Zendegi (24 page)
Authors: Greg Egan
‘She was driving.’
‘Can I see her?’ Martin squinted at him, trying to read his face. ‘Get a wheelchair for me. We’ll go to the women’s wing.’
‘There was a truck,’ Omar said. ‘It went straight through the intersection.’
‘What does that mean?’
Omar’s hand was still resting on his shoulder. He lowered his gaze slightly. ‘She died straight away. Nobody could help her.’
‘No.’ Martin knew this was impossible; Omar wouldn’t lie to him knowingly, but the hospital bureaucrats could get anything wrong. ‘What if I was in the car alone? People just assume things. Did you ring the shop?’
‘Martin jan, I saw her,’ Omar confessed. ‘They didn’t know if you’d recover, and they needed someone to . . . say who she was.’
Martin felt his body shuddering; he struggled to keep control. ‘I’m sorry you had to do that.’
Omar made a dismissive gesture, muttering reflexively, ‘Khahesh mikonam.’ Don’t mention it.
‘You should go home,’ Martin pleaded. ‘It must be late.’
Omar didn’t argue. ‘I’ll come back in the morning.’
When Omar had left the room, Martin felt himself sobbing noiselessly. He closed his eyes and swam into the darkness of his skull, trying to catch up with her: looking for an afterimage of her face, a memory of her voice, any thread that he could follow. How could they have been torn apart when they’d been sitting just inches from each other?
He had touched her hand in the school yard, he remembered. He tried to grasp it more tightly, picturing the two of them together, trying to relive everything that had followed without being shaken free of her this time.
But the scene led nowhere, the blackness remained impenetrable. He didn’t even know the last words they’d exchanged.
In the morning, Martin asked to see Mahnoosh’s body. They removed his drip and catheter and an orderly took him in a wheelchair to the mortuary.
Her face was purple and swollen, barely recognisable; he gazed at it long enough to be sure that it was her, but he felt no urge to touch her, to speak to her, to hold her. This body was a kind of grisly portrait of the woman, captured at the scene of the crash; it proved that she’d been there as surely as a photograph, but that was all.
In the ward, a doctor came to see him. He’d had an operation to stem internal bleeding, and it appeared to have been successful, but rather than officially discharging him they were making special provisions for him to attend the funeral. ‘You need to bury your wife, Mr Seymour, then come back to us after two days.’
Omar came to pick him up. In the silent drive to his house, Martin struggled to prepare his words.
Javeed was waiting just inside the door. He flung his arms around Martin’s leg and pressed his face against his trousers.
Martin lowered himself gingerly to the floor and embraced his son. He held him for a few seconds, then forced himself to let go; if he clung on too long he knew he would not be able to hide the fact that he was the one seeking comfort.
They were alone; Omar had gone on into the house, giving them privacy. ‘Where were you?’ Javeed demanded.
‘I was in the hospital,’ Martin said. ‘I got hurt, in the car.’
‘But where did Mama go?’
‘Mama was in the car with me.’
‘Is she in the hospital?’
Martin didn’t answer that. ‘You know, sometimes if you get hurt, it can be like you’ve gone to sleep.’
Javeed nodded. ‘Total Knockout.’
‘That’s what happened to me. The truck hit the car, it was like a big punch. I was knocked out for a day.’
Javeed said nothing; in his games, no one was ever out cold for more than thirty seconds. ‘Mama got knocked out too,’ Martin persisted. ‘But she didn’t wake up.’
He took Javeed’s hand. Javeed stared down at the floor and tugged on Martin’s arm, swinging it back and forth, testing something rather than trying to break free.
‘Farshid said Mama went to Paradise.’
Martin hadn’t been prepared for this, but he could hardly blame Farshid. Javeed treated him like a sibling, with no adult mystique, no power to bluff and delay. Javeed would have known that he knew something, and would have worn him down until he disclosed it.
Martin said, ‘No, Mama went to sleep and she didn’t wake up. She got knocked out, too hard to wake up.’
‘Did you try to wake her?’
‘The doctors all tried. But she couldn’t do it.’
‘If she went somewhere,’ Javeed reasoned, ‘she would have told me first.’
‘Yeah, of course. She’d never just go away.’ Martin put a hand on Javeed’s cheek and raised his face so they were looking directly at each other.
‘But—’ Javeed hesitated.
‘What?’
‘Is Mama dead?’
Martin said, ‘Yes.’
Javeed’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’ll never get better?’
‘No. She was hurt too much.’
‘But—’ Javeed’s struggle persisted a moment longer, then he gave up trying to untangle the impossible knot. He sagged to the floor and started wailing, ‘I want Mama!’
Martin bent over and cradled him in his arms. ‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘I do too.’
Omar helped organise the burial. Martin was still barely functioning, and the only other funeral he’d arranged had been his mother’s, almost twenty years before, in a country where he’d understood the culture inside out.
In her will, Mahnoosh had mentioned Khavaran Cemetery, where religious minorities and apostates were interred. Omar suggested that a proper Muslim burial might yet be attainable, to spare her family some distress, but a few hours later he’d changed his mind. ‘I spoke to her father,’ he told Martin. ‘They won’t come, wherever it is.’
Martin suspected that Mahnoosh would have shrugged this off, entirely unsurprised, but he still felt his fists tightening with anger. ‘What did he say to you?’
Omar shook his head. ‘Forget about it.’
