A PALACE IN PARADISE
Copyright © 2019 Mehri Yalfani
Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
A Palace in Paradise is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover art: Heironymous Bosch, Garden of Earthly Delights, detail, ca. 1500, oil on oak panels, 220 cm × 389 cm, Museo del Prado, Madrid.
Cover design: Val Fullard
eBook: tikaebooks.com
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: A palace in paradise : a novel / Mehri Yalfani.
Names: Yalfānī, Mihrī, author.
Series: Inanna poetry & fiction series.
Description: Series statement: Inanna poetry & fiction series
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190094451 | Canadiana (ebook) 2019009446X | ISBN 9781771336215 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771336222 (epub) | ISBN 9781771336239 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781771336246 (pdf)
Classification: LCC PS8597.A47 P53 2019 | DDC C813/.54—dc23
Printed and bound in Canada
Inanna Publications and Education Inc.
210 Founders College, York University
4700 Keele Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M3J 1P3
Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax: (416) 736-5765
Email: [email protected] Website: www.inanna.ca
A PALACE IN PARADISE
a novel
Mehri Yalfani
INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION INC.
TORONTO, CANADA
ALSO BY MEHRI YALFANI
NOVELS
Sokoote Tahmineh (in Farsi) (2014)
Tasvir Safoora (in Farsi) (2012)
Afsaneseye Mah va Khak (in Farsi) (2003)
Afsaneh’s Moon (2002)
Far From Home (in Farsi) (1998; 2002)
Dancing in a Broken Mirror (in Farsi) (2001)
Someone is Coming (1994)
Before the Fall (in Farsi) (1980)
SHORT FICTION
The Street if Butterflies (2017)
Two Sisters (2000)
Sayeh ha (in Farsi) (1997)
Parastoo (1995)
Birthday Party (in Farsi) (1991)
Happy Days (in Farsi) (1966)
POETRY
Rahavard (in Farsi) (2006)
To all those who believe in freedom and human dignity.
In return for deeds, the palace of paradise, they give.
—Hafez, a classic Persian poet
CHAPTER 1
“As a tavah, if you repent and cooperate with us, you’ll have a palace in paradise. A palace in paradise, a palace in paradise….”
THE SENTENCE RESONATES IN FERDOUS’S MIND but she tries to ignore it, focusing on reading her own handwriting. She wrote a goodbye letter to Ladan in case she died while donating her kidney to Frida. She wipes tears of joy and satisfaction from her face with the tips of her fingers; she’s pleased with herself, as though she’s accomplished something great. She feels nostalgia overcome her as she places the letter in the desk drawer. She found the desk a few years ago in front of a neighbouring house, and Ferdous smiles as she remembers how she and Nadereh dragged the old piece of furniture into the building from the sidewalk. They had struggled to fit it into the elevator, and later, through the apartment door, but all the while they had laughed and joked about their efforts.
Scattered haphazardly across her desk are her makeup, a pen and pencil, a notebook, and a discoloured white telephone. A dusty mirror, cracked corner to corner in a wooden frame, sits on the top shelf of the desk. She takes a tissue out of the box beside her. “That’s much better,” she mumbles to herself as she wipes the dust from the mirror. Her stomach aches with hunger. She goes to the kitchen to look into the refrigerator. She takes out a peach, which is partly rotten but still tastes good, then follows it with a gulp of water to wash down the lingering sweetness. She goes back into the bedroom and sits on the bed. A wave of hopelessness washes over her as she looks at the old curtains framing her grimy window. A ray of sunshine peeks into the room, leaving a spot of light on the carpet. Ferdous’s eyes fix on the spot of sunlight. It’s as if it’s come to return hope and joy to her life, but Ferdous doesn’t notice. Her thoughts are elsewhere. She needs courage. She is questioning the decision she made. “Everything is up to you,” Nadereh had said. Yet, inside her stomach a hungry, hollow feeling persists. She thinks of the dinner she will have at Parvaneh’s place; she always cooks a variety of rich, delicious dishes. Living alone, Ferdous rarely makes meals for herself. She only cooks Ladan’s favourite dishes when her daughter visits. She ignores her hunger, but the question mark in her mind about her decision keeps growing larger and larger. Nadereh had planted the question: “Why should you give your kidney to Frida? You don’t owe them anything.”
