A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea (31 page)

aba sits in a chair by the window in the guest room where she now keeps all her belongings, listening to her tapes and watching the small television she has moved here. On her lap rests a glass with Abbas’s medicine, which she mixes absentmindedly, stirring in sourcherry syrup. He has trouble swallowing pills, so this is how he takes his heart medication, though Saba finds it unwise. Each time after he drinks it, she fills the glass with water and gives him that too, to get every last molecule. Today she mixes the drink on a tray in her room instead of in the kitchen to avoid having to talk to him when he comes home. He has deteriorated in recent months, is almost blind now, and though she refuses to forgive him, she has softened toward him because of his obvious weakness. In a few minutes he will knock on his way to bed and ask her for the medicine. This is their routine.

Saba stares out into the yard, where the roses Ponneh and Reza planted for her in the spring are bathing the garden in fragrant yellow dust, and she becomes unaware of the work of her hands. She watches. Stirs. Watches. Stirs. In the background her favorite American drama replays a story she has nearly memorized—a couple begins their romance in an Italian restaurant. Soon she will need new videotapes, new dialogue, new words, new glimpses of American life. These days she relies on distractions for comfort.

She thrusts a few cherries into the cherry pitter, extracts the pits with a snap of her wrist, and drops them into her own medicine-free glass, remembering the days when she and Mahtab used to steal the cherry pitter, a rock, and a bowl of fruit, and hide in their bedroom pitting cherries, eating unripe almonds with salt, and smashing apricot pits for the nut. Sometimes their father would have procured a banana, a luxury after the revolution.

The
sharbat
is cold, and sweet, and splashes red against her teeth and tongue. The ice clinks in the glass as she empties it with three gulps, so she doesn’t hear the knock on her door. Abbas enters tentatively, as he has done every night for months. He clutches something wrapped in a newspaper. It smells like meat and is soaking through the pages. Saba doesn’t ask about it, because even the casual conversations of their first year are gone now. He reaches for the glass, thanks her, and takes a few distracted sips. He mumbles as he leaves, “Tomorrow, maybe
ab-goosht.
” Lamb stew. Saba decides she would prefer chicken, and so that is what she will make.

“Let me see you drink it all,” she says. He obeys. She takes back the glass and fills it again from a jug of water. He drains that too before he slips out.

Half an hour later she heads to the bathroom. In the hall she runs into Abbas, still gripping his glass. Is he aware of how much time he wastes shuffling around? She makes a disgusted face at his old age, at his feeble mind, at everything that is her husband.

She holds his gaze, watery, gray, flanked by intricate webs of worn skin, the hopeful look of a small child who wonders if his bad behavior has been forgotten. She frowns at this pathetic old man that she has married, small, bent, with folds of skin gathered up around his neck, as though the flesh were fleeing from his face. His paunchy stomach rises and falls in his white undershirt and enormous gray pajama pants. “Where are you going?” he asks, his breath raspy, his eyes pleading. “Are you going to read tonight?” She knows what he wants, that this wretched man wants her to forget, wants to hold her again, to feel the warmth of human company. He has tiptoed around the house since the Dallak Day, always hoping, silently begging. Somewhere inside she feels sympathy, like a lump of coal glowing with the first hint of orange and red, but her anger is torrential and it douses the tiny flame.

Abbas drops his gaze and clears his throat. She can see that what she does to him daily is so much worse than any court’s judgment. Maybe he craves punishment so that this misery can end. But she can’t give him release, this man who has cost her a real life. Saba responds coldly, “Go to bed, Abbas. I like to read alone.”

He gives her the empty glass. “Yes . . . I should get some rest.” He peeks at her face again. “Do you want me to buy more fruit tomorrow? I noticed you’re eating a lot of fruit this summer . . . very healthy.”

“I can buy my own fruit.”
“Would you like some money? Maybe to buy some books.” “I have a bank account,” she says, “remember?” Agha Hafezi has

Abbas nods. “Well, I thought maybe you would like to have some of your young friends for dinner. If you want that . . . um . . . I will be a good host. I know a good joke.”

She stares into his cloudy eyes and thinks she is in danger of accepting his kindness. The sad way he can’t decide if he is her husband or her father. She senses her resolve about to weaken and walks away. He is just an old man, like Agha Mansoori. . . . But no, Agha Mansoori loved his wife more than himself. How can she dishonor his memory by comparing that sweet, gentle man to the monster who lives in her house?

