Women Without Men (6 page)

For a moment the recollections of her father overwhelmed her focus on the fragrance, but she lifted her right hand to her face, as if to keep the memory from entering her mind. It was so melancholy to think of the dead.

Golchehreh was in the room. He was putting on his tie in front of a full-length mirror, which reflected part of the yard, and the balcony where his wife, deep in thought, was gently rocking in the chair. He was taking his time as he watched his wife's reflection in the mirror. He did not cherish face-to-face encounters with his wife. On those occasions Golchehreh could only grin contemptuously and feel an intense dislike for her in his heart. But in her absence, or as he now watched her reflection in the mirror, he felt an overwhelming tenderness for her and loved her more than anything or anybody, a far cry from the deep set, thirty-year-old resentment he felt when they were in close proximity to each other.

Farrokhlaqa felt like stretching as she sat in the chair. She extended her arms and arched her back. This gave her a pleasurable release, but more than that it reminded her of Vivien Leigh in
Gone with the Wind.
That was how she had stretched in a bedroom scene. Thinking of Vivien Leigh reminded her of her encounter with Fakhroddin Azod at the banquet given by the Prince
²
at his Shem-iran estate. He had just returned from America and had brought with him many interesting pictures and home
movies he had shot in New York and showed them to guests at parties. Farrokhlaqa had visited New York three times but had never seen the city as depicted in Fakhroddin's pictures. Secretly, she blamed her husband. He would descend to the hotel lobby at nine, have breakfast, hang around the common areas and bars, go back to the room, take naps, and wait for their host, Mr. Entezam, to pick them up at night and take them to a restaurant, movie theater, or nightclub.

By now the husband had finished knotting his tie and was looking for some other excuse to prolong his stay in front of the mirror. He thought of giving himself a shave. That would afford him another half hour to stay at his vantage point. He went to the bathroom and returned with his shaving paraphernalia and a towel. He began the ritual slowly and with much deliberation, while his wife waited patiently for him to finish and leave the house. Since his retirement Golchehreh had taken up the habit of going for a walk every afternoon. For two hours he walked around the neighborhood, stopping at a local café to read the newspaper. His wife looked forward to his absence so she could move around freely. With him in the house, she felt restricted and claustrophobic—a need to confine herself to a corner to avoid contact. In the thirty-two years of their marriage she had learned to be inactive when her husband was home. Instinctively she felt vitality and joy in his absence. In the old days, with Golchehreh at work for at least eight hours a day—although he came home for lunch and a nap—she was more active and energetic. She had even taken voice lessons. Since his retirement,
she had lost that dynamism. The man was not only always at home, he was also in the way. He did not show any interest in gardening or fixing the plaster molding of the reception hall ceiling, which was in a sorry state of disrepair. He was always in his pajamas, languishing in an armchair. Often he would tease Farrokhlaqa with his off-color jokes.

“You could shave in the bathroom,” the wife suggested. “You'll get the carpet wet.”

Golchehreh, as he dipped his brush in the water bowl, saw this as an opening for a snide remark. “Shut up, Your Ladyship!” he retorted.

Farrokhlaqa bit her lip, turning her head, unwilling to start a row, although the words burst into her head with an explosive force looking for an outlet, and it came when she thought of Fakhroddin Azod. She often took refuge in thinking of him in moments of distress.

That night, that meeting at a reception after his return from America, she was standing under a locust tree.

“Vivien Leigh!” he exclaimed, approaching her from behind.

She turned to look at him. She still remembered those sensuous lips. Although she had kissed them many times later, the memory of that sight of those well-shaped lips, pressed together, as if to hide the glint of his perfect white teeth, was always fresh in her mind.

“Are you talking to me?” she said, trying to sound surprised.

“Yes, you,” he replied, “the delicate little sister of Vivien Leigh. The resemblance is astounding.”

She wanted to turn her head and look at him from the corner of her eye, a posture she had learned from her mother, but she couldn't quite make it. Instead, she felt intimidated and nervous at the sight of Fakhroddin's fleshy lips now parted in a charming smile.

