The Book of Fate (42 page)

‘Parvaneh? Where are you? How did you find out?' I said as tears started to stream down my face.

‘Then it's true? I heard it on one of the Iranian radio stations tonight.'

‘Yes, it's true,' I said. ‘Both Hamid and his father.'

‘What? Why his father?'

‘He had a heart attack,' I explained. ‘He died of sorrow.'

‘Oh, my dear, you must be so alone. Will your brothers help you?'

‘Please! They won't take a single step for me. They didn't come to the funeral and they didn't even bother with a simple condolence.'

‘Well, at least you have your job and you don't need anyone to support you.'

‘What job? I was purged.'

‘What do you mean? What does being purged mean?'

‘It means they fired me.'

‘Why? And with two kids… what are you going to do?'

‘Three.'

‘Three? When? How long has it been since we last spoke?'

‘A long time… two and a half years. My daughter is eighteen months old.'

‘May God make them pay,' Parvaneh said. ‘Do you remember how you supported them? You said we were conceited and immoral, that we swindled the people, that we were traitors, that the country had to be turned upside down and people had to take back their rights and what was rightfully theirs… Look at you now! If you need money, if you need help, please tell me. All right?'

Sadness and tears were choking me.

‘What is it?' she said. ‘Why are you silent? Say something.'

I suddenly remembered a line of poetry and I said, ‘I have no fear of the enemy's taunts, but do not make me worthy of a friend's pity.'

Parvaneh was quiet for a few seconds. Then she said, ‘I am sorry, Massoum. Forgive me. I swear I can't help it. You know me; I can't keep anything inside. I am terribly sad for you and I just don't know what to say. I thought you had reached what you wanted, that you were living a happy life. I never imagined this. You know how much I love you. You are closer to me than my sister. If we don't take care of each other then who will? Swear on your children's lives that you will tell me if you ever need anything.'

‘Thank you, I will,' I said. ‘Just hearing your voice is a big help. For now, I need self-confidence more than anything else and your voice gives that to me. All I need is for us to stay in touch.'

 

I thought about different kinds of work and again considered sewing, which I had always hated but which seemed to have been etched into my destiny. Mrs Parvin promised to help, but she had hardly any clients left. I knew that no government agency would hire me and the selection committees at private companies and organisations that worked with or for the government would never consider me as a potential employee. I started looking for work at small private businesses, but that, too, was useless. The economy was bad and no one was hiring new employees. I even thought about making pickles and preserves and selling them to grocery stores, or taking orders for cakes, pastries, or other foods. But how? I had no experience.

Around that time, one day Mr Zargar called. Contrary to his usual manner, he sounded flustered. He had just heard about Hamid's death. He offered his condolences and asked if he and a few of my old colleagues could come to extend their sympathy. The following day, he came to the house with five of my former office friends. Seeing them renewed my pain and I started to cry. The women cried with me. Mr Zargar was flushed, his lips were quivering and he was trying not to look at us. When we calmed down, he said, ‘Do you know who called me yesterday to express his sorrow over what has happened?'

‘No! Who?'

‘Mr Shirzadi; from America. In fact, I heard the news from him.'

‘So he is still living there?' I asked. ‘I thought after the revolution he would come back.'

‘He did. You won't believe what state he was in. I had never seen anyone that excited and happy. He looked years younger.'

‘Then why did he leave again?'

‘I don't know. I asked him, “Why are you going? Your dream has come true.” All he said was, “Life's dream was nothing more than this: the death of hope or the hope for death.”'

‘You should have kept him at the agency,' I said.

‘Forget it!' Mr Zargar said. ‘They are even trying to get rid of me!'

‘Haven't you heard?' Mrs Molavi said. ‘They have built a case against Mr Zargar.'

‘What case?' I asked. ‘What did you do?'

‘I did what you did,' Mr Zargar explained.

‘But they can't pin any of that on you!'

Mr Mohammadi said, ‘Why not? They consider Mr Zargar to be head to toe one of those who prospered under the old regime; an arrogant, corrupt swindler!'

Everyone laughed.

