A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea (12 page)

Khanom Mansoori is fully awake now and she takes Saba’s hand, touches her face, and says, “You know you’re like my own granddaughter.”

Saba nods, as does Agha Mansoori. “Yes, yes,” he’s saying, “our own granddaughter.”
His wife continues. “Mahtab or no Mahtab. Letter or no letter, that story is truth.”
Though she wants to linger in her surrogate grandmother’s arms, to cry a little and ask her why she thinks this is so, she only kisses Khanom Mansoori’s papery cheek and gets up to make dinner. The Mansooris have stayed too late, and so they will spend the night with the Hafezis. Saba tries to push the old woman’s words out of her mind, because there is no time to linger on sad things. She doesn’t want to be the kind of girl who is lost in her own thoughts and daydreams. She has to find some bedding for her guests now. But Khanom Mansoori calls after her to wait a moment. “It doesn’t matter where something happens, as long as it
happens.
If I told you the story of the first time I kissed Agha here . . . on our wedding day or in the yard when we were twelve. Who really cares about all that? The details you can change. The where and the when. It’s the
what
and the
how
that make it truth or lies.”
Agha Mansoori turns red at the memory and mumbles to himself.
“Khanom Basir said that it’s unhealthy for a grown woman to dwell,” says Saba, “or to tell stories about people who aren’t with us.”
“Please,” says Khanom Mansoori, as she reaches for her glass. She makes an exaggerated gesture of swatting away Khanom Basir’s comment. “What’s healthy for a little girl is healthy for a grown woman. Grown women just need bigger portions.”
“That’s a very nice thought,” says Saba. The nicest she’s heard in a long time.
“Go on, then,” says Khanom Mansoori. “Finish your story, so we know it’s true.”
Saba gives an obliging nod and finishes.
“Up we went and there was
doogh . . .”

gha, did you hear the things she said? Were you listening carefully? You didn’t say much so I think you weren’t listening. She’s not like our granddaughter, Niloo. Saba is a book type and she knows how to hide her meaning. You need sharp ears, Agha jan. By the time she finished, you could see that her color had flown away. You could hear her missing Mahtab. You couldn’t? Oh, listen to you, Agha. You see camel, you don’t see camel. You are a little boy yourself. That’s why I like you so much.
I don’t like sleeping at that house. I’m still tired. But it was good that we stayed. I don’t know how she doesn’t get scared in that big house at night.
Ai,
my poor girl.
Do you want to hear the real meaning of that story? Yes, I have it figured out—help me sit down, will you?—all that business about Baba Harvard and saying goodbye to the kind dishwasher man from South Mexico . . . sad, sad thing . . . it’s not about missing parents and broken families. It’s about that crazy, crazy man sitting in the big house and watching his daughter run around trying to get his attention. What’s wrong with him? If you knew how many hours she spends alone, you’d grow horns from shock.
No, don’t tell me he has tried. I never see them together outside the house.
Agha, next time you go over there, maybe take her a little present, or ask about this or that. Compliment something small, like her wrist bangles, or if she is not wearing any, the whiteness of her skin. Fatherly things, so she’s not so thirsty for it . . . And don’t look so scared. She’s a young girl, not a garden snake. I saw you gawking at the television, so you have plenty to talk about. Maybe let her explain the stories without interrupting so much—yes, you did interrupt. I managed to understand some of it, though . . . some Keaton-Meaton crazy
bazi
. . . A useless story. No head or tail to it at all.
Aah, that’s nice. Scratch just there. Thank you, Agha jan.
Do you think all the gossip is right? Some say that Abbas would be a good choice for our Saba because he is old and rich like her father. Others say that her cousin Kasem is a good choice because he is already family. It makes me sad because I always wished she would find what you and I had. Young love . . . love that is not all about enduring. Maybe some fun. Remember when we were her age . . . the mornings behind the house?
Yes, yes, I know it’s improper. I won’t talk about it.
I’m not talking about it . . . Why have you stopped scratching?
What was I saying before? I’m tired, Agha. I haven’t slept well. All this death everywhere gives me bad dreams. Help me lie down . . . Days are so strange now, when all our real friends are dead and we’re living in the world of their children. I’m afraid of dying. It’s a depressing business.
What do you think, Agha jan? Maybe Saba has figured out something through her twin-sense. I think there are many sorts of truths to this story and the biggest one is that Mahtab is still alive somewhere.

n a wintry white Friday afternoon, Saba walks the open market, the
jomeh-bazaar
, and thinks she should become a better liar. It must be easy in America, where people say what they mean. In Iran, you have to be backhanded, to convey your wants by seeming to seek the opposite. She wishes she had lied less convincingly to Reza.