“Farrokh,” he said, abbreviating her name as a gesture of familiarity, “Believe me, you are getting more beautiful day by day. It's unbelievable!”

By now she had gained enough composure to turn her head on her left shoulder and glance at the man from the corner of her eye.

“But you haven't seen me in ten years,” she remarked.

“What do you mean I haven't?” he asked, his tone suggesting surprise. “How is it possible?”

“So where have you seen me?”

“Here,” said Fakhroddin, as he beat his fist over his heart several times. “Why did you get married?”

“I shouldn't have?”

“Did you have to?”

Farrokhlaqa was perplexed. She had never promised him anything. She was only thirteen when he had left for America. She didn't remember having any feelings for him at the time.

“That's life,” she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. “People get married.”

“And you, too?” he said, with a grin. “A woman of exceptional beauty, you didn't have the right to marry. You should have given all the men in the world the opportunity to feast their eye.”

The comment made her laugh. She was briefly concerned
that he might be offended by her laughter. But he wasn't.

“Always wear blue,” he said as he sidled up to her. “It becomes you so well.”

Suddenly out of nowhere Golchehreh interjected himself between them. He did not even reach Fakhroddin's shoulder. He had his usual annoying grin and suspicious look, the source of constant distress for her in the four years of their marriage.

“I was telling your lady about the movie
Gone with the Wind
,” said Fakhroddin. “It had just opened when I saw it before I left. You don't know the trouble I had to get a ticket. I had to get in line at five in the morning. I was telling her how very much she looks like Vivien Leigh, the star of the movie.”

All Golchehreh could come up with was a hollow, “Oh, really,” accompanied by his customary spiteful grin. He had sense enough to know that he compared unfavorably to Fakhroddin.

“Make sure you see it when it's playing here,” advised Fakhroddin. “It is a great masterpiece of the movie industry, and the costliest so far.”

They returned home that night in her uncle's car. Intimidated by the uncle's gravitas, Golchehreh remained silent during the trip. At the end of the alley, they got out and politely said goodbye to the old man and walked side-by-side toward the house. Farrokhlaqa thought that her husband would go to bed directly, leaving her alone to revel in the events of the evening. But that was not to be. From the moment they were dropped off, he kept
up a litany of sarcastic comments about “that bloke,” his lousy taste in movies, his stupid photographs, and that ridiculous American-Indian feathered warbonnet he had brought with him from America that all the guests, including Farrokhlaqa, wanted to have their picture taken in. She was only able to say, “Oh, shut up,” in a voice muffled by a lump in her throat.

The only effect of this utterance was for Golchehreh to shift the focus of his acrimony to her, beginning with the blue dress that according to him looked so ugly and tasteless that it made everybody sick. At two in the morning, he brought a watermelon from the cellar and started eating it, insisting that she should have some as well. She put up with the nuisance, hoping to have a little time before sleep to savor the encounter with Fakhroddin.

Then, after the watermelon, Golchehreh turned on the radio, tuning in broadcasts in Persian from Berlin, London, or Moscow so he could catch up with the affairs of the world. Finally, around three in the morning he climbed into bed demanding that she fulfill what he referred to as her marital obligations. She submitted mechanically to his unwanted attention. By now it was four in the morning. He declared his intention to take a shower in preparation for performing the morning prayers, something he did only occasionally.

From that night on, Farrokhlaqa felt a deep-seated, permanent loathing for her husband.

 

HAVING NOW FINISHED SHAVING, Golchehreh began to slowly gather his things to take them to the bathroom.
He did not know why he was so sluggish that day, as if he was trying to delay something untoward from happening, but he wasn't sure what.

The doorbell rang. Mosayeb the manservant rushed to answer it. Impatiently, Farrokhlaqa waited to see who was calling. Her husband had moved onto the balcony and stood a short distance behind her chair. They exchanged glances reflecting their mutual distaste for each other.

