A Persian Requiem (8 page)

“You can’t oppose the Governor,” said Zari dejectedly, “and you can’t oppose Singer. They’ve become sworn brothers. This town becomes more and more like the Mordestan red-light district every day.”

“By Almighty God!” Abol-Ghassem Khan lashed out. “More of Yusef’s nonsense! Look Zari, don’t argue with me. Don’t I have any rights at all
over my brother’s worthless horse? I swear on my dead
father’s soul that I won’t let Khosrow suffer … I’ll take him hunting. I’ll keep him in the village for a few days. Whichever of my colts he chooses, he can have. Get a receipt for the horse when they come early tomorrow morning to take it away. When we return, just say the horse died. It’s the only way. While we’re in the village, I’ll find a way to tell Khosrow that the horse is sick. I’ll say he mustn’t let himself be so attached to worldly things if he’s going to suffer so badly when he loses them.”

Ameh raised her head. “Why don’t you practise what you preach?” she said bitterly.

Before Abol-Ghassem Khan could reply, Khadijeh came to take away the opium brazier.

“Where are the children?” Zari asked.

“They’re with Gholam watching some tribal men and women do a dance. These beggars from the tribes are in such a sorry state, poor souls!” Khadijeh sighed.

“Good gracious!” Abol-Ghassem Khan said with a laugh. “Why does every member of this household have to be so concerned with the welfare of tribesmen, peasants and porters? I just don’t
understand
it.”

“Khadijeh, go and light a hookah and bring it here,” Zari said. As Khadijeh walked out, Khosrow came on to the verandah.

“Mother, will you give me the key to the cupboard?” he asked. “I want to get my gun … Have you seen my hunting trousers?” he added. “I can’t find them.”

“Come without them, boy,” Abol-Ghassem Khan said cheerfully. “We have so many pairs of hunting trousers there, you wouldn’t believe it!”

Zari felt a lump in her throat. She took out the chain from her house-dress, and placed it on the rug on which she was sitting. When Khosrow left, she started to cry. “So this is how they manage to corner you,” she thought to herself. “By making all their deals behind your back. But there’s still time. Tomorrow morning when they come from the Governor, I can refuse to give the horse. I can tell the Governor’s servant that Sahar died and that will be an end to it.”

“Sister, as God is my witness, I can’t bear to see you cry,” Abol-Ghassem Khan began. But he stopped short because Khosrow walked back in just then carrying his travelling clothes, his rifle and saddle-bag.

“I’m ready,” he announced. Zari, struggling to hold back her tears, bent her head. Khosrow kissed his aunt, then turned to his mother and put his arms around her neck. Kissing her wet face, he said, “I’m not going away to China, you know … Mother, ask uncle to let me take Sahar with us.”

“Come along, son,” Abol-Ghassem Khan urged. “Gholam will take care of Sahar.” And he said goodbye and walked away.

“I can’t refuse to go,” Khosrow whispered in his mother’s ear, “because uncle will think I’m afraid of the shooting.”

Sahar was standing quite still under the orange trees. He didn’t move when Khosrow approached him. The boy took the colt’s face between his hands and stroked his mane. Then he called over his shoulder: “Mother, don’t forget to give him some sugar lumps. Gholam knows the rest. He’ll muck out the stable, give him clean hay and groom him.”

Sahar lowered his head and dug at the soil underneath the orange tree. After Khosrow had gone, he came near the verandah and neighed loudly. His mother answered him from the stables. Zari looked at him through her tears. “You poor beast!” she thought. “What sweet eyes you have. Why don’t you look straight at me? Why lower your gaze? Why don’t you call me a helpless woman who’ll betray you tomorrow?”

“I for one am leaving this place,” Ameh Khanom announced. “Why do I need a ‘dashport’, ‘pashport’ or whatever they call it? I’ll get myself smuggled out. I’ll buy gold coins with my money, and sew them into the lining of my coat. I’ll just take one suitcase, get myself to Ahwaz, and it’ll be easy from there. I’ll go through the date-palm plantations, then find some Arabs, give them each a gold coin, and they’ll put me in one of their boats to cross the Tigris. Then I’ll be rid of all this. From then on, I won’t be a burden and I won’t let anyone impose on me. And it won’t be my own country so I won’t have to worry all the time about what happens to it.” She clenched a fist to her bosom, praying:

“O Imam Hossein! Allow this poor creature of yours to come to you in Karbala!”

