A Persian Requiem (5 page)

But Zari’s attention was fixed on Singer who had taken
Abol-Ghassem
Khan’s arm and was saying, in his stilted Persian: “Give your brother some good advice. God has given you so much resources in this country. Give some to us. It belongs to everyone, to all mankind. It is too much just for you. You don’t need all.”

“Just what British Petroleum is doing!” Yusef said with a laugh.

Singer looked taken aback. His face and neck reddened
noticeably
. He placed his drink on the map and blurted out, “You didn’t know how! We don’t need you. We can take it out ourselves and
give to those who need …” And suddenly he became amiable again. Lifting his glass, he said, “Cheers!”

The Governor, the Colonel and the newly married couple with Gilan Taj in tow, now made their entry. The officers stood to attention while the Governor nodded to all of them. The army commander, the town’s newspaper owners and the heads of various civic departments, all began to drift in with their wives. The marquee was soon crammed full of people, and the sickly smell of feet, sweat, perfume and alcohol filled the air. Three Indian soldiers were busy serving drinks.

Zari signalled to Hormoz and Khosrow, and together they went over to Gilan Taj. Zari had decided to summon up courage to slip in a reminder about her earrings. First she introduced Khosrow and Hormoz. The girl extended a hand, and flashed a dimpled smile. Then the bride, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and green sunglasses, came up to them.

“Zari, darling,” she cooed. “Thank you so much for your gift. I’ll always treasure them, and when I wear them I’ll think of you.”

Zari looked at her in astonishment. Since when had she and the Governor’s daughter become so intimate? In the three years since the Governor’s posting to Shiraz, she had not seen the girl more than three times. Well, maybe four or five times, counting the wedding. Zari opened her mouth to say: “What gift? I only lent them, as your sister here knows full well!” But no sound escaped her lips. She cursed herself inwardly for her own ineptitude and cowardice. “Spineless women like me deserve no better!” she thought to herself.

The bride looked at Hormoz and Khosrow.

“Zari dear,” she said, “I never knew you had such grown-up sons. You, so young and pretty! Tell everyone they’re your brothers, not sons.”

Khosrow was quick to chip in. “Four-eyed Hormoz here is my cousin,” he announced.

Hormoz blushed and removed his glasses. But Zari knew he wouldn’t be able to see a thing without them. She felt like scolding Khosrow there and then. Four-eyed Hormoz indeed! Talking like that to an older cousin, and in front of such uppity people as the Governor’s daughter! But the bride was too quick for her.

“Master Hormoz, aren’t you Mirza Abol-Ghassem Khan’s son?”
she asked. “I have a great deal of respect for him. How kind he’s been! What a sweet man he is, and so amusing! Please don’t be shy, put on your glasses by all means. I wear glasses myself; even my sunglasses have prescription lenses. Last night I had a frightful time without them.”

A sudden flurry of trumpets and drums announced that it was time to leave the marquee for other events of the evening. The Colonel and the Governor led the way, followed by the guests, and Zari felt as if she were being taken to an execution. They reached a vast, open space, where chairs had been arranged in a horse-shoe. Already thousands of soldiers, mostly Indian, were seated.

The officer behind the Colonel gave an order and at once, as all the soldiers rose to attention, there was a deafening scraping of chairs. Around a platform which had been made out of a couple of old boards and covered with a carpet, five flags waved of which Zari recognized only one—that of Great Britain. Khanom Hakim made her way across the creaking platform to the microphone. A hush ensued. Reading from the piece of paper in her hand, she greeted the guests in Persian. Her voice was a little unsteady at first until she gained confidence and warmed to her speech. In the light of the setting sun, her dull teeth looked decidedly yellow.

From what Zari could gather, the gist of her speech was that in order to amuse the fighting boys of Great Britain now on leave in Shiraz, that sweet city of birds and flowers—they had arranged some entertainment. This was to enable the soldiers to fight the monster Fascism with greater strength of spirit, sending that devil Hitler back to hell in the shortest time possible. She thanked the Iranians for their hospitality, for they had made the war against Satan—meaning Hitler—easier to bear. Then she finished by
declaring
that Hitler was like a virus, a cancer, which had to be torn out.

Now Khanom Hakim was not only a midwife, but also a surgeon quite keen on using the knife. And in addition to these talents, as she said herself, she “brought glad tidings and led the people to Christ”. Every night, as Zari remembered, she had the pregnant women, and the ones she had already cut up, as well as their relatives, queuing up to watch a film. A silent film, of course. She would hold a long stick in her hand, and point out the characters in the film, explaining in broken Persian:

“This be Jesus Christ… this be Mary Magdalen … this be Judas
Escariot …” Afterwards, in that same irritating patois, she would preach a sermon about Satan and hell-fire.

