The Book of Fate (20 page)

Mother opened her mouth to say something, but I jumped in and again tried to change the subject. I was afraid the wedding would turn into a battleground if their bickering continued.

‘By the way, Auntie, how far along is Mahboubeh? Did she have any cravings?'

‘Only during the first two months. Now she's feeling very well and has no problems. The doctor has even allowed her to travel.'

‘My doctor said I shouldn't walk too much and I'm not allowed to bend over too often.'

‘Then don't, my girl. You have to be very careful during the first few months, especially because you're weak. May God let me give my life for you, they probably don't take care of you the way they should. In the beginning, I wouldn't let Mahboubeh make a move. Every day, I cooked whatever she was craving and sent it to her house. It's a mother's duty. Tell me, have they cooked mixed grain and vegetable soup for you?'

My aunt was not willing to call a ceasefire.

‘Yes, Auntie,' I said, quickly. ‘They're constantly bringing food for me, but I don't have an appetite.'

‘My dear, they're probably not cooking it properly. I'll prepare such a delicious dish for your cravings that you'll want to eat your fingers, too.'

Mother was so angry that she had turned the colour of beetroot. She was about to say something when Mrs Parvin called her and told her that it was time to serve the men's dinner. With Mother gone, I breathed a sigh of relief. My aunt calmed down like a volcano that had suddenly stopped erupting and started looking around, exchanging greetings with a few guests by nodding to them. Then she turned her attention back to me.

‘God bless you, my dear, you look beautiful. You are definitely having a boy. Now, tell me, are you pleased with your husband? We never did see the prince, the way they rushed the marriage… as if the soup was hot and they didn't want it to lose flavour. Now, is he really a soup to savour?'

‘What can I say, Auntie? He's not bad. His parents were leaving for Mecca and there was no time. They wanted to take care of everything and go to Haj with peace of mind. That's why there was such a rush.'

‘But with no investigation and no enquiries? I heard you hadn't even seen the groom until the marriage ceremony. Is it true?'

‘Yes, but I had seen a photograph of him.'

‘What? My dear, one does not marry a photograph. You mean you developed feelings for him and realised he's the man of your life just by looking at his picture? Even in Qum they don't marry girls off like that. Mahboubeh's father-in-law is a mullah, not one of those phoney mullahs, he's a well-respected cleric and he is more devout than all of Qum. When he came to ask for Mahboubeh's hand for his son, he said a boy and a girl should talk to each other and make sure they want one another before they give their answer. Mahboubeh spoke with Mohsen Khan all alone on at least five occasions. They invited us to dinner several times and we did the same. And although the entire city knows them and there was no need for an investigation, we still asked around and made enquiries. You don't just hand over your daughter to a stranger as if you had found her on the side of a street.'

‘I don't know, Auntie. To be honest, I wasn't willing, but my brothers were in a rush.'

‘How dare they? Was your presence taking up their space? From the very start your mother spoiled these boys too much. All Mahmoud does is fake piety and God knows where that Ahmad is.'

‘But Auntie, I'm not unhappy now. This was my fate. Hamid is a good man and his family takes good care of me.'

‘How is he financially?'

‘Not bad. I don't lack for anything.'

‘What does he do anyway?'

‘They have a printing house. His father owns half of the business and Hamid works there.'

‘Does he love you? Are you having fun together? Do you know what I mean?'

Her words made me think. I had never asked myself whether I loved Hamid or whether he loved me. Of course, I wasn't indifferent towards him. In general, he was a pleasant and likeable man. Even Father who had seen very little of Hamid liked him. But the sort of love I had felt for Saiid didn't exist between us. Even our conjugal relationship was more out of a sense of duty and based on physical need rather than an expression of love.

‘What is it, my dear? You're suddenly deep in thought. Do you love him or not?'

‘You know, Auntie, he's a good man. He tells me to go to school and to do whatever I want. I can go to the cinema, to parties, to fun outings; the poor thing doesn't say a word.'

