A Persian Requiem (32 page)

“Ask the doctor to wait a minute while I get dressed,” she said. And to Ferdows, “Khanom Ferdows, please hurry.”

“Right away.”

But Ferdows kept on talking, and Zari didn’t stop her because now Dr Abdullah Khan had arrived and would relieve her mind one way or the other.

“He pleaded with her until she gave in,” Ferdows went on, “so he asked her to get to work on you from the very next morning. What lies she strung together in front of me! Actually Khanom was a born liar. How she pretended to care about you! Don’t be fooled, she’s after your blood … there, I’m all done.” And she handed over the dress which Zari put on with a sigh of relief. Maybe she had felt dizzy because of the tightness of the dress.

As she looked Zari over, Ferdows added, “And she didn’t go straight to the Governor’s either. Hamid Khan made her telephone the Governor’s daughter. Khanom sent a piece of her own jewellery in exchange for yours. My worthless husband Kal Abbas went and fetched it.”

“Thank you,” said Zari. “Now go and tell the doctor I’m ready.”

Dr Abdullah Khan came in, leaning on his stick. He seemed older than on the day Zari had seen him in Khanom Massihadem’s room. Or perhaps she hadn’t looked at him closely enough then. The doctor sat on Zari’s bed, took her hand in his and said, “What’s the
use of reaching a grand old age like mine? When a precious young man like your husband dies, I begin to hate myself. Here I am clinging to life with both hands while our young men are taken …”

“My husband didn’t just die, he was killed,” said Zari sadly.

“I know. Your son told me everything on the way. I congratulate you. A clever boy like him could take his father’s place for you. May the Lord bring both of you prosperity.” He paused and said, “An old man like me shouldn’t step into a house which has lost a young man of his kind. I’m old and useless now. His mourners must surely look at me, shake their heads and think, ‘Old man, you’re alive, and our young one has been martyred!’”

“No-one thinks of you like that. You’re the salt of the earth to all of us.”

Dr Abdullah Khan raised Zari’s hand to his lips and kissed it. Zari tried to withdraw it out of modesty. The old man sighed and said in a pensive voice, “I don’t know where I read that the world is like a dark room which we enter blindfolded. One of us may have his eyes open or others may try hard to open theirs; perhaps it’s even destined that one person should be touched with a ray of light from above so he may see and understand all for an instant. Your husband was one of those rare people who’d never shut his eyes from the beginning. His eyes and ears were alert. More is the pity he had such a short time …”

He spoke like one who had taken in everything there was to know. If there was a God, He had shown Himself for once to this man in the course of his long life …

The old man continued, “I’ve told Khanom Qods-ol-Saltaneh many a time that that brother of hers was a genuine human being. He was an enlightened man.”

“But you’re enlightened as well, you’re …”

“Now tell me what’s ailing you?” interrupted the doctor. “Your son begged me to come and visit you. I said to him, ‘Dear boy, for the wife of such a one as he was, I’m ready to go to the ends of the world. Besides, I’m very fond of your mother herself … she is a queen among women.’”

Zari had no fear or embarrassment in telling Dr Abdullah Khan the truth. “I’ve been so distraught since last night,” she confessed, “I can’t control my mind. I’m afraid I might be going mad … I feel tempted to imitate the lunatics I’ve seen.” And she added in tears, “All last night I was caught up in nightmares. Khanom Hakim gave
me three injections but they didn’t seem to do any good and I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept seeing horrific scenes. I said nonsensical things. And I’ve been feeling dizzy all morning.”

The old man stood up and went to the window, looking out on the garden. “Don’t let me hear you say things like that,” he told her with his back to her. “If you were distressed or even delirious, it was perfectly natural. Khanom Hakim couldn’t have given you tranquillizers, either. She gave you a camphor injection to
stimulate
your heart and the other two shots were distilled water.”

Again he came and sat down next to Zari.

“So you’re saying I haven’t gone mad?” Zari asked innocently.

“Absolutely not.”

“And I won’t go mad either?”

“I assure you you won’t.”

