Fridays were Mahan’s favourite day because he didn’t have to wake up early and go to school. He didn’t enjoy school the way he had before the revolution. In those days, life had been carefree and learning was easy. Now most of the senior students were absorbed in politics; differing factions continuously debated various political viewpoints. More often than not, this perpetual debate led to frustrations that too often boiled over into physical confrontations. Mahan was not a senior and tried to avoid aligning himself with any group. He longed for the childhood that had been cut short by the political events, and he still enjoyed his mother’s hugs and morning kisses. During breakfast his mother showered attention on him before helping him dress to attend school with his older brother, Massood.
Ever since Massood had left for medical school in Tehran, Mahan had been lonely. No one could fill the void his older brother had left in his life. The thought that he too must leave his parents’ comfortable and familiar house depressed him. The colleges and universities were closed; Mahan didn’t talk openly about it, but he wished they would never open again. His parents were worried about Massood, who didn’t know what to do in Tehran while the universities were shut.
From his bed, Mahan had been watching the branches of the orange tree swaying with the breeze when the first raindrops began to splash against the window. He was absorbed by the different sounds the rain made as it fell among the leaves and against the window. Suddenly the sound of the vacuum stopped, and he heard someone outside the door.
He listened closely as the outer door opened and closed, and then a man’s voice began to speak. At first he supposed it might be his father, but he knew his father went to poetry and Sufism sessions with his friends every Friday.
Suddenly his bedroom door swung open and Massood strode in. Tossing his knapsack into a corner, he boomed a greeting to Mahan and promptly sat down on the bed. “Why are you still in bed? Are you sick?”
Mahan smiled, embarrassed, but didn’t say anything.
“Don’t you know what time it is?” Massood asked reproachfully. Without waiting for the answer, he continued, “It’s a quarter to twelve! Don’t you have any homework?”
Mahan got out of his bed. His heart was full of joy.
“LET’S TAKE THIS NEW PATH,” Massood had said. “It’s beautiful.” Mahan peered at the narrow path winding among the trees, the leaves glistening in the sunshine. The path promised to lead off into a mysterious land, but, farther down, they could see that the tree branches grew closer together and blocked their way.
“Are you sure we won’t get lost?” Mahan asked.
Massood laughed loudly and patted Mahan’s back saying, “Lost? We aren’t five-year-old children.”
As they started down the trail bathed in golden sunshine, Mahan asked nervously, “Do you know the way? Have you come through here before?”
Massood had his hand on Mahan’s shoulder. It was as if he wanted to keep him from turning back. As they headed into the forest, he parted the overhead branches and ducked his head, and said, “We have to try a way we haven’t tried yet. I’m sure we won’t get lost. These trees are our friends. They won’t let us get lost.”
TAKING A BREAK, MAHAN SITS ON THE SOFA and looks pensively out at the plane tree; its leaves are still green. A single tear slides down his face. In the street, a car drives by. Mahan checks his watch, remembers Parvaneh, then gets up and continues to vacuum. Again, the noise of the vacuum fills the house as he busies himself to finish the cleaning in preparation for the evening’s guests.
THEY PASSED BY THE BOOKSTORES on Revolution Street in front of Tehran University. Mahan stopped in front of a one with medical texts in the window.
“Why did you choose to study medicine?” Parvaneh asked. “It doesn’t suit your character. You’re the sensitive type, more interested in poetry and literature.” It was a few months after they had met. Their wedding date was set.
“I’m interested in books and…”
“And what?” Parvaneh asked.
“I chose to be a doctor because of Massood,” Mahan said. “I wanted to follow his path, but he was somebody special. And I’m not like him.”
“How so?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
HE GOES TO THE KITCHEN and dumps the pasta into a ceramic bowl, adds some mayonnaise, vinegar and olive oil, and then puts it in the fridge. He says to himself, if it needs something more, Parvaneh will take care of it. He takes a bottle of water from the fridge and drinks from it. The clock shows two forty-eight. There is not too much left to do, he thinks to himself. He is glad that Nadereh hasn’t shown up early.
