The Book of Fate (44 page)

‘No, my dear, I haven't. It's enough that you have read their books and listened to their speeches. Do you think they are right in what they say?'

‘Yes, of course! And if you had, too, you would understand.'

‘And what about the other groups and organisations? Have you read their books, too? Have you listened to their speeches, too?'

‘No, I don't need to. I know what they say.'

‘But wait, that's not right,' I reasoned. ‘You can't this easily claim that you have found the right path and are willing to sacrifice your life for it. Perhaps other groups are saying something better. How many opinions and ideologies have you looked into and studied without prejudgment before making your decision? Have you read a single one of your father's books?'

‘No, his way wasn't the right way. They were atheists; perhaps even anti-religion.'

‘Nonetheless, he also believed he had found the right way to save humanity and to bring about justice. And he made his choice after years of studying and learning. But, you, who don't have one hundredth his knowledge, claim that he was wrong his entire life and that he lost his life following the wrong path. Perhaps you are right; I believe this, too. But think about it. If with all his experience he made such a costly mistake, why wouldn't you? You don't even know the names of the various schools of political philosophy and thought. Think, my son. Life is the most precious thing you have. You cannot risk it over a mistake, because you will not be able to take it back.'

‘You know nothing about this organisation and you question it for no good reason,' Siamak stubbornly argued. ‘You think they want to deceive us.'

‘You are right; I don't know anything about them. But I do know that someone who uses the emotions of innocent, inexperienced youth for his own gain is not an honest and decent person. I did not find you on a street corner to now simply give you up so that some guy can seize power.'

I am still proud of the perseverance and determination I showed that day. By late afternoon, news of the arrests and killings spread and turmoil followed. Every day, Siamak heard about more friends who had been arrested. The Mujahedin's leaders were in hiding and on the run, but the youth were being killed by the dozen. Every afternoon the names and ages of those executed were broadcast on television and Siamak and I would listen with horror to the never-ending lists. Each time Siamak heard the name of someone he knew, he roared like a tiger trapped in a cage. I wondered what the parents of those young boys and girls felt when they heard their child's name on the television. And selfishly, I thanked God that I had stopped Siamak from going out that day.

People reacted differently to the incident. Some were in shock, others were either indifferent or nervous, and there were those who were happy. Such contrasting reactions in a society that not too long ago had seemed so united was hard to believe.

One day I ran into a former colleague who was deeply involved in politics. He looked at me and said, ‘What is the matter, Mrs Sadeghi? You look like your ships have sunk.'

‘Aren't you worried about the situation and the news we hear every day?' I asked with surprise.

‘No! I think everything is exactly as it should be.'

 

At the start of the summer, we moved to our rooms at my mother-in-law's house. Leaving my home after seventeen years was not easy. Every brick in that building held a story and brought a memory back to life for me. With the passage of time, even the harshest recollections seemed sweet. We still called the living room ‘Shahrzad's room', we still called the ground floor ‘Bibi's home'. Hamid's scent still lingered in every corner and I was still finding his things in the nooks and crannies of every room. I had lived the best days of my life in that house.

I chided myself to be logical. I had no other choice. I started packing our belongings. I sold some things, threw some away and donated others. Faati said, ‘Keep the good furniture. Perhaps you will move to a bigger house. Isn't it a shame to get rid of your sofas? You bought them in the first year of the revolution, remember?'

‘Oh, I was so hopeful then. I thought I was going to have a wonderful life. But I have no use for these sofas now. I will never have a bigger house, or at least not any time soon, and our new rooms are so small. Besides, how many parties do you think I will be giving? I've decided to take only our basic needs.'

Our new home was made up of two connecting rooms and a garage that had been converted into a living room and a kitchen. The bathroom and toilet were attached to the building, but had to be accessed from the outside. I put the boys in one room and Shirin and I shared the other one. We put the boys' desks, my desk, the typewriter and the sewing machine in the bedrooms, and arranged a couple of small sofas, a coffee table and the television in the living room. All three rooms had access to the garden, which was large with a round reflecting pool at its centre. My mother-in-law's house was at the opposite end of the garden.