He stared into Zari’s eyes and continued in a soothing voice, “But you have a malignant disease that cannot be cured by my hand. You must get rid of it before it becomes chronic. Sometimes it’s hereditary.”

“Cancer?” asked Zari.

“No, my dear; don’t you understand? It’s the disease of fear. Many people have it—I told you it’s contagious.”

Again he took Zari’s hand and said prophetically, “I have one foot in the grave, so listen to the words of this old man, my dear. In this world, everything is in one’s own hands. Madness, fear, even love. A human being can if he so desires, move mountains, dry up the waters, create havoc everywhere. A human life is a chronicle. It can be any kind of chronicle—a sweet one, a bitter one, an ugly one … or a heroic one. The human body is fragile, but no force in this world can equal man’s spiritual power. As long as he has a strong will and some awareness.”

He paused and took out a green bottle with a white top from his pocket. He gave it to Zari. “There’s a special kind of salt in this bottle,” he said. “Keep it in your pocket and every time you feel unwell, open it and smell it. Drink a glass of sweetened
willow-water
too.” He got up and said, “I know you’re a lady. A real lady. I know you’re strong and brave enough not to run away from the bitter reality. I want you to prove that you are worthy of such a man as your husband was.”

He picked up his stick which he had hung on the edge of the bed and said, “Here is some news that will make you happy. Take heart.
The day before yesterday, Khanom Massihadem was discharged from the asylum. She’s much better and by the time you’re ready to give birth, she’ll be completely recovered.”

Zari felt as if she’d been freed from a cage. A man of wisdom had given her hope and encouragement. Not one but a thousand stars were lit in her mind. She knew now that she feared no-one and nothing in the world.

They went out into the garden together. Abol-Ghassem Khan was sitting on the children’s bed with Malek Rostam and Majid Khan. When he saw them, he got up and went towards them.

“Well, doctor,” he blinked, “what did you think? What did you find?”

“If you ask me,” replied the doctor, “your sister-in-law must be very strong indeed just to be standing on her two feet. Her distress and anxiety are natural. It’s no joking matter. But all of you around her must leave her in peace.”

Zari saw the doctor all the way to the gate. She kept searching in her mind for a suitable word to express her gratitude but she couldn’t find it. Maybe he felt her helplessness, or perhaps he just wanted to bid her to be patient, or maybe it was for his own heart—at any rate he murmured the following verse:

Zari knew that Dr Abdullah Khan was a member of the Hafeziun group who held sessions in memory of the mystical poet Hafez at his gravesite. They recited his poetry, drank wine which they threw on the mystic’s grave, and even played the tambourine and the lute.

She said quietly, “Please recite some more. Verses which will give me strength to go on.”

The old man smiled, and said:

He stood under the elm tree to catch his breath. “I didn’t recite that verse for you,” he said. “I said it for myself.”

“You’ve done your work in this world,” said Zari. “Your
life-story
is a heroic one. But my poor husband’s tale was tragic and unfinished.” And without intending to, she leaned against the tree and wept quietly behind her hand.

T
hey had arrived for the funeral procession. First came all the relatives and close friends. The women were shown to the howzkhaneh and the men to the parlour. Ezzat-ud-Dowleh took the seat of honour amongst the women. Ferdows had donned a tight black dress and a sorrowful expression as she lent a hand with the serving. Anyone who didn’t know would have thought
Ezzat-ud-Dowleh
was next of kin, the way she was ordering everyone around. The minute she set eyes on a newcomer, she would talk effusively about Yusef’s youth and tragic end, of his good looks and knowledge, of his faultless English, of the poor innocent widow and children he’d left behind … she would go on and on, sobbing loudly. Occasionally she would even beat her chest, but not too hard. Every so often Zari would take a whiff of the salts Dr Abdullah Khan had given her to prevent herself from crying at her words. Ameh was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, when
Ezzat-ud-Dowleh
started a lament, and talked of “a tree which had been cut at the roots and felled to the ground”, Zari left too.