She takes a few steps to the window, then returns and sits down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t owe them anything, I don’t, but Frida.…”
Frida: Once a penniless dancer in a cheap café in Madrid. Frida.…
Frida: Ghobad’s wife. A wealthy young Iranian who lives in a mansion in Rosedale.
Frida has everything, everything, but she needs a new kidney. A new kidney that I’m going to give her. Am I? Should I? Maybe I shouldn’t.
Unconsciously, she starts to hum a song. “Tonight, I’m light-hearted, tonight I’m enchanted, once again tonight, I’m at the peak of the sky….” The melody grows louder as it finds its way out of Ferdous’s mouth, but it fades away when she gets up and walks over to her closet.
It’s almost three o’clock, but Ferdous hasn’t changed yet. She calls Parvaneh to confirm the evening’s plan. She resolves to move forward with her decision. If she can ignore Nadereh, she will feel more determined and happy about her choice. However, Nadereh’s words are like icy water splashing over her, drowning her joy and excitement about her “heroic decision,” as Parvaneh describes it. Nadereh’s words, repeating in her mind, bring her back to earth, helpless and now undecided. Exhaustion claims her body and her mind. Parvaneh’s home is a long way away. Shall I go or not? It seems like it is a huge decision. Why go? I can go to the hospital by myself. I don’t need their help.
Ferdous lives in North York, in the north part of Toronto, and Parvaneh’s place is on the west side close to the Royal York subway station. To get there by public transit takes more than an hour and a half. She is supposed to be at Parvaneh’s by four in the afternoon. She’s already late, but she continues to hesitate.
Ferdous glances at her watch and approaches her closet. Since she came to Canada, she feels like she has grown taller. Her frame is slight, and her skinny body makes her look like a beanpole. She has no interest in food—she feels full after only a couple of bites.
Ferdous opens the door of her closet and stands there, staring at her clothes. She finally chooses a red shirt and a black skirt. She takes the skirt from its hanger and puts it on. It hangs from her body. She takes it off and throws
it on the bed, then sits down on the edge. She remembers Ibrahim’s words: “I didn’t want to marry you. I did it because your father wanted it. I was twenty-two, and I was too young to get married. I felt sorry for you and your father. I wanted to get you away from that cesspool in Turkey. I didn’t know. She reads the unspoken words in his eyes, “that you were a tavab.”
Ferdous hasn’t finished dressing when the telephone rings. It is Ladan. Dumbfounded, Ferdous asks, “What did you say? Ghormesabzi?”
“Alex asked me to make it for him,” Ladan says. “He had it in an Iranian restaurant and now he’s asking me to make it for him.”
“Sweetheart,” Ferdous says, “I’m getting dressed to go to Parvaneh’s place. I’m late. It’s not easy to make ghormesabzi. You need special ingredients, the right vegetables.”
“What kind of vegetables?” Ladan asks.
Ferdous says impatiently, “You need shanbelileh….”
“Tell me what that is in English.”
“I don’t know the name in English. Now, sweetie, let me be. I have a million things to do. I’m going to Parvaneh’s place, then tomorrow I have to go to the hospital….”
Ladan interrupts her. “What for? You’re not really going to donate your kidney to Frida, are you?”
“Honestly, I want to see Frida. You know she has to stay in the hospital. Why don’t you go to the Kabab House on Yonge Street for ghormesabzi. It’s not that far from your place. If you go by streetcar you can be there in five minutes. Next week, I’ll make roast vegetables for you or I’ll even make ghormesabzi and bring it to you.”
By the time she puts the receiver down, it’s past three-thirty.
