The Book of Fate (31 page)

‘Didn't you hear the horrible things he said to his uncle?' Ali said.

‘His uncle must have said something to make him this angry,' I retorted. ‘He hasn't made a sound in this house for three days.'

‘This urchin isn't even worthy of me talking to him,' Mahmoud scowled. ‘Aren't you ashamed of yourself for selling out your brother for an imp of a child? You will never learn, will you?'

 

By the time Father came home, the house was again quiet. It was the calm after a storm that gives everyone a chance to take a measure of the damage. Mahmoud and his wife and children had left; Ali was in his room upstairs; Mother was crying and didn't know whether she should side with me or with her sons; Faati was hovering over me and helping me pack the children's clothes.

‘What are you doing?' Father asked.

‘I have to go,' I said. ‘My children shouldn't grow up being mistreated and castigated, especially not by their kin.'

‘What happened?' Father snapped.

‘What can I say?' Mother lamented. ‘Poor Mahmoud was only showing his concern. He was talking to me in the kitchen and the boy overheard us. You won't believe the hell he raised. And then the sister and brothers got into a fight.'

Father turned to me and said, ‘No matter what has happened, I will not let you go back to that house tonight.'

‘No, Father, I have to go. I haven't enrolled the children in school and classes start next week. I haven't taken care of anything yet.'

‘Fine, go, but not tonight and not alone.'

‘Faati will come with me.'

‘Wonderful! What a great protector! I mean there should be a man with you. The house may be raided again. Two women and two young boys shouldn't be there alone. Tomorrow, we will go together.'

He was right; we had to wait another night. After dinner, Father asked Siamak to sit with him and he started talking to him the way he used to do when Siamak was younger.

‘Well, my son, now tell me what happened that made you so angry,' Father quietly said.

And just like a tape recording, and unaware that he was imitating Mahmoud, Siamak said, ‘I heard him tell Grandmother, “The louse is a subversive. Sooner or later, they will execute him. I never liked him or his family. I knew they were up to no good. I guess we shouldn't have expected any better from a suitor that Mrs Parvin introduced. How many times did I tell you to marry her off to Haji Agha…”' Siamak paused for a few seconds. ‘Haji Agha something or other.'

‘Probably Haji Agha Abouzari,' Father said.

‘Yes, that's it. And then Uncle Mahmoud said, “But you said he was too old, that he had been married before, and you ignored the fact that he was a pious man and had a shop in the bazaar stocked with merchandise. Instead, you gave her to a faithless two-bit communist. That filth, he deserves what he gets. He should be executed.”'

Father held Siamak's head against his chest and kissed his hair.

‘Don't listen to any of this,' he said gently. ‘They are not smart enough to understand. Your father is a good man. Rest assured that they will not execute him. I talked to your grandfather today. He said he has hired a lawyer. God willing, everything will work out.'

I spent the entire night thinking about how we were supposed to live without Hamid. What was I to do with the children? What were my responsibilities? How was I going to protect them from what people said?

 

The next morning we returned to our war-torn house with Father, Mrs Parvin and Faati. Father was shocked to see the state of my home. As he was leaving he said, ‘I will send the boys from the shop to come and help. This is more work than you three women can handle.' Then he took some money from his pocket and said, ‘Take this for now and let me know if you need more.'

‘No, thank you,' I said. ‘I don't need any money right now.'

But his offer made me think about our financial situation. How was I going to cover our expenses? Would I have to be forever dependent on my father or on Hamid's father or on others? I was again overwhelmed with anxiety. I tried to comfort myself; the printing house would reopen and resume work, and Hamid was a shareholder.

For three entire days, Faati, Mrs Parvin, Siamak, Massoud, Father's employees and occasionally Mother worked with me until we finally restored some order in the house. Hamid's mother and sisters came to tidy up Bibi's rooms downstairs. By then, Bibi had been released from the hospital and was convalescing at their house.