Lately he visits her house more often, asking to play the guitar hidden in the sitting-room closet. He places his fingers on the strings, comparing the sound with his father’s
setar
or the bigger, rounder oud. “Baba can play any string instrument,” he brags. They have been in her pantry only once without Ponneh. It was awkward, the two of them, alone in the dark—nothing like the natural, uninhibited feeling of their threesome, always joking and flirting, making fun of Kasem. Instead Saba and Reza sat nervously and listened to a cassette player. He lit her cigarette and watched her take a drag. When there was a lull, he fiddled with the matchbox. “Saba Khanom,” he said, “are you—” and he stopped. She thought he was about to ask if she was missing Mahtab, as he always did.

Then he plucked her cigarette from her mouth. “Can I kiss you then? Just one time?”
She was caught unprepared and said no, though she wanted to say yes. He didn’t ask again. Now she worries that she has insulted him. Maybe he thinks she doesn’t want to kiss a villager. The problem, Saba decides, is that she hasn’t learned to lie and still convey the truth—like when her father tells the mullah there is no opium in the pipe.
She can smell opium now, as she passes an elderly man in a skullcap. The bazaar, which is the main livelihood of many of its merchants, is situated in the town square, along with a handful of stores, a kebabi and fish restaurant with tables outside, and a coffeehouse that serves only tea and water pipes on deep red reclining rugs. There is a bench and chairs where old men sit under trees. The marketplace is where the bus stops and where friends and strangers congregate. On busy days, a
pasdar
or two loiter in a jeep, keeping their eyes on the sinful young. The market is open all year, even on winter days when a wet chill descends from the mountains, making the air thin and painful. Saba wraps herself tighter in her layers of scarves and thick coat. A heavy breeze blusters through the tunnels formed by tarps and roofs of plastic sheets. There are few vegetables today, only basics like onions and potatoes. Usually baskets with every kind of green herb are arranged in rows, piles of mint, parsley, and coriander, but today the merchants are selling from preserved supplies. Huge wreaths of dried herbs hang above their stalls. At the baker’s stand, Saba spots Ponneh holding a paper bag with the telltale syrup stains of
baghlava
at the bottom. Ponneh reaches for some coins to pay.
The baker says, “Please, Khanom, I am your servant.” Saba takes the time to watch this game of
tarof
, pretend generosity, and marvels at the ridiculousness of it.
Ponneh says, “Really, I insist.”
The baker looks down and cocks his head humbly. “Please, they are yours.”
Ponneh repeats one more time, “I insist.”
And then the game is over. The baker accepts, and the
tarof
dance comes to an elegant end. Saba smiles at the thought of what would have happened if Ponneh had accepted the “free” pastries. The baker might have chased her down the street or started a tab. This is the way of things. Social laws aren’t reserved for social settings. Butchers must offer free meat. Barbers must pretend to cut hair for their own pleasure.
Lying well is crucial in Iran. Everyone practices at least the two most basic arts:
tarof
(“Come, sir! Eat, drink. Take my daughter!”) and
maastmali
(“covering with yogurt”)
,
the art of pretend innocence. (“Oh, it was nothing! A dent? It was barely a scratch. In fact, I wasn’t even in the country that day!”)
Ponneh reaches a pretty hand into the bag and pulls out a hot, dripping pastry.
“Saba jan!” She runs over and gives Saba a hug with her forearms and elbows since both hands are occupied. “Reza was here earlier buying tea,” she says. “I ran into him and he said he can come to the pantry at six.” She holds out a pastry to Saba. “Here, try this.” She glances at the baker, who gives her a gummy smile. “If that man weren’t toothless and a hundred years old, I’d marry him and spend my life getting fat.”
Saba takes a layer of the pastry, relieved that Reza has invited himself to her house. He must not be too insulted, after all. Maybe one day he’ll ask to kiss her again.
“Just a bite?” says Ponneh. “Don’t
tarof.
Maman gave me the money.”
They walk together toward the colorful pyramids of spices and nuts—cumin, turmeric, walnuts, and almonds—arranged on tables like the hills of a distant planet. A crowd has formed next to the fishermen’s coolers of fresh catch and beside a butcher selling lamb shanks. The shoppers don’t form a line, except for the first two, and then they explode into a cluster of shoving, peering, and shouting.
Hours later, their baskets full of vegetables, tea leaves, rice, fish, and a jumble of staples, their purses depleted of ration coupons and money, they head home as the hum of the afternoon call to prayer, the
azan,
wafts from the local mosque and the sun begins its descent, washing the mountains beyond in new colors. They pick up their pace. Soon nightfall will make it difficult for young women to be out without risking questioning.
Just outside the bazaar, Saba hesitates. “Look who’s there,” she whispers.