‘You are too kind!' Mr Zargar said.

I wanted to laugh. The accusation of being among the wealthy who had thrived under the Shah's government was gradually becoming a compliment.

‘They harassed me for a while because my uncle was a successful lawyer and I had studied abroad and have a foreign wife,' Mr Zargar explained. ‘You must remember how the director of the agency couldn't stand the sight of me. Well, he tried to use this opportunity to get rid of me. But his plan didn't work.' Then he said, ‘But tell me, what are you doing these days?'

‘Nothing! I have no money and I am desperately looking for a job.'

Later that night, Mr Zargar called and said, ‘I didn't want to mention this in front of the others, but if you really need work, I may be able to arrange something temporary.'

‘Of course I need to work! You cannot imagine my circumstances.' And I went on to briefly tell him about my desperate situation.

‘For now, we have a few articles and a book that need to be edited and typed,' he said. ‘If you can find a typewriter, you can start working on these at home. The money may not be much, but it won't be too little either.'

‘I think God has appointed you my saviour angel! But how can I work for the agency? If they find out, it will be terrible for you.'

‘They don't need to know,' he said. ‘We will draw up the contract under a different name and I will deliver the work to you myself. You don't need to go there.'

‘I really don't know what to say and how to thank you.'

‘There is no need for thanks. You do excellent work and few have your grasp of the Persian language. Just try to find a typewriter. I will bring the documents tomorrow afternoon.'

I was beside myself with joy, but where was I going to find a typewriter? The one Hamid's father had given me years ago to practise on was very old. Just then, Mansoureh called. Among Hamid's sisters, she was the kindest and the most sensible. I told her about Mr Zargar's offer.

‘Let me ask Bahman,' she said. ‘They probably have an extra one at the company that they can lend to you.'

When I hung up, I felt relieved and happy. I thanked God that it had been a good day.

I started working from home. I typed, edited and occasionally sewed. Mrs Parvin was my companion, assistant and partner. She came to the house almost every day to either take care of Shirin or for us to sew together. Whatever money she made, she carefully calculated my share. But I was sure she was giving me more than was rightfully mine.

She was still beautiful and energetic. I couldn't believe that after Ahmad's death she had never had any other companion. Her eyes still filled with tears every time she talked about him. People's opinion of her was worth nothing to me. She was a noble and delightful woman who had helped me more than my own family. She was so kind and generous that she willingly sacrificed her own comfort and profit for the well-being of others.

Faati, too, tried to do whatever she could to help me. But with two small children and her husband earning a modest salary, she had a thousand problems of her own. In those days, everyone was grappling with one difficulty or another. The only people around me whose lives were improving were Mahmoud and Ali who continued to accumulate wealth. Apparently they were using Father's shop, which now belonged to Mother, to receive subsidised goods from the government and they were selling them in the open market at several times the cost.

By then, Mother was old and tired and dealing with her own problems. I saw her less often and when I did go to visit her at her house, I would do my best not to run into my brothers. I had also stopped going to social events and family gatherings, until one day when Mother called and joyfully broke the news that, after trying for several years, Ali's wife was finally pregnant. To celebrate and give thanks for that blessing, she was hosting a dinner in commemoration of Imam Abbas and she invited me to join them.

‘Well, congratulations!' I said. ‘Please extend my best wishes to Ali's wife, but you know I will not come to the dinner.'

‘Don't say that,' she said. ‘You have to come. This is in commemoration of Imam Abbas, how can you refuse? You know it will be a bad omen. Do you want more misery in your life?'

‘No, Mother. I just don't want to see them.'

‘Then ignore them, just come to the dinner and pray. God will help you.'

‘To be honest,' I said, ‘I really do feel the need to go to a religious commemoration or a pilgrimage to have a good cry and empty my heart, but I don't want to lay eyes on my contemptible brothers.'

‘For the love of God, stop saying such things,' she scolded. ‘No matter what, they are your brothers. And besides, what wrong has Ali done? I saw myself how much time he spent calling this place and that place to help you.' And she went on to argue, ‘Then come for my sake. Do you have any idea how long it has been since I saw you? You go to Mrs Parvin's house, but you don't stop by to see me. Don't you ever think your mother is going to be here for only a very short time?'

