A Persian Requiem (9 page)

A month later a letter arrived from her telling us not to worry, that she was in Karbala where she planned to stay permanently as part of a religious vow she had taken. Only much later did we discover—and please don’t let this be known—that she had ended up being a maidservant there—to a Khanom Fakhr-ol-Sharia. All the time she was in Karbala, Bibi never asked for money, nor did my Haj Agha offer to … no, perhaps three or four times on our insistence he did send her some in one way or another. Whether she received it or not, I never found out. She wouldn’t write, you see. In that first letter she stipulated that we were not to write to her, since she wanted no distractions from her religious calling.

But I’ve been digressing. I was talking about that dreadful night, wasn’t I? Yes, I was sitting right here by this brazier, prodding the ashes with my tongs. There wasn’t much of a fire left. I was counting my sorrows in the dark, with Soudabeh sitting next to me the whole night. What a woman she was! A pity she broke our mother’s heart.

That night I asked Soudabeh, “I never understood why you, with a thousand admirers, should have chosen my father, driving my mother out of her own home?” She said she couldn’t help it; she knew she had ruined the reputation of a Shi’ite clergyman of the highest order, and made an innocent woman homeless. But it was out of her hands, she claimed. “Sometimes, in a previous life,” she said, “you’ve lost a person you’ve been very close to. Once that has happened, you keep coming back to this world to find him. You bear the waiting, the separation. But when you finally find the person again, how can you possibly let go of them? It’s like two intertwining plants at first, where one withers and dies, then in a
later life they happen to be two migrating birds, who return once again as two loving deer—and perhaps one is shot by a hunter—and so on. They could be father and daughter, sister and brother … who knows? And when they find each other at last, they can no longer be separated.” She often used to say things like that. She would say these things and yet she never agreed to marry our father. She just stayed with him until they grew old.

After my husband’s untimely death, I decided, as Yusef had advised me, to stand on my own feet and run the estate I had received from Haj Agha as my wedding gift. I’d straddle my horse in my breeches, cover the poppy fields from one end to the other on horseback. How old do you think I was then? Twenty-eight. I even used the bastinado on my peasants, God forgive my sins! Bibi had been gone then for about three years. The poor woman was only forty-four when she died. One day, Fakhr-ol-Sharia telegraphed my father to say Bibi was ill. To his credit, Haj Agha made every effort to get exit permits. He cabled Yusef to go to his mother at once, but decided not to say she was on the point of death. Which is why Yusef only arrived after we had buried Bibi in the shrine tomb. Abol-Ghassem Khan had gone to great lengths, paying quite a bit out of his own pocket, to get permission for the body to be placed in the shrine, even though we knew the moment our backs were turned they would take the corpse out to a public graveyard. Still, even one night in such a holy place was quite a blessing, and Bibi’s wish had been fulfilled.

O merciful Lord, what a tragedy it was! My Bibi in the throes of death in a room two feet square, on a torn straw-mat covered by a ragged quilt … she cried out from the heat, but there was no cool basement, no iced water for her. Fakhr-ol-Sharia would call on her for service, for a hookah, for this or that without the least
consideration
or respect. Oh Lord, no Khanom, no title! My mother’s name was Fassih-ol-Zaman, meaning ‘eloquent one’. An eloquence which never uttered a word of what had happened to her! Even the story of her becoming a housemaid was told us by Fakhr-ol-Sharia herself, who talked about Bibi as though she came from a long line of devoted servants. I’ve never said a word of this to anyone. Not even Yusef. There was no point. He was only twenty years old, he couldn’t have taken it. Is he ready to bear it now, at forty? I doubt it.

We never did find out how Bibi got herself to Karbala. We merely heard that when she arrived, she fell into the clutches of a certain
Sheikh Abbas Qomi who used to disguise himself as an Arab and frighten illegal pilgrims by threatening to denounce them to the authorities unless they bribed him. When he confronted my mother, she was so panicked she dropped her suitcase, grabbed her ewer and ran away! As it happened, her birth certificate was in the suitcase. With the hundred tomans Haj Agha had given her, she managed to obtain a dead person’s birth certificate from a worker at the mortuary.