It was after eight-thirty in the morning when Abol-Ghassem Khan’s friends arrived. But there was no more room in the parlour so they had to sit on the children’s bed in the garden. Zari sat across from them near the sacks of eglantine and red roses which had been left at the edge of the pool. The pool itself was brimming with crystal-clear water.

Hossein Agha and Hassan Agha, each with a full sack on his back, passed by Abol-Ghassem Khan’s friends as they made their way to the pantry. The distillers from next door, again without the youngest son, followed them, balancing pitchers on their shoulders. Then three other men arrived, carrying large empty vessels. Zari’s eyes filled with tears on seeing them.

Abol-Ghassem Khan came out of the parlour and joined his friends. A fat, dark man was saying something quietly while the others listened with worried expressions. The town’s newspaper manager was shaking his head and the former parliamentary deputy was racing through his rosary.

Ferdows approached Zari with the tray of drinks. “You help yourself first,” she said. “This one is willow-water sweetened with rock-sugar … Did you see the way she was play-acting? Now she’s pretending to faint.”

Zari took the glass from her and asked, “How did you know I should drink sweetened willow-water?”

“Khanom sent me to eavesdrop. Let her keep hoping you’ll miscarry—you’re not unprotected and alone like me. She wanted to know what you and the doctor were saying to each other all that time. I told her I didn’t understand a thing of what you were talking about because you were whispering. I just heard the doctor say that the world is like a dark-room with upside down pictures and we’re all lost and wandering about in it … Khanom called me an imbecile and told me what a waste of time it had been for a distinguished lady like her to try and train me. Khanom Zahra, if I have just one day left to live, I’ll take my revenge. When my mother was in prison it was a good chance to …”

Zari cut her short saying, “Take the drinks over to the gentlemen, the ice is melting.”

Ferdows went to Abol-Ghassem Khan’s friends. The notary, who was Chinese-looking, said something to Ferdows and she giggled. Gholam went to greet some men dressed in black whom Zari didn’t recognize. They made way for two porters, one of whom was carrying an upright candelabrum on his head, the other a lustre. Covered with sweat, the porters went as far as the pool where others helped them place their loads on one of the wooden beds. Another man stripped to the waist, holding the emblem of the Ta’zieh passion play, garnished with flowers, tulips and lengths of brocade, and topped with a feather which swayed to the movement of his step, carefully lowered the emblem past the garden gate. The men indoors looked out from the parlour windows and the women had come out of the basement to watch. Ezzat-ud-Dowleh, however, was not among them.

By nine or nine-thirty in the morning, the garden was filled with men dressed in black. But they were still arriving in droves, and the
last group had flagellating chains with them. Finally, they brought in the mock wedding chamber, the Hejleh Ghassem, which nearly made Zari break down and sob, but she managed to control herself by taking out the smelling salts and busying herself with opening the top.

Abol-Ghassem Khan’s friends approached her. The former deputy had crewcut white hair, and no longer carried his rosary. The notary really did look Chinese. The newspaper manager took Zari’s hand in his, and said that all of them had to attend a meeting at the governor general’s office about bread supplies, so he regretted that they could not be present for the funeral procession. But on everyone’s behalf he offered his sympathies and condolences to Zari and “Abol” and Khanom Qods-ul-Saltaneh, and he prayed that, God willing, they would all live to old age and never suffer loss in the family again. The others listened, and when he had finished they left. But the newspaper manager would not let go of Zari’s hand. He said quietly, “I hope you understand my position if I don’t print news of the event. Even the funeral announcement was placed purely for your sake and that of my friendship with Abol.”

Zari withdrew her hand and said bitterly, “Funeral
announcements
have always been permitted.”

A few minutes later, Abol-Ghassem Khan came and sat next to her. He was very pale and his nostrils were trembling. “Sister,” he said, blinking rapidly, “I know you’re more sensible than the rest of them. For heaven’s sake, say something to these fools. My own stupid sister doesn’t seem to understand. She keeps saying she wants them to turn this dog-infested town into a holy Karbala. And our ruffians keep praising her and egging her on.” When Zari didn’t budge, he pleaded with her, “Sister, I beg of you, for the sake of that tragically-departed soul, get up and say something.”

