Nadereh was agitated and got directly to the point. She was always the same—when she had something important to say, she got right down to it. She didn’t even ask how Parvaneh was feeling. “You’ve got to talk to Ferdous. You have to stop her from doing this.”
When she realized what Nadereh was talking about, Parvaneh tried to collect herself and said, “Ferdous has made her decision. Next week…”
Nadereh interrupted her angrily, “I know, I talked to her last night. She’s crazy. That stupid woman doesn’t know what she’s doing. You and Mahan should stop her. Mahan should explain to her…”
She looked at her watch and wanted to say, I have to go. It’s late. Mahasti is waiting for me. But there still was half an hour left in her day.
“Nadereh, please do not meddle in Ferdous’s business. She is not a child.…”
Nadereh’s voice became louder and hoarse. Parvaneh held the receiver away from her ear and cursed Nadereh under her breath. Her earlier telephone conversation with Ferdous had made her happy. Ferdous was proud of her intention to donate her kidney to Frida. “Poor Frida, she’ll die with her failed kidney,” Ferdous had said. “Poor Samanta and Sasha—if their mother dies…”
“You’re doing a good thing,” Parvaneh had told her.
“Everyone says so, everyone except Nadereh.”
“It’s none of her business. You need to make your own decision.”
“I’ve made my decision.”
Nadereh’s voice brought her back. “You should talk to Ferdous yourself,” Parvaneh said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice.
She had been doodling meaningless lines on a pink piece of paper, one square inside another. She wanted to say, talk about what? But she held her tongue. She knew that Nadereh would not let her go until Nadareh felt she’d convinced Parvaneh. In order to cut her off, Parvaneh finally concedes. “Very well, come to my place on Saturday, you and Ferdous. You can explain everything to her. However, I think if you listen to her, you’ll change your mind.”
“Which Saturday?” Nadereh asked. “This coming Saturday? You said that Frida is supposed to be hospitalized this week. Won’t Saturday be too late?”
Parvaneh couldn’t control her anger anymore. “Nadereh, do not meddle in Ferdous’s affairs,” she said firmly.
Nadereh asked crossly, “Can you tell me why? When she had all her problems before, I was the only one who looked after her, and now I have to sit back and do nothing. Am I missing something?”
Parvaneh looked at her watch: it was twenty minutes to five. She said, “It’s important that you hold off and stop meddling,” she answers. “This is something Ferdous has to do for herself.”
Nadereh asked hesitantly, “Is there something I should know that you haven’t told me? I…”
Parvaneh interrupted her, “I haven’t told you this—I’m sure no one has—but Ferdous was a traitor, a tavab.”
Impatiently, Nadereh said, “You’ve already told me that,” Nadareh replies impatiently. “You also told me that you want nothing to do with anyone’s past. And I shouldn’t have anything to do with her past, either. As you said, we aren’t the anker and monker for all people, are we?”
Parvaneh waited for a moment for her anger to dissipate. Her forehead felt hot. The paper on her desk was covered with doodles. She said, “Yes, I did say that. But I think with this decision, Ferdous believes she can atone for her past…”
Nadereh interrupted her again..“I don’t understand it.”
“It’s better to stay out of it,” Parvaneh said, “and let her make her own decision.” Again she looked at her watch and said, “I really have to go and pick Mahasti up. You know that poor Frida is counting on Ferdous’s decision. Everything has been arranged.”
“I don’t understand it,” Nadereh repeated.
“I’m sorry,” Parvaneh said coldly. “I have to go. Come over to my place on Saturday. On Saturday we’ll talk about it. I’ll tell Ferdous to come over, too.”
She hung up and was immediately sorry she had made the suggestion. As she put the receiver down, she asked herself, Why my place? What does any of this have to do with me?
MAHAN HAD PUT MAHASTI TO BED and had come back to the kitchen. He sat the table, picked up the newspaper, and paged through it at random. Parvaneh was standing by the kitchen counter drying the dishes, something she rarely did. She usually left the dishes to dry in the rack but she had wanted to prolong her chores. She wasn’t sure Mahan was pleased about her news.