“Why should a midwife, surgeon and missionary all rolled into one, suddenly appear in a place like Shiraz?” Zari thought to herself, as she continued to muse about Khanom Hakim. “Maybe her Satan has some connection with the ‘Satan’ the fighting boys are trying to send back to hell? The boys are mostly Indian, anyway. And, to use Abol-Ghassem Khan’s phrase, ‘they manage well enough themselves, and stir up trouble for everyone else besides.’ Yet our people have started to call this devil ‘the Messiah’. I’ve heard it many times myself.”

McMahon took over from Khanom Hakim on the stage, his presence adding a note of gaiety. He had thrown a red cloak over his shoulders, and was wearing a pair of black boots. It made him look like a famous film star, though Zari could not for the life of her remember the name. It was a pity he was fat. He spoke in English, and Zari didn’t understand all of his jokes, but after two or three sentences, the sound of the soldiers’ laughter filled the air. Even the Governor and the army commander laughed occasionally, but it was one of the newspaper owners who laughed the loudest of all. Could all this laughter be out of politeness, Zari wondered, since despite her own good English, she hardly understood any of it.

Then, with all the appropriate gestures, McMahon told a story about a soldier serving abroad who seduced a girl, exploiting her for what he could get out of her. He wanted new shoes and a hat; he wanted this and that, until one day the girl said she was pregnant and he must marry her. He confessed then that he already had a wife and children back home. McMahon rocked an imaginary cradle, put his arms around an imaginary wife, and said, “I have a wife and little ones” in Persian. This time the audience laughed a little less heartily.

After the story, he recited one of his poems—the one about the Tree of Independence. It told of a strange tree nourished by blood and by the earth on which it stood, tended by a prophet-like gardener who loved his tree above all others. When it needed water, the gardener would call for blood and people would surge to open the veins on their arms, eager to nurture the tree beneath whose cool, shady branches they sat and unburdened their sorrows. If its leaves were crushed and powdered, and then rubbed on the eyes, it would endow the bearer with pride, hope and confidence,
triumphing over cowardice and treachery to create a people of strength and courage.

Then the show began. A bearded Indian, wearing a turban and dressed from head to toe in white, came and knelt on the platform. He lowered the microphone and began to play a pipe. From a hole in front of him, which Zari had not noticed before, a dark-skinned woman with a red dot between her eyebrows bobbed up her head several times. Finally, the woman emerged completely, all the while moving to the music and slowly approaching the man. She was wearing a yellow sari with a gold embroidered border. When she started to sing in her shrill, high-pitched voice, she could hardly be heard above the din of the Indian soldiers who were whistling and shouting to the music. Her bracelets jangled as she moved her arms.

At one stage of the dance, it suddenly seemed as though the woman had unlocked the muscles of her neck. Her head fell effortlessly on to her shoulders, and she kept rotating it to the left and right just like a snake. She also lifted her eyebrows one at a time, to the rhythm of the music. Zari was amazed to see the amount of kohl the woman had used to outline her eyes.

Gradually the dancer moved back to the hole from which she had emerged. Then, as the snake-charmer quickened his pace, a rubber hose with a snake’s head glued on to it rose out of the hole, stiff as a rod. The woman reached down, and pulled out the rest of the hose. Then she coiled it like a long snake, in a corner of the platform.

At this point a thin man with bushy eyebrows and a mottled moustache, wearing top hat and tails and carrying an umbrella, stepped up on to the stage. The fluteplayer kept on playing. The woman reached into the hole and brought out some odds and ends—boards, sticks, McMahon’s red cloak, a conical hat, a box, a hammer and an air-pump. Then she helped the bushy-eyebrowed man to make a dummy out of the sticks. Taking the rubber hose, the man wrapped it around the frame. After securing a kind of snake’s head in place, he threw a cloak over the dummy’s body. Next, he placed the conical hat on the serpent-head, glued on a long
moustache
and, taking a swastika from the dancer, pinned it on to the cloak. Then he went to the air-pump, attached the nozzle to the scarecrow’s foot and, to the beat of the music, began to pump it up. Zari watched as it grew bigger and bigger. Its head, body, hands and feet became inflated, swelling to an unbelievable size. It took up so
much of the main part of the stage that the turbaned man had to step aside. A voice behind Zari murmured: “It’s Hitler!”