‘If you're going to be roaming around the streets all the time, then when are you going to see to the house and cook lunch and dinner?'

‘Oh, Auntie, there's plenty of time. Besides, Hamid doesn't care about lunch and dinner. If I feed him bread and cheese for an entire week, he will never complain. He is really a harmless man.'

‘Of all impossible things… a harmless man! You make me worry. The things you say!'

‘Why, Auntie?'

‘Look here, my girl. God has yet to create a harmless man. Either he is up to no good and just wants to keep you busy so that you don't interfere with his life, or he is so deeply in love that he can't say no to you, which is very unlikely and even if it is true, it will be short-lived. Wait a little, then see what song he sings.'

‘I really don't know.'

‘My girl, I know men. Our Mahboubeh's husband is not only pious, but educated and modern. He adores Mahboubeh and doesn't take his eyes off her. Ever since he found out she's pregnant, he pampers her like a child, but he also watches her like a hawk to see where she goes, what she does and when she comes back. Between you and me, sometimes he is even a little jealous. After all, it's love. There should be a little jealousy. Your husband must have his own little jealousies. Does he?'

Hamid jealous? Over me? I was certain there wasn't an ounce of jealousy in him. If I had told him right then that I wanted to leave him, he would probably be overjoyed. Even though he had absolute freedom to live his life and to go and come as he wished, and I never dared complain about my round-the-clock loneliness, he still considered marriage to be a headache and a shackle, and grumbled about the constraints of family life. Perhaps I had taken over a corner of his mind that he would have otherwise dedicated to his goals. No, Hamid was never jealous when it came to me.

As these thoughts flashed through my mind like bolts of electricity, I caught sight of Faati and quickly called her over. ‘Faati, my dear, come clear away these plates. Is Mother serving dinner? Tell her I will be right there to put the dressing on the salad.' And with that excuse, I left Auntie and the merciless mirror she had held up to my life. I felt strangely depressed.

 

By the start of autumn, I was feeling much better and my belly was slowly growing bigger. I registered in night school for year eleven classes. Every day, late in the afternoon, I would walk to school, and every morning I would open the curtains, sit under the sun that shined in the middle of the room, stretch out my legs, and study while eating the fruit rolls my aunt had made. I knew that soon I would not have much time to study.

One day Hamid came home at ten in the morning. I couldn't believe my eyes. He hadn't been home for two entire days and nights. I thought perhaps he was ill, or could it be that he was worried about me?

‘How come you're home at this hour of the day?'

He laughed and said, ‘If you don't like it, I can leave.'

‘No… I just got worried. Are you feeling well?'

‘Yes, of course. The telephone company called to say they are coming to instal the phone. I didn't know how to get hold of you and I knew you didn't have any money at home, so I had to come.'

‘A telephone? Really? They're going to instal a telephone for us? Oh, how wonderful!'

‘Didn't you know? I paid for it a long time ago.'

‘How would I know? You hardly ever talk to me. But it's great; now I can call everyone and feel less lonely.'

‘No, Mrs Massoumeh! That won't do. A telephone is for necessary occasions only; it's not for women's silly chatter. I have to have a telephone for certain important communications and the line has to be free. We will be receiving more calls than making them. And remember, you are not to give the number to anyone.'

‘What do you mean? Mother and Father can't have our telephone number? And here I was, thinking the gentleman bought a telephone because he was worried about me, because he's gone for days and wants to at least know how I am feeling, or so that I can call someone if I suddenly go into labour.'

‘Now, don't get upset. Of course you can use the telephone when necessary. I meant I don't want you to talk on the phone twenty-four hours a day and keep the line busy.'

‘At any rate, who would I call? I don't have any friends, and Mother and Father don't have a telephone and have to go to Mrs Parvin's house to make a call. That leaves only your mother and sisters.'

‘No! No! Don't you dare give them the number. Otherwise, they will use it to keep tabs on me all day long.'