“What do you think?” Parvaneh asked. “Who is right? Nadereh or Ferdous?”
“What’re you talking about?” he muttered, without lifting his head from the paper.
“I’m talking about Ferdous donating her kidney to Frida. I told you Nadereh is against it.”
“Nadereh?” asked Mahan absent-mindedly.
Parvaneh faced Mahan and said, “You’re not saying anything. What’s your opinion?
“Why is my opinion so important? This is none of my business.” He put the newspaper down on the rack and left the kitchen.
PARVANEH HAD MET MAHAN for the first time at her friend’s wedding. They were both still in Iran. Nastaran had said, “He’s a friend of Hamed. His name is Mahan. He went to medical school with Hamed, and now he works in a public hospital. He’s a good catch. His mother is dead and his father is a lawyer or a judge, but he’s remarried and has his own family. To be honest, he’d be a perfect husband. Don’t let him get away.”
Parvaneh had laughed, then hugged and kissed Nastaran and congratulated her on her marriage to Hamed. But Nastaran was insistent, and had whispered in her ear, “There he is, the one I talked to you about a few days ago—your ideal future husband. Go and get to know him. Hurry up before you miss your chance.”
“How?” Parvaneh asked timidly. “I’m embarrassed.”
“You feel shy?” Nastaran laughed loudly. “Since when are you shy? Okay, wait a minute, I’ll introduce you.”
She held Parvaneh’s hand and led her to the corner where Mahan was standing. He was talking to a tall, slender girl, who was wearing a long black dress with a colourful scarf covering her bare shoulders. Her long reddish-black hair reached her waist.
“Mahan, this is Parvaneh Khanum. She’s the one I talked about a few nights ago.”
Before she had a chance to say anything else, Hamed appeared at her side and pulled Nastaran away to introduce her to some other friends.
Parvaneh was left standing with Mahan and the tall, long-haired girl.
“Nastaran forgot to introduce me to you,” the girl said. “I am Sima. I’ve come from Canada to visit my parents and attend this wedding. I am surprised that men and women here now mix freely and without women having to wear their veils. It’s just like being in Canada.”
“Only in the privacy of a house,” Parvaneh said.
“And not without fear and anxiety,” Mahan added.
“Also with someone to bribe the guards,” Parvaneh chortled.
“Oh, I see,” Sima said and nodded. “I’ve learned a lot in these past two weeks.”
Sima reached over to get a piece of pastry from a dish on the table nearby, and Parvaneh moved out of her way. She found herself closer to Mahan but she turned toward Sima and asked, “How’s life in Canada? I know you don’t have to wear a veil, but what about the other things? One of my sisters has been there for four years now. She’s very happy. My other sister wants to immigrate as well, but her husband is not willing to go.”
Sima popped a rice cookie into her mouth and said, “No pastry can compete with ours. I’ve gained two kilos since I got here.”
Then wiping the crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand, she continued, “Excuse me, you asked about Canada? Well, it depends on the situation. If you have money, all doors are open to you, just like anywhere else in the world. But if you are
forced to go as a refugee claimant and work in the black market and study, well that’s another story…”
She paused, then added, “But no matter what, you can make your way if you’re willing to work hard.”
“I think it would be very hard to start a new life in a foreign land,” Mahan said. “Living at home still has its benefits.”
Sima was still eyeing the dish of pastries. “As my father says, you needn’t die in misery just because you were born here,” she replied.
“If I am not mistaken, that quote is from Saadi.” Mahan said.
Sima laughed loudly and said, “But I heard it first from my father.” She took a cherry from a large fruit bowl, held it up to Parvaneh, and said, “Can you tell me which poet wrote a poem about cherries?”
Parvaneh stared at Sima absent-mindedly.