“You'll be fifty-one next month,” said Golchehreh casually, as if expressing a random thought. “You'll be menopausal, Fakhur Dear.”

She stared at him for a long moment, knowing that he was intent on tormenting her.

“Listen to me, Sadri,” she said venomously, “if you think you can joke around with me, think again.”

“I'm not joking,” he protested mockingly, “menopause is no joke.”

Mosayeb returned from the door with the newspaper and put it on the floor at her feet. Before he left he said something about going to the butcher shop in Karadj to get meat for Friday night's party.

“I wish we had an orchard in Karadj,” she said as she picked up the newspaper and glanced at the front page.

“Do you think you will have the energy in menopause to mess around with an orchard?” her husband asked with a chuckle.

“Do you think you want to have a baby at your age?” she retorted contemptuously. “Isn't that why you bring up the issue of menopause?”

“Perhaps I do want to have a baby at my age,” he replied. “Not that it is possible with Your Ladyship anymore.”

“Very well, then,” she fumed, “you can get yourself a servant girl. You've always had that lowly disposition.”

She then returned to the paper, ignoring him. Golchehreh reached out and grabbed the paper, which she relinquished without resistance, returning her gaze to the garden below. Mosayeb, now ready to go for his shopping chores, shouted from garden, “Do you want anything else?”

“If you find fresh almonds, get some,” she answered. Mosayeb left without a word.

Golchehreh, perched on the narrow ledge of a window, was looking through the paper. Why doesn't he go for his walk, Farrokhlaqa wondered. She desperately wanted to resume her reminiscing. She remembered the day they had gone to pay a courtesy visit to Fakhroddin's American wife, who had just joined her husband six months after his return, with their two sons, Teddy and Jimmy. How strange those names sounded to her at the time. She remembered how nervous she had been all day. She had curled her hair and carefully selected a white dress with blue flowers. Her husband, with his habitual derisive grin, watched her as she put on her makeup and fixed her hair. She even spent time making sure that the seams of her nylons were perfectly straight. She was satisfied with what she saw when she gave herself a last look in the hall mirror.

She had never seen an American woman, but she had
made a point of going to see
Gone with the Wind
. Compared to Vivien Leigh, she did not find herself lacking, although she didn't think she resembled her. But there must be some likeness, she had decided, if Fakhroddin says so.

The Azods were staying with relatives while their residence, on the northern side of the family estate, was being made ready for them. The American woman was standing at the wide entrance to the reception hall shaking hands with arriving guests. She did not know Persian and did not speak but acknowledged each visitor with a smile. She was tall and had blond hair. Her hands were marked with veins and freckles. Her eyes were light blue, so light they were almost colorless with only the slightest hint of blue. Well, Fakhroddin was partial to blue. Farrokhlaqa shook hands with the woman and passed along the wall where there was a mirror. She stared at her own dark eyes and the blue floral pattern of her dress in the mirror. She then caught a fleeting glimpse of Fakhroddin's reflection as he passed behind her.

Why did you get married? She mentally addressed the question to his reflection, in the same spirit that she herself had been asked the question not long ago. In her imagination Farrokhlaqa saw him as pale, and mouthing the words “Always wear white with blue flowers. It becomes you so well.” He hastened to join his wife at the reception line. But they kept running into each other, as if a force brought them together throughout the course of the evening.

Years later, on the terrace of the Prince's villa, Farrokhlaqa
had told Adeleh Raf'at about the affair. Adeleh was a good woman. She had made an effort to understand the situation and had sympathized with Farrokhlaqa for giving in to love, criticizing Golchehreh for his odious conduct. There was a rumor going around among their acquaintances about a liaison between Adeleh and the Prince. Farrokhlaqa had structured her own narrative in such a way as to make it easier for Adeleh to open up and talk about her affair with the Prince. Her strategy worked. Adeleh tearfully confided in her and the bond between them grew strong.

“It went on for eight years,” Farrokhlaqa told her about her own affair, “eight strange years.”