He takes a cigarette from the fridge and lights it, opens the door to the backyard, and blows the smoke out. Briefly, he worries about Parvaneh catching him, but then he dismisses his concern.
MAHAN TOOK THE CHILD FROM HIS MOTHER. He looked into the brown-black eyes staring at him from out of her pale face. “I’m sorry,” he said mechanically, “it’s too late.”
“Is he dead?” the woman asked.
Mahan nodded. The child was on the examination table. The woman placed her hand on the child’s head and stared at Mahan. It seemed as though she wanted to say: Do something for him, make him alive again. Mahan shook his head sadly and looked at the woman. He struggled to control himself and said, “I’ll call for a doctor to write a death certificate.” And he hurried from the room.
HE PUTS OUT HIS CIGARETTE, then takes the vacuum to Mahasti’s room on the second floor, and plugs it in. The sound engulfs him like a thick fog.
THEY’D GONE CAMPING AS A GROUP: Mahan and Parvaneh, her two sisters and their families, and Nadereh and Ferdous. They’d erected their tents close together. At night they made a fire and sat around it, eating snacks, telling jokes, and talking about their sweet and bitter memories.
On the second day, they all went hiking in the forest despite the cloudy weather. Mahasti was mostly carried on Mahan’s shoulders. On the way back, Parvaneh took Mahasti’s hand and hurried ahead with her sisters so she would have time to give Mahasti a bath at the campsite. Mahan followed along with their children, Hassan and Siamak. Nadereh and Ferdous were lagging behind, so they decided to wait until they caught up. Nadereh was limping—her shoes were hurting her feet—and Mahan suggested she sit on a fallen tree trunk and rest for a moment.
“Take your socks off, too,” Mahan said, “so I can see what’s wrong.”
“It’s not important, Mr. Doctor.”
Nadereh’s sarcastic retort hurt Mahan, even though he wasn’t really sure how he felt about her. He wanted to be around her, but at the same time he wanted to get away from her. He was attracted to her, but she made him very uncomfortable.
Mahan knelt down in front of Nadereh. Suddenly, she reached out and took Mahan’s hand and said, “These hands don’t look like a doctor’s hands to me, they’re too fragile and slender. They’re probably good for writing poetry. Why did you become a doctor, anyway?”
Ignoring her question, he pulled his hand back and examined her feet.
“It’s not serious…”
His voice trailed off. Sitting beside Nadereh in the silence of the forest, he suddenly found himself unable to say a word.
Silently they sat in the lush green of the glade. The clouds had begun to break up and sunshine was beginning to penetrate through to the forest floor. At first, Nadereh was staring off into space, but she suddenly turned to Mahan and returned his stare. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Did I tell you that I was born in Ahwaz? I lived there until I was ten or eleven. The summers there are like a hell,” Nadereh said.
“Have you ever been to Khuzestan?” Without waiting for his reply, she continued. “If you have, it was probably during Nowruz in Abadan for a holiday. Lots of people came to enjoy the warm weather and the shopping in Abadan and Ahwaz.”
He said n
othing. He was thinking of the woman with a dead baby. There was something in Nadereh that stirred him. As if she could read his mind, Nadereh said, “If I am not mistaken, you’re thinking of that woman again.”
He hadn’t realized how long he had been staring at her without speaking. Then they kissed.
When he regained his composure, Nadereh had disappeared into the trees. In that moment, he had lost consciousness of his surroundings. He could still feel her lips, and her perfume lingered, leaving him weak and slightly intoxicated.
He avoided looking at Nadereh for the rest of that day. At night in his tent, he tried to remember how it had happened. The only thing he recalled was Nadereh’s eyes; she had told him she had inherited them from her grandmother, a gypsy who had travelled through the south of Iran on foot until she was forced to stay at home by her husband. That evening, he was tormented by and ashamed of what had happened. He knew he couldn’t talk about it with Parvaneh; he was overcome by guilt, but the forbidden pleasure he felt was hard to ignore. Sleep wouldn’t come.