“Forugh Farkhzad,” Mahan said, and looked at Parvaneh, waiting for her to confirm it. But it seemed that Parvaneh hadn’t heard Sima’s question or Mahan’s answer; she looked lost in thought. After a while, she said, “Sima might be right. When you can’t live freely at home, you’re better off leaving.”
The room was filled with loud music. “I’ve missed Iranian dancing,” Sima said. She gazed longingly at the young girls and boys dancing at the far end of the hall, where the lights were dimmed. She smiled at Mahan and Parvaneh, and asked, “Do you dance?” When Mahan and Parvaneh did not respond, she turned and made her way over to the other side of the room.
Mahan and Parvaneh stared at each other for a moment. They both blushed. Mahan took his eyes off Parvaneh and glanced at the dancers, then looked back at Parvaneh and said, “Do you dance?”
Parvaneh shook her head. “What about you?” she asked.
“No, not for a long time.”
After a while he continued. “When I was a child, whenever there was a gathering at our place, there was music and dancing, too. My father played tar, my brother was learning santour, and sometimes my mother accompanied them on the drum. We had…” his voice trailed off.
They sat side by side, silently watching the dancers. Parvaneh turned to look at Mahan, who stared back at her. Changing the subject, he asked, “Do you want to go to Canada too? These days, everyone you talk to is either back from Canada or is going to immigrate there. Canada has become the promised land for many young people and families.”
Parvaneh said, “Everyone has his or her own reason for immigrating. But I’ve got a job here. And I can’t leave my mother—she’d be all alone.”
“It’s good to have a sense of belonging,” Mahan said. “I think in a foreign country one loses the feeling of connection.”
If someone is with his or her family, there’s no reason to lose a sense of belonging,” Parvaneh remarked pragmatically. “My sister immigrated with her husband and her two sons. At the beginning it was a little hard for them, but now they seem to be very happy over there. They don’t complain.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, THEY WERE IN A RESTAURANT, having dinner, on Takhte Jamishid Street, which had been changed to Taleghani Street after the revolution. The waiter placed a plate of bread and butter on the table and took their orders. After he had gone, Parvaneh started the conversation by commenting, “The revolution changed the name of this street but not this restaurant.”
Mahan was quiet for a while. A look of pain flashed across his face, then he sighed and said, “But the revolution took my brother.” Parvaneh, shocked, did not know how to respond. Soon he continued, “Then my mother had a stroke and became paralyzed. She died six months later, and our family was torn apart. My mother was too young to die. She wasn’t fifty yet. My brother’s death was a severe blow.”
He stopped talking and stared out the darkened window. Night had completely spread over the city. The waiter came back with two dishes and two soft drinks.
They busied themselves mixing butter into their rice and adding sumac to their kabobs. After they had each eaten a few morsels, Mahan asked in low voice, “Have you heard of Khavaran?”
“Khavaran? No, I haven’t. Is it a prison?”
“No, it’s a mass grave. My brother is buried there without a gravestone or a marker of any kind. He was in prison for more than six years. He was supposed to be released. He had completed his sentence, and every week my parents travelled to Tehran to bring him back, but one day…”
He stopped suddenly.
Parvaneh was speechless; as if she was listening to a horror story. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her hands gripped her fork and spoon.
Mahan continued, “My brother was in his third year of medical school when he was arrested. It was so hard for my parents to accept his death. I still can’t believe it. My mother was such a lively person; my father was, too. They’d married out of love for one another. But then when my mother died and when my father remarried, I couldn’t bear it. He might have been right to remarry. He had to live. He couldn’t mourn the rest of his life for his son and his wife. Life goes on, no matter what happens. I was angry with my father then, but now I think he did the right thing.”
Mahan smiled, even though tears were welling up in his eyes. He turned away and wiped them from his cheeks. When Parvaneh put her hand on his, he looked at her and smiled sadly. “It didn’t only happen to our family. It happened to many families. A friend who lives in Germany told me that more than four thousand were killed. In the few months after the war ended, it was a real massacre. But, as you can see, life is still going on. It seems this is part of our history, always sacrifice and martyrdom.”
