A Persian Requiem (4 page)

“About Haj Mohammad Reza, the dyer …” Yusef added with a laugh.

“About Haj Mohammad the dyer, with the colourful fabrics he ties on sticks, and leaves in the street to dry in the sun; with his arms dyed purple up to the elbows. About Gholam and Hossein Agha the grocer around the corner, and Hassan Agha the corn chandler … about Khadijeh … that’s enough now! You’re not letting me get on with my work.”

She was interrupted by the sound of tinkling bells. She knew it would be the donkeys arriving at the neighbour’s.

“They’ve bought orange-flower blossoms next door. What a scent!” Yusef exclaimed.

Zari couldn’t tear herself away. She waited until the donkeys entered the neighbour’s garden and unloaded their perfumed bundles. Only yesterday morning she had taken the twins to see the pile of orange-blossoms. Mina had clapped and said, “Oh look how many stars there are!”

And Marjan had laid her head on the heap of flowers and said, “I want to sleep right here.”

Zari meanwhile had been engrossed in the actions of the old distiller and his three sons. The old man had knelt before the
orange-blossoms and piled them into baskets that the boys put on their heads to carry into the store-room. The old man had
nicknamed
Marjan ‘Nargessi’, and Mina ‘Narengi’. Zari had no idea why. And when his work was finished, he made Nargessi and Narengi a toy water-mill from an apple and four pieces of thin wood. He put the water-mill in the stream so that the running water turned it. The children were so happy—as if they owned the greatest water-mill in the world. And Zari kept on wondering why the old man hadn’t married his sons off. It was high time they were married.

Then she thought to herself: “Why should people who live with so many beautiful flowers need to get married anyway …”

W
hen they had cleared the table, Zari brought the hookah for her husband. Khosrow had been restless at lunch and became more so as time passed. It even looked as though there were tears in his eyes which he was fighting back. Zari put the twins to bed for their afternoon rest and then returned to the parlour to take the pipe away. Khosrow was pacing around the room. His father’s eyes followed his movements.

“Tell me, why have we gone through all these preparations?” he asked his son.

“So he wouldn’t be afraid,” Khosrow answered sadly.

“It wasn’t only for that,” Yusef added.

Khosrow sat down next to his father. “Every time the blacksmith comes, I lift Sahar’s foot myself,” he said. “In the beginning he was very frightened and he shied, especially when the smith put the nails in. Of course, he hammered very lightly at first but yesterday he hit very hard.”

“Well,” reassured Yusef, “he did it so that when Sahar is being shod, he won’t be frightened or pull away which might cause a nail to go into his foot. Now today, I’ll hold up his foot myself, just as I once helped to deliver him.” He turned to Zari who had come to sit by them. “You’ve put the hookah in front of you, as if you wanted to smoke it yourself,” he said.

Zari took a puff but gave up the moment she began to cough.

“Father, may I come and watch?” Khosrow asked.

“Of course. Weren’t you there when he was born?”

“Yes! Do I remember! Sahar stood up right away. The mare chewed off the cord and began to lick and smell him. You threw your cloak on him so he wouldn’t catch cold and you rubbed his body to keep him warm while Gholam fetched a blanket … But
he’s really naughty now, isn’t he?” he added laughingly. “He bites his mother, then he changes his mind and licks her.” Khosrow paused, then said, “Father, why do I love Sahar so much? I want to talk about him all the time. When I’m sitting in class I keep praying for the bell to ring so I can rush home and play with him.”

“There’s nothing wrong with loving, my son. Loving lightens the heart, just as malice and hatred darken it. Learn to love now, and then when you grow up you’ll be ready to love what’s good and beautiful in the world. The heart is like a garden full of flowers in bud. If you water them, they’ll open; if you feed them with hatred, they’ll wither. Remember that malice and hatred are not for the beautiful and good but for the ugly, the dishonourable and the unjust. A hatred of these things means a love of justice and honour.”

“Father, you’re talking above my head again,” Khosrow
complained
.

“Didn’t you understand what I said?”

“I think I understood. You said that there is nothing wrong in loving Sahar. Then you said I must water the flowers …”

“We must have been miles away while father was lecturing!” laughed Zari. “If you ask me, you should go to your uncle’s and visit your cousin Hormoz, and come back when they’ve finished with Sahar.”

“No Zari,” Yusef said. “Khosrow has to learn that if Sahar is to be shod, he must put up with a few nails. He has got to realize that there’s pain and suffering in this world.”

“Father, will it hurt him very much?”

“No. The important thing is to learn to endure things. We’ve trained him to stop playing around for a few minutes, long enough to put up with the shoeing. Whereas other horses …”

“But father, that herd of wild horses you told me a story about,” Khosrow interrupted, “they didn’t have bridles or shoes.”

“What was the story?” Zari asked.

“I don’t remember it myself,” Yusef said.