So they went to Khosrow’s room together where, according to Abol-Ghassem Khan, the town ruffians had gathered. Malek Rostam and Majid, wearing black ties, were standing by the doorway. Zari’s glance travelled from Haj Mohammad Reza the dyer, who was squatting by the doorway, to the others. Seyyid Mohammad, Hossein Agha and Hassan Agha had their backs to the window. Seated on Khosrow’s bed were three men. One she recognized as the tall, broad-shouldered Mashallah Qari; another was Fotouhi, who wasn’t wearing a tie; and the third was Mr Mortezai who had put on his religious robe. The rest of Yusef’s
sworn companions, along with a few others also in mourning dress but whom Zari didn’t recognize, were seated on chairs brought from the parlour. Ameh Khanom, wearing an Islamic black scarf, was standing tall and upright behind Khosrow’s desk. None of the men had shaved.

“Here is my late brother’s wife,” Abol-Ghassem Khan announced. “Do whatever she says. You’ve shut down the bazaar, so be it. But to circumambulate the Shah Cheraq shrine with the body, and have the crowd flagellating in the courtyard; to have Mr Mortezai saying the last prayers with full sermon from the shrine balcony … upon my word, don’t even think of it! What with the foreign army in town, there will be rioting … You’ve dragged all these people here for nothing.”

Turning to Zari, Majid said, “Khanom Zahra, you know yourself we had sworn allegiance to Yusef. Now that they’ve killed him, they want us to sit here and not even give him a proper burial. Our simple objection …”

Zari didn’t let him finish his sentence. “They have killed my husband unjustly,” she said. “The least we can do is to mourn his death. Mourning hasn’t been outlawed. In his lifetime we were always frightened and we tried to frighten him off too. Now that he is dead, what else can we fear? I, for one, have nothing more to lose….” Her voice was trembling. She brought the bottle of salts to her nostrils and inhaled its freshness deeply.

“Well, bless my soul, sister!” Abol-Ghassem Khan exploded. “Now you’ve really put me to shame! Why don’t you understand, woman? When this many people take to the streets, if someone leads them on to rioting, who could possibly stop the tide then?”

“Abol-Ghassem,” Ameh said, “your brother’s corpse is at your mercy now. Don’t sit by idly and watch his blood being trampled on.”

Zari, looking at her, was reminded of Hazrate Zeynab, defending her martyrs.

“I have reliable information that you’ll be stopped,”
Abol-Ghassem
Khan told them, “then there’ll be bloodshed. I won’t allow it. My poor brother wouldn’t have wanted to hurt a fly. He treated his peasants like an older brother … Don’t torment the departed soul.”

“I lived with him for fourteen years,” Zari said with a sigh. “I know that he always spoke of courage … of justice …”

The serpent which had coiled around her heart the night before reared its head to strike, and her throat constricted. She left her sentence unfinished, but now her mind shone like a torch, and she knew that no-one in the world could ever dim it again. She
swallowed
and went on, “Do whatever you have to do today … if you don’t do it now, there will never be another opportunity.” Then, after a pause, she said to Abol-Ghassem Khan, “Today I came to the conclusion that one has to be brave in life for the sake of those who are living … but it’s a pity I realized it so late. To atone for that ignorance, let’s mourn our courageous dead the way we should.”

“A blessing on this noble mother of our race,” murmured Seyyid Mohammad.

“Bravo!” came from some strangers in mourning clothes.

Mortezai recited in Arabic from the Quran: “There is Life to you, O ye men of understanding.”

“This way we shall prove that we’ve not been annihilated yet, and we value the blood that’s been shed,” Fotouhi added.

“Sooner or later it’ll be my brother’s turn,” Malek Rostam reminded them. “They’ll catch up with him in the heat of these cruel mountains, and drag him into town to the sound of horns and drums. They’ll hang him on charges of insurrection, and everyone will come out to watch.”