In the process, I went down to the cellar and threw away all the odds and ends.

‘God bless the SAVAK,' Faati laughed. ‘They made you finally discover what's in this house and forced you to do a major spring clean!'

 

The next day, I enrolled the boys in school. Poor Massoud started year one in such poor spirits and, unlike Siamak, he tried so hard not to give me any trouble. On the first day of school, I could read in his eyes his fear of that unknown environment, but he said nothing. When I was saying goodbye to him, I said, ‘You are a good boy and you will quickly find friends. I am sure your teacher will like you very much.'

‘Will you come to pick me up?' he asked.

‘Of course I will. Do you think I will forget my kind and darling son?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I'm just afraid you will get lost.'

‘Me? Get lost? No, my dear, adults don't get lost.'

‘Yes, they do. And we can't find them again; just like Daddy and Shahrzad.'

It was the first time since Shahrzad's death that he had spoken her name, and her full name, not Auntie Sheri, which is what he used to call her. I didn't know what to say. I wondered how he had interpreted their disappearance in his young mind. I took him in my arms and said, ‘No, my son. Mothers don't get lost. They know the scent of their children and they follow it and find their children wherever they may be.'

‘Then, don't you cry while I'm not there!' he said.

‘No, son, I won't cry. When did I ever cry?'

‘You always cry when you are alone in the kitchen.'

There was nothing I could hide from that child. With a lump in my throat, I said, ‘Crying isn't a bad thing. Sometimes we need to cry. It makes our heart feel lighter. But I won't cry any more.'

As time went on, Massoud proved to be just as trouble free at school. He did his homework on time and was careful to never upset me. The one effect of that night that remained in him and which he couldn't hide from me were his terrified screams that would wake us up in the middle of the night.

 

Two months passed. The universities opened. But the last thing on my mind was going to classes. Every day, Hamid's father and I went to see different people, made requests, pleaded and begged, lined up contacts and connections; we even wrote to the office of Queen Farah pleading that Hamid not be tortured and executed and asking to have him transferred to an ordinary prison. Several influential people made promises, but we were not sure to what extent our efforts were effective and what Hamid's circumstances really were.

Sometime later, a trial was held and it was determined that Hamid had not participated in armed activities. He was saved from being executed and was instead sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Eventually, we were given permission to take him clothes, food and letters. Every Monday I would stand at the prison gates, holding a large bag of food, clothes, books and writing materials. Much of it was usually returned to me on the spot and of those items the prison guards did accept, I didn't know what was in fact delivered to him.

The first time they gave me his dirty clothes to wash, I was startled by their strange smell. They smelled of stale blood, of infection, of misery. Terrified, I inspected every piece. The sight of blood and pus stains drove me insane. I closed the bathroom door, turned the taps on full and wept to the roaring sound of water pouring in the bath. What was he suffering in prison? Would it not have been better if he had died the way Shahrzad and Mehdi died? Was he spending every second praying for death? Over time, by carefully examining his clothes I learned about his injuries and their severity. I knew which ones were more serious and which ones were healing.

Time was passing and there was no indication that the printing house would be allowed to reopen. Every month, Hamid's father gave me some money for us to live on, but how long could that go on? I had to make a decision. I had to find a job. I was neither a child, nor incapable. I was a woman responsible for two children and I didn't want to raise them on the charity of others. Sitting still, whining and holding my hand out in front of this and that person was beneath me, beneath my children, and especially beneath Hamid. We had to live with honour and pride; we had to stand on our own two feet. But how? What work could I do?

The first thought that occurred to me was to become a seamstress and to work for Mrs Parvin, with Faati's assistance. Although I wasted no time getting started, I hated the work, especially because I had to go to Mother's and Mrs Parvin's houses every day where I had to face Ali and occasionally Mahmoud, and I had to tolerate Mother's reprimands.

‘Didn't I tell you sewing is the most important thing for a girl?' she would say. ‘But you didn't listen and wasted your time going to school.'