Khadijeh came out to the verandah to ask: “Aren’t you having any dinner tonight?”

“We’ll call you when we’re ready,” Zari answered.

“No, that’s enough for now,” Ameh intervened. “I’ve talked too much and I’ve given you a headache. Let Khadijeh bring us a bite to eat, then we can go to sleep and see what tomorrow will bring.”

E
arly next morning, Zari instructed Gholam to tell anyone coming from the Governor for anything that Khanom was not at home, and that nothing could be given away in her absence. If the person still insisted and mentioned a horse, Gholam was to feign ignorance and say they had come to the wrong house—they used to have a horse, but it died. At a pinch, he was to give them the chestnut horse.

It was watering-day for the garden, and Zari went outdoors to watch the trees and the grass thirstily drink in the water, sharing their refreshment and feeling revived herself by breathing in the smell of moist earth. Gholam and the gardener, shovels against their shoulders, trouser-legs rolled up, crossed the garden barefoot from one end to the other, opening or closing the flow of water in the narrow irrigation canals. Mina and Marjan wanted to stay around, but kept getting in the way. Finally Zari had to coax them into building a mudhouse under the big elm near the stables. She told them they could plant flowers in it, and have a wedding for their dolls. But she warned them that if they didn’t stay in the shade, the sun would scorch their lovely soft skin.

Mina started to draw a plan for the house, making room for a little pool, a cupboard, and a cold furnace. Marjan completed the plan by adding the stables. Then, with a lot of squealing and fuss they caught a toad which they put in the stables, but it soon leapt away. Still, there were plenty more in the garden.

Gholam directed the flow of water towards the elm trees, and before long the children’s mudhouse was flooded. Water ran into pools around their feet, and they squatted down in it. Zari called them away, all the while listening for a knock at the door so she could hide in time from the Governor’s messenger. Mina shouted
at Gholam for having ruined their mudhouse:

“You meanie!”

“It was just a flood, sweetheart,” was his reply.

All that day and the next there was no messenger from the Governor, and Zari felt reassured, thinking that they must have changed their minds. Even Ameh commented, “Thank God! So much needless worrying. They must have just mentioned
something
in passing, and Abol-Ghassem Khan made them a promise to curry favour, as usual.”

But early in the morning on the third day, Zari had just got out of bed when there was a knock at the door. Gholam went to answer while Zari kept watch from her hiding-place. She saw a gendarme greet Gholam and embrace him, handing him an envelope. Gholam brought the envelope to Zari.

“It looks as though you know him,” she said.

“Yes, he’s from my village,” he replied. “From Bardeh. He always wanted to become a gendarme, and now he has.”

Zari went to the verandah and waited until Ameh Khanom had ended her prayers before opening the envelope. Then she read out loud the neat handwriting addressed to herself:

Since the signature of the Governor’s wife differed from the rest of the handwriting, Zari decided the letter must have been written by someone else.

“Now what am I to do?” Zari turned to Ameh.

“They’ve taken us by surprise,” she replied. “We can’t give the colt away, and yet we can’t refuse either. If we give them the colt I know Yusef and Khosrow will be up in arms. If we don’t, well, you remember Abol-Ghassem’s outburst the other day? There will be endless quarrelling. If he isn’t made a deputy one of these days he’ll blame it on us and our pettiness.”

“And now that they’ve stated their request clearly,” Zari added, “I can’t even send them the chestnut. What should I do?”

“Just sit in a corner and think, I suppose,” said Ameh with a sigh.

They asked the messenger to come in and sit on a chair by the pool. Khadijeh brought him some breakfast which she placed on another chair. The gendarme took off his hat and put it on his knee. Zari watched him empty the sugar-lumps from the bowl into his pocket and gulp down his unsweetened tea on top of huge
mouthfuis
of food. Gholam was sitting opposite him on the edge of the pool.