Abol-Ghassem Khan, venting his ill-feelings on Malek Rostam, said, “You talk as if your brother is the Prophet’s son! Of course they’ll hang him. No-one’s forgotten the bloodshed in Semirom. How much government property was raided! How many innocent people were killed! If there’s such a thing as penance in this life, then he must pay for all that killing …” Blinking rapidly, he continued, “How ambitious can you get! He changes colour every day like a chameleon. One day he’s a slave to the Germans, the next he’s serving the British, and before you know it, he’s turned against them too! Just like the treacherous Shemr …”

Malek Rostam interrupted him.

“If a person knowingly makes a mistake, he can try to make up for it. But now’s not the time for putting Malek Sohrab on trial, and you’re not a judge either.”

“Actually, you yourself have been parading a little too freely in public these days,” Abol-Ghassem Khan retorted. “If I were you I’d put on a chador and make a getaway to the mountains through the back door of this garden.”

At that, Malek Rostam’s tribal blood began to boil. He answered sharply, “Some people hide under black chadors to slip away to the Consul at the British Consulate. My brother and I use them to hide from the Consul and his men.”

“Gentlemen!” Fotouhi intervened. “This is no time for
quarrelling
. We were supposed to come to a decision about the funeral procession. Khanom Zahra agrees …”

“But I’m against it!” Abol-Ghassem Khan interrupted again. “And by rights I’m the legal guardian of my brother’s children. Sister, be sensible, listen to my advice.”

Zari couldn’t stand on her feet any longer. She sat on the bed next to Fotouhi and said, “His body’s not buried yet. I don’t want to argue with you. But while he was alive, you each had a tight grip around his throat and he had to keep raising his voice to be heard until he was finally killed for it. And now … let people show at his death that he was in the right. Besides, justice and truth haven’t died with him, there are others to consider.”

Abol-Ghassem Khan, blinking nervously, raised his voice in anger. “It’s women like you, who follow their husbands like so many sheep, that bring about these tragic events!”

“Don’t make me say this,” Zari answered calmly, “but more than one person was responsible for the blood that was shed, including yourself. Maybe I’m to blame, too.”

“You’ve got something to say for yourself, have you? Well, well! I’ll say it in front of everyone, then. Now that you’ve come into a bit of easy money, you’ve forgotten that a woman is, after all, only a woman. A woman is like the lining of a garment, she exists to uphold and support a man. But you just blindly endorsed whatever mistakes that poor man made …”

Zari felt that the snake sitting alert inside her was speaking out now. “You’re only worried about your post as a deputy, about all the plans you’ve made for when you become one. An eye operation, a good set of teeth from the famous Dr Stump … Haven’t you said as much yourself? Maybe you even want to get remarried …”

Abol-Ghassem Khan looked at her in total astonishment. “Fie, for shame!” he spat. Then he composed himself and added, “You don’t know me well enough. I’m the kind of man who spent sixteen solitary years, night after night, when my wife died …”

Zari was going to say, “What about the various temporary wives … What about the shoemaker’s daughter who rubs herself all over
with ox’s gall-bladder stone to fatten herself up …” She felt
completely
reckless, and in such a state that, if someone had handed her a gun which she knew how to use, she would have been prepared to shoot. She stood up and said, “Just a few minutes ago your notary …”

Majid Khan, trying to mediate, stepped in. “Please, I beg of you …” he said. “Mr Abol-Ghassem Khan, Khanom Zahra. It’s hardly the time for this sort of thing.”

Fotouhi motioned everyone to be silent. “Let’s not waste our time with discussions about each other’s private lives,” he said. “Let’s approach the matter in another light. The killing of Yusef Khan is, from your point of view, a personal matter, whereas from ours, it’s a social issue …”

Again, Abol-Ghassem Khan interrupted Fotouhi, saying, “I know the rest by heart. You want to make the most of this killing. Create riots in town and cause innocent people to be killed. There are several truck-loads of soldiers blocking the town’s main roads. What with the foreign army in town … I suppose you know what you’re doing.”