Every night I read the employment classifieds in the newspapers and every day I went to different firms and companies to apply for a job. Most of the private companies were looking for secretaries. Hamid's father cautioned me about work environments and certain issues that working women faced. His warnings were valid. In some offices I was leered at and appraised from head to toe as if they were selecting a lover, not an employee. It was in the course of these interviews that I realised having a school diploma was not enough. I needed other skills. I went to two sessions of a typing class and after I learned the basic rules I stopped going because I had neither the time nor the money to pay for the tuition. Hamid's father gave me an old typewriter and I spent the nights practising. Then he introduced me to an acquaintance who worked in a government agency. The day I went for my interview, I found myself face to face with a man aged thirty-one or thirty-two with piercing, intelligent eyes who looked at me with curiosity and in the course of the interview tried to discover the information I was not volunteering.

‘You have written here that you are married. What does your husband do?'

I hesitated. I thought because Hamid's father had made the introductions, he might know about my circumstances. I mumbled that my husband was a freelancer and unaffiliated with a company. I could tell by his look and his sarcastic grin that he didn't believe me.

Weary and tense, I said, ‘I am the one looking for a job, so why is my husband any of your business?'

‘I was told you have no other source of income.'

‘Who told you?'

‘Mr Motamedi, the vice-president who recommended you.'

‘Would you not hire me if I did have another source of income? Aren't you looking for a secretary?'

‘Yes, madam, we are. But there are many applicants who are better educated and more qualified than you. In fact, I don't understand why Mr Motamedi recommended you, and so strongly!'

I didn't know what to say. Hamid's father had told me that when I went to job interviews I should never mention that my husband was in prison. Yet, I couldn't lie, because sooner or later I would be found out. Besides, I needed a job and that position was well suited to me. I was desperate and losing hope. With tears rolling down my cheeks and in a voice that was barely audible, I said, ‘My husband is in prison.'

‘For what?' he asked with a frown.

‘He is a political prisoner.'

He grew quiet. I didn't dare speak and he didn't ask any more questions. He started to write something and after a few seconds he looked up. He seemed upset. He handed me a note and said, ‘Don't discuss your husband with anyone. Take this note to the office next door and give it to Mrs Tabrizi. She will explain your responsibilities to you. You start tomorrow.'

 

The news of my taking a job exploded like a bomb.

With eyes that seemed to be popping out of their sockets, Mother asked, ‘You mean in an office? Like men?'

‘Yes. There is no difference between men and women any more.'

‘May God take my life! The things you say! It's the day of reckoning! I don't think your father and brothers will allow it.'

‘It is none of their business,' I snapped. ‘No one has the right to interfere in my life and the lives of my children. Everything they did to me in the past was enough. Now I am a married woman. It's not as if my husband is dead. He and I have power over my life. Therefore, it is best that they don't belittle themselves.'

This simple ultimatum closed everyone's mouth. Although I didn't think Father was too opposed to my working, as he had on several occasions expressed his pleasure that I was standing on my own two feet and not relying on my brothers.

The job proved effective in boosting my morale. I started feeling a certain sense of self and security. Although I was often exhausted, I was proud of not needing anyone.

 

At the agency, I was an assistant and an office manager. I did everything; I typed, answered the telephones, did the filing, oversaw certain accounts and sometimes even translated letters and documents. At first everything was difficult. I found every one of my duties confusing and overwhelming. But barely two weeks later, I had a better understanding of my responsibilities. Mr Zargar, who was now my supervisor, patiently explained everything to me and monitored my work. But he never again asked me about my private life or expressed any curiosity about Hamid. Gradually, I started correcting grammatical and stylistic mistakes in the texts I was given to type. After all, I had been studying Persian literature at the university and had spent half my time during the past decade reading books. My supervisor's attention and encouragement gave me more confidence. Eventually, he would simply tell me what he wanted to express in a letter or a report and I would write it for him.