At dawn, he was still awake. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling of the tent. As the birds began their chorus, Parvaneh stirred and woke up. He turned his back to her, pretending to be asleep. She called quietly to him and put her hand on his shoulder as she did every day, and they listened to the birds’ songs in silence. Later that day, he made an excuse to return to the city alone. He let Parvaneh and Mahasti come back with her sisters. For days, he agonized over the incident, wondering whether to talk to Parvaneh about what had happened between Nadereh and himself. He eventually chose to say nothing. Nadereh stayed away for a while, and the episode gradually faded from his mind, but sometimes it still disturbed him. What if Parvaneh ever found out?
WHEN MAHAN IS FINISHED VACUUMING Mahasti’s room, he moves on to their bedroom. He doesn’t hear the sound of the front door opening, so he’s surprised to find Parvaneh putting away the groceries when he returns to the kitchen.
“When did you come back?”
“You were busy vacuuming. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“What did you do with Mahasti?”
“I left her at Farnaz’s. Farnaz asked us to come over this evening. Hassan is going to barbecue.”
As they talk, Parvaneh washes the fruit, leaving it to dry in the strainer.,
There are beads of sweat on Mahan’s forehead and his face is red.
“Do you feel hot?”
“Your vacuum sounds like a jet engine.”
Sitting down at the table Parvaneh says, “To tell you the truth, I wish this whole thing wasn’t happening today. I’d rather have this day to ourselves. We rarely get any time to ourselves without Mahasti.”
The sudden ringing of the telephone startles her. Mahan says, “If it isn’t Mahasti, it’s the telephone.” From Parvaneh’s greeting, he can tell it is Ferdous. Mahan wishes she wasn’t coming.
Setting the phone down Parvaneh says, “Ferdous wanted to know if it was still okay to come today.”
“You told her it was.”
“I couldn’t tell her that it wasn’t. We’d already planned it.”
Mahan is about to mention Nadereh’s phone call, but he hesitates. Then, reluctantly he says, “When you were out, Nadereh called. She wanted to know if there was anything she could do to help.”
“Did you tell her to come earlier?” Parvaneh asks.
“No, I didn’t. We don’t have that much to do. They’re not supposed to stay for dinner.”
“No, not for dinner, just Olivieh salad and some pasta. Only for…”
“For having enough energy to be able to talk. You’re such a patient person.”
“What could I do? I had to. Someone has to take Ferdous to the hospital. Who else is there except Nadereh? And now she’s going to try to change Ferdous’s mind. Why? I’ll never know. She thinks she’s helping Ferdous, but she’s just getting in the way. Do you remember that refugee claimant boy who was supposed to be deported? She wanted to marry him to prevent his deportation. Then they found out that his father was a billionaire and there were millions of dollars in his account. He could have bought the whole immigration offices. And then there’s this Goodarz—he’s an addict and a not well. She lets him stay at her place. She says it’s temporary, but he’s been living there for a few months now. It’s none of my business if there is something going on between them or not. If they sleep together or not, it’s their own business. To tell you the truth I don’t really know Nadereh very well, either. At times, she seems very complicated. Sometimes she risks everything. Really, I wish she wasn’t coming over tonight. I just didn’t want Ferdous to go to the hospital by herself, but I couldn’t go with her. What would I have done with Mahasti?”
Mahan gets up and says, “I’m going to take a quick shower. Vacuuming always makes me sweat.” Leaving the kitchen, he says, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Try not to say anything that might hurt someone’s feelings. Don’t take one side over the other. Just try to be impartial.”
“Is that even possible? What if they ask my opinion?”
“If they ask your opinion, tell them that they know best what they want to do.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought that. Have you forgotten that I’m a social worker? I have to give some advice, the same way you hand out prescriptions.”