Suddenly drums began to roll. A fat man, with a cigar in the corner of his mouth, rushed on to the stage, followed by another dressed as ‘Uncle Sam’. Then various officers, some in kilts, some with hammer and sickle armbands, one and all invaded the stage. Armed with bows and arrows, they first began to tease the
scarecrow
. One of their number kept holding them back saying: “Nyet! Nyet!” Finally he too gave in, and yelled: “Good! Good!”

The drumming reached a crescendo. Arrows flew at the
scarecrow
from all directions. Slowly it began to deflate until it sank to the ground with a loud hiss. The crowd cheered and applauded. And then there were other shows …

O
n Saturday afternoon, Sahar was shod by a new blacksmith. Khosrow was at school so he wasn’t there to witness it. When he came home, he looked reproachfully at his father, who said, “I had to do it, otherwise it would have been too late.”

They then began talking of hunting and Yusef promised to take both Khosrow and Sahar along. From that moment until Thursday afternoon, when the riders actually set off, Khosrow’s entire
concentration
was focused on hunting and whether or not Sahar would be able to manage it.

They had not been gone twenty-four hours when Zari began to miss them. She couldn’t help worrying, thinking of all the things that might go wrong. Ameh finally scolded her: “They’re probably thoroughly enjoying their ride, in spite of the fact that you keep imagining the worst.”

Zari instructed Gholam to sprinkle water over the brick paving in front of the house, and to put out the cane chairs around the pool. She was sure they would be back before sunset on Friday. Mina and Marjan, meanwhile, played around the pool, dipping their hands in the water the moment Zari’s back was turned.

Suddenly there was a knocking at the garden gate. Zari, certain it was the huntsmen, ran out to greet them. By the time she reached the gates, Gholam had opened them wide. A horse-drawn cab pulled in. Zari was taken aback; they had left on horseback! When the droshke reached Zari, it came to a halt. Two women stepped down. They were wearing heavy veils, drawn tightly over their faces. But what strapping women! They were wearing thick woven summer shoes, and their feet looked very large. They also seemed unusually tall and broad-shouldered beneath their veils. The women bowed their heads at Zari’s greeting, and one of them
extended a coarse, thickly-veined hand to pay the driver. Zari noticed she was wearing a man’s watch on her wrist. Zari racked her brains to remember where she had seen them before. Maybe they were friends of Ameh Khanom, who at that moment was smoking opium on the verandah. “Could they just be
masculine-looking
women, or are they gypsies?” Zari wondered.

Her attention was suddenly drawn to Mina and Marjan, who had plunged their arms up to the elbow in the water. “Get away from there!” she scolded.

Indicating the chairs by the pool, she offered the strangers a seat. But they took no notice and walked towards the house. The shorter one was obviously laughing because her shoulders were shaking underneath the veil. Ameh, glancing at the women as she puffed away at her pipe, said: “I don’t recall having had the pleasure …”

The women, ignoring her remark, crossed the verandah, opened the parlour door and walked in. Zari was totally bewildered. They were certainly not inmates of the asylum where she usually took bread and dates. But neither was it normal behaviour to arrive at someone’s house, walk right in without a by your leave and make yourself at home.

She followed the women to the parlour.

“Please take a seat,” she said, “although, quite frankly, I can’t remember having made your acquaintance.”

“Where is Yusef Khan?” one of them asked in a husky voice.

“He’s gone hunting with Khosrow,” Zari replied.

It was a man’s voice and a familiar one at that. Someone was playing a practical joke. At that moment, the two ‘women’
simultaneously
pushed their veils aside. Thick eyebrows, dark eyes, long eyelashes and a hooked nose set in a longish sallow face—the spitting image of each other, except that one was younger, and the older one wore a moustache.

“Malek Rostam Khan!” Zari exclaimed in astonishment. “What kind of get-up is this? You half scared me to death!”

Malek Rostam put a finger to his lips: “Hush! Be quiet. I’ll sit here and wait for Yusef,” he whispered.

Zari went out on to the verandah. There was no one but the twins watching Ameh smoke her pipe. She returned to the parlour with straw fans for Malek Rostam and his brother Malek Sohrab.

“You really had me fooled, you know,” she said laughingly. “Turning up like this after all these years.”

“When is he returning from his trip?” Malek Rostam asked her anxiously. “Is there a chance he won’t be back today?”

“I’m expecting him any minute now. But why?” Zari asked.

“I hear he’s going to the village—to the lowlands tomorrow … Why isn’t he back yet?” Malek Rostam asked again.