“Did you want the hookah, Khanom?” Khadijeh came in to ask, bringing one with her.

Zari took the pipe from Khadijeh, and drew deeply on it. It made her cough. Then she drew on it again and again. It made her feel sick, but she kept on inhaling.

“They can drive you to addiction, sister,” Ameh warned. “You mustn’t smoke if you can help it. A habit is a terrible thing.” She looked up at the sky and said with bitterness, “O Lord, I’m not ungrateful, yet I’ve never known anything but sorrow in this world of yours. They hounded and harassed my husband to death. He couldn’t take it any more, and smashed himself, on horseback, against the pillars of the British Consulate building. My only son died young. A boil grew in his throat, and he withered away before my very eyes. In all of this godforsaken town no one could give him the medicine he needed … O Lord, maybe you brought me all these sorrows to see whether I have the patience of Job. Well, I haven’t, I haven’t! Grant my only wish now. Let me make my pilgrimage!”

Zari was in tears again. She brushed them away with the back of her hand. “Ameh Khanom,” she pleaded, “don’t make me so unhappy. Where do you want to get up and go to? At least this is your homeland. Your husband and son are buried here. Whenever you feel lonely, you can visit their graves. Whom will you turn to there?”

“To Imam Hossein.”

“It’s hot there. The climate won’t agree with you. There’s a big garden here. My children are like your own. We live like sisters. Besides, how will they send you money?”

“I’m only one person. I’m willing to live on bread and water. What makes me more special than Bibi, my mother?”

Before Zari could reply, Khadijeh came out to the verandah: “Khanom, the children are making a fuss. No matter what I say they refuse to eat their meal. They’re driving me out of my mind.”

“I’ll come,” Zari said, getting up and going to the parlour. She found Marjan sitting on the table, rubbing her eyes. Mina was standing by her, looking frightened and staring anxiously at the door. Catching sight of her mother, she laughed and stretched out her arms. Zari sat next to them and tried to put a spoonful of food in Mina’s mouth, but the child pushed the spoon away. When she tried to feed Marjan, the same thing happened.

“I don’t want any rice-pudding!” Marjan cried.

“Why not?” asked Zari.

“I don’t like it!” she shouted.

“All right, then just have some bread,” Zari offered.

“That child who threw a stone at me said, ‘Gimme some bread! Gimme some fruit from your tree!’” said Marjan, rubbing her eyes.

“Which child?”

“That child who didn’t have any shoes. That one whose mama danced. The papa sat down and said: ‘Ouch!’ His foot was hurt bad,” Marjan explained.

“See, that poor child had no bread to eat. But you won’t even have your rice-pudding and honey.”

“Gholam went and hit him,” Marjan said.

They drove Zari to distraction before taking a few more
spoonfuls
. As she was taking them to bed, she saw that Ameh was still sitting quietly next to the opium brazier.

The children, unable to get to sleep, tossed about restlessly. Obviously, Abol-Ghassem Khan’s disturbing afternoon visit had affected them too.

“If you close your eyes, I’ll tell you a story,” Zari promised.

“I’m scared,” Mina whimpered.

Zari didn’t know why she should suddenly think of McMahon and the story he had written for Mina and Marjan. That night, the night of the wedding, when she had gone to the dinner table, McMahon had managed to find a plate and cutlery for her, despite his drunken state. The room was so crowded, with everyone rushing to find a place at the table. No one moved away, and late-comers were not given a chance. Those people didn’t know the meaning of real hunger, Zari reflected, but they certainly behaved as though they did. Their children didn’t have to go around
barefoot
, begging for a lump of bread …

Zari remembered thanking McMahon. “I really enjoyed your story,” she told him. McMahon had laughed. His eyes were like slits in his face. She remembered him saying, “I’ll polish it up, and send it to a publisher of children’s books.”

The Governor had come out then, and invited McMahon to sit at an empty table reserved for foreigners only, where they would be served roast pork. But McMahon wasn’t tempted, choosing to stay with his friend’s wife. Again, Zari thanked him.

“I hope you succeed in building that airplane which drops toys to little children!” she said.