Khosrow sprang up, exclaiming: “Don’t you remember? You told me the story the night Sahar was born. Afterwards, Gholam and I talked a lot about the herd of horses. Gholam said you made it all up so I’d stop crying.”

Stifling a laugh, Zari asked, “What was the story?”

“Father, let me tell it … It was when father was invited to stay
with the Qashqai tribe. One night when there was a moon and the air was as clear as can be, with the sky full of stars, they went hunting. Suddenly, in the middle of a very, very big plain, they saw a herd of wild horses. The stallions were standing in a really wide circle facing outwards, their backs to the centre, where a mare was giving birth. The stallions were too embarrassed to look, because a baby comes out from a very bad place. Father and the others didn’t go any closer because the horses would have charged on them … well, I mean the stallions were standing like that to reassure the mare, otherwise she would have been scared. After all, some wild animal could have attacked the foal. And, oh yes, I forgot to say that an older mare stood by as a kind of midwife.”

“Did I say the baby comes out from a very bad place?” Yusef asked.

“No, father, Gholam said that.”

At that moment Gholam came in, wearing his faithful old felt hat.

“Is the blacksmith here?” Khosrow asked.

“His wife is here. She says he’s got a fever,” he replied, and turning to Yusef, “he won’t be coming.”

That evening Gholam came back with two porters who could carry loads on their heads. Two copper trays, piled high with bread and dates covered with a calico table-cloth, had been put out by the pool in front of the house, ready for collection. Ameh, wearing her veil, was sitting next to one of the trays. Haj Mohammad Reza, the dyer, was pacing up and down outside the gate. But Hossein Agha, the grocer, had come inside and was admiring the orange blossoms in the grove.

Zari herself went to the prison and asylum on alternate weeks. But there was always someone who could help her out with her vow and go to the place she wasn’t visiting that week. And when there was no volunteer, there were Hossein Agha and Haj Mohammad Reza to turn to—they were good neighbours who would never leave a friend in the lurch.

Zari, Ameh and Khadijeh the maid had been busy all afternoon putting dates between pieces of bread. Now Zari stood in front of her dressing-table, applying a touch of make-up. From her bedroom window she could see the garden and listen to what was going on.
She could hear Ameh asking one of the porters, “Well, how much do you charge?”

“Where do I have to go?” he asked.

“The Karim Khan prison—the dungeon,” Ameh told him, to which the man replied, “God bless you; I don’t want any money. Give me some home-made bread instead.”

“Where do I go?” the other porter asked.

“You go to the mental asylum,” Ameh told him.

“Pay me in bread too,” he said.

Zari patted her face, smoothing out the powder. Then she walked on to the verandah.

“Sister, they’re asking for bread instead of money,” Ameh explained to her.

“All right,” Zari replied. Turning to Gholam she said, “Give them each ten loaves.”

“I have further to go, but it doesn’t matter,” the first porter said. “This fellow’s child is ill. It’s this disease they say the foreign army has brought with them. I’ve heard that the water in the Vakil reservoir has been contaminated.”

“God protect us!” Ameh exclaimed.

“As if their presence alone wasn’t enough, they had to bring their diseases as well,” Hossein Agha complained.

“You’re giving charity to prisoners and madmen on the holy eve of Friday,” the first porter said, “but no one remembers the needy standing right in front of them.”

“May God repay them for their charity anyway,” said the second porter. “Our God is generous too.”

Gholam arrived with the bread. Both porters unwound the cloths they usually twisted into a tight coil to use as padding for their heads while carrying the trays. Then they carefully wrapped the bread inside these cloths and tied the bundles around their waists, bulging out in front like a pair of pregnant women.

“What will you carry on your head, then?” Zari asked.

“If we don’t do this,” the first porter explained, “someone may snatch the bread from us. Especially this home-made bread, so fresh and delicate. Just the smell of it makes your stomach growl! It’s a good thing you’ve covered the trays with tablecloths.”

“But you’re taking a droshke. No-one is going to snatch the bread from you in the little way you’ll need to walk.”

“It looks like the lady isn’t a native of this town!”

“Gholam, go and get the master’s and Khosrow’s waistcloths from Khadijeh,” Zari said, “and coil them into pads. These men can’t carry the trays on their bare heads.”

As Gholam ran back inside, a car drew up at the garden gate, and sounded its horn. Zari saw Abol-Ghassem Khan and his son Hormoz come in. She thought, “Oh my God! I’m not ready yet,” and dashed inside. There, she quickly took off her house-dress, pulled on a woollen sweater and a skirt, and started looking for her shoes.

“Hello, everybody!” she heard Abol-Ghassem say. “Will you be long?”

“Now don’t rush her,” Ameh’s voice rose in reply. “This is the first time she isn’t carrying out her vow herself, and all for your sake.”

“It’s a long way and we must be there at five o’clock sharp,” Abol-Ghassem Khan insisted.

