The Girl from the Garden (14 page)

“Where did you take him, Naneh Zolekhah?” Khorsheed asks.

“Nowhere, child. Go, I must have a word with Rakhel.”

“Did you take him to Kokab, Naneh Zolekhah?”

“For a moment, daughter. Go, now.”

“Why?” Khorsheed asks.

“What nonsense, child. I took him with me for a moment.”

“Did she touch him?”

“Khorsheed?”

“Did she touch him?” Khorsheed inspects the sleeping baby in the light of the morning. He opens his eyes and reaches for her face. She kisses his hand and looks at Zolekhah. “I will burn some wild rue seeds for him. Just to be
safe.” She turns and hurries to her room, holding Yousseff to her chest protectively.

“The whole household is unsettled,” Zolekhah says. “As though some terrible omen, G-d forbid, has come upon us.” She shakes her head and mutters a quick prayer, then turns to Rakhel and says, “follow me to the kitchen, I must have a word with you.”

Fatimeh stands in the kitchen peeling and chopping onions. “Where are the girls?” Zolekhah asks.

“I sent them to clean up the chicken coop and gather some eggs.”

“Go see if they are doing it correctly, Fatimeh, you know those girls.” Fatimeh wipes her hands on her skirt and leaves the kitchen. Zolekhah turns to Rakhel. Rakhel fingers the hem of her shirt nervously.

“Did I do something wrong, Naneh Zolekhah?”

“No, daughter, not something I have seen, though G-d sees all.”

“Why did you wish to speak with me?”

“To talk to you about your responsibilities as the first wife. You understand, don’t you, that though Kokab is older than you, you have the authority of the first wife? And with that authority comes a responsibility?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do. You are to make sure that things run smoothly, not just between you and Asher, but that the whole of the household continues to live in peace.”

“I’ll try my best, Naneh Zolekhah.”

“Rakhel, you are like my own daughter. I am growing old and tired. I cannot continue doing all that I do daily. Cooking and managing the servants, ordering supplies from the markets, keeping an eye on the stock of food, calculating what’s left and what’s needed.” Rakhel watches as Zolekhah takes from the cord tied about her waist the ring of keys. “These are the keys to the cellar and the storerooms of food.” She hands the keys to Rakhel. Rakhel stands motionless, the keys a substantial heaviness in the palm of her hand. She looks up at Zolekhah.

“See to things,” Zolekhah says. She pats Rakhel’s shoulder, then holds the small of her back as she walks out of the kitchen. Without looking back, she says, “Kokab will join us for dinner this evening. You are the khanum of the household now. This is the first dinner you oversee. Make sure you welcome her.”

Rakhel stands alone in the kitchen. A copper pot of water boils on the hearth. Eggplants soak in a tub of brine on the stone floor. She looks at the keys. They feel warm, already, from the heat of her hand. She lifts her shirt and unfastens the red yarn that holds her mother’s key about her waist. That key wasn’t meant for any lock, but held all her mother’s hopes for her. If her mother could see, now, this ring of heavy iron keys she holds in her hands. Rakhel slips the bunch of keys onto the yarn, but they are too heavy and the whole of them fall to the floor with a clatter. She stoops to collect them, one by one, holding each to the light. Then she unfastens a length of rope from a bag of rice and strings
each key, saving her mother’s for last. She fastens it about her waist, the rope rough against her skin. This will do for now, she thinks, until she can find a more decorative cord, one made of braided silk, perhaps. She walks into the kitchen garden, the weight of the keys against her hips. The morning air feels cool, delicate.

In the gold of the light, she kneels among the bitter herbs and fills her skirt with the young leaves of the opal basil, plucks the tender green of the tarragon, clutches handfuls of parsley. She returns to the kitchen humming and places the herbs in a bowl of water, then kneels on the floor to remove their stems. Rakhel looks up from her task to see Sadiqeh enter the kitchen with her shaliteh full of brown-shelled and blue-shelled eggs. Sadiqeh stops at the threshold a moment and looks over her shoulder, then walks into the kitchen quietly. Rakhel stands up and straightens her skirt, then moves to the hearth. “Finish cleaning those herbs for me,” Rakhel says.

“Yes, Rakhel Khanum. Soon as I set down these eggs.” Sadiqeh takes the eggs one by one from her skirt and puts them into a bowl. “Wouldn’t believe how many eggs we found here and there,” Sadiqeh says. “Those poor hens, hiding them from us.”