Mustafa, a young officer of the moral police, is watching them. He has claimed to love Ponneh for years, and she has always refused. Now that he wears the
pasdar
uniform, he takes pleasure in torturing them, forcing them to abstain from the few discreet freedoms most villagers still enjoy. Saba tucks some loose hair into her scarf.
Mustafa strides toward them, straightening his olive-colored uniform, his eyes fixed ahead. Saba quickens her step, recalling the day an airport
pasdar
barked at her mother. Then, just as they are about to turn a corner, she hears a snap. Ponneh stumbles.
“Damn, I broke my heel.” She curses as she reaches under her manteau and floor-length skirt to pull off the shoe, a shiny red thing with a heel the length of a finger.
“Why are you wearing those to the market?” Saba stares at the shoes.
“I like them! And no one can see.”
Saba doesn’t find this strange. Ponneh has always done what she wanted, and after the revolution, a pair of red shoes is a brave thing, not superficial or vain. Saba too has experimented with this form of rebellion. Many of her friends have.
Mustafa catches up with them. His voice is like a whip, and he pretends he doesn’t know them, a game he expects them to play. “You there,” he says, probably thinking his unkempt beard hides his age and identity. “What are you doing? It’s getting dark.”
Saba feigns a respectful tone. “We’re just going home. Good day, Agha.”
“Let me see your papers,” he says. Ponneh rolls her eyes, balancing on one shoe.
Saba tries not to scoff. She slips into a rural accent. “We were just buying food.”
Mustafa shakes his head. “Where is your home?”
Saba stifles a shocked laugh. “Are you serious? Mustafa, you know us—”
Mustafa’s eyes dart to Ponneh. Saba holds her breath, watching him recall Ponneh’s beauty as he looks her up and down with that same grotesque, leering look that she associates with Kasem. And then she sees something that looks like hatred.
Ponneh fixes her gaze to the ground, trying to hide her annoyance.
No need to worry,
Saba thinks. Ponneh’s scarf is perfect. She is wearing loose layers and no makeup. Only the red tip of a shoe peeks out from underneath her clothes. Mustafa has nothing on them. His eyes flit from her face to the shoe. “What’s this?” he says as he kicks aside the hem of her skirt. “Those shoes are indecent,” he spits.
“They’re under my clothes,” says Ponneh, teeth gritted, eyes disdainful. “Go away.”
“Such high heels are shameful and improper,” he says.
Ponneh raises her voice. “What business is it of yours? Is this some kind of fun for you?”
Saba gasps, but Mustafa ignores the remark. “Decent Muslim women know to be modest,” he says flatly. Now Saba too is annoyed, as with a child who won’t stop playing an obnoxious game. There is nothing Ponneh could have done to avoid this, short of wearing a burkah. Even then, Mustafa would target her. “Come with me.”
Saba mumbles in disbelief as they follow Mustafa toward the thatched-roof house that serves as the local headquarters of the moral police, the
komiteh
. Ponneh carries her shoes in one hand. A few paces from the bazaar, on a quiet road with a high wall made of mud and hay, she stops. “Mustafa, that’s enough. You’ve made your point.”
Mustafa turns, his face red. He clearly expected her to obey, to submit and give him some satisfaction after countless rejections and humiliations, all his wasted pining. He puts a hand on his baton and steps closer to Ponneh. “Walk,” he commands.
Saba puts an arm around her friend, but Ponneh shakes it off. Her willful expression is frightening. She lets out a small, scathing laugh. Hazelnut eyes widen, as they did during so many childhood fights when something inside Ponneh snapped, causing her to give up everything just to prove her point—always belligerence over tact.
Please, Ponneh, don’t be stubborn now.
“No,” Ponneh says, her voice cracking a little. “I’m going home.”
“You’ll get a hundred lashes,” Mustafa warns, hovering close. “Just wait.”
Saba freezes. Can a pair of red shoes get Ponneh lashed? Certainly not here. What lies does Mustafa plan to tell when they reach the
komiteh
office? He could say anything. The law is a fluid thing in Iran. Saba remembers that early after the revolution,
pasdar
s would go around smelling houses to see if anyone had been eating sturgeon, forbidden because of its lack of scales. That was a crime that could earn a few lashes—based on the proof of a
pasdar
’s nose—until later Khomeini declared the valuable caviar fish halal.
Mustafa grabs Ponneh’s arm. A sour taste fills Saba’s mouth.
Ponneh pulls her arm away hard, and he stumbles back.
He takes her face in one hand, a gesture that for a second seems tender, his thumb moving in a tiny circle against her cheek. Then he squeezes her mouth open and whispers, “Whore.”