Zari brought sherbet drinks for the guests, and then fruit and some nuts. She opened the parlour door for more air. But they wouldn’t let her put on the lights. She sat facing them.

“Well, how is it that you’ve finally come to visit us?”

“Oh, Sohrab has come on behalf of my uncle,” Malek Rostam answered, playing with his moustache. “I came because I missed you both.”

“I bet it was Sohrab Khan’s idea to wear the veils,” Zari said. “He’s still the same mischievous child at heart. Do you remember, Sohrab Khan, what antics you were always up to?”

“How could I forget!” he said with a laugh. “But we wore the veils so we wouldn’t be recognized. If they catch us they will tear us to bits.”

“Gone are the good old days when nothing used to worry us!” Zari sighed.

Her mind went back to one such day; a day in the first year of her marriage. In that same year the government had captured the head of the Qashqai tribe and taken him to Tehran. The tribe itself was breaking camp to move on. When Zari and Yusef arrived, a group of them came out to greet them. They even cheered for them, but it was an empty cheer, as Yusef said. They were dusty and depressed, and clearly not their usual selves. By the time Yusef and Zari reached the chieftain’s large tent, most of them had scattered. Malek Sohrab was sitting in the tribal chieftain’s place. When he saw them, he declared, “Welcome to this, our mobile capital!”

Zari had never seen a more beautiful tent in her life than that wandering capital. What carpets and rugs! The inside was painted with designs of legendary Shahnameh heroes such as Rostam, Ashkabus, Esfandiar, Sohrab and other characters whom Zari didn’t recognize. It was funny; Malek Sohrab had seemed both childish and mature at the same time. He had got up, showing Zari the picture of Sohrab, and said, “This is me!”

“God forbid! “Zari had replied, because Sohrab was depicted with a dagger deep in his side. Then he had pointed to the picture of
Rostam and said, “This is Malek Rostam, the elder brother of our chief.”

Zari had glanced at Malek Rostam who was busy whispering to Yusef. There was a wistful smile on his face. Then Malek Sohrab had pointed to the image of a severed head lying in a large basin full of blood. A black horse stood at the basin, smelling the tulips which grew all around it. Malek Sohrab had said, “This is my own little brother to whom my mother, Bibi, hasn’t yet given birth!”

“You can’t fool me,” Zari had replied. “I bet you anything it’s John the Baptist.”

Malek Sohrab had laughed and said, “All right, let’s have a bet.”

“What do you bet?”

“A Brno rifle.” Malek Sohrab called Yusef over and showed him the drawing.

“Your wife says this is John the Baptist.”

“Please forgive her,” Yusef had smiled. “My wife married straight from the classroom. Her head’s still full of the Gospel stories she was forced to read every morning at the Missionary school.”

“I know!” Zari had rushed to correct herself. “It’s the beheaded martyr, Imam Hossein … and that horse …” But Yusef stopped her.

“My dear, don’t embarrass me any more. That’s Siavush.”

Returning to the chieftain’s seat, Malek Sohrab had said, “We number six thousand in this camp. Let them kill a hundred and fifty sheep a day … And you, Zari Khanom,” he said after a pause, “I hear you’ve brought your own bridal carpet as an offering to our chieftain. We cannot accept it. The very fibres of this carpet were a labour of love.” And he asked eagerly: “Did you see the layout of the tents? Did you see the gunmen standing ready? Do you hear the horns and drums? This military march is being played in your honour.”

The words had hardly left his lips when Bibi Hamdam, their mother, came in. After the usual greetings, she turned to Malek Sohrab and said, “Get up from that seat, child! Are you talking nonsense again? They’ve caught two hens. Run out and cut their throats before the sun goes down.”

Angrily, Malek Sohrab stood up, made a face at Bibi, and stalked out of the room. When he returned, he threw the dead hens into his mother’s lap.

Zari remembered it all as if it were yesterday.

“Zari Khanom, you’re deep in thought,” Malek Rostam observed, breaking the train of Zari’s reminiscences. “Are we disturbing you?”

“Oh goodness, no!” Zari replied with a laugh. “I was only
thinking
back to the first time I came to your chieftain’s tent. It was the first year of our marriage.” Turning to Malek Sohrab she said, “Do you remember what you did to your poor mother in front of me, a newly-wed bride?”

“I remember it well,” he replied.

“You were a child, then,” Zari said.

“I was not a child. I was stubborn and rebellious,” Malek Sohrab replied.

“I remember Bibi Hamdam had to change her skirts,” said Zari. “I counted, she had eight of them on. Bibi had caught a cold … and you, Malek Sohrab, kept saying that a hardy tribal woman should never get sick.”