McMahon sighed. “But who will ever build an airplane which will shower consolation over sorrowful men … men who’ve lost their mothers …”

Yusef made his way to them, bringing a plate of rice spiced with pistachio nuts and raisins.

“For all three of us,” he had announced.

McMahon went on talking to Zari. “When I think about it,” he said, “I realize that all of us, all our lives, we’re just children who get our happiness from our toys. The day, alas, they take away those toys, or don’t let us have new ones—our children, our mothers, our philosophies, our religions—we crumble.”

“Have some of this now,” Yusef had laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone so blind drunk and so philosophical at the same time!”

“I promise you I couldn’t swallow a thing,” McMahon replied. “Anything more, and I’d burst!”

Marjan brought Zari back to the present. “I’m scared!” she cried out. “Snake!”

“Go to sleep, dear,” Zari said reassuringly. “There’s no snake around. It’s in Haj Mohammad Reza’s yellow box. They’ve taken its teeth out, too, and the box is locked.”

Then she started to tell a story.

“Once upon a time there was a man who built a big plane. The plane carried only toys, story books, fruit, food and sweets for children …”

“Mummy, was there a snake in the plane?” Mina asked.

“No, dear,” Zari answered, “there wasn’t a snake; the plane was loaded with things children like. This plane would fly over the towns to drop whatever toys the children wanted.”

“But they’ll break!” Marjan exclaimed.

“No, the plane flew low over the houses, and the children held out their skirts underneath the plane. Then the pilot dropped
whatever
they wanted into their skirts.”

“What about Khosrow?” Marjan asked. “Khosrow doesn’t have a skirt.”

“You’re right,” Zari smiled. “But the pilot also gave toys and things to boys even though they don’t wear skirts. Sometimes he stopped his plane on the roof and …”

“Would he give toys to the child who was throwing stones?” Marjan interrupted.

“Of course,” said Zari.

“Oh good.”

“Now where was I?” Zari continued. “Oh yes. The pilot stopped the plane on a rooftop and picked up the good children and took them to the sky with him. They flew past the stars, past the moon. They flew past them so closely they could reach out and gather the
stars and put them in their lap.”

“Tell him to bring his plane on our roof,” Marjan piped up again, “and give Sahar to Khosrow … all right?”

“All right,” Zari promised; “now go to sleep.” It occurred to her that if the twins were developing a memory even for recent events, they were no longer babies.

As soon as the children were asleep, Zari went out on to the verandah. Ameh was still sitting there, with her hand under her chin, staring at the cold brazier in front of her.

“Are you thinking of your journey?” Zari asked.

Ameh lifted her head. Zari was taken aback to see tears in her eyes.

“Yes, sister,” Ameh answered. “Even if my heart is sad and heavy, it doesn’t mean that’s all there is in the whole world. Now that it’s too late for happiness in this life, I want at least to prepare for my peace afterwards. They say whoever is buried next to the Imam won’t have to answer to Nakir and Monkir. There’s no inquisition of the dead either. First the Imam Ali, and then Imam Hossein come to you. If you’re a woman, Hazrate Fatemeh comes to you. Hand in hand with these holy ones, the dead are taken to God …”

“It’s strange,” commented Zari, “how Abol-Ghassem Khan
disturbed
us all with his news! Even the children felt it. They saw Haj Mohammad Reza’s snake yesterday and they weren’t afraid. But tonight they were frightened and couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re right,” Ameh said. “It’s been a long time since I went over the untimely death of my loved ones in my mind. Tonight all of them passed again before my eyes.”

“I’ve been in your family for many years now,” Zari said, “but I’d never heard you mention your late husband or your child before. Tonight …”

“I know. I’ve always kept my grief to myself,” Ameh replied. “I’ve never told anyone what I’ve suffered.”

Zari sat down and took her sister-in-law’s hand. “You’ve always said yourself that a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. You used to say that the Imam Ali would lean over a well and tell his sorrows to the water deep down which he couldn’t see.”

Ameh nodded. “Should I sigh for you in sorrow?” she recited, as if to herself. “Then as Ali I look into a well.”

“Am I not as good as a well?” Zari asked.

“You’re young. I don’t want to destroy your hopes in life with my unhappy tales.”

“I’ve had my share of sorrows.”