“Are you the guard at the entrance to the Governor’s estate?” Zari asked him.

“Hmph!” grunted the man with his mouth full, and then he quickly swallowed his food.

“Do you have a wife and children?”

Grinning widely, he answered in a thick accent: “I wed me cousin last New Year’s.”

“When will you return the horse?”

“The lieutenant gave me a mission,” he said. “His honour said I’m a good lad. But he didn’t say anything about bringing the horse back.” And again he grinned from ear to ear.

“But it’s not mating season yet, brother,” Gholam intervened.

The gendarme dug a hand into his tunic pocket and produced an envelope which he presented to Zari, saying: “Agha Mirza, the governor’s secretary, gave me this. He said it’s eighty tomans.”

Zari took the envelope, opened it and began to count. It really was eighty tomans. She whispered to Ameh: “They imagine they’ve paid for it, too.”

“Let him take Sahar away for now until we think of something,”
said Ameh.

“Gholam, go and bring Sahar out of the stables,” Zari ordered.

“Khanom, I swear what they’re doing is wrong,” Gholam
protested
. “Mating season is over now. Besides Sahar is too young …”

“They don’t want him for mating,” Zari explained wearily, “the Governor’s daughter has taken a fancy to Sahar …”

Gholam took off his felt hat. His bald head was flushed and sweaty. He said, “Khosrow Khan has left Sahar in my care. Now you ask me to give him away to someone else? Never!”

“Gholam, can’t you see they’ve sent a gendarme?” Ameh said.

“What makes you think this poor fellow’s a gendarme?” said Gholam. “He’s just a simple, honest lad.” Turning to the gendarme, he continued, “Listen brother, go and tell your master that the horse was dead. Khanom here will give you your tip.”

But the gendarme was insistent.

“Aren’t we from the same village?” he pleaded. “Don’t make it so hard for me. The lieutenant ordered me to bring the horse back by whatever means. He gave me a mission. He said I’m a good lad. He said if I don’t bring the colt back with me, I can resign my post and go straight back to Bardeh, back to my mother’s apron! He said that himself.”

Gholam put on his hat and said: “Whoever wants to take Sahar has to go and bring him out of the stables himself—if he dares. I’ll knock him over so hard with my shovel, he really will have to run straight back to his mother’s apron!”

“I give the orders here,” Zari intervened authoritatively. “I’m the mistress of this house. Go and bring Sahar from the stables.”

By now Mina and Marjan had woken up and come outside to the verandah, with Khadijeh trailing behind asking them to wash their faces first.

“Khanom, if you ask me, you shouldn’t do this. Think of
tomorrow
when your son comes home— he’ll be heartbroken. Think of later on when the master gets back … don’t be afraid of these people. Just refuse, that’s all. What can they do to you?”

The gendarme started off towards the stables. “Aren’t we brothers, from the same village?” he appealed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Gholam asked.

“To the stables.”

“We may be from the same village,” Gholam threatened, “but if
you dare set foot in those stables …”

“I haven’t brought my gun” countered the gendarme, “I’m going to get it now.”

Gholam grabbed him by the collar and shouted:

“Now you’re showing off to me with your gun? Aren’t you the same miserable urchin who used to sneak off at night to steal chickens? Did your lieutenant tell you to come threatening me with your gun too?”

The man shook himself free and muttered: “No, I swear it! But he said I could resign my post and go back to the village if I failed. How can I go back there?”

Ameh Khanom called Gholam over.

“Gholam, don’t be stubborn,” she said quietly. “Abol-Ghassem Khan has already made them a promise. Let him take Sahar away for the time being. I’ve had a good idea. I think I can get him back before Khosrow returns.”