The telephone was installed and my link to the outside world, which had been limited because of my advancing pregnancy and the cold winter weather, was again restored. I spoke with Mrs Parvin every day. She would often invite Mother over to her house to talk to me. And if Mother was busy, Faati would chat with me. In the end, Hamid's mother found out about the telephone and, piqued and cantankerous, she asked me for the number. She assumed I had not wanted her to have it, and I couldn't tell her that it was what her son had ordered. From that day on, she called at least twice a day. Gradually, I picked up on the timing of her calls and when I was certain it was her, I wouldn't answer the telephone. I was too embarrassed to continue lying to her that Hamid was sleeping, or had run out to buy something, or that he was in the bathroom.

 

In the middle of a cold winter night, I felt the first shocking stab of labour pains. I was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. How could I let Hamid know? My mind was in a muddle. I had to get a grip and remember the instructions the doctor had given me. I had to organise myself, I had to write down the time interval between the contractions, and I had to find Hamid. His telephone number at work was the only number I had for him, and although I knew no one was there at that hour of the night, I dialled the number. There was no answer. I didn't have any of his friends' telephone numbers. He was always strangely careful not to write down any telephone numbers or addresses; he tried to memorise them. He said it was safer that way.

My only option was to call Mrs Parvin. At first, I was uncomfortable waking them up at that hour, but the pain of the contractions erased my hesitation. I dialled the number. The sound of the ringing echoed in the receiver, but no one answered. I knew she slept soundly and her husband was hard of hearing. I hung up.

It was two in the morning. I sat and stared at the second hand of the clock. The contractions were now coming at regular intervals, but they were not as I had expected them. With every minute that passed, I became more frightened. I thought of calling Hamid's mother. But what would I say? How could I tell her Hamid was not at home? Earlier that evening, I had told her Hamid had come home from work and was downstairs visiting Bibi. Later, Hamid called from somewhere and I told him to telephone his mother and tell her that he had gone to see Bibi. If I called now and told her Hamid had not come home at all, she would scold me and lose her mind with worry over her son. She would go to every hospital and wander around the streets, looking for him. Her concern for her son verged on obsession and was void of any reason and logic.

Stupid thoughts ran through my mind. I was holding my hands under my stomach and pacing up and down the room. I was so panicked that I thought I was going to faint. Each time the contractions came, I froze where I stood and tried hard not to make a sound, but then I remembered that even if I hollered, no one would hear me. Bibi was almost deaf and slept deeply, and if I did manage to wake her, there was nothing she could do to help me. I remembered my aunt telling me that when Mahboubeh's contractions started, her husband became so nervous that he began running around in circles, telling her how much he loved and adored her. My entire being filled with hatred and disgust. Our child's life and mine were not worth anything to Hamid.

I looked at the clock, it was three-thirty. Again, I called Mrs Parvin. I let the telephone ring for a long time, but it was no use. I thought I should get dressed and go out into the street; eventually someone would drive by and take me to the hospital. Ten days earlier, I had prepared a suitcase for myself and the baby. I opened it, emptied it out and looked for the list the doctor and Mansoureh had written for me. Again, I folded everything and packed the suitcase. I had a few more contractions, but the intervals now seemed irregular. I lay down on the bed and thought I had made a mistake. I had to concentrate.

I looked at the clock. It was four-twenty. The next time I jolted up with stabbing pain it was six-thirty in the morning. The contractions had stopped for a while and I had fallen asleep. I was nervous. I went over to the telephone and dialled Mrs Parvin's number. This time, I was going to let it ring until someone finally answered. The telephone rang about twelve times when on the other side of the line Mrs Parvin's sleepy voice said hello. Hearing her, I burst into tears and cried, ‘Mrs Parvin, help me! The baby is coming.'

‘Oh my God! Go to the hospital. Go! We're on our way.'

‘How? With all this stuff?'

‘Isn't Hamid there?'

‘No. He didn't come home last night. I must have called you a hundred times during the night. It's God's will that the child still hasn't come.'

‘Get dressed. We'll be right there. I'll get your mother and we'll come right over.'