After everything had been moved out of our old house, I walked through the rooms, ran my hands over the walls that had witnessed my life, and said goodbye to them. I went up on the rooftop and retraced Hamid's escape route as far as the neighbouring house, I watered the old trees in the yard, and through the dusty windows I looked into Bibi's rooms. There had once been so much commotion in that silent house. I dried my tears and with a heavy heart I locked the doors, saying goodbye to that part of my life, happiness and youth. And I left.

The children were very sad about the move and unsettled by the chaos and confusion. And they expressed their unhappiness by stubbornly refusing to help and cooperate. With his arm over his eyes, Siamak was sprawled out on a bed with its mattress askew and Massoud was outside, squatting next to the wall with his chin on his knees, drawing lines on the brick paving with pieces of plaster left over from the construction. Fortunately, Shirin was with Mrs Parvin and I didn't have to worry about her, too.

I didn't have the strength to do everything by myself, but I couldn't force the boys to help me. I knew from their silence that the slightest provocation would ignite tantrums and start a fight. I went to one of the rooms, took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to calm myself down and find the energy to deal with them. Then I brewed some tea and went to the corner bakery that had just started baking for the afternoon. I bought two Persian flatbreads and quietly went back to the house. I spread a carpet outside in the garden, laid out tea, bread, butter, cheese and a bowl of fruit, and called the boys over to eat. I knew they were hungry. All they had eaten that day was a sandwich at eleven o'clock before we left our old home. They kept me waiting for a while, but the smell of fresh bread and the scent of the cucumbers I was peeling whetted their appetite and like a pair of wary cats they inched their way over to the spread and started to eat.

When I was certain that their ill humour had given way to the satisfaction of having eaten a tasty meal, I said, ‘Look, boys, leaving that house where I had spent my youth and the best days of my life was more difficult for me than it was for you. But what could we do? We've left that house, but life goes on. You are both young and just starting out. One day you will build homes for yourselves that will be much bigger and far more beautiful than that house.'

‘They didn't have the right to take our home away from us,' Siamak said angrily. ‘They didn't have the right!'

‘Yes, they did,' I said calmly. ‘They had agreed to keep the house as long as their mother was alive. But after she died, they had to divide their inheritance.'

‘But they never even came to see Bibi! We were the ones who took care of her.'

‘Well, that was because we were living in that house and using it. It was our duty to help her.'

‘And we don't have a share of Grandfather's house either,' Siamak added crossly. ‘Everyone inherited a share except us.'

‘Well, that is the law. When a son dies before his father, his family does not inherit anything.'

‘Why is the law always against us?' Massoud asked.

‘Why do you care so much about the inheritance?' I asked. ‘And who told you all this?'

‘Do you think we are stupid?' Siamak said. ‘We have heard it a thousand times, starting at Dad's funeral.'

‘We don't need any of it,' I said. ‘For now, we are living in your grandfather's house and they have spent all this money renovating these rooms for us. What difference does it make if it is in our name or not? We are not paying rent and that itself is very good. You two will grow up and build your own houses. I don't like my children to think about money and inheritances like vultures.'

‘They took what was rightfully ours,' Siamak said.

‘You mean you want to live in that old house?' I said pointing across the garden. ‘I have much bigger dreams for you. Soon you will both go to university and start working. You will become doctors or engineers. And what a house you will build! New, modern, with the best furniture. You won't even take a second look at that ancient ruin. And like old-fashioned women, I will go from house to house searching for wonderful wives for you. Oh, what beautiful girls I will find for you. I will go everywhere and boast that my sons are doctors or engineers, that they are tall and handsome, have beautiful cars and houses that look like palaces. Girls will faint left and right.'

The boys were grinning from ear to ear and wanted to laugh at me and my exaggerated affectations.

‘Well, Siamak Agha, do you prefer blondes or brunettes?' I continued.

‘Brunettes.'

‘How about you, Massoud, do you prefer girls who are fair or olive-skinned?'

‘I want her to have blue eyes, the rest doesn't matter.'

‘Blue like Firouzeh's eyes?' I asked.

Siamak laughed and said, ‘You rascal, you just showed your hand!'