He breathed deeply and continued, “As Sohrab Sepehri put it, ‘A storm arrived and wiped out my footprints.’ He smiled at Parvaneh, but tears filled his eyes again, even as he tried to hold them back.
Parvaneh squeezed Mahan’s hand again and said, “Nothing could have been done. We who are left behind should be able to live again. We should cherish life.”
Mahan smiled cautiously. “Do you think so?” he asked. “Was it really impossible to do anything?” He ate a spoonful of his food reluctantly, as if he were being forced.
Parvaneh tucked an unruly lock of her hair back under her colourful scarf. She didn’t answer Mahan. She was uncomfortable talking about politics when she had only known Mahan for two weeks. Could she trust him?
Parvaneh swallowed and said, “The revolution didn’t tear my family apart, even though it had its effects. My father became depressed and then died of a stroke after he was forced to retire. He was a colonel in the Shah’s army. After my father’s death, my brother Sohrab took his wife and daughter and moved to America. His daughter has a learning disability, and he believed there would be more opportunities for her in the U.S. Then it was my sister Farnaz’s turn. When her sons were old enough, they would have had to go to the front line to fight Iraq. So instead they went to Canada. First they applied for immigrant status, but they were denied, so they chose to be refugee claimants and were accepted with the help of a lawyer. Now it’s my second sister Soraya’s turn. Her daughter hasn’t been accepted into a university, and her son isn’t doing well in school; she’s afraid he’ll become mixed up with drugs and maybe become an addict. So, she’s also decided to immigrate to Canada.”
“Everyone has their own reasons for pulling up their roots,” Mahan said. “It’s not an easy task. Even if you haven’t been forced to…”
“What about you?” Parvaneh asked.
“No, not me. I don’t think I’ll be able to abandon my home. My mother and my young brother are buried here. How can I leave?”
Parvaneh looked at him in silence. Mahan was playing with his leftover food. “If my father hadn’t married again, I’d return to Saary and work there; the place where I was born and grew up is very special to me. Every neighbourhood in the city has a special memory for me. They’re mostly sweet memories—all my childhood memories. Well, Tehran isn’t a bad place, either. Its crowded streets and tra
ffic jams bother me, but I’ve been living here for ten years now.”
“People make memories everywhere,” Parvaneh said. “When Sohrab was still in Iran he kept saying he missed America. He talked mostly to Catherine, his wife, about their shared memories. They talked about the small town they had lived in after they had married and its beautiful park, full of people having picnics in the summer.”
“He might go back to America now because of Catherine?”
“Yes, I think so. It is mostly because of Catherine, not their daughter, Ela. Catherine is American, so Sohrab considered himself partly an American too, because of his marriage to her. Haven’t you ever heard the joke? When a man is asked where he comes from, he says, ‘I haven’t married yet.’”
Mahan smiled, pushing his plate a little further away. He blushed shyly and asked, “Where are you from?”
Parvaneh looked at Mahan, her cheeks also turning red. She said, “I was born in Tehran, but both my parents were from Shiraz.”
“Can I say that I’m from—?”
Parvaneh didn’t let him finish. She said, “You’ve already said that you were born in Saary and grew up there.”
Mahan put his hand on Parvaneh’s.
She said, “I’ve already told you, I am from Tehran.” The colour spread from her face to her neck.
Mahan squeezed her hand and said, “And you’re a social worker. I knew that, and now can I say I’m from Tehran, too?”
Parvaneh blushed more deeply and felt hot with joy and shyness. She said, “You should talk to my mother first.”
“You mean you can’t make a decision?”
Parvaneh smiled, her heart beating faster in her chest, and said, “I’ve made my decision. That is only a formality.”
THERE WERE ABOUT TEN OR TWELVE social workers in the workshop. During the break, Nadereh, who knew only Parvaneh, told her, “I don’t think most of these social workers are honest with people. After they leave their office they forget about people’s misery.”
A Palace in Paradise Page 3