Mahan stands at the door for a few minutes and says, “Nevertheless, don’t say anything that would bother anyone, and don’t be so worried.”
CHAPTER 4
NADEREH IS KILLING TIME, enjoying the nice weather and watching people in front of the Eaton Centre. There is a man sitting on a stool beside her, and she watches him sketch a portrait of a girl. She looks about eight or nine, and she smiles shyly for the man and her mother, a tiny woman with long, wavy black hair.
It is shortly after three in the afternoon, and the area is crowded with people. Nadereh hasn’t been home since ten in the morning, when she left with Goodarz to go to the reference library on Yonge Street. After spending an hour reading the newspapers, she decided to take a walk, telling Goodarz that she would call Parvaneh to see if she needs any help. Goodarz lifted his head from his book and said, “You go, I’ll come later.” When Mahan told her that Parvaneh isn’t home, she changed her mind about stopping by early.
Now she’s wandering about, wiling away the afternoon until it’s time to head over. She reaches the lake. She likes to spend time here, but today she’s restless. Lately, whenever she is supposed to go to Parvaneh’s home, she becomes unreasonably anxious. When she talked to Goodarz about it, he said, “It is a symptom of disease.”
“What kind of disease? Typhoid? Asphyxia?”
Goodarz didn’t respond.
It’s three o’clock in the afternoon by the time she gets back to the Eaton Centre. Many people are walking around, mostly young boys and girls, some in groups, some in pairs, some by themselves, a mixture of races and nationalities. Some of the young people sport the latest piercings: lips, nostrils, eyebrows, tongues. There are young girls who even wear a ring in their exposed navels. Clothing ranges from leather dresses to blue jeans, the latest styles in many colours, often with metallic ornamentation, all accompanied by dramatic hair styles in a rainbow of hues.
Nadereh loves the Eaton Centre area—wandering around, taking in all the chaos around her usually puts her in a good mood. Sometimes there is a musician playing the guitar and singing. Sometimes two, three, or even more play drums, and people stay to watch and listen to the frantic music, tossing coins into the musicians’ hats. When the weather is nice, there are a few artists selling portraits of celebrities, particularly Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson.
Today, though, Nadereh isn’t in the mood to walk around, and the afternoon seems to go on forever. Edgy and anxious, she decides to go back to the library and then on to Parvaneh’s with Goodarz. But what if Goodarz isn’t there or d
oesn’t want to go? That morning he’d told her, “I might go. I’m kind of interested in seeing what you’ve got in mind for the poor woman. It’s none of my business, but well….”
Feeling hungry, she buys a hot dog and a soft drink. She finds an empty bench, sits and eats her hot dog, and then heads to the Dundas subway station instead of the library.
NADEREH SAT OPPOSITE PARVANEH at her desk. Behind the desk, Parvaneh had an air of authority, which subdued Nadereh.
“You have to have a strong case to be accepted,” Parvaneh said. “You’d better think about it before talking to a lawyer so you can give them something impressive.”
“I’ll tell you my story, and if you think that my reasons aren’t good enough, maybe you can add something that will get their attention.”
Parvaneh left the office and came back with two big mugs of coffee. Closing the office door, she put one on her desk and one in front of Nadereh,
“My grandmother was a beautiful gypsy woman. I never met her, but my mother said her beauty was incredible. My grandfather was a smuggler, trafficking in the Persian Gulf. They say that after he married my grandmother, he left a girl in her belly and then disappeared. The story goes that he went to Bahrain or Kuwait to smuggle contraband, but drowned at sea. After my grandmother raised her daughter and found her a husband, she became a gypsy again. I don’t know whether she married again or not. My mother didn’t talk about her very much. I heard these things from other people. My father was a labourer in the Ahwaz steel plant. We had a tiny house—I don’t know if my father bought it or if it belonged to the company. There were five of us, all girls. My father was killed by a missile at the beginning of the Iran-Iraq war when he was helping behind the front lines. Then everybody told us we’d better leave Ahwaz since it was being shelled every day by artillery.
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