MRS. SARMADI, FERDOUS’S MOTHER, had come to visit when Ferdous was being treated at the psychiatric hospital on Queen Street West. Ibrahim had notified Mrs. Sarmadi and arranged for her visa.
“Ibrahim treated me very well,” Ferdous told her repeatedly. “Yes, he wanted to rescue me from Turkey, from that chaotic situation. Do you think it was easy for such a young girl to be surrounded by all those hungry single men? The Iranians weren’t the only ones. There were others, including Turks. All of them wanted to get you into their beds. It was a nightmare!”
A nightmare. A nightmare. A nightmare. The words filled Ferdous’s mind.
Mrs. Sarmadi couldn’t believe the state she’d found her daughter in, and Ferdous could sense it. Ferdous imagined her thinking, How could this woman be Ferdous, my dearest child and precious jewel? Before her eyes stood a simpleton with her mouth half open, her hair greying, her eyes cloudy in a deeply-lined face. She was stooped over like someone much older. Her daughter used to be tall and strong, her thick, long brown hair reaching to her shoulders. Her large bright eyes had never been sad, and a smile had never faded from her lips.
It took a while before Ferdous’s mother pulled herself together and swallowed the lump in her throat. She hugged her daughter, stroking her hair, which felt like it hadn’t been washed or brushed for days. Ferdous was so thin that Mrs. Sarmadi could feel her bones. She was distressed to see the grey in her daughter’s hair. How many years had passed since they had seen one another! Ferdous pulled away from her mother and said, “Maman take me away from here. These people think I’m crazy. But I’m not. It just that I miss my daughter so much.”
Ferdous asked about Ladan before she asked about her father. Mrs. Sarmadi still hadn’t seen her ten-year-old granddaughter, who was living with Ibrahim’s sister, so she lied: “Ladan is fine. She misses you too.”
Ferdous had stared out of the window of the taxi and chewed on her nails all the way home. Every few minutes, she asked Nadereh, without looking at her, “Where are you taking me?”
Nadereh put her hand on Ferdous’s arm and said calmly, “I’m taking you home. Your doctor released you so you could be with your mother.”
When Ferdous and Nadereh entered the apartment, it was clear that Mrs. Sarmadi had swept and dusted. The windows were washed, and a Persian rug she had brought from Iran lay in front of the large sofa in the living room. There were new handmade cushion covers in various bright colours. The white lace curtains were washed and properly hung. The smell of steamed rice, saffron, and Iranian lamb stew, Ferdous’s favourite food, permeated the apartment and seeped into the hallway. The worn and stained plastic tablecloth had been replaced with a new hand-printed one. A bowl of apples, pears, peaches, and grapes, and a dish of pistachios were on the table, along with a box of Iranian nougat.
Nadereh sent Ferdous in first. For a moment, Ferdous stood quietly inside the apartment door. Finally, she mumbled, “I can’t believe I’m home. It reminds me of our home in Shemiran.”
She removed her shoes and walked into the living room. Her mother hugged her and sat down beside her on the big sofa. Ferdous could see that her mother still couldn’t believe this prematurely aged woman was her cherished and only daughter. Her mother could hardly keep her tears from showing and her pain from overwhelming her.
Nadereh sat at the dining room table, gazing at both mother and daughter. Mrs. Sarmadi shook her head, trying to keep her anguish at bay, and calmly announced, “I made some tea. Let me get it.”
Nadereh got up so quickly that her purse fell off her lap. “I’ll bring the tea,” she said hastily. She went into the kitchen and returned with a tray carrying three glasses, the ones with the golden rims. Ferdous took one, raised it to her lips, and said, “I’ve always liked drinking tea out of this tiny glass.” She looked at her mother and asked, “Do you remember, Maman?”
Mrs. Sarmadi said, “Of course, I remember. You had a special glass just for yourself. Do you remember how much you fought with your brother when he took your glass? You were….”
She didn’t finish her words.