Rakhel pretends to mind the pot on the stove. She lifts her shirt to shift the keys and when she is certain that the girl has seen the set of keys at her waist, she says, “Put the eggs in that bowl faster and tend to the herbs. You did not find the eggs earlier because the henhouse is such a mess.”
Rakhel worries that the tone of her voice is not flat, the way Zolekhah speaks when she addresses the servants. She will have to practice, later. Sadiqeh pauses, an egg in her hand. She places it carefully on top of the pile in the bowl, then brushes her hands off on her skirt.

“Yes, Rakhel Khanum.”

“The henhouse must be cleaned once a week, from now on. The smell is evil and I’m certain it carries disease.”

“Did Zolekhah Khanum say so?”

“Zolekhah has asked me to see to things around the household from now on.” Rakhel turns abruptly back to the hearth so that the keys dangling from her waist clink against one another. She hears Zahra and Fatimeh approach the kitchen from the garden, talking to one another.

“Fatimeh, they say if she pounds mandrake into a fine powder and sprinkles it in her husband’s food, he will become more fond of her.”

“Everyone else eats that food, too, child.”

“Well, maybe it will help us all. Lord knows I don’t like her much myself. Oh, and if she can put the same powder in her rival’s food, but add vinegar, Kokab will go crazy.” They stand outside the kitchen. Sadiqeh swipes her hand across the table with a rag as though to clean it, pushing a wooden ladle onto the floor.

“And I’ve heard that if you make halva and mark the surface with a silver ring inscribed with a love talisman . . .”

“Rakhel Khanum, should I wash the herbs first?” Sadiqeh asks, louder than necessary.

Zahra and Fatimeh enter the kitchen to see Rakhel standing by the hearth, wooden ladle in hand, her lips a thin, straight line. Zahra turns red from ear to ear. Rakhel addresses herself to Fatimeh. “I’m seeing to dinner tonight,” Rakhel says. “You can finish the coop today with the girls, then send them home when it is clean.” Fatimeh looks Rakhel in the eyes. Rakhel tilts her chin up slightly.

“Yes, Rakhel Khanum. You won’t be needing old Fatimeh’s help with the cooking?”

“Not today. But for tomorrow morning, make sure that the men’s breakfast is ready earlier. Asher has been heading out early, lately, and thirsty for tea.”

“I’ll do it right after my morning prayers, Rakhel Khanum. You’ll call me if you need me?” Rakhel nods once and motions with her hand for the servants to leave. She turns her back to them to stir the contents of the pot on the flame. She can feel the women hesitate. When they walk out of the kitchen, she turns to pick up the eggs, one after another, and cracks them into a bowl. She stirs the yolks briskly. She hears an unfamiliar footstep approaching the kitchen. Rakhel knows that Kokab stands in the doorway, but she does not turn.

“Do you need help?” Kokab asks. Rakhel turns, wiping her hands on her skirt. Kokab has the ruband covering her face and eyes. She reaches up and unfastens the cloth, so that Rakhel sees her face. “I hope I didn’t startle you. Would you like me to help?” Rakhel looks at the slant of Kokab’s eyes, the defined lips, the pale skin.

“No, that won’t be necessary. No need for you to sweat in here, I’ll see to things.” Kokab nods. She smiles at Rakhel. Rakhel strains to return the smile, but her mouth defies her in what she knows must be a menacing grimace. Rakhel turns her back to the woman with the pretense that the pot on the flame needs her tending and says, “You will join us, finally, for dinner?”

“If I am welcome.”

“It is certainly more convenient to have you at the table than to serve you in your room.” Kokab remains silent. Rakhel waits until she hears her leave. Then she walks into the empty courtyard. The pool and fountain gurgle in the center of the andaruni. The windows of Ibrahim’s house are open into the courtyard, their lace curtains catching the breeze. Rakhel looks at the potted plants in front of Zolekhah’s quarters, then up to the great hall of the
panj-daree
. She looks at the marble steps leading to Asher’s home, the long breezeway to her bedroom, to his study, and farther, until that last room. Kokab may have power in that one room, Rakhel thinks, but I have rule of all this, the cellar, the gardens, the storerooms, the servants, the grand room with all its antiques. She pats the keys and returns to the warmth of the hearth to finish her cooking.