“I know.” And so it was that Ameh began to tell all she had kept locked away inside her; stories which Zari had never heard before.

T
hat night, Ameh began, I was sitting right next to this very brazier, in the same wretched darkness, stirring the ashes with these tongs. I was gazing at the brass figurines, holding hands all around the edge of the brazier. That night I counted thirty-two of them. They’re still intact, those featureless little figures.

It was the night my child died. Soudabeh, my father’s mistress, sat with me till dawn, shedding tears as I cried. When he died … at the grove … all alone … I knew he was dead, but I held him, my six-year-old, and ran to Sardazak. If I hadn’t lost him, I wouldn’t be obsessed with veils and religious modesty now, nor with opium and convulsing at the mere thought of not getting any.

I rushed to my father’s house. He and Soudabeh were sitting in the room with the sash windows next to this very brazier.
Grief-stricken
, I wished I could breathe out fire and turn everyone around me into ashes. Soudabeh stood up and took my child from me. She was shaken, but trying hard not to show it. What a woman! She went out and came back without the child. I asked her what she had done with him. She said, “Who knows, maybe my brother, Mohammad Hossein, can bring him back to life with his healing touch.” I said, “Don’t blaspheme, woman! Only God brings to life. It says in the Quran: I breathed life unto him of My Spirit.” But Soudabeh wanted to give me hope.

I had studied Arabic and Persian with my father, and geography and geometry with Mohammad Hossein, Soudabeh’s brother. When my father came back from Tehran after completing his religious training, he shut himself up at home. He didn’t go out to lead prayers anymore. He was forced to give up teaching at the Khan seminary too. He only taught at home, in the main room with
the sash windows. Men would come in, kiss his hand and bring him questions on jurisprudence or theology. I used to sit in the next room and listen. When my father returned from his pilgrimage to holy Najaf, everyone in town went all the way on foot to Baj Gah to welcome him. That first day he led the communal prayers, and all the mullahs in town—even the Imam Juma—followed him as a mark of respect. When he spoke at the Vakil Mosque there was a packed audience.

Oh Lord! And I was quite a woman in those days too! I remember being daring enough to carry my father’s secret anti-government letters in my bosom to the Shah Cheraq shrine where I would deliver them to someone waiting there. I can remember it as if it were yesterday … the meeting place used to be between the two lion statues at the front of the shrine.

Then my father, of all people, fell for an Indian dancer.
Mohammad
Hossein and his sister Soudabeh had recently arrived from India. Despite my father’s courtship, to the last Soudabeh refused to marry him. She used to say they were better off the way they were. Of course she broke up our home and caused Bibi, my mother, no end of grief. But what a woman she was! And what a dancer! I’ll never forget the day my father asked Soudabeh to dance for his guests at the Rashk Behesht Gardens. She wasn’t really pretty, quite short and very sallow. She had a dark beauty spot on her upper lip, and used to outline her large brown eyes with a lot of kohl. When she wasn’t laughing she looked like an owl, but when she smiled it was as if the heavens had opened.

At that gathering, everyone—men and women—stood around the paving of the garden to watch her dance and to clap. I’d never seen her perform before. It was certainly out of the ordinary. She seemed naked at first glance, except for a few bits of jewellery. But in fact she was wearing a jewel-studded brassiere and a
flesh-coloured
body-stocking. She managed to move each and every part of her body: not only her shoulders, belly, eyes and eyebrows, but even her chin, nose, ears and pupils. First, she pretended to do a ritual dance over the corpse of a man. For the second dance, she wore a blue silk dress with a gold border, and had two live doves with dyed feathers perched on her breasts. She moved slowly and gently, as if afraid of disturbing the birds. When the dance was over, she let them fly away. By the end of the third dance, she was looking hot and flushed, so she went and sat by the pool, dressed in
her pink satin dress. As she dipped her bare feet in the water, I saw my father, my Haj Agha—the high clergyman of the town—sit down before Soudabeh and meekly fan her.

So it came about that my father asked Mohammad Hossein to teach me at home. I used to study geometry and geography with him, drawing endless charts and maps. I was so wrapped up in my studies, I was often unaware of what was going on around me. Just imagine, the first day an airplane came to this town, everyone packed their rugs and took off at dawn to Baq Takht to watch its arrival. I was sitting on the roof of our house in the sunshine, drawing a map of India. The airplane flew right over my head and I didn’t even lift my eyes to look at it. Oh God, a person like that shouldn’t become an opium addict!