She takes the dirty glass to the kitchen. She washes it and replaces the medicines in Abbas’s private cabinet. One of the bottles, which was half full with Abbas’s blood thinners when she began her nightly routine, now falls with frightening lightness in her hand. A few remaining pills rattle around. She counts them, her heart fluttering with memories of Agha Mansoori and his last attempts at tricking fate and death. But she can’t recall the right number of pills. Did Abbas realize that the medicine was in the drink? What if he forgot the routine and thought she was offering something to wash it down?

He couldn’t have.
This has been their routine from the start. Medicine
in
the drink. Besides, Abbas knows the dangers of taking more than the precise dose of the pills. He takes them to prevent clots and to aid blood flow to his heart. Too much can cause fatal bleeding and a stroke.
No,
she thinks.
He’s the one who explained this to me
.

Later in the night Saba hears Abbas call for her. She crouches outside his door. He seems confused. He is saying nonsensical things, slurring the simple syllables of her name. There is a knock, like he has run into something. She waits behind the door, but does not go in. Instead she leans against the wall and pulls her knees to her chest, listening to her husband struggle. Then he is silent again for a few minutes before he begins snoring. Once or twice she falls asleep but is jolted awake by Abbas’s pained voice and the pounding of her own heart.
How many pills were left in the bottle before tonight?

She thinks about calling the doctor. In a moment of quiet, she opens the door and goes to Abbas. She leans over him and listens to his breathing, which seems normal.

“Should I call the doctor?” she whispers, uncertain that he can hear. Then he lets out a small moan and an unexplained panic rises inside her, exactly like the one she felt during the ten days of caring for Agha Mansoori. Each morning that he hobbled to his door a minute late, she felt this same urgent dread.

She runs to the phone and dials the doctor’s number, jamming her fingers in the rotary holes and switching to a pencil because her hands are shaking. No one answers. She wonders if she should go out to find him. But he lives in the neighboring village and is only a general practitioner. The clinic in the town center will be closed—and it employs only family doctors, nurses, and midwives. She would have to drive an hour to Rasht to find Abbas’s heart specialist or a hospital. Should she call an ambulance? It would probably take as long. Finally she dials the number of Ponneh’s neighbor, the one around the corner who has a phone and can fetch her friend.

Since the hanging, Ponneh hasn’t been as readily available to Saba as she used to be. Saba suspects her friend has become more involved with Dr. Zohreh. But Ponneh makes the time to visit a few times a week, plants herbs in Sabas’s garden and cooks with her.

The phone rings ten minutes later and a breathless Ponneh demands to know what has happened, why her neighbor dragged her from sleep to come to the phone. On hearing the explanation, she only says, “I’m on my way,” and hangs up.

Saba returns to check on Abbas. His moaning calms for a while, and she assures herself that all is well until she sees the vomit in the corner of the bed. She hurries to the kitchen to get him some water and a towel, and considers this unexpected terror at the possibility of his death. How could it be, when she has been dreaming of this day for so long? She tries to get Abbas to drink the water, cleans him off, then lies outside his door again. Through fits of sleep, she dreams of a somber tune about an American fisherman on a boat called
Alexa
. The song makes her think of Mahtab and the rough hands of the fisherman who pulled her out of the Caspian. In her stupor, she hears Abbas’s voice and the unbearable sound makes her gulp for breath.