Mahboubeh remembers
how
Rakhel carried those keys with her until the day of her death. Even after Yousseff’s widow sold the family estate and the locks those keys opened didn’t
exist anymore. Mahboubeh opens another kitchen drawer and rummages through it. She slams that drawer shut. Frantically, she opens another. She takes out the contents, folded dish towels, clothespins, envelopes with yellowed letters, batteries. She stops and looks at the items crowding the countertop, littering the ground. So many objects. A panic takes hold of her. She can’t remember what she searches for, or how long she has been searching. She closes her eyes and waits for her mind to clear. She opens her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins putting things back in the drawers and cabinets.

Mahboubeh’s dinner sits cold and untouched on the table. Rice, a bit of stewed lamb. She sits down before it, in the silence of her empty kitchen. A spoon. She needed a spoon. She does not rise to fetch one. She has no appetite these days. She cooks rarely, a big pot of something that lasts days. Meals are no longer the events they once were, when her husband was alive, or when she herself was a child, at the family sofre. In those days, Rakhel controlled and allocated the food. The men, of course, Uncle Asher and her father, simply sat down and ate their fill. But the women and the children looked to Rakhel for permission before they ever ate anything.

Mahboubeh imagines Rakhel, preceded by the sound of her keys as she walks slowly through the courtyard after returning from the cellar, eating a handful of something. A group of children surround Rakhel and their voices crowd Mahboubeh’s mind, shrill with anticipation,
please, Dada,
please, do you have dried mulberries?
Please, some for me?
Did you bring
figs, Dada, can I have a fig?
Rakhel reaches into her pocket and takes out a handful of sunflower seeds, puts one between her front teeth, cracks it, flicks the shell, and eats the meat. And another, and another. The children become more frantic.
Some for me, Dada, some for me?
Mahboubeh stands among them. She is hungry. She bounces from foot to foot. In her haste, she forgets and grabs at the hem of Rakhel’s shirt. Rakhel turns and slaps her hand away. Mahboubeh’s eyes sting with tears. She looks at the untouched plate of food before her and pushes it away.

A car passes in the street outside. Dusk settles. The kitchen grows darker. The crickets take up their song. Mahboubeh rises from the table, turns on the kitchen light, and scrapes the food on her plate into the trash, then places the plate in the sink. She turns on the water. The sink fills with warm water and Mahboubeh dips her hands in, closes her eyes a moment as the steam rises.

Rakhel sits quietly
at the sofre and watches the steam rise from the mound of saffron rice, from the bowl of eggplant and okra stew. She looks at the basil and green onions she arranged in the fine silver tray used only for the most special occasions. Asher sits at the head, in his usual place, and Ibrahim beside him. Zolekhah, at the other end. And Khorsheed beside her. Then, Kokab. Rakhel tries to keep her eyes on the food, and find a way to busy herself with eating.
She reaches for bread, but then she notices Asher glance at Kokab, a quick spark in his eyes. Rakhel’s hand remains outstretched until Asher clears his throat and startles her. She grabs a piece of bread and puts it in her mouth, almost choking. Asher looks away from her and resumes his dialogue with his brother.

“So when do you think you will be well enough to return to the caravansary?”

“I am sorry, Asher. My ribs are still mending, I can sit and stand with little assistance. Though I ache to lift or walk.”

“It is the wheat harvest, soon. I will need to leave for the villages to oversee the farmers. Do you think you might be able to manage in my absence?”

“In a week’s time, I should be on my feet again.”

“Not much is needed from you but to make sure we are not robbed.”

“Yes, yes . . .”

“It will not be physically taxing.”

“No.”

“Why don’t you come with me to the caravansary, tomorrow. You can rest there, too, and see how things are faring.”

“I’m not sure . . . If I can walk the distance.”

“Take one of the mules.”

“Asher, the jostling of that beast will kill him,” Zolekhah says. “What is your hurry, the farmers have been harvesting the wheat for centuries without you overseeing them. Allow Ibrahim a bit more time to convalesce. Besides,
you have your own business at home that needs tending to. This is certainly not a time for you to leave, with Kokab just arriving.”

Asher turns to his mother. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, then looks at her and says, “Thank you, Mother, but perhaps it’d be wiser for you to see to other matters and allow me to care for the business and the lands.”

“Yes, son, certainly. As a matter of fact, Rakhel, you can help me clear the plates, and Khorsheed, why don’t you help your husband to bed?”

Khorsheed rises dutifully from the table and reaches to assist Ibrahim. Ibrahim looks apologetically at Asher, but Asher glares at Zolekhah, instead, his jaw tight.