Mohammad Hossein was quite a character. He was a
sun-worshipper
. Every morning and evening he’d go on to the roof to watch the sun rise or set, until finally sunlight ruined his eyesight. He could also do conjuring tricks. He fried eggs in a felt hat floating on the pool. He could produce gold coins from bits of paper. He would swallow my Haj Agha’s fob-watch and bring it back out of Abol-Ghassem’s pocket. He dabbled in palmistry, too. Once he told my fortune, and said I would have twelve sons, all of whom would become ministers. I remember thinking that my family would make up the entire cabinet! My father used to say that Mohammad Hossein had spiritual powers. But the townspeople thought he dabbled in witchcraft and black magic. Whatever he was, the man took great pains over my lessons, God rest his soul.

That terrible night it was Mohammad Hossein who washed and buried my child. For a whole week he would make me sit in front of him, gaze into my eyes, and repeat, “I shall put you to sleep, and in your sleep you will see your child, see how well and happy he is in his new place.” But I couldn’t be hypnotized. He said I resisted too much. He even painted my thumbnail black and told me to gaze at that. “Your child will appear right now,” he said. “Can’t you see him? Here he is. Here he is. Ask him what he wants. He wants something to eat.” But no matter how hard I stared, I didn’t see anything.

His sister Soudabeh, however, had charmed my father. She never did become his wife, but she had him under her spell. What a woman she was! The kind who could draw people to herself as if by magnetism … once seduced, you could never be free of her. It had
nothing to do with beauty. It had more to do with charisma. Everyone around Haj Agha was amazed at his behaviour. Perhaps they even cursed him behind his back. One sly fellow—we never found out who it was—commissioned several lengths of
hand-printed
cloth from Isfahan, picturing the proverbial Sheikh San’an going to Europe with his followers. The Sheikh was shown as a besotted-looking old man, wearing a turban and cloak just like my Haj Agha. There was a train of followers behind him and a lewd woman languished in an upper chamber of the house. Those days wherever you went, they seemed to have hung up one of these cloths. People certainly know how to be vicious when they want to.

As for Haj Agha himself, he would say, “They’ve taken away my teaching and preaching from me. Far be it from me to interfere in other worldly affairs. I gave it a try and suffered the consequences. After all, a person must do something greater in life than just the daily business of living. He must bring about changes. Now that there’s nothing more left for me to do, I’ll abandon myself to love.” “Love hath done more than steal your faith,” he used to quote, “A Sufi it can turn to Christian.” And sometimes he would add, “The pilgrim’s destination is but the starting place for love.” The mullahs in town even spread a rumour that he had turned into a heretic and a Babi. But since my father was always a generous host, and continued to solve their problems by telephone, he was never officially excommunicated. Besides, the clergy had lost much of its power, and most mullahs had exchanged their religious turban for the civilian hat.

Our Haj Agha felt the time hadn’t come for his beliefs. So he decided to retire. But he was never one to put up with injustice either. During the fighting between the police-chief and Massoud Khan, almost every household hung up a British flag to show their loyalty to the police-chief and to prevent raids on their homes. My father not only refused to put up the flag, but he even helped, side by side with the chief Rabbi, to carry the Jewish wounded from the poorest quarters to a doctor. He did his best, too, to prevent the armed men from plundering the Jewish quarter, but to no avail. Those men had been well paid.

They had shot a Jewish mother as she was nursing her baby. The baby was still suckling when she passed out. When Haj Agha arrived on the scene, he quickly tucked the baby under his cloak and rushed straight to Dr Scott, the European doctor at the
Missionary
Hospital. And who was this Dr Scott? None other than the special physician to the police-chief and his family, who refused to visit those wounded by the police-chief’s cronies. Single-handed, my father had the hospital closed down that day, forcing Dr Scott and several Armenian nurses to visit the wounded mother and other casualties in the Jewish district. The mother recovered. Do you know who she is? Our very own Tavuus Khanom who still comes to see us regularly and brings wine for Yusef.