‘Why? What did I say? Mum's eyes are sometimes blue, too.'

‘Rubbish! Mum's eyes are green.'

‘Besides, Firouzeh is like my sister,' Massoud said coyly.

‘He is right,' I quipped. ‘She's like his sister now, but may be like his wife when she grows up.'

‘Mum! Don't say these things! And you, Siamak, stop laughing over nothing.'

I hugged him and said, ‘Oh, what a wedding I will have for you!'

All that talk put me in better spirits, too.

‘Well, boys, how do you think we should arrange the house?'

‘House?' Siamak quipped. ‘The way you say it one would think it really is a house.'

‘Of course it is. It's not important how big a house is, what's important is how you decorate it. Some people move into a shack or a dank basement and fix it up so well that it looks more beautiful and comfortable than a hundred palaces. Everyone's home reflects their style, taste and personality.'

‘But this place is so small.'

‘No, it's not. We have two bedrooms and a living room and this beautiful, sprawling garden that half the year adds to our living space. Let's fill the garden with flowers and plants and paint the reflecting pool and put goldfish in it. Every afternoon, we will turn on the fountain and sit here and enjoy it. How about that?'

The children's attitude had changed. Instead of the sadness and disappointment of an hour ago, there was excitement in their eyes. I had to take advantage of the opportunity.

‘Well, gentlemen, get up. The larger bedroom is yours. Go and arrange it and decorate it for yourselves. The new paint looks nice, doesn't it? The smaller bedroom will be mine and Shirin's. You move the heavy furniture and I'll take care of the rest. The round table and chairs belong in the garden. Massoud, the garden is in your hands. Once we have settled in, survey it and see what you need and which plants and flowers we should buy. And Siamak Khan, you need to instal the aerial on the roof and run a telephone wire over from Grandmother's house. Also, you and Massoud should put up the curtain rods. By the way, let's not forget to clean the wooden bed in Bibi's home and bring it here. It's good to have it out in the garden. We'll throw a carpet over it and if we want we can sleep outside. It will be fun, won't it?'

The children were excited and started making suggestions. Massoud said, ‘We should have different curtains for our bedroom. The ones from the other house were too dark and thick.'

‘You are right. We will go together and pick a fabric with a floral pattern and I will make matching bedcovers. I promise you will have a bright and elegant room.'

And so the children grew to accept that house and we adapted to our new life. A week later we were almost settled in and after a month we had a thriving garden full of flowers, a beautiful and glistening reflecting pool, and rooms with cheerful curtains and decoration.

Mrs Parvin was pleased that we had moved. She said our new home was easier to get to. The children's grandmother was also happy that we were there and, according to her, she was less scared. Every time the air-raid sirens went off and the power was cut we would rush over to her house so that she wouldn't be alone. The children had somehow adapted to the wartime conditions and considered it part of their daily lives. During the bombings and missile attacks when we had to live in the dark, Shirin sang for us and we accompanied her. It took everyone's mind off the bombardment, except for Grandmother who always sat and stared at the ceiling with horror.

Mr Zargar regularly came to see us and brought work for me. We had become good friends. We often confided in each other and I sought his advice about the boys. He, too, was now alone. At the start of the war, his wife and daughter had moved back to France.

One day he said, ‘By the way, I received a letter from Mr Shirzadi.'

‘What has he written?' I asked. ‘Is he well?'

‘Actually, I don't think so. He seems very lonely and depressed. I'm afraid being away from his homeland is going to break him. Lately his poems are more like letters from exile that tug at your heart. I simply wrote: “You are lucky to be there and living a comfortable life.” You won't believe what he wrote back.'

‘What did he write?'

‘Unlike you, I can never remember poetry. He wrote a very long and painful poem that reflects his feelings about living in a foreign land.'

‘You are right,' I said. ‘He is not going to survive the loneliness and depression.'

My prediction came true too soon and our heartbroken friend found eternal peace; a peace that he had perhaps never experienced in his life on earth. I attended the memorial service his family held for him. He was praised and honoured, but the silence about his poetry, which had reigned while he was alive, still continued.