The funeral took place the next morning. Javeed had been clinging to him ever since he’d returned from the hospital, and Martin had been dreading even this brief separation. ‘I’m going to go and get some friends of Mama to come here to say good-bye to her,’ he explained. ‘I’ll be a couple of hours. Is that okay?’
‘Okay,’ Javeed agreed.
There were less than a dozen people at the cemetery. Martin had emailed Behrouz in Damascus, but his flight would not arrive until the afternoon. Along with Omar’s family there were some old friends of Mahnoosh’s, Farah and Yalda, their ex-husbands, and two relatives Martin had never met before, a mother and daughter that Omar had managed to track down.
When the gravediggers had lowered the coffin into the ground, Omar stood with upturned palms and recited a prayer in Arabic. Mahnoosh would have rolled her eyes - and whispered to Martin that for all of Omar’s sweet hopes, the mullahs had consigned her soul irrevocably to hell - but she wouldn’t have silenced him.
Martin had no eulogy prepared; everything had happened too quickly. ‘Mahnoosh noor-e-ruzhayam bud,’ he began. Mahnoosh was the light of my days. It was the truth - and he knew this was the way he was expected to express it - but even as he spoke he recoiled from the idea that he owed the people around him a single word on the subject. To speak about these things with anyone but her was not an affirmation of his love, it was a kind of debasement.
Surely he owed her more than silence, though? Whatever belonged to the two of them alone, he could still recount her virtues in the company of friends. ‘I never knew anyone so fearless,’ he said. ‘So honest, so kind.’ He stared into the grave, unable to continue; he felt as if someone were holding a gun to his head, forcing him to recite these flaccid incantations even though he knew they were just driving her away from him. Yalda stepped in, praising Mahnoosh’s generosity and sense of humour.
Back at Omar’s house there was a photograph of Mahnoosh propped up on a table, surrounded by flowers; it had been taken not long after Javeed was born - after six years of IVF - and Martin could see both the defiant light of triumph in her eyes, and a sense of humility and tenderness. It was a beautiful picture, but he wished he’d thought to dig up one of the dishevelled twenty-year-old Goth to put beside it.
Rana and her mother-in-law, Nahid, had been cooking since dawn. Martin was enthroned on a couch in the living room, with Javeed beside him. The guests ate, talked among themselves, and came to him to offer their condolences. Martin was growing dazed and weary, and the effort needed to maintain even a minimal level of sociability made his head ache. Part of him longed to curl up on a bed in his own silent house with Javeed in his arms and let the blackness engulf them. But he didn’t trust himself to fall that far and then emerge into the light again. At least all the irritating rituals and false notes served a purpose: like a concussion victim being slapped and prodded, he knew he should be grateful for anything that kept him from drifting away.
When Behrouz arrived, Martin was finally jolted out of his stupor; he hadn’t seen his friend face-to-face for three years, and he couldn’t just exchange a few desultory words with him then let his eyes glaze over.
Behrouz embraced him. ‘I’m so sorry, Martin.’ He bent down to kiss Javeed, who flinched away. ‘You don’t remember me?’
Javeed shook his head.
‘I had some adventures with your father when we were young. Once we saw a dragon fall from the sky; it almost landed right on top of us.’
Javeed buried his face against Martin’s side.
‘How’s work?’ Martin asked. Behrouz was now a correspondent for the Wall Street Journal, which these days seemed to mean as much video journalism as prose.
‘Not bad.’ Behrouz smiled slightly. ‘Business people might be the last paying market left for real news. If they’re convinced that they’re getting fearlessly objective information, they’ll keep shelling out for it - while everyone else gives up caring and buries their head inside their favourite consensual reality.’
Martin laughed softly, self-conscious but grateful for a few words of real conversation, a lifeline out of the pit. ‘You’re not a fan of News Five Point Oh, then?’
‘Don’t get me started. HigherTribe is worse, but they’re all pathological. What isn’t filtered and spun is just invented out of whole cloth.’
‘Yeah.’ The replacement of journalism by rumour aggregators and group-think salons was a serious matter, but Martin’s enthusiasm for talking shop was already beginning to falter. ‘How’s Shadi?’
‘She’s in Canada; she’s doing a Ph.D.’
‘Jesus. Everyone’s kids got old so fast.’
Behrouz smiled down at Javeed. ‘We had a head start on you. But you’ve still got the best part to look forward to.’
Martin struggled to keep his composure. Mahnoosh should have seen Javeed growing into adulthood, studying, flourishing, making his own life. He didn’t know where to direct his anger at the injustice of it. He’d heard people muttering about a court case; the truck driver was in hospital but was expected to be discharged soon. The man probably deserved to be imprisoned, but Martin wanted nothing to do with the process.
‘How long are you staying?’ he asked Behrouz.
‘I have to fly out again tonight. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ Martin suddenly recalled that he’d be in hospital anyway; he was in no position to play host. He shook Behrouz’s hand. ‘I’m glad you came.’
Roused from his paralysis, Martin moved among the guests; Javeed clung to him, saying little. Mahnoosh’s second cousin, Nasim, and her mother, Saba, had been at the cemetery, but Martin had barely registered their presence there. Saba, he now discovered, was a retired economist; Nasim a computer scientist.
‘I’m afraid we never managed to get in contact with Mahnoosh after we came back from the US,’ Saba lamented. ‘She was a teenager when we left Iran. But we had as much friction with the family as she did.’
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