She wakes up to Ponneh shaking her shoulder. “How is the old devil?”
“Shhh,”
Saba warns. “Don’t say these things. What if he dies?”
“What if ?” Ponneh looks shocked and amused. “Saba, this is a long time coming. He’s so old. He’s had much more time than he deserves. We’ll just sit and wait.”
Ponneh’s icy expression jars her. Abbas calls out and Saba rushes to his side. A pleading look colors his uneven gaze, reminding her of all the little cruelties she heaped on him for what might be the last year of his life. Just a few hours ago he begged to buy her fruit, to watch her read or entertain her friends, and she brushed him aside like a market peddler. She touches the cold, slack skin of his hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Ponneh is pacing behind them, her scarf already discarded. As soon as the apology leaves Saba’s lips, Ponneh lets out a breathless snort. “Saba, you will regret this, I promise you. You’ll hate yourself forever if you let your emotions get the better of you. Tell him what he did was unforgivable. You’ll never get another chance.”
“Stop it! I’m doing my best,” Saba says. “The doctor wasn’t answering his phone before. Please just try calling him again. Actually, call the ambulance too.”
Ponneh exhales loudly in protest as she stomps into the living room to make the call. She returns a minute later and says, “He’s coming soon.”
“When?”
“I said soon!” Ponneh sounds angry, as if it were
her
life that’s spiraling out of control. She taps her feet as Saba hunts for clues on Abbas’s tongue, in his eyelids. How pale are they supposed to be? She remembers something the doctor said about his arms.
“Abbas jan, lift your arm,” she shouts. “Lift your arm for me.” No response.
Ponneh mumbles, “You’ll regret it.”
When she can find nothing else to occupy her, Saba sits on a chair next to Abbas’s bed and watches him. Ponneh leans over the old man and listens to his heart, her hair falling over his chest. She looks like a young girl observing a sleeping grandfather. Maybe she expects that Abbas will die tonight. His eyes are cold, chilling to watch.
Did Saba do something wrong? She
always
puts the medicine in the drink. That was their agreement. But it’s true that she has been preoccupied lately. Did she carry out one of her latent fantasies? Is it possible? No. She did nothing. Except this: for a moment, as she watched television and dreamed of her sister, she let someone else take over, some wild creature that lives inside and survives on crumbs. A monster that never has its own way. Sometimes during her cruelest daydreams, when Abbas is thrown into the Caspian or disemboweled, she fears she is no different from the Basiji women. That she too has a beast with a Cheshire grin waiting inside, and the only reason hers is safely caged is that she has wealth and family. An empty stomach is a powerful motivator, and maybe, swallowed up in her own desires and facing another lonely, hungry sundown, Saba let go and the banshee found a way to get free. Did
she
mix a bit more sour cherry into the drink than usual? Was she trying to cover up some foul taste?
“No,” Saba says aloud. She did nothing. She counted a perfect dose.
She returns to the kitchen to inspect the glasses because she will never be able to live with such a mistake. But they are already washed. She comes back to the room and leans beside Abbas, takes his hand in both of hers. “Abbas, the doctor is coming. But you have to tell me, did you take medicine with the juice?” She searches his eyes. “Tell me.”
He makes an incomprehensible noise. Then he seems to nod.
Relief and panic wash over her, followed immediately by disbelief. “Don’t you remember the routine? I put your pills
in
the glass!” He nods again and she wonders if he knows what he is saying.
Before she has a chance to think, Ponneh is beside her. “Tell him,” she whispers. “Saba jan, tell him now.”
There is too much pressure from all sides and she turns and screams at Ponneh, “What do you want me to say? What? You were supposed to come over and help me! What are you
doing
? And where the hell is the doctor?”
Ponneh doesn’t raise her voice. She says, “I never called.”
Saba is frozen. She feels around for her chair and drops into it.
“Have you forgotten that day?” Ponneh yells. “Remember the women and their tools and the way they threw you around like a rag?” Saba rests her face in her hands and pants into the air between her legs. She can’t decide if she should get up to call the doctor or if it’s too late. Has Abbas heard any of their conversation? Ponneh doesn’t seem to register Abbas’s presence. “I know you’re emotional, and it’s easy to forget when you look at how old he is . . . and how sad it is to be near death. And you know what else, Saba jan, I know you don’t want to be alone. But you won’t be. You have me, and a real family. And you have Reza.” Ponneh sits on the ground beside her chair. She glances at Abbas, interlaces her fingers with Saba’s, and says in a childish voice, “The three of us forever.”
Saba shakes her head. No, she hasn’t forgotten. The memories of the Dallak Day are as fresh as ever and there is no cleansing for her despite the many afternoons she spends washing herself in her hammam. The details of that day expand in her mind, swelling and pressing up against her skull until there is room for nothing else. There is simply this: her breath quickening. Her hand flying to her throat. Her body splayed out on her bed and the blood beneath her. It happened more than a year ago, yet it comes back to Saba daily, nightly. It is happening again now.
She gets up to try the doctor again, avoiding Ponneh’s gaze. In the living room she picks up the receiver and starts to dial, thinking of her wasted life here in this house. She considers the cruel torture she has inflicted on this man, and the way Agha Mansoori begged to join his wife in heaven. She thinks of her first few nights with Abbas, his anecdotes about the warmth of his first wife. Maybe Ponneh is right that he has lived a complete and blessed life.