It is the familiar reckless flash in Ponneh’s eyes that makes Saba move. She drops one of the bags. Oranges and tea spread across the gravel street. “Don’t!” she shouts.
But Ponneh has already done it. It is far too late now. By the time Saba can restrain her friend, she has slapped a
pasdar
hard across the face.
Then Mustafa’s baton is out and Saba can barely distinguish her friend’s body from his. He strikes her on the back, and she crumbles. She screams. He tucks the baton under his arm and pushes her to the ground. In another second Ponneh’s mouth is pressed against the dirt. Mustafa falls to his knees beside her, breathing into her ear while pressing the baton into her back. He mutters something as he lifts her chin toward a tiny alley hidden by the dark. He waits, but she gives him a repulsed look and twists her head out of his grasp.
Ponneh huddles by the hay-spattered wall and tries to kick him away. Mustafa raises his baton and slams it hard into the wall just above her ear. Clumps of dried mud rain down on her, and her hands fly up and clutch her neck. He does it again, as if to exhibit his strength. Ponneh jumps each time the baton cuts the air just past her face.
Saba pleads, suddenly recalling something Khanom Basir used to say:
A beautiful girl always manages to break some rule.
“Go to hell,” Ponneh breathes. “I’d rather be with a dog.”
Mustafa raises his baton and brings it down hard on her back.
Saba screams and throws herself on Mustafa, but he flings her away with little effort. She tries to breathe, her hands stroking her neck as she pushes away thoughts of drowning. She tries begging him in Gilaki, but Mustafa isn’t listening. Two women in dark clothes pass by the small street. They stop and peer down the road at them.
Is Mustafa relishing the opportunity to beat a pretty girl like this? It confirms something Saba has known for a long time: that the moral police don’t hate indecency as much as their own urges. Every day they think of some new cruelty—mystifying rules and grisly homegrown tortures and murders in the night—that makes Saba want to run away, to abandon Iran altogether, to wash her hands of the stench of the Caspian and be finished. Iran is finished. When Mustafa is an old man, will he remember that he once beat a girl just because she retained her loveliness despite him?
What a joke. A damn pair of shoes
.
Ponneh is sobbing. “Wait,” she pants. “I’ll go with you—”
But Mustafa doesn’t stop. He is huddled over her, striking without control. Sometimes, when his rage weakens his aim, he hits the ground or the wall. Did he hear Ponneh? Regardless, Saba heard and she knows the regret Ponneh will have to endure later. But now the pretty look is gone from her eyes and she is just a scared animal, the loss of dignity nothing compared with the physical pain. If Mahtab was under Mustafa’s baton now, Saba would suffer no less for her.
Past simple shock, Saba becomes absurd, picking up a discarded bag of tea as she watches her friend cower and sink lower with each blow.
The two women rush over, shrieking, “Hey there! Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” They seem unafraid of the
pasdar
. This isn’t Tehran, after all. Everyone knows everyone here.
As they draw closer, Saba manages a deep breath, relieved at the sight of Khanom Omidi and Khanom Basir. Reza’s mother calls out, “Oh my God, Ponneh joon!”
Khanom Omidi lumbers over, huffing as she tries to pull Mustafa off. Khanom Basir thrashes him with her basket until he stops, dazed.
“Shame on you! You dog!” Khanom Basir screams. “Are you crazy?”
He straightens up, eyes wide at the sight of the older women. Like a child, he puffs out his chest and attempts to recollect his own version of things. He puts his baton back in his belt and wipes his sweaty brow as Saba rushes to help Ponneh to her feet. Suddenly she is embarrassed that she saw any power in Mustafa’s uniform and that she didn’t stop him. Now that he has expelled his anger, Mustafa looks stunned because they can all see his true purpose, what he really wanted from Ponneh.
“You’re all coming with me to the
komiteh
.” He is short of breath, trying to calm down, to seem authoritative. “You have so much to answer for.”
Khanom Omidi gives him a hateful smile. When it comes to
maastmali
, no one is a match for this old woman. It’s ridiculous that Mustafa should try. “Good idea,” she says. “Let’s call Mullah Ali and tell him what a good job you’re doing.”
“You can make your calls at the office,” says Mustafa. “Let’s go.”
“Good, good,” says Khanom Omidi, pretending to follow. She clutches her back and sighs, as if thinking aloud. “And we must remember to send for Fatimeh too.”
Mustafa goes pale at the mention of his sick, doting grandmother. There is a moment of silence when it seems that he might be ashamed. He turns to Ponneh. “You’re lucky. I’ll let you go with a warning. But if I ever see such indecent behavior again . . .”
Khanom Omidi nods,
yes, yes, yes.
“Let’s get you two home,” she says. The mistress of