavy hair and says, “Run to Seyyid Mohammad. Tell him to saddle the horse and bring it here.”

Kolu giggles and runs off.

Zari mounts the horse and rides through the harvested fields. The wheat has been piled around like so many heaps of gold. The men are stacking the hay, tying it in bundles with black rope and loading it on the mules. The men greet her as she passes by every field. She returns their greeting kindly and rides away. When she reaches the upper village, she is surprised. Just above the lowlands they have covered up the doors of all the houses with mud. It looks as if the village is deserted. Yes, actually there are a few people—several tribal women going on their way. But the tribe has already migrated to its summer quarters. She saw them going away herself. They pitched tent for a few days in the upper village and then left.

She leaves the fields and the men and women behind. And she reaches the last field moments before the sun disappears. The men are still reaping. The women gleaners, wearing black scarves on their heads, sit in a row to one side of the field. She knows Yusef always tells the men to reap carelessly so the gleaners can pick up something for themselves afterwards. It’s for this reason that the gleaners always bring two large woollen sacks with them. She spies Yusef sitting on a rug in front of the mill, smoking the hookah, a thin cloak thrown over his shoulders. Yusef sees her too, and comes forward to greet her still wearing his cloak. He sweeps her off the horse and puts her down on the ground. “Come share my cloak,” he says. “You’re sweating; I’m afraid you’ll catch cold.”
Then he says, “The sun was on your hair and made it look the colour of musk-willow in the distance.”

Zari sits on the rug, wrapped under Yusef’s cloak. The miller has planted three Marvel of Peru bushes in front of the mill, and now, at sunset, he is watering them from a tin watering-can. He is covered with white flour from head to toe. Even his eyebrows, eyelashes and hair are powdered white.

The miller brings a tin tray which he places on the rug before them. There are two loaves of round bread which he has baked himself, a bowl of home-made yogurt, and a bunch of fresh spring onions. He has also put salt and pepper for them on two bits of paper. Zari prepares a large mouthful of bread and yogurt which she offers to Yusef. Yusef laughs and says, “I know you’re hungry, coming all this way. Eat it yourself.” And how hungry she is …

Behind the mill is the landlord’s summer-crop, watered by the stream which turns the mill. Yusef gets up and goes. When he returns, Zari sees that he has filled his cloak with something. The miller brings a brazier full of coal-fire. A blackened old kettle is sitting in the corner of the brazier. He places the brazier on one side of the rug. Yusef has picked a lot of corn-cobs. He puts them on the fire and fans them with the top of a cardboard box which the miller has given him.

Zari and Yusef go over to the gleaners. Their sacks are brimming, and they’ve tied them together with a piece of rope. The men help the women heave the sacks on to their shoulders before they start off. Zari falls in step with a middle-aged woman who is one of the last to leave.

“Mother, why are you wearing a black scarf?” she asks.

The woman doesn’t seem to hear. Instead of answering the question, she blesses Zari. “May you live long, my dear. May Allah bring you health and prosperity.”

“Why are you all wearing black scarves?” Zari asks again.

The woman hears her this time. “Bless you, my dear,” she says, “tonight is the eve of Savushun. Tomorrow is the day of mourning. If the Khan’s guide has arrived, we’ll be there by the cock’s crowing … as soon as we arrive they’ll start beating on the drums and the kettle drums.”

“Where is this Savushun?”

Again the woman hasn’t heard. “No, my dear,” she answers, “we’ll be going on mules. Your servant Mohammad Taghi has
brought the mules, and he’s waiting for us under the Gissu tree. He’ll be getting a whole sackful for the fare.”

The woman stops. She’s becoming talkative. She continues, “When we arrive, we all sit around the arena in a wide circle. They bring hot tea, bread and gingerbread … as well as rose-water drink, sweet grapes … they hand out lunch and dinner on the eve of Savushun. In the middle of the arena they’ve put firewood which they set alight. All of a sudden you look up and you see the night has faded. But it’s well before dawn when, God bless him, he appears high up on the mountain riding his steed. You’d think he was praying right there on horseback. He lifts a Quran to his brow and prays for all Moslems in the world. God Almighty. He is wearing black from head to toe. Even his horse is black. He comes down and jumps over the fire on horse-back. We women clamour and scream. The men cheer, the boys whistle, they play drums and kettle drums, and suddenly you see the sunrise, and the whole arena is now bright.”

Zari enjoys listening to the woman’s talk. “Well, what happens next?” she asks.

The woman has fallen behind her fellow-gleaners; she’s
following
them with her eyes. Zari notices and says, “No, you go ahead and catch up with them. You’ll be late.”