And she burst into tears and continued to cry until I finally agreed to go.

At the commemoration ceremony I cried non-stop, asked God to give me the strength to bear the heavy burden of my life, and prayed for my children and their future. Mrs Parvin and Faati cried and prayed next to me. Ehteram-Sadat, dripping gold jewellery, was sitting at the head of the room and avoided looking at me. Mother was reciting prayers under her breath and counting her prayer beads. Ali's wife, proud and jubilant, was sitting next to her mother and wouldn't make a move for fear that she would miscarry. She constantly asked for different foods that were immediately put in front of her.

After the guests left, we started cleaning up until Sadegh Agha who had taken the children out came to fetch Faati and me. Mother kissed the children, sat them down in the yard and brought them some soup. Just then, Mahmoud arrived and Ehteram-Sadat rolled into the yard like a big ball. But Mother didn't let them leave. She took some soup for Mahmoud and they started whispering together. I could tell I was the subject of their conversation, but I was so hurt and angry at Mahmoud that I didn't want anyone to mediate, even though I knew I would some day need him. What's more, I didn't want my sons to witness or be part of any conversation or argument between me and my brother.

I called Siamak and Massoud and said, ‘Siamak, come and take the baby's bag to the car and wait for me there. And Massoud, you take Shirin.'

‘Where are you off to?' Mother said. ‘The kids just got here and they still haven't finished their soup.'

‘Mother, I have to leave, I have a lot of work to do.'

I called Siamak again and he came running to the window to take the bag from me.

‘Mum, did you know Uncle Mahmoud has bought a new car?' he said. ‘We're going to take a look at it until you come.' And he called Gholam-Ali to go with him.

Massoud said, ‘Mum, bring Shirin yourself, I am going to go with them.' And the boys all ran out to the street.

Mother had planned the reconciliation very well and it seemed Mahmoud had come prepared.

‘You tell me to not do wrong, to not be disloyal,' he said to Mother. ‘But I have sacrificed my right, I have overlooked all the insults because the Prophet said a Muslim should be forgiving. But I cannot ignore fairness and justice for faith, for the Prophet and for God.'

I was agitated, but knowing Mahmoud, I could also interpret his comments as some sort of apology. Mother called out to me and said, ‘My girl, come here for a minute.'

I put on my sweater; the early March weather was cool and pleasant. I picked up Shirin and reluctantly walked out into the yard. Just then we heard the boys shouting out on the street and Mahmoud's youngest son, Gholam-Hossein, came running into the yard, yelling, ‘Come quickly, Siamak and Gholam-Ali have got into a fight.'

Then Mahmoud's daughter ran in crying and screaming, ‘Dad, hurry! He's killing Gholam-Ali.'

Ali, Mahmoud and Sadegh Agha tore out of the yard. I put Shirin down, grabbed the chador hanging on the railings, pulled it over my head and ran out after them. I pushed my way through the crowd of neighbourhood kids who had gathered around. Ali had pinned Siamak against the wall and was cursing him, and Mahmoud was slapping him hard in the face. I knew how heavy Mahmoud's hand was and I could feel the sting of each blow with my entire being.

Wild and insane, I screamed, ‘Let him go!' And I leaped towards them. My chador fell to the ground as I threw myself between Siamak and Mahmoud and hurled my fists at Mahmoud's face, but they only landed on his shoulders. I wanted to tear him to pieces. This was the second time he had abused my children. Just because they had no father to protect them, Mahmoud and Ali thought they could do whatever they wanted to them.

Sadegh Agha pulled my brothers away, but with my fists clenched I continued to shield Siamak like a sentinel. It was only then that I caught sight of Gholam-Ali sitting on the edge of the street gutter, crying. His mother was rubbing his back and hissing insults. The poor boy still couldn't breathe comfortably. Siamak had hurled him to the ground and he had hit his back on the cement edge of the gutter. I was terribly concerned and instinctively said, ‘My dear, are you all right?'