“I remember very well. That same night I won a Brno rifle from you … and I’m still waiting for it,” he added jokingly.

At that moment Khadijeh came in and took the keychain from Zari to give the twins so that they could go to sleep. She looked in amazement at the veiled men.

“You’re sitting in the dark!” she exclaimed. “Shall I put the light on?”

“No,” came the reply.

“I remember,” Malek Rostam said, joining in the reminiscing. “It was the year I caught malaria and came to you for refuge. I was in bed for three months in your house, at a time when nobody even dared say hello to us in the street. A friend of a Qashqai was an enemy of the Shah. Yet you nursed me like a sister. I’ll never forget. Once the washerwoman didn’t come and you washed my clothes with your own delicate hands. Yusef even helped me with the bed-pan himself.” Turning to Sohrab, he said, “Sohrab, I’m going. I shouldn’t have come here.”

Sohrab answered him in Turkish, and for a while the two brothers spoke together in their native dialect. Since Zari couldn’t understand a word, she started to think, and that led her to worry about Khosrow again.

At the sound of hooves on the gravel, Zari once again rushed outside. The lights were on in the garden. They had shot two deer,
and a live fawn was tied to the saddle of the chestnut horse which their steward, Seyyid Mohammad, was riding. The riders
dismounted
.

“A good day’s work!” exclaimed Ameh Khanom, who had also come out to greet them.

Khosrow couldn’t tell his mother fast enough what had happened on the trip.

“Mother,” he babbled, “Sahar has been really naughty. He chased after the fawn and bit it on the back. Of course he fell down himself. He’s hurt his knee and now I have to treat it with burnt hazelnut oil. Mother, do you have any hazelnuts?”

“There’s some on the table in the parlour,” Zari said, adding quickly: “but don’t go in there now. We have some important guests.”

Yusef, meanwhile, had gone over to the wooden bed on the other side of the pool. The twins were sleeping there under a mosquito net.

As they went into the parlour, Zari quickly warned Yusef about their unexpected visitors. He switched on the lights.

“I was expecting you,” he said to Malek Rostam, “but not today. Your visit is not only too late, it’s badly timed as well. Today, I can’t even say I’m pleased to see you. Why you of all people? Why should you have agreed to such things? After all those discussions we had …”

He sat on the sofa and Zari knelt in front of him to remove his boots. Malek Rostam bent his head and chewed his moustache. Sohrab rolled up his veil, threw it in a corner, and sat bolt upright. Yusef continued:

“You’ve taken out your rusty, broken guns from the cracks and crevices in the mountain-side, oiled them and taken to looting and killing your fellow-men again. What more can you and I have to say to each other?”

“Zari Khanom isn’t a stranger,” Sohrab said, “and I’m not afraid of saying in front of her that we had to take our revenge. How long can we take it from the government? With that general pardon of theirs, which they later broke—and how! What they promised us on the one hand, they took away with the other. There was only bribery, excuses, hatred, and executions. Their forced settlements turned out to be a total waste of money. They built a couple of mud-huts in dried-up areas, and told us to go and live in them.
Instead of books, teachers, doctors, medicine and health care, they sent us soldiers armed with bayonets, guns and hostility. It’s only natural that we’ve gone back to our old trade and taken revenge on them.”

While Sohrab was talking, Khadijeh brought a hookah and placed it in front of Yusef. Zari whispered to her, “Take the boots and give them to Gholam for cleaning. Bring some tea, too.”

Drawing on the pipe, Yusef said, “What can I say, Sohrab my friend; you’ve put your finger on it yourself. You say you’ve gone back to your ‘trade’. In other words the tribe has become a kind of business for you. You use it to make deals.”

“Believe me,” Malek Rostam protested, “they acted entirely without provocation at the beginning. I’m personally in favour of the idea of settlements. You know that yourself. But it’s as if they themselves don’t want us to prosper. Certain forces are at work against us. They want us either to rot away from the inside and ultimately destroy ourselves, or else to stay in our present state.”

Yusef lifted the pipe to his lips again. “You yourselves prefer this present state of affairs,” he said. “If you had been more willing, the settlements might have worked. But my friend, you tribal chiefs have become too accustomed to exploiting your tribesmen. For you they aren’t human beings; they’re no different from your sheep—you sell them both in one go.”

“Don’t speak to me like that, Yusef,” Malek Rostam retorted angrily. “You’re a close friend, we’ve been classmates and we’ve shared each other’s hospitality many times, but …”