Wedding Song (10 page)

This was a good beginning. My grandmother’s face had a glow now that I loved. We stopped by the public water spouts, where she was greeted by women drawing water. “
Khebeen, khesheen?
” They asked of each other’s health in Judi, a language spoken only by Shirazi Jews, which I understood but did not speak.

“
Shalomalekhem, shalomalekhem
,” may God be with you, everyone said, as if the two words were only one—none knew Hebrew and the words had become an extension of Judi. I watched and listened, invisible. They stood in a tight circle, heads together whispering secrets, looking like a pyramid of patchwork quilt.

When the women finally tore apart, we continued the trip to the deeper sections of the
mahaleh
, places I did not recognize. We stopped and asked for directions many times. I started to wonder if we would ever find the place or make the event in time. We stopped by a pair of small wooden doors in the mazes of alleyways. “Where’s the house of Maryam, daughter of Yehuda, the grocer, the wife of Raheem, the carpet man who has a shop by the Karim-khan Bazaar?” my grandmother asked. We were pointed to the direction of another alleyway but were soon lost again in the crossroads of narrow passes. Khanom-bozorg clutched the brass doorknob to another house, but before she could knock, the door opened. She gossiped with the women inside, then asked for directions. Alluding to the event that we were attending, the woman said, “Always good occasions.”

My grandmother responded, “May happiness come your way too.”

A little later, Khanom-bozorg stopped by a kiosk crowded with half-filled burlap bags of split yellow beans, short-grain rice, whole turmeric, and odds and ends of the household—charcoal, short home-made brooms, and knick-knacks that were jammed into a small corner of a wall. She asked the shopkeeper where Maryam lived. But she didn’t leave without asking for the price of the dried limes and powdered sumac and complaining that they were too expensive. The sugar cone was getting heavier at each stop.

Finally, we were there. The house was like most homes in the
mahaleh
, with a small sturdy door opening to a narrow walkway that ended with another set of heavy doors. We entered the house through its courtyard paved with bricks and the usual little pool in the middle, now temporarily
covered with a piece of plywood and a
kilim
on which the musicians were to perform later. Men were busy spreading worn-out Persian carpets on the floor of the yard. I imagined the wedding party, families sitting cross-legged on the carpets, the musicians playing Persian drums and violin, women ululating and singing wedding songs.

Like any traditional Iranian home, the living quarters surrounded the courtyard, each section having a basement, a first-floor living area, and an attic. When male members of the family married and had children, they would be entitled to a section if the house had enough rooms. Otherwise, they had to share the space with their parents and other siblings.

I followed my grandmother up the stairs and into a room crowded with women, and surrendered the sugar cone to a woman who seemed to be the bride’s mother. We took off our shoes at the door and lined them up by the wall as the etiquette required. A few pillows were piled up on top of a blanket in the far corner of the room. I wondered if we there to watch someone sleep. Was that possible? I watched the women draped in colorful
chadors
, covering their mouths with a fabric-wrapped hand when listening and uncovering their lips when pouring out the words.

I stood on a chair by the exit, watching the women’s backs. The mother of the bride entered holding her daughter’s elbow, and walked through a path that the women opened for them. The bride had light cocoa skin with a nap of soft black hair on her upper lip and full, connected eyebrows; the
bandandaz
would surely take care of the facial hair. She was unadorned and natural in a modest dress. Her black shoulder-length hair barely moved as she walked. Her feet were bare like those of the rest of us. Her eyes, dark and shy, avoided eye-contact with the spectators. Without a covering, her hair and body were there for everyone to judge.

Women unveiled their mouths slightly and murmured to each other. My grandmother whispered to the woman next to her, “She is
najeeb
, chaste-looking.”

The woman answered back, “Poor thing. She is so shy.”

Khanom-bozorg added, “She is dark, but it’s all right. She has ‘salt,’ she has charm.”

The bride’s mother helped her lean against the pillows. A person in the back of the room warned, “Cover the windows, cover the windows!”

But someone from the groom’s family complained, “There isn’t enough light.”

A woman wearing a light brown
chador
with pink flowers opened the
door a crack and ordered everyone to leave the yard. I couldn’t see anything over the head of the women, so I bent down to look through their feet. Two women knelt by the young bride-to-be, took off her panties, spread her legs apart, and leaned down to examine her.

One plain dark-blue figure said, “Look, here it is.”

The voices from the groom’s side protested, “Where is it, where? We can’t see anything.”

Finally all the women managed to see whatever there was to see. They dressed the bride, who was shaking too hard to manage the job herself, and began to sing: “Kililili.” Their ululating voices signaled the completion of the task. There was going to be a wedding. The courtyard filled again with men hurrying about. Someone walked in with trays of sour cherry
sharbat
. Everyone insisted that the bride should be first to drink.

The bride looked flushed and unsteady on her feet. Her mother consoled her, “Don’t worry, dear. It’s done!”

The sound of ululation in the small room was deafening. My grandmother pushed me to leave the room, congratulating the two families. “A good fortune,” she blessed the bride.

Another woman added, “May she be blessed with wealth and happiness.”

My grandmother and I left first since we were in the back, put our shoes on, and headed down the stairs. She asked others to point out the groom.

Covered in sweat, the groom was helping the other men set up the chairs. He looked old to me. Though he had covered the baldness on top of his head with a long strand of hair from the right side, it had moved to his forehead, leaving the bald spot bare. He had a big smile that showed small yellow teeth.

My grandmother blessed the groom, “Don’t worry. Everything is fine. May you grow old together.”

Another woman chimed in, “
Mazal tov
, congratulations! Next year may you have a son in your arms.”