Mr Zargar introduced me to a few publishing companies and I started working for them from home. Eventually, he found a regular job for me at a magazine that offered a steady and secure salary. It wasn't much, but I made up for the shortfall with the freelance projects I continued to do.

I enrolled the children in the school near our home. At first, they went there moping and unhappy, sad to be separated from their friends. But a month later, they hardly ever mentioned their old school. Siamak made a lot of new friends and Massoud who was kind and pleasant soon gained everyone's affection. Shirin who had turned three was cheerful and charming. She danced, talked incessantly and played with her brothers. I wanted to send her to a nearby daycare centre, but Mrs Parvin wouldn't hear of it.

‘Do you have too much money on your hands?' she chided. ‘You are either at the magazine offices or sitting at home typing, reading, writing, or sewing. And then you want to pour that hard-earned money in these people's pockets? No, I won't let you. It's not as if I'm dead.'

I was getting used to the new rhythm of life. Although the war was still raging and the news was horrifying, I was so engrossed in life that the only time I truly felt the war was when the air-raid sirens went off. And even then, if we were all together, I wasn't too apprehensive. I always thought the best death would be for us to die together, in one place.

Fortunately, the boys had still not reached the age when they would have to serve in the military and I was certain that by then the conflict would be over. After all, how many years could we continue fighting? And luckily my boys weren't among those who dreamed of going to the front.

I was starting to believe that my hardships were behind me and that I could live a normal life, raising my children in relative calm.

Several months passed. The government continued to lash back at dissenters and opposition groups. Murders and assassinations were rampant. Political activists went underground, the leaders of various organisations escaped, the war continued and I again started to worry about my sons and their future, keeping a close eye on them.

It seemed that my talks, together with recent events, had been effective and Siamak didn't have much contact with his Mujahedin friends, or at least so I thought. As spring approached, my worries lessened. The boys were busy studying for their final exams and I started hinting that they needed to start preparing for the university entrance exams as well. I wanted them to be so immersed in school and studying that they wouldn't have time to think about anything else.

One spring night, I was busy typing a document I had edited, Shirin was sleeping and the light in the boys' room was still on, when the sound of the doorbell, followed by someone pounding on the door, made me freeze. Siamak hurried out of his room and we stared at each other in shock. Massoud walked out looking sleepy. The sound of the doorbell wouldn't stop. The three of us went towards the door. I pushed the boys back and carefully opened the door a crack. Someone shoved the door open, held a piece of paper up in front of my face, then pushed me aside and several Revolutionary Guards stormed in. Siamak tore out of the house and started running towards his grandmother's house. Two guards chased after him, grabbed him and threw him down on the ground in the middle of the garden.

‘Leave him alone!' I screamed.

I started to run to him but a hand pulled me back into the house. I kept screaming, ‘What is going on? What has he done?'

One of the Revolutionary Guards who looked older than the others turned to Massoud and said, ‘Put your mother's chador over her.'

I couldn't stay calm. I could see Siamak's shadow as he sat in the garden. Dear God, what were they going to do to my dear heart? I imagined Siamak being tortured and I screamed and fainted. When I came to, Massoud was splashing water on my face and the men were taking Siamak away.

‘I won't let you take my child!' I screamed.

I ran after them.

‘Where are you taking him? Tell me!'

The older Revolutionary Guard looked at me sympathetically and when the others were out of earshot he whispered, ‘We are taking him to Evin Prison. Don't worry, they won't hurt him. Come next week and ask for Ezatollah Haj-Hosseini. I will give you his news myself.'

‘Take my life, but please don't harm my child,' I pleaded. ‘For the love of God, for the love of your children!'

He shook his head compassionately and left. Massoud and I ran after them to the end of the street. The neighbours were watching from the corner of their drawn curtains. When the Revolutionary Guards' car turned the corner, I collapsed in the middle of the street. Massoud dragged me back to the house. All I could see was Siamak's pale face and terrified eyes, and I could hear his trembling voice as he shouted, ‘Mum! Mum, for the love of God, do something!' I had convulsions all night. This was something I could not survive. He was only seventeen years old. His greatest crime was perhaps selling the Mujahedin's newspaper at some street corner. He had not been in regular contact with them for some time. Why had they come after him?