“Isn’t it near Seyyid Abol Vafa’s shrine?”

“No, sister, it’s about four miles further on.”

“Now why don’t you do a good deed for a change and help these poor porters. While the others get ready for the party you can give the porter and me a lift in your car.”

“What’s the hurry? Will you be late for your opium?”

As Zari quickly combed her hair, she prayed that the two of them would not start a quarrel again. She could hear Hormoz trying to patch things up. “Auntie,” he offered, “if you like I can go. I like talking to the prisoners. I’ve been there three times with Hossein Agha. Isn’t that so, Hossein Agha?”

“What nonsense is this again?” Abol-Ghassem Khan turned on him angrily. Then he walked up to the edge of the verandah and called out jokingly to Zari, “Sister, how many hours have you been spending in front of the mirror? Where’s my brother; where’s Khosrow?”

Zari didn’t answer; she was listening to Ameh who was saying: “Let’s go. Hossein Agha, help him lift the tray to his head.”

As he heaved the tray up, one of the porters said: “God give me strength!”

When they arrived at the open-air party, Captain Singer was there to greet them in person. Together they walked past the fields of
summer crops to where the marquees had been set up. Zari was feeling hot, but she knew it would be cooler in the evening. She was walking ahead with Abol-Ghassem Khan while Yusef and Singer followed behind, and Khosrow and Hormoz brought up the rear.

They passed a field of lettuces, caked with dust and sand,
standing
in rows like soldiers on parade. As they walked on, they passed other fields where the entire crop of cucumbers, eggplants, tomatoes and melons—ripe and unripe—lay exposed to the
relentless
sun.

“They need watering,” Abol-Ghassem Khan observed.

To the left of the fields large tents had been pitched, in which soldiers and officers were sitting or standing. Their army vehicles were parked nearby. Zari heard Yusef recite a familiar yet very apt line of verse: “Will this wine ever suffice to quench our thirst?”

“What do you mean by that?” Captain Singer challenged him.

Abol-Ghassem Khan stopped abruptly and turned to face them. Zari also stopped. Abol-Ghassem Khan blinked, and said to Captain Singer, “To be quite frank, your honour, what my brother means is that a glass of whisky wouldn’t go amiss right now; even though a person can’t get drunk on only one glass.” After that he made a careful manoeuvre, changing places with Yusef, and falling into step with Singer.

The guests were ushered into the Supreme Command’s huge marquee. Abol-Ghassem Khan had rushed them so much that they were now too early. They greeted Khanom Hakim and a Scottish officer. A map of Iran had been spread out on a table near the entrance. Khanom Hakim was pacing around the marquee looking as though she were trying to memorize something from a piece of paper in her hand. Zari glanced at the map; there were enough multi-coloured markers stuck on it to confuse even the expert. Yusef headed for the map with an agitated Abol-Ghassem at his heels.

Staring at the familiar outline of his country, Yusef murmured, “How they’ve disembowelled her!”

Abol-Ghassem Khan placed a hand on his brother’s arm.

At that moment, Singer directed an Indian soldier who had just entered the marquee, carrying a tray of sherbets and various soft drinks, to the table where the map was displayed. Turning to Yusef, he said: “Let’s have something to drink.”

The three men each took a drink. Then Singer, raising his glass in
a toast, proclaimed in his usual broken Persian: “To Iran, so much bigger than France; and to Tehran, bigger than … than Vichy!”

Yusef raised his head from the map and looked straight at Singer.

“But unfortunately we didn’t get a chance to fight!” he said.

Abol-Ghassem Khan mumbled nervously: “Actually, Vichy mineral water does wonders for indigestion …”

“Why say you unfortunately?” Singer asked, cutting him short and staring at Yusef.

“Because we’re suffering the consequences anyway, without ever having tasted victory or even an honourable defeat,” Yusef replied.

“Then why did you not fight, if you were able?” Singer demanded. “How to find right word? Straw? Yes, that’s it, straw. We only found stuffed dummy when we come here. When we ripped him apart, there was no blood, only straw … stuffed with straw.”

Yusef gave a hollow laugh and put his hand on Singer’s shoulder.

“My dear Singer, you knew yourself what the score was, and that’s what makes all of this even more ugly and despicable. We were deprived the chance of an honourable defeat …

Singer raised a hand to stop him. “A-a-a-a … slow now, slow, so that I can follow what you say …”

Abol-Ghassem Khan, with an attack of his nervous blink, tried to mediate: “That’s all water under the bridge …”

“You talk in proverbs and confuse me,” Singer said irritably.

A number of other officers, English, Scottish and Indian, and McMahon the Irishman, entered the marquee. Hormoz, who had been following the conversation, whispered in Zari’s ear, “If Mr Fotouhi, our teacher, were here, he would shake uncle’s hand, and call him a real man. Mr Fotouhi’s always bragging about his own background. If only he could see my uncle now!”