The groom blushed and bowed in a gesture of gratitude. I had never seen a man turn color in shyness. Maybe he was going to be a good husband, I thought. The two of us, short and tall, headed for home. I was content. I felt a deep love for my grandmother, who had shared her outing with me, although at the time I was not quite sure what it all meant. I was also pleased not to have the burden of the sugar cone. As we maneuvered our way through the busy alleyways, I felt tired, and a bit worried. The
image of women gathered by the waterspouts and at the ceremony contrasted sharply with the picture of my mother’s lonely figure at home—a picture I had successfully managed to forget for a while.

What about my mother? I thought. What about her?

As my mother despaired and retreated into deeper silences, I became even closer to my grandmother, learning from her, getting to know the world around me, escaping my mother’s increasing gloom. That year, Khanombozorg was excited because my aunt Shekoofeh was engaged.

Shekoofeh had qualities that Iranian men favored: black hair that contrasted with her fair, clear skin, and a curvaceous body that was noticeable even underneath her modest clothing. She wore an air of optimism, smiled gently, and practiced lady-like manners. Being a good student, Shekoofeh cried and begged to be allowed to finish her last year of high school, but the decision was made for her.

My grandmother chose me to help her shop for the dowry. In the indoor bazaar, I held tight to a corner of her
chador
, not wanting to lose her among the masses of shoppers. My neck hurt from looking up at the vaulted bazaar, decorated with handmade bricks and colorful mosaics. Light glowed through windows beneath the ceiling. I kept bumping into people as I stretched my neck to see stalls filled with Persian carpets, Indian silk, tribal sheep-skin coats and hats. Burlap bags of spices, turmeric, saffron, cloves, and cardamom lined up beside bags of herbal teas.

On the first shopping day, my grandmother and I found our way to the silversmiths’ market, looking for the best quality silver and craftsmanship at the lowest price. She inquired from a shopkeeper, “How much for a bride’s package?”

As she bargained, I amused myself watching passersby. I joined a laughing crowd to see what was so funny. A mule had stuck its feet in the dirt floor of the bazaar and refused commands to move forward. The more the owner pulled on the noose, the harder he hit it with a stick, the more stubborn the mule became, leaning backward on his hind legs until its cargo of charcoal slipped and fell behind it. The owner screamed and gave the mule a good beating. The animal let go of its bowels on top of the coal. I was laughing with the rest of crowd when I felt a hand on my back,
pulling on my sweater. Then I heard my grandmother, “You want to get lost? You want these men to kidnap you for slavery? Didn’t I tell you not to wander off?” I was scared that she would report my behavior to my father, but she was preoccupied with other thoughts, grumbling, “Calling me a cheap Jew! The thief!
Najes
himself, calling
me
impure, he with
goh
on his underwear! He doesn’t know how to wipe his own behind and calls
me
dirty.”

Maman, my sister Nahid, and me at my aunt’s garden wedding
.

Watching the stubborn mule, I had missed Khanom-bozorg’s interaction with the silversmith. We went from one shop to another until she found a respectful person who offered the right price. I was amazed that my aunt’s hairbrush, her wooden comb, and the pumice stone were to be
encased in silver; I couldn’t imagine such beauty. Perhaps being a bride was not such a bad thing after all.

When we returned home, the engagement was off. Shekoofeh had visited her fiancé’s family and refused to marry a man who lived with his parents, brothers, and their families. My grandmother and father agreed with her. They didn’t want her to have a situation similar to my mother’s, I guess. And who could blame them? The shopping came to halt.

But the shopping and the frustration had taken a toll on my grandmother’s health. Sleepless, she moaned and struggled to fill her lungs with air all night. My father took her to Tehran, visiting doctors and touring the city to improve my grandmother’s anxiety-related attacks.

At this time, my mother’s family had moved to the capital, which was much closer to Shiraz than her hometown of Hamedan. Still, my mother had not seen her family for a long time and would have loved to accompany my father and grandmother to Tehran to visit her parents and brothers. Instead, she stayed behind to take care of me, my infant sister Nahid, and the aunts and uncles who lived with us. She slammed the pots as she washed them; she didn’t bother to rinse the clothes well before throwing them on the laundry line; she burned the shirts under the charcoal iron as she sobbed, homesick.

To make matters worse, once in a while she received a letter from my father, who wrote on behalf of my grandmother to remind her of her duties: “Don’t forget to take food to Bibi.” Over and over, my grandmother ordered Maman to take care of my great-grandmother.

Grumbling, my mother sent me to deliver the bundles of food to my great-grandmother, although I was barely six. I hated passing through the narrow unpaved mazes of alleys lined with small stalls, jostled by shoppers with woven plastic bags filled with vegetables, prostitutes with bright red mouths, villagers, peddlers following watermelon-loaded mules, and rarely a familiar face. The crowd jammed the space between the tall walls and bumped and stared at me as I tried to find a landmark leading to the small door of Bibi’s house.

That was a period of hardship and absolute loneliness for my mother. Morad showed his resentment at having to work alone to support the family by giving extra orders to my mother. Overwhelmed with two young children, Maman envied her sisters-in-law who used school work as an excuse not to help her. When my father and grandmother returned with
gifts of beautiful dresses for both Shekoofeh and Fereshteh, but nothing for my mother, she despaired.

Upon their return, the elders from the suitor’s family, the
khastegar
s, came often to talk with them. Each time, they trotted to our common room and sat cross-legged, leaning their backs against large pillows. My mother ran out to the bakery for cookies, and I served them tea and sugar cubes.

As the negotiations continued, Shekoofeh hoped that with the delays she could still graduate from high school, but the principal found out about her engagement and would not allow her back. Once a woman came in close proximity to a man, she already knew too much and could corrupt the innocent virgins. There were rumors that the groom’s family had alerted the school when the engagement was broken off in order to press for reconciliation when school was no longer an option.