Ferdous nodded and said, “I lived like a princess in our house.” Then she looked up at Nadereh, who had been watching them as they talked. “Yes, I was treated like a princess in my parents’ home,” she repeated, as if wanting to convince Nadereh. She also wanted to show her something about herself, something that no one might believe. “My mother always called me shahzadeh khunum.”
Mrs. Sarmadi smiled sadly and said, “You were a shahzadeh khanum.” Then she corrected herself and continued, “You’re still a shahzadeh khunum.”
This time Ferdous laughed sardonically and said in English, “You’re kidding me.”
Mrs. Sarmadi looked at her, puzzled, and then at Nadereh, who translated. Mrs. Sarmadi turned to Ferdous and repeated firmly, “Yes, you are. I am not joking.”
They drank their tea in silence, trying to hide their discomfort.
Ferdous looked at Nadereh and said, “Maman, if Nadereh hadn’t been with me, I would have died. She helped me a lot. She is a very clever girl and she knows what’s going on. There’s Parvaneh, too. She’s a social worker and her husband’s a doctor. All of them are helping me. Don’t think that just because we are not home in our own country that we don’t care for one another. Ibrahim found this apartment for me. He has a friend who works at Toronto housing; he arranged it for me. The rent is low. Ibrahim helped this friend buy his house at a good price, and he helped me by getting this apartment. Did you know that Ibrahim is a real estate agent?”
LADAN HAD CALLED FROM THE AIRPORT to say she was coming home, so Ferdous went to the balcony to watch for her. When Ibrahim’s grey Mercedes stopped in front of the building, Ibrahim and Ladan got out. He took a suitcase out of the trunk and led Ladan into the building. Ferdous opened the apartment door and stood in the hall, waiting for them to come out from the elevator. First a suitcase emerged, then Ladan. Ferdous hugged her tightly, then looked for Ibrahim, but he was already walking away. With a quick wave, he was gone. Helping Ladan with her suitcase, she wiped her tears behind Ladan’s back. But Ladan felt her mother’s tears on her cheek and asked, “Mommy, why are you crying?”
Ferdous continued to wipe away t
ears with the tips of her fingers and said, “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I am happy that…”
She followed little Ladan to the balcony and watched as Ibrahim got into the Mercedes and drove away. Ladan said, “If you only knew how nice Sussan is.”
Back in the apartment, Ladan opened her suitcase. She took out a box of nougat and a package of pistachio nuts, saying, “Daddy bought these especially for you.”
Ferdous looked at them indifferently and asked, “Did you go to see your grandparents? Did you see how big their house is?”
“Daddy didn’t have time,” Ladan answered. Then she took a small album from her purse and showed her mother Ibrahim and Sussan’s wedding pictures.
IT WAS A SATURDAY AFTERNOON when Nadereh had called and invited Ferdous out for a walk. “Why are you staying home alone? Let’s go down to the lake. Parvaneh told me that Ladan is with her father.”
When Ferdous arrived at the lakefront, Nadereh was already there, sitting on a bench facing the lake.
The sky and the lake had formed a partnership in the dwindling summer afternoon. It was as if they wanted to say in their own way that this nice weather and this calm summer season wouldn’t last much longer. In the distance, sailboats with white sails glided among the lumbering passenger ferries. Seagulls dotted the sky, their mournful cries adding to the sounds that disturbed the otherwise tranquil summer afternoon.
Together, they walked along the busy shoreline. People stood in line at a booth selling roasted corn. Nadereh bought two cobs, gave one to Ferdous, and bit into the other one as they continued to stroll along the boardwalk.
Ferdous said, “Wherever I go, whatever I do, I remember Ibrahim. Even though it’s been more than fourteen years since we separated, I can’t seem to forget him.”
Nadereh stopped nibbling her corn and said, “Don’t waste your time thinking about Ibrahim. He’s certainly not thinking about you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left after only a few short years of marriage and gone to Iran to marry a twenty-two-year-old girl.”
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