“By the time they pack their things and gather the children, I’ll soon catch them up.” And the woman adds, “Bless you, my dear, you’re our mistress and benefactor. Now you want me to tell you this story.”

“All right, let’s go together,” says Zari. “You can tell me on the way.”

Again, they walk in step. The middle-aged woman continues, “God bless him, he comes all alone towards the arena. He circles slowly. He’s thinking. How can he fight so many of the accursed enemy single-handed? From one side of the arena the Princes of Earth come to the middle to see if he’ll allow them to help him.”

“Princes of what?”

“One group are holding some soil in their hands and wear flowery brown headgear. They are the Princes of Earth. Another group have fans in their hands, and are fanning themselves; these are the Princes of Air. Others wearing black and holding torches are the Princes of Fire. They come to his aid from the three comers of the arena. Finally, from the fourth corner, a wandering dervish
appears, chanting the name of Ali …” The woman sighs. “Ali, my saviour … don’t abandon your humble believers … in justice,” she says. “The dervish’s begging-cup is full of rose-water drink. He takes the horse’s bridle and says, ‘Drink a sip of this in the memory of Imam Hussein’s thirsty lips.’ But he throws the drink to the ground and dismisses the princes. All alone, waiting for the accursed enemy, the rider stays there on his horse. He has no sword, no bow and arrow. The sun has now spread from one end of the arena to the other … Suddenly the accursed enemy, riding their horses, charge from all four corners. Thirty or forty of them attack his holy person. They fight … the drums roll … they beat harder and harder on them … and now so loud and fast, your heart is about to explode.

“Finally they pursue his horse and drag him down from it. They tie the bridle around his blessed neck. They put the saddle on his shoulders. They tie his hands behind him, but he doesn’t utter a sound. His bare black horse stands there neighing so loudly it echoes all around. One of those villains is dressed as the
executioner
. He comes forward and takes the horse’s bridle which they’ve tied around his highness’s neck. This man is mounted, but that poor, lonely captive is on foot. They drag him all around the arena, and he keeps stumbling and getting up again. He’s bloodied, his black clothes are torn and covered with dirt. But he doesn’t moan or show his pain.”

The middle-aged woman is crying and she wipes her eyes with the corner of her black scarf. She blows her nose before continuing between tears, “Then that villain dismounts and puts a sword to his noble throat. He covers his face like a sheep and places his head at the edge of a basin … He sharpens his knife before our eyes … Sharpens it like a razor. But by the will of God, the blade will not cut. Then he lays him face down and puts the knife to the back of his neck. The oboe plays so mournfully … oh so mournfully. Suddenly you see his horse covered with blood, just like that! His mane is dripping with blood. Our elders say that once, in Solat’s time, his highness’s black horse hadn’t been able to bear it and had died of grief right there. I’ve seen the poor animal’s tears several times with my own two eyes.” She pauses and wipes her eyes again.

“We women put hay over our heads in mourning. Our men take two mud-tiles each which they beat together to shake dust and hay
over their feet, and then they do the same over their heads …”

Zari feels her eyelids burning. She nearly puts an arm around the woman and cries along with her. But they’ve reached the Gissu tree now. The woman says goodbye, blessing her again, and a man who is probably Mohammad Taghi comes forward to help the woman remove the sacks from her back and get up on the mule …

Zari and Yusef are riding their horses side by side.

“Do you know what Savushun is?” Zari asks Yusef.

“It’s a mourning ritual. All the people of the upper village observe it tonight.”

“Is that why they’ve covered up the doors of their houses with mud?”

“Yes, their trip will take a few days.”

“A village where houses have no doors, and where the
inhabitants
meet under the Gissu tree to go to the Savushun together!” Zari says sadly.

“In other words, the mourning of Siavush’s death. The people of the upper village leave every year after the harvest and return in time for the corn-threshing.”

They both fall silent. It’s getting dark on the lowlands. They ride their horses and stare ahead. Zari’s eyelids are burning as tears roll quietly down her cheeks. So quietly Yusef wouldn’t know. But she is already sobbing. She cries with all her heart.

A hand wiped away her tears. It was Ameh’s hand.

“I beg you by Yusef’s departed spirit not to cry,” said Ameh.

“I was crying for Siavush,” said Zari, sitting up. “At first I didn’t know about him, and I disliked him. But now I know him well and I feel sorry for him … I was standing under the Gissu tree, crying for Siavush. Pity I don’t have long hair, otherwise I would have cut it off and hung it on the tree like all the others.”