Gholam fetched Sahar from the stables and gave the reins to the gendarme. As he tried to mount, Sahar gave a mighty kick, reared up on his hind legs, and neighed loudly. Both the mare and the chestnut horse answered from the stables. The man fell back and let go of the bridle. Sahar turned to Gholam and sniffed at his rolled-up sleeves. The gendarme made several more attempts to mount, sweating profusely all the time. He tried stroking Sahar’s mane and patting his neck. He brought out a sugar-lump and held it in front of the horse’s mouth. Finally he managed to grab the bridle. Zari handed him the money.

“Take that for yourself.”

The gendarme’s eyes shone. Putting the notes in his tunic pocket, he dragged Sahar away.

The twins watched in horror, ignoring all Khadijeh’s pleas for them to have breakfast. To Zari, it felt as if the garden had been robbed of its life and lustre. Ameh Khanom roundly cursed the universe, before turning on Zari: “Now why did you have to go and tip him?”

Gholam stood there, watching his mistress whose eyes had filled with tears.

“Khanom, may the men return safely from hunting,” said
Khadijeh
appeasingly. “That’s all that matters. The mare is young, and soon she’ll give birth to another Sahar.”

“I bet I shall have Sahar back in three days!” said Ameh. “It’s
just as well you returned their money.”

Zari was not convinced, however. She ordered Gholam to dig a mock grave down by the stables. She told him to pull out the weeds, smooth over the soil and arrange some stones in a rectangle with a few pots of petunia around it.

“Take my word and be patient for a while,” Ameh advised.

But Zari merely turned to Gholam and warned him not to breathe a word of what had happened to Khosrow.

When they went into the sitting room, Ameh Khanom went straight to
the telephone and invited Ezzat-ud-Dowleh for lunch in three days’ time.

When the day of the luncheon invitation came, Zari went to great lengths to receive Ezzat-ud-Dowleh, although she had never liked the woman much. When she arrived, Zari took her guest’s
head-scarf
and white gloves and dark glasses and wrapped them neatly in a bundle. Then she gave her a fresh peach-coloured chador to replace the dusty outdoor one. Even though Ezzat-ud-Dowleh had brought along her favourite maidservant, Ferdows, Zari sent the girl to rest in Khosrow’s room. And even though Zari had cooled the parlour since early morning by closing the windows and letting down the straw blinds to keep out the sun, she still provided Ezzat-ud-Dowleh with a fan. Trying to make herself pleasant, she complimented her guest, “What a beautiful head of hair you have.”

“God bless you,” responded Ezzat-ud-Dowleh.

Although it was well before lunch-time, she refused any sherbet drink or fruit. She asked for tea which, when she tried, she did not seem to like. She merely remarked: “Ration tea is always stale.”

At lunch she didn’t eat much. She toyed with a few spoonfuls of rice and kebab which she then pushed aside, asking for sour-grape juice instead. To that she added some grated cucumber and
bread-crumbs
and onions, saying it was good for her leg pains.
Unfortunately
the sour-grape juice was last year’s, too, like the tea.

After lunch, Zari spread out a thin cotton sheet in the parlour and brought a pillow and a delicate coverlet for her guest’s afternoon nap. Ezzat-ud-Dowleh stretched herself out, fan in hand, while Ferdows the maid massaged her legs. Ameh Khanom lay down on another cotton sheet beside her. Zari left the so-called sisters by themselves, and went to her own bedroom, leaving the door
slightly ajar so that she could overhear their conversation. If
Ezzat-ud-Dowleh
was willing to cooperate, she was the one person who could get Sahar back. She could even have Zari’s earrings returned, sp Zari’s pains would not have gone unrewarded.

Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s voice could easily be heard through the door: “God bless you, Ferdows. Rub harder. That’s better. Have you said your prayers yet? No? Then get up, child, go and say your prayers …”

Zari could tell Ferdows had left, because Ameh was chatting and laying the groundwork for the favours she wanted to ask later. It was a pity Zari could not hear every word. But Ezzat-ud-Dowleh, lying closer to the door, could easily be heard in a loud and flowing monologue.