I remember Felfelli, a drummer with Musa’s musicians, had been among the wounded. They brought him to our house and stretched him out at the entrance on the doorman’s bench. Blood was gushing out of the wound in his thigh like an open fountain, covering the entire entrance. My father happened to be away and Bibi, my mother, fell sick at the sight of all that blood. I grabbed my veil and ran to Dr Abdollah Khan’s office in the Arab quarter. I didn’t stop for breath until I got there. Between you and me, they hadn’t put up the British flag either.

Dr Abdollah Khan’s father was the well-known Haj Hakimbashi, who was still alive then. He had four sons, three of them doctors and the youngest a pharmacist. They owned a pharmacy too. God rest their souls. Only Dr Abdollah Khan is still with us. In his office that day you could hardly move for all the wounded and dying. I resorted to tears and pleas before the doctor agreed to come with me. They used to say he was quite a healer, despite his youth. But as fate would have it, Felfelli was already dead by the time we arrived, and he had been covered with a bedspread. His relatives were crowding into our house and raising the roof with their wailing and mourning. Bibi had fainted. And now where do you think our house was? Right opposite Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s father’s house. Ezzat had just married, and her husband—none other than the police-chief’s son-in-law—had actually moved into her parents’ home. All the trouble had been started by this very son-in-law. Now what if they had heard the din in our house?

Of course, Ezzat-ud-Dowleh and I had taken an oath to be sisters, but in those troubled times people hardly thought of their real sisters, let alone their sisters by oath. No, it was respect for Haj Agha that prevented them from raiding our house, especially since they were afraid he might decree a holy war. All this happened well before my father became a recluse, you see.

I’m sure Haj Agha had the kind of power it took to hypnotize
people, if he wanted to. He would stare right at the space between your eyes, and who could resist him? Imagine a man like that letting himself be enslaved by an Indian dancer and break our Bibi’s heart! Oh Lord, don’t put us to the test! Bibi knew what was going on, but she never said a word. It’s all over with now, but she never even confided in me, her own daughter. Haj Agha and Soudabeh were the talk of the town, but my mother, the only one that mattered, remained silent.

At least my father had the decency not to bring Soudabeh and Mohammad Hossein into the house until all the family had moved away. I was married first, then Abol-Ghassem Khan found a wife. Finally Bibi went off to Karbala. My husband was a textile
merchant
who traded with Egypt and India. He and his father imported a delicate fabric known as ‘miyur’. It was even finer and more beautiful than silk, and quite often used for underwear or babies’ clothes. Nowadays you can’t find it anywhere. But my husband was an unhappy man and he committed suicide. One day, at sunset, he dashed himself on horseback against the pillars of the British Consulate building. Because of our son, and because of an unjust society that made life unbearable for him. You see, Haj Agha could retire when he felt the time wasn’t right for his ideas. But my poor husband was still a young man. Just like Yusef, God forbid. Yusef is ahead of his time, too. That poor soul used to say, like Yusef, that we had to change the times. But he was just beating his head against a stone wall—as he literally did in the end. Let’s face it, these are times for double-dealers like my brother Abol-Ghassem Khan. When will it be time for people like Yusef, I wonder?

I’ll never forget, after my husband and child died, Yusef wrote me a letter telling me to stand on my own two feet. He said if I fell, no-one in the world would bother to help lift me up. One could only rely on oneself, he said.

Thank God Bibi was not around to see my unhappiness. When she made up her mind to leave, she invited the entire family to dinner. That night she kept staring at us as if to engrave our faces on her memory. Only Yusef wasn’t there because he had been sent abroad for two years to finish his education. Actually, when
Abol-Ghassem
Khan complains that our father never spent any money on his education, he isn’t telling the truth. Haj Agha wanted to send both of them away together and Abol-Ghassem Khan turned it down of his own free will. He asked my father to give him what
his education would have cost in land, and that’s what Haj Agha did.

Anyhow, Bibi bid us farewell that evening, supposedly to go on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Hazrate Massoumeh in Qom, and from there to Mashad. She said she would be away for a month or two. But unbeknownst to us, she had arranged to have herself smuggled over the Iraqi border to Karbala. All she had in the way of worldly possessions was some money Haj Agha had given her, and some women’s trinkets, a suitcase and her ewer. Her emerald earrings she left in my care, in case something should happen to her on the journey. I was to keep them for Yusef to give to his wife on their wedding night.