She dials a few numbers, her fingers heavy and shaking. What if Abbas heard her talking to Ponneh? He might be aware of the time it has taken her to decide his fate. He might even forget that he took the extra medicine himself. What brutal accusations will he make to all the medical and legal men who are bound to parade through here?
Then Saba thinks of how Abbas nodded when she asked him if he remembered the routine. It’s possible that he took the extra medicine on purpose. The thought makes her chest constrict—the image of the old man reaching out for the company of his first wife the way Agha Mansoori did for his. Maybe this is a mercy. Maybe she should use the power she has been given and return this man to his true wife. Agha Mansoori tried so hard to die; he misplaced his pills and left ovens burning and begged Saba to help him. Like an angel of death, she held his hand as he moved on, and it was easy and timely and good. She can see that Abbas has been waiting to die, and that it is a kindness and a blessing to leave the world peacefully, without the sting of violence that accompanies so many deaths here. Abbas must realize this. She replaces the phone and returns to Abbas’s room, where Ponneh is feeling his forehead. She must feel guilty too.
“I’m not calling the doctor,” she says, her voice exhausted. She falls into Ponneh’s arms. Ponneh strokes her hair and says that all will be well. If Saba talked to him, could Abbas hear her? She can’t be certain because the light is leaving his eyes. Ponneh whispers into her hair, “Tell him.”
Saba fumbles with her shirt. The room has grown hot. She runs her hand through her long hair. “I don’t know what to say.” She sits on the bed beside him.
Ponneh moves to the chair. “I’ll start,” she says, and shifts around. She begins to speak several times but reconsiders her words. Finally she says, “Goodbye, Abbas . . . Just repeat what I say, Saba jan. Go on . . . say goodbye to him.”
“Goodbye,” she groans, unable to get out more than the one word.
“May you find peace somewhere,” Ponneh says, confident even though she’s improvising.
“I hope in heaven you find peace—” Saba says. It feels like a prayer, repeating Ponneh’s words. When she was a little girl, her mother explained the rules of prayer. She said that each person must have her own individual words. “That’s the difference between Christian prayer and Muslim prayer,” she told Saba and Mahtab. “We don’t chant. We tell God what’s in our hearts.” Now something inside stirs and she can feel all the words she wants to say bubbling up, rising to the surface from the mouth of the injured beast that lies there. She swallows hard and listens to Ponneh try to continue.
“But what you did . . . God, that was . . . evil.” The steely quality of Ponneh’s voice is gone and she seems unsure, shaky, maybe too young for it all. But this is a poison that must be expelled. Saba doesn’t want any more help. She waves her hand for Ponneh to stop.
She takes a breath and says, “That’s enough now,” then licks her lips. “Abbas . . .” She stops and considers the possibility that Abbas did this on purpose. Does he believe in heaven as Agha Mansoori did? If so, he too will need someone to bear witness that he didn’t commit the ultimate sin. “You made a mistake with the medicine. It was only a mistake, but I can’t fix it for you. I gave you plenty of time, and we were friends at first, remember? But that day—” She stops. There is no use in rehashing it. “I can’t help you now. You’re no longer my friend.” When she is finished, she lifts herself up, unable to recall her own words, though she can feel by their absence how heavy they must have been. She touches Abbas’s withered face, now grown cold, and adds, “I hope you find your wife.” With that she leaves the room, consumed by thoughts of what it means to be a Christian, and how disappointed her mother would be that Saba has chosen to drop her cross and walk away. But maybe the world doesn’t need so many martyrs and cross-bearers. Or maybe Saba just doesn’t believe.
Ponneh shuts the door behind them. They wait outside, Saba stroking her neck because the tickle inside her throat has become unbearable. She takes a few gulps of air and tries not to hear his breathing. Ponneh runs to the kitchen to get tea and tissues. Saba doesn’t notice when she comes back. When the noises stop, she falls asleep in the hall outside Abbas’s room and doesn’t wake again until daylight.
The next morning Abbas is dead and Saba is a rich widow, a fierce tern in crow’s clothing, dark eyes downcast, red mouth stained and shining like blood, mourning alongside a line of her black-crow sisters. The women around her touch her head and kiss her cheeks, some of them whispering that she has a very prosperous life ahead. But behind her black layers, she holds on to her lifelong wish to fly away, toward her mother in America. To explain her sins in person.
Abbas’s death is pronounced accidental—a stroke that, given the number of pills left over, may have been caused by too much blood thinner. Though dazed and unsure of herself, Saba tells the doctor that he administered his own medicine that night. Maybe he took too much. She has learned to rub yogurt like an expert storyteller, and so has come into her very own Yogurt Money. She has become a grandmaster of
maastmali
.
An overdose is unfortunate, the doctors say, but he was an old man. In the end, no one thinks about it much. It isn’t such a strange thing, and uninteresting as far as scandals are concerned. Abbas had a full life and